“Don’t tell me how to be, ’cause I like some suffering, don’t ask me what I need, I’m just fine here finding me.” Vertical Horizon

It’s quite endearing to know that no matter how much of an adult you become, think you have mastered social skills and problem solving, that things will always be messy and weird when there is no reason for them to be. Le sigh. I think “adulthood” is made-up. Take that society.

“I want to write a novel about Silence… the things people don’t say.” – Virginia Wolfe

I’m tired of people not talking about things. This is a hard feeling to convey as a non-confrontational person. And I am biased in whom I’m talking about here, namely the people I have been socializing with as of late.  I have yet again found myself in a messy situation of life.  In the past two weeks, I’ve been on two dates with the same woman. She’s smart, successful, beautiful, and fun. And a little messy. (we won’t touch on in this post, my random dating of a lady- and no I’m not saying I’m bisexual or a lesbian, I don’t want to define myself.) both dates went great and I had fun. She doesn’t want to be exclusive, she says she is terrible at commitment, and just recently got out of a marriage. Great and wonderful. I’m in a fully committed relationship with my son, he comes first and always will. I don’t care about being exclusive so much just as long as she is open and honest about who she has naked sexy time with. I realized the lack of commitment could be partially due to the fact that she is a professor and I’m in undergrad still. She’s not my professor, and we are quite close in age, but it’s still fraternization (the military also loves this rule). I also realized lack of commitment doesn’t mean lack of intimacy. I was insanely surprised at her amount of PDA while out on the second date and the next day hanging out with a “circle of friends” that I have been quickly thrust into upon knowing her and her best friend, also a professor. Even at her house, cuddle levels, initiated by her, are astronomical. I’m not used to this at all. Even her FB profile pic, supposedly, is us from our Halloween themed date Saturday. (I do not know for sure, was told this, because even though I was invited to have a sleepover, we are not to FB friend level yet- go figure). At school today, she didn’t speak to me. I can play this game. I’m great at this game. Do I like that I somehow found myself yet again in a situation where I cannot be open about who I am jiving on? Not one bit. I guess it’d be a hard enough hurdle being a female/female relationship so I of course had to kick it up a notch. If all of this wasn’t just enough to drive the tiny part of my brain I have set aside to now allow itself to think about/ remember things about professor lady, Sunday at the bar, in the bathroom, her BFF drunkenly kissed me. Remember she is also a professor, and one of my professors, and married to a man. The last point isn’t so much that she’s married to a man or woman, but married. Apparently my siren call is strong lately, because it was upsetting after copious amounts of Coors Lite to have me remove her tongue from my mouth and say “This is a bad idea.” So what would you do? Keep it mum? Apologize? Nope, logically, let’s go back out and tell the person I’m “hanging out” with. She didn’t care. I think after we left, the idea just spurned her on…which led me to initially believe that I was the joke of some bad Lifetime movie where two people secretly want each other and use some sad pawn to torture each other. But who knows. This morning I got a few very early very apologetic texts from my bathroom romancer. Asking for forgiveness and saying she had self-destructive tendencies. Join the club lady. We’ve already put out three annual t-shirts. They’re free, come get one. I go to school today with all intentions of talking this out, to understand what happened and apologize myself and try to explain everything. Well, no, she didn’t want to talk about it. “Let’s just forget it” she said. Things not easily forgotten, being accosted in the ladies room by a tall, attractive blonde who gives me a grade toward the completion of my diploma in a few months. SHOULD I be surprised really? No, I always seem to have “when it rains it pours” moments and by really really unsuspecting people. Trust me. But why can’t we talk about things? We are adults! Yet, even people with insanely high degrees apparently don’t want to deal with their emotional situations. At least I don’t feel so badly now about not having my BS yet.

“About morals, I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after.” Ernest Hemingway

In my Deviant Behavior class this semester we have talked about what is deviant. Is it solely in the eye of the beholder-the one observing, saying it is deviant- or the person who is doing the so called “deviant” act? If they feel it is completely legit and normal, then is it? You know, if a tree falls in the woods, does it make a sound if no one is around to hear it? If no one else sees you do something, can it be deviant? I don’t know the answers to any of these things. I am almost positive though a tree would make a sound…anyway. Just as I am almost positive that TONS of things I’ve done in my life, no one has seen or knows about, but pretty damn sure they were deviant, so ipso facto they were wrong…and I’ve been to a therapist. I tried talking about these things. I need a way to get them out and move on and feel better about me. Running helps. It is a metaphorical thing now, not just to make my legs look super awesome. 

I used to be a person who ran away. Not like habitually, not quite metaphorically either. After two years of college, I ran off and married my High School “Sweetheart” a.k.a. Jr. It was stupid. We ALL knew it. But I could, so I did. Then after six months of that awful-ness we deemed a marriage, I joined the Army and for seven years I didn’t really come home. I mean I visited but briefly. I loved it. No, for real, Hawaii is my retirement location. But I did stupid things upon stupid things upon stupid things. I drank way too much, slept with too many people that the next day I was like “what is wrong with me? am I outside?” -as in, oh my Buddha I was super drunk last night. This lifestyle led to two things: 1. Me getting this tattoo – “We must all suffer one of two things: the pain of discipline or the pain of regret or disappointment.”- Jim Rohn. I got the bolded part only. I thought, damn I need discipline, and 2. I got myself a baby. Yep, knocked up. Seriously watch that movie and it sorta was my life. 

So, now with a baby, out of the Army and in college full time, about to graduate. I can’t run anymore. So I run, literally on pavement or a treadmill. I think it is therapeutic. So is some bourbon, but only in very small moderation when the baby is gone to grandma’s. 

