snapshot from Sunday

10 years of my life. Attempt. Attempt. Attempt. Attempt. This is a recording. šŸ˜‰

Had to move this mountain to clean the floor in the spare bedroom. These are each unique proof copies of books from long, long ago, I never did anything with. And I thought it was all of them, but it’s not.

“And you say you never do anything,” my husband said.

I guess it feels like, when they’re all sitting on the floor in a spare room, all that time and energy is pretty much nothing. I keep telling myself one day I’ll have grandchildren who will find them in a box long after I’m gone and be like, “Cool, Grandma was crazy!” hahahahaĀ The promise of the prospect makes it all worth it. šŸ˜‰

Still no poem and it’s the end of the weekend. Maybe next week. šŸ˜‰

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the bleeding

there’s a distant sorta ‘I’m still sleepy even though I been up for 6 hours’ kinda look on the faces of four or five generations in photos

I’m here but just barely

eyes sort of lazy, floating around

hair a mess

few pounds too many

I’m getting by

getting by

and I ache because I know I’m just as guilty as the first one

zoning out, just existing

getting by

we’re not supposed to just get by

but we’re grateful to do so

done with one and on to the next

 

they start with the booze at about 12

it’s funny

and it’s for now

until it’s routine

and it’s a vehicle

and it’s a one-car crash into a brick wall

the bricks are made from crushed and condensed too-late-Saturday-night and income tax times and ‘if I can just make it to pay day’

the dentist

and groceries

and how overdue can the car be before they actually pick it up and take it away?

how many times do we have to have this conversation over the course of 20 years before someone finally calls a spade a spade?

resistanceĀ is rueful

 

I can’t look at old pictures

I see the girl in baggy clothes

bad dye job

acne

overweight

sitting in a crowded room, smiling, laughing, joking

miserable

sad

in so much pain

suffering

help!

help me!

please.

knows how to please everyone except herself

she won at life and she’s still losing because yesterday’s unwanted visitors keep hanging around the house, even when its empty and there’s nothing to do but pace or sit on the spare bedroom floor until that becomes boring so she gets up and moves to the other bedroom floor, shuts the door, home alone, knees tucked up, just staring

half the time she’s still waiting for the monster to plow through the door and start wailing on her

she sobbed the first time someone called her a ‘bitch’, completely and totally heartbroken

 

help me help you so we can both stop drowning

I can’t help you because I’m the drowning anchor

cliche

drowning trying to save you

I cannot save myself

 

every timeĀ I see a pretty smile plastered over the mouth of a sad-eyed person,

I start spitting out cheesy knock-knock jokes and antidotes

relentlessly

begging

another cliche

the cute clown

court jester

I promise to say the right thing if you promise to say anything

please don’t be sad

at least not in quiet

be sad out loud

I promise I won’t ask you to not to

I’ll be sad with you if I have to

just don’t do it in quiet

 

you can not make me stop knowing what I know

 

5 in the morning and the roof still needs fixing

I hate the water stains

and the buckets and pots

and reminder that there’s something else in line to be done

nagging

at least a dozen times in two years I’ve sat in a chair in the dark, listening to the drip hit the bucket, thinking, the first time it rains after we finally get that thing fixed, I’ll break down and sob

 

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Our Sum Total is Greater Than Our Parts

I’ve been studying up on Zelda Fitzgerald for about a week now. I’m watching “Z, the Beginning of Everything” on Amazon. Yesterday, I started listening to Zelda’s book Save me the Waltz, too.

What a mess her relationship with her husband was. They were both writers, but he was supposed to be the ‘real’ one. She was the flake of a failure in Scott’s own words, ‘third-rate ballet dancer, third-rate writer’. And BTW, ouch, if that’s how your number one fan in life describes you, who needs enemies?!

Did she plagiarize his idea of plagiarizingĀ her life? He USED HER JOURNAL for Pete’s sake! And after all those years of being his muse, she got her own book published and he couldn’t even be happy for her? Why couldn’t he just let her have her book? Warts and all, at least it was a success in her own right. The reviews from the critics were harsh, but something tells me if just her own husband would have been happy for her…

Index card notes, so far? She spent too much money. They were both vain and messy. Partied to the point of destruction. Caused mayhem everyplace they went. Had affairs and then possibly made up affairs for conflict and drama. Oh, and Zelda hated Hemingway because she was dead-set he was homosexual and having a secret affair with her husband. :O

I’m 6 episodes in with the TV series. One entire paperback. Half of an audiobook. And through with the planning of a visit to the museum in Montgomery…and I still can’t decide if these ridiculous people are worthy of my attention or not. What a mess. šŸ™‚

 

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for air

Suffice to say, I’m all-too-pleased to share that this week, after the longest, dullest period of suffering from TMRS (too much reality syndrome), I’ve finally found my way back to fairyland. Writing new stuff for the first time in ages and I’m doing so in a way that I haven’t been able to in years. Excited. So please forgive the fade in to mostly radio silence for a bit. I’ll be back up for air soon.

Hugs, High-Fives, and Cookies. šŸ˜‰

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unavoidable update

I woke up with Peter Pan stuck in my head. That reminded me of Kelsea Ballerini. She reminded me of KelseaĀ in general. GeneralĀ Kelsea reminded me of my Kelsea and that I recently found some very big boo-boos in my last copy of Four O’Clock and Everything (including I oops-d up someone’s last name halfway through!). So I guess today’s the day I unpublish, pop the lid off that sucker, and root around until I fix all of theĀ uglies, once again, so I can put it back up online.Ā  A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do (on a Sunday of all days, no doubt).

Love from Lunchtime on a Perfectly Good Rainy Sunday

 

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unapologetics

took this on a cheap cell phone

I once broke up with a friend because she corrected my grammar. To be clear, actually, we didn’t break up over her correcting my grammar. It was really about the disrespectful way she’d taken to speaking ‘at’ me.

This throws me for a loop every single time.

People boast about being ‘grammar nazis’. First off, I’m a bit over throwing the word ‘Nazi’ after random words, but that’s a different post. And I don’t think the point is whether or not being able to speak correctly is valuable or not…

The point is when two adults are having a casual conversation and one adult corrects the other person’s speech, it strikes me as petty and rude. Er, in my case, I found it disrespectful. And when a ‘friend’ decides it’s okay to treat another ‘friend’ disrespectfully, it’s probably time to start questioning the integrity of the union, is all I am thinking. šŸ˜‰ That’s how I felt at the time, at least.

The whole ordeal with ‘the friend’ happened years ago and a valuable conversation, it sparked, between my mother and myself.Ā  “Half the things we say, outsiders will swear they don’t understand.”

She was right.

I guess I’ve just always tried to care more about what a person is saying than how he or she says it. I see the value in both, though.

All for now. šŸ˜‰

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