Curb Stomp- place the hated person's face onto the curb with the mouth open, ensuring that the top jaw is over the top lip of the curb and the bottom is also placed just so. Hold onto the person's arm in a strange angle behind his or her body, then place a preferably booted foot onto the back of the head and stomp.
I've always enjoyed this image. It was in a movie I saw where a neo-nazi was curb stomped. If anyone deserves to be curb stomped, it's a neo-nazi. Ignorance by choice is hell, surely not bliss. So, this image floats into my mind when I think of my first-ever boyfriend, Will. Why you may ask? For some reason my mind believes I enjoyed this particulary duet of words during the time we dated. If this is actually true, I do not recall.
Why conjur up Will? I came across an email of his the other day. It was so touching. And when I think of how I treated this young man who was enjoying his first forays into the dating world, I know I definitely curb stomped his heart and left him bleeding and broken on the street corner.
I was inexperienced in the dating world also. These new adventures were confusing to me, these new feelings were scary, and I ran away. I ran away to flirt with other boys, to feel sexy, to discover who I was in male eyes that didn't already love me. Unfortunately, I'd have to say it worked. My escape route put me in the path of a man who gave me a great gift, the acceptance of my own body, my physical being that I have always hated.
Andrew gave this gift to me and for that I am thankful because before I hated the vessel in which my mind is carried, not to mention hating the mind at times. So, I dislike parts of my body, but understand what and why I feel this way. My tummy makes clothes look bulging in places that clothes shouldn't buldge, and this paunch makes buying pants difficult since I don't follow women's body rules: My waist either equal to or large than my hips, this equation is just dependent upon how heavy I am at the moment.
Will gave me a view into a new world. Andrew gave me a view into myself. And I gave myself a chance to be myself.
I am me and I shall not be detered in being me, which no one is trying to stop me. Even The Boy who hates some of my clothes, my jewelry, my decorating ideas (who doesn't love puke green?!), my choices of movies, just let's them slip by (except for the puke green-that was tabled real fast) and let's them wash over him. The Boy enjoys this shower of "me" and smiles while it washes, smiles while he seems me being happy to be me. Perhaps, the only shower he did not enjoy was the crying jag I was on the other night because I had stopped taking my medication. However, he held me close, made me promise to take the happy pills the next morning, and just let himself get wet.
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Walk this way
My mother is a woman filled with strength, courage, and determination. When she wants something, she gets it, especially if my dad's involved. ;) I jest. But she's my hero and she's accomplish so many things that I hold in high esteem.
She took off by herself in Washington, DC and strode onto the subway. She found her way to an pro-choice rally and hollered her thoughts out to the world, some time in the 1980's. She joined a union, a nearly all male union, and ran for different positions. She won some and lost some, while feeling the sting of sexism from men who hadn't yet felt the presence of woman in their workplace. Well, felt it they did. She was on the Martin Luther King, Jr. Holiday Comission to make Martin Luther King, Jr. a legal holiday in our state. More than once she and her fellow members heard the words, "Why would we want that to be a holiday. There aren't any black people here."
Words of ignorance that do not understand that we are all in this together. There is only one planet and one race of people, human beings. That's it and regardless of the distinctions we try to draw between ourselves, we're all from the same stock.
So, my mother has done many more things, accomplish several more goals, and changed lives in very different ways. Now, my mom cannot be a part of those things as she once was nor as she may want to be. As aforementioned in a previous blog, my mother had back surgery at the end of June. That was her third back surgery and what was supposed to be the miracle, the cure.
However, it may have been snake oil, but by no one's fault. She began hurting about two weeks ago. Pain scorches her nerves. Another doctor's visit, another X-ray, and another round of bad news. Her spine has shifted. It is crooked like someone with severe scoliosis and this curveture is causing the nerves to be pinched. She may have to have another surgery which they are hoping to post-pone until December, six months after the last surgery. Four more vertebrae may have to be fused with pins, rods, and cages. They are hoping she can hold out even longer, but the doctor said it was up to her and how much pain she can handle. But right now, it would be too great a risk of infection to open her up again.
It's hard to watch your hero fall and not be able to get up.
She took off by herself in Washington, DC and strode onto the subway. She found her way to an pro-choice rally and hollered her thoughts out to the world, some time in the 1980's. She joined a union, a nearly all male union, and ran for different positions. She won some and lost some, while feeling the sting of sexism from men who hadn't yet felt the presence of woman in their workplace. Well, felt it they did. She was on the Martin Luther King, Jr. Holiday Comission to make Martin Luther King, Jr. a legal holiday in our state. More than once she and her fellow members heard the words, "Why would we want that to be a holiday. There aren't any black people here."