What was the point of this post now you ask? I don’t know. I am making up for not posting more on here and trying to pour out my thoughts more often to help my sanity. I hope I don’t lose all two of my followers in the process. Now you know, and knowing is half the battle. 

 

 

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Maya Angelou

This is not 100% accurate for the post that will follow, but it generally spoke to me on what I wanted to write. I’ve been sitting on wanting to write this since the day I attended my Pawpaw’s funeral, so over a month. I know when people attend things, a front row seat is optimal, even praise-worthy depending on said event. I had a front row seat that day. This was not optimal or praise-worthy. I have been lucky to never be part of the family section of a funeral before. Yes, I’ve had great uncles and aunts die, my great-great grandmother and both great grandmother’s died after I was born, I don’t remember. The only funeral I remember was my cousin Tim’s a few years ago, he was 18. But we didn’t exactly share a lineage. We didn’t have passed on traits, mannerisms or the same last name. But my Pawpaw was the first of my grandparents to leave me. It was expected. Not that exact day by any means but he had been in a hospital bed for seven years. He had a stroke they think and then got progressively worse over the years. He started to not know who anyone was except his wife and one son. By the end, he had another stroke they think and wouldn’t wake up hardly at all or eat. So they knew, it was only a matter of days and his body would be too tired to hang on. My Nana and Uncle Drew both stayed up or took turns making sure that the moment he passed from here to Heaven, he was not alone. He didn’t know. But my Nana couldn’t bear him being alone in that split second from Earth to Heaven. So she held his hand till the end. When it came time for the service in the church (he was cremated) some of his favorite hymns were played and a bunch of covers of gospel songs Elvis did. Apparently he loved Elvis and Johnny Cash. The color blue, Wendy’s burgers run through twice to be extra done, and his nickname was “ginger” and I still don’t know why. My grandma wore blue the day of the service. My Uncle spoke and I learned Pawpaw had played Santa in his younger years on a local tv station during Christmas answering letters from kids on the air and when there were not enough letters he would write them himself, naming the kids after his co-workers or whoever he knew in real life. Then my Nana spoke and that was it. My other Uncle couldn’t speak he was too upset and my dad didn’t go. Since he hasn’t spoken to his parents since basically him and my mom divorced 23 years ago. The Preacher asked if any other family wanted to speak. There was really no one there.  My Nana, both Uncle’s, my sister and I, my Uncle’s “adopted” daughter Chassie and some niece of Pawpaws I’ve never met who looked like an old biker chick. Well, I had prepared no speech. I forgot they asked that and since it was my first VIP funeral I didn’t know. But I thought my Pawpaw deserved more than two people to speak at his funeral. Tons of his friends were there and church people but no one moved. So I went up there. I had already been crying due to my Uncle. I didn’t know what to say. I had not seen my Pawpaw aware and knowing who I was in over ten years. I left for a whirlwind marriage and the Army after two years of college when I was 19. I didn’t visit often and thanks to my parents divorce, before in High School we didn’t see those grandparents often. My mom wouldn’t take us and of course my dad wouldn’t. My Nana deals with depression so sometimes she said it was too painful to see us because of our dad. I had barely any memories of my Pawpaw from recent years. All I could remember was that he always had chocolate milk when we visited when we were little, not like you mixed syrup and milk, the real stuff. We always went to the Gadsden mall and ate at this one trashy pizza place we apparently loved and we always got a toy at some store. One time for Christmas I was enamored by Pee Wee Herman (before we all knew he was a creep) and Pawpaw found a cardboard cut out at some car dealership or something and that was our Christmas present. I always thought he was Santa even though I never knew he had played it on tv. He did meet my son twice. He didn’t know me but he thought I was a pretty lady and he got to actually look at Liam. Later after we had left, he asked my Nana where that monkey went. (Liam). And that was all I could say. I cried through it all, mainly ashamed I didn’t know more things to say about him. The adopted granddaughter Chassie saw him more than Emma and I. I said I hoped that he knew we loved him. Chassie sang after I spoke and she said a few words which put mine to shame about what a great man he was and how he had raised great sons (sans my father). I didn’t say any of that. I just said things about my Pawpaw that I loved. Sitting here I still feel a bad pull inside for not knowing him better or seeing him more. I never knew how he felt about me being in the Army or anything of my adult life. I don’t know why he lost his job at the Steel mill a long time ago or why he decided to write for the Gadsden Times after that. All I know is my Nana did everything she should have and he went to Heaven because he believed in that and he was a good man. 

I don’t expect any responses just wanted to get this out somewhere. 

“True terror is to wake up one morning and realize your high school class is running the country.” Kurt Vonnegut

True Story. At twenty-eight I should have a house, white picket fence, doting husband and 2.5 children. Denied. At twenty-eight I am single, have an almost 2 year old and no degree. I pondered earlier if I was too old to be gallivanting around the Internet spouting random, well poised thoughts. Should I really be fan-girling so hard over Pinto? Shouldn’t I be studying for the GRE instead of laying out a theme on yet another blogging site? Then I really mused where I went “wrong”. I’ve constructed my life a little backwards. At twenty I was “blissfully” married and had signed up for a (semi) career in the Unites States Army. By twenty-one I was in Iraq for the first time. Albeit, a short stunt the first time, it was enough to solidify that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. A few years later I finally divorced my ex-husband and a few more years after that I gracefully bowed out of the military scene with a baby in tow. And thought, “dammit, I’m going to finish my degree in _________”. So I moved home, went back to school and here I am slowly losing my (happy-go-lucky) mind with a major in Sociology and a minor is Psychology with plans for grad school. So am I too old to be here? Hells no. I only started blogging a few years ago. I’m in my blogging early tween years technically. Deal with it. As far as introductory posts go, “That’ll do pig, that’ll do.”