Words of ignorance that do not understand that we are all in this together. There is only one planet and one race of people, human beings. That's it and regardless of the distinctions we try to draw between ourselves, we're all from the same stock.
So, my mother has done many more things, accomplish several more goals, and changed lives in very different ways. Now, my mom cannot be a part of those things as she once was nor as she may want to be. As aforementioned in a previous blog, my mother had back surgery at the end of June. That was her third back surgery and what was supposed to be the miracle, the cure.
However, it may have been snake oil, but by no one's fault. She began hurting about two weeks ago. Pain scorches her nerves. Another doctor's visit, another X-ray, and another round of bad news. Her spine has shifted. It is crooked like someone with severe scoliosis and this curveture is causing the nerves to be pinched. She may have to have another surgery which they are hoping to post-pone until December, six months after the last surgery. Four more vertebrae may have to be fused with pins, rods, and cages. They are hoping she can hold out even longer, but the doctor said it was up to her and how much pain she can handle. But right now, it would be too great a risk of infection to open her up again.
It's hard to watch your hero fall and not be able to get up.
Monday, September 10, 2007
It's a hoopdy and a happdy
Fall is coming. I love and fear fall. Because that's what happens... the leaves drop, the sky descends sooner each day, and my emotions topple over into a basket case of a heap. Then the darkness of winter arrives, days without sun, days without feeling anything above zero degrees, days without hope. Sadness arrives, sadness and claustrophobia.
The snow makes the world smaller in some ways, the driveways and sidewalks lose their widths, the spaces between parking spots shrink, yet the world gets bigger. The piles of snow grow, the streets raise up an inch or two under the packed snow, we reach closer to the ceiling of clouds. Except, I stop reaching. I hold my hands to myself, I hole myself up in my room, and do not wish to live, do not want to talk, and do not want to do anything but sleep.
It feels so bewildering to love a season so much and to loathe it just as much. However, I am filled with dread concerning another matter. The Boy and I found a house we love. After seeing nine other houses, we walked into this one, smiled at each other, and nodded. We knew. You just know. It felt right. It seemed like us. I could imagine my furniture in each room, I could imagine a future in the backyard, a car in the garage, and our mess in the family room. We put an offer in and the sellers counter-offered. We accepted this counter offer.
Banks and lenders had already been visited and papers with stamps of pre-approval followed us joyfully around the area as our realtor showed up prospective properties. We've been to the bank again, things are in motion, and the house shall hopefully be ours.
During this process, there have been days where anxiety spiked and I was jittery with nerves. I told my co-workers what was going on while in training one day, and received an odd reaction from the substitute trainer. "You're buying a house?" Yes, we're buying a house. "Are you married?" No. "But you're buying a house?" Yes, we're buying a house. "But you're not married?" No, we're not married. "But you're buying a house?" Yes. "Isn't that backwards?" Not for us.
Why does she care if we are married? Why does she care if we are buying a house? Why does she think it's backwards? Further, why is she questioning me about it in a room full of people at work using her moral slant?
So, we may be homeowners. Well, I may be. It's only got my name. I looked to hire a lawyer to write up a document and the estimate I received made me want to make this lawyer eat his legal briefs. $175.00 an hour with no estimate of how many hours it would take, plus a retainer fee. I think not. If nothing else, I'll type something up and The Boy and I can sign it in front of a notary public, thus creating a legal document. How binding will that be? Binding enough to allow The Boy to keep his balls. That's what I threaten him with all the time... castration.
Such a fun game!
The snow makes the world smaller in some ways, the driveways and sidewalks lose their widths, the spaces between parking spots shrink, yet the world gets bigger. The piles of snow grow, the streets raise up an inch or two under the packed snow, we reach closer to the ceiling of clouds. Except, I stop reaching. I hold my hands to myself, I hole myself up in my room, and do not wish to live, do not want to talk, and do not want to do anything but sleep.
It feels so bewildering to love a season so much and to loathe it just as much. However, I am filled with dread concerning another matter. The Boy and I found a house we love. After seeing nine other houses, we walked into this one, smiled at each other, and nodded. We knew. You just know. It felt right. It seemed like us. I could imagine my furniture in each room, I could imagine a future in the backyard, a car in the garage, and our mess in the family room. We put an offer in and the sellers counter-offered. We accepted this counter offer.
Banks and lenders had already been visited and papers with stamps of pre-approval followed us joyfully around the area as our realtor showed up prospective properties. We've been to the bank again, things are in motion, and the house shall hopefully be ours.
During this process, there have been days where anxiety spiked and I was jittery with nerves. I told my co-workers what was going on while in training one day, and received an odd reaction from the substitute trainer. "You're buying a house?" Yes, we're buying a house. "Are you married?" No. "But you're buying a house?" Yes, we're buying a house. "But you're not married?" No, we're not married. "But you're buying a house?" Yes. "Isn't that backwards?" Not for us.
Why does she care if we are married? Why does she care if we are buying a house? Why does she think it's backwards? Further, why is she questioning me about it in a room full of people at work using her moral slant?
So, we may be homeowners. Well, I may be. It's only got my name. I looked to hire a lawyer to write up a document and the estimate I received made me want to make this lawyer eat his legal briefs. $175.00 an hour with no estimate of how many hours it would take, plus a retainer fee. I think not. If nothing else, I'll type something up and The Boy and I can sign it in front of a notary public, thus creating a legal document. How binding will that be? Binding enough to allow The Boy to keep his balls. That's what I threaten him with all the time... castration.
Such a fun game!
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Sparkles
I've never been much of a girly girl. I don't wear make-up, I don't wear jewelry 90% of the time, but yet I'm not a complete tom boy. I don't watch sports, I don't know anything about cars, etc. I always felt there was a healthy balance. This weekend that balance tipped and fell over.
The girliness outshined everything. Why did this happen? I went home over the long weekend to visit with my parents while The Boy enjoyed the debauchery of Vegas. I enjoy visiting my parents immensely and usually have a good time while there. This weekend proved that theory correct. However, one activity filled all of my time. I cleaned, sorted, and bagged jewelry. More jewelry that I've ever seen or touched in my entire life put together.
In one day we went through 300 small bags, my mom has used over 700 price labels, the world was spinning with gold, pearls, silver, and rhinestones. It was a glitzy, shiny, sometimes gaudy affair.
My grandmother had a house full of stuff when she died and none of it was organized, sorted, together, etc. It was a hodge podge, a mish-mash of items. Matching earings were in different cases (there were over 15 cases), pins, earings, and necklaces were not stored properly and lost their stones, items tarnished over time, they were tangled, mangled, and unloved. We brought some back to their previous luster, we threw some in the garbage, and my parents have had some repaired to a fabulous state.
During my perusing, I began to covet some pieces. My mother contributed to this desire by saying, "I held this aside so you could see if you liked it and want it." I liked and wanted many pieces and I now have a fine jewelry collection. I earned my "pay" this weekend. I did nothing but work with this jewelry from the time I came home until the time I left. My mother, however, has persevered much longer than I- she's been at it a month already. I think she felt that there was never an end in sight. However, when I spoke with her last, one could finally see the living room floor and the dining room table was becoming a place where people could perchance eat some time.
Tomorrow is a private sale for a few friends of my mom's. Then Friday is a larger private sale and Saturday is the public sale. I just think it's a shame that the 100 plus boxes of dolls aren't worth and most can't be restored to usuable, desireable states. They will remain orphans in boxes tucked away in garages. Alas, sometimes only beauty finds a home.
The girliness outshined everything. Why did this happen? I went home over the long weekend to visit with my parents while The Boy enjoyed the debauchery of Vegas. I enjoy visiting my parents immensely and usually have a good time while there. This weekend proved that theory correct. However, one activity filled all of my time. I cleaned, sorted, and bagged jewelry. More jewelry that I've ever seen or touched in my entire life put together.
In one day we went through 300 small bags, my mom has used over 700 price labels, the world was spinning with gold, pearls, silver, and rhinestones. It was a glitzy, shiny, sometimes gaudy affair.
My grandmother had a house full of stuff when she died and none of it was organized, sorted, together, etc. It was a hodge podge, a mish-mash of items. Matching earings were in different cases (there were over 15 cases), pins, earings, and necklaces were not stored properly and lost their stones, items tarnished over time, they were tangled, mangled, and unloved. We brought some back to their previous luster, we threw some in the garbage, and my parents have had some repaired to a fabulous state.
During my perusing, I began to covet some pieces. My mother contributed to this desire by saying, "I held this aside so you could see if you liked it and want it." I liked and wanted many pieces and I now have a fine jewelry collection. I earned my "pay" this weekend. I did nothing but work with this jewelry from the time I came home until the time I left. My mother, however, has persevered much longer than I- she's been at it a month already. I think she felt that there was never an end in sight. However, when I spoke with her last, one could finally see the living room floor and the dining room table was becoming a place where people could perchance eat some time.
Tomorrow is a private sale for a few friends of my mom's. Then Friday is a larger private sale and Saturday is the public sale. I just think it's a shame that the 100 plus boxes of dolls aren't worth and most can't be restored to usuable, desireable states. They will remain orphans in boxes tucked away in garages. Alas, sometimes only beauty finds a home.
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