Snackie's World

Everyone who walked ahead of me spoke of the light at the end of the very scorched tunnel.  As I cried, they held my hand and promised that one day my heart would feel whole again.  As the anger inside of me ate up the good aspects of my personality, they stood by me and promised me that the rage would dissipate to apathy in the blink of an eye.

I never believed them.

When someone has crossed a bridge before you, they want to tell you how good things are on the other side.  You don’t want to hear it.  All you want to do is remind them that you’re on your own journey and that you’ll fucking get there when you fucking get there.  You love your friends to death but if you hear how time heals all wounds just one more time, you think you may have to cut a bitch.  That’s just the way it goes.

It’s an ignorant person who doesn’t take the advice of those who have walked before them.  While pride, hurt, vanity and other various personality defects often block our senses from taking in someone else’s wisdom, we must try our hardest to let even the littlest bit of knowledge seep in.  How can we not?  How can we grow as people if we cannot take someone else’s age and experience into consideration when they are speaking to us, especially at our lowest point?  Sure, it’s hard because we want someone to take away our pain rather than promise us that eventually it will get better but hey, if you’ve ever read anything I’ve ever written through tear-soaked eyes then believe me when I say this right now…

Everything does get better.

As a matter of fact, my growing pains are finally coming to a complete halt.  All of the crazy dating I had done has slowed its roll and I am now solely focusing on one person, to be named at a later date, I’m sure.  There’s a contentment in my soul that shines through in spades, allowing laughter to flood the room every time I’m in it.  There’s a knowledge that even though most days aren’t perfect, that it doesn’t matter because when all is said and done, my life is good.  My heart is good.  My tummy butterflies are good.  I’m able to give affection in ways that I never could before because I don’t operate as a young girl high on expectations, waiting for Prince Charming.  Nay nay, I threw expectations out of the window and let me tell you something, it’s lovely to have a relationship with someone that just “is”.

Moreover, I was able to sit down a couple of weeks ago and write the following letter to my ex husband…

“…Not that you care or were sitting around waiting but I absolutely forgot about your birthday yesterday so yeah, Happy Birthday.  I really do wish you the best in the upcoming year and hope that you find continued happiness on the path that you are traveling.  New decade, new awesomeness, I suppose.

And you know what?  I meant it.  And you know what, part two?  As expected, he never answered me back.  And you know what about that?  I don’t care.  It honestly hasn’t hurt or made me angry or made me feel much of anything at all because obviously, I pretty much let go.  I’m done feeling anything and I don’t miss him…not even when I stop to think about it.  I wanted to get closure but I knew that I would never get the kind of closure I wanted from him so yanno, I made my *own* closure.

Now I stand, walking ahead of so many who have the same road to travel.  I watch them cry and want to run to them and hold their hands.  I see their angry words hit the page and I want to tell them that this too shall pass.  I see others become these little fickle pickle dating superstars and I want to nod and tell them to ride the wave because one day they will totally tire of it all.  I watch from the sidelines and wonder if I looked the same to others who had gone through it before me.

All I can say is this…losing people is hard, whether it be a spouse or just someone who you actually thought was your friend.  Your heart and head will run the gamut of emotions but if you can stay as true to yourself as possible, you’ll come out okay on the other end.  Sure, I may have lost my way for a minute or two there while I flailed helplessly but as of right now, I am just amazingly happy with who I am and what my life has become.

It’s been an incredible journey. I could not have done it without the people who held my hand while I cried or listened to me when I was crazy, even though some of those people are no longer in my life today. Even though I am a little embarrassed by some of my tacky behavior, I probably could not have gotten through it without blogging either.  Honestly, I must also thank all of the boys who came and went out of my life in the last year for making me feel sexy and pretty and worthy of so much love.  When all is said and done though, I gotta throw it up to God for making me such a strong woman who thrives on hope and second chances.

For the first time in over a year, I sit before you, typing with tears streaming down my face.  This time though, they are tears of joy, peace and all that other good ass shit because I am so fucking happy to just be…well, happy.

Time Does Heal All Wounds Kisses,
Me

I’ve been a redhead for most of my adult life…thanks to a bottle and dream, that is.  Since age seventeen, when I stripped my hair of all color and got sent into rehab the next day without a chance to dye it back brown, I’ve had some various  version of red rocking my locks!  For those of you playing the home game, that’s a sum total of almost twenty years of finding the coolest shade of red I could and lathering up my scalp once every eight weeks or so.

And then, sort of on a dare and a whim and the giggle crazies of girls gone wild in a foreign state, I dyed my hair black.  At the time, it suited me, I guess.  Life was morose and dark and everything about that black hair screamed, “I’m going through a divorce right now and really I’m miserable but still, check me out…how you doiinnnnn?”. Or yanno, something like that.  The funny thing is that my black hair phase was actually the closest I’ve come to my natural color in years and years and years.  Still, I dunno…something about it seemed so severe.  So harsh.  So something.  Don’t get me wrong here, I really cannot wait to maybe try it again one day but for now, I’m glad that bad phase is over.

Anydoodle, enter California and this girl being back with a vengeance.   I wanted to do something different.  I wanted to have my hair match how I feel on the inside…vibrant, renewed, full of laughter and light, and other random crap like that.  I just, for once, wanted to feel like I shine.  So, I defied the voices in my head this last Saturday and agreed to go way more blond than I’d ever intended when my hairdresser suggested it.  The result?  Pure happiness.  I’m not sure if this is the perfect color for me but for right now?  It works.  I love the pep in my step and the way I feel like something is different but in a bright and happy way this time.

So yes, as you can see by the pictures below, I’ve tried all of the colors in the last few years and have finally settled on the blondish color you see in the last two pictures.

And my GOD, is it just me or do I look a fuckton happier now than I ever did? I mean, maybe it’s just because I actually FEEL happy inside but it’s like, I dunno, I am seeing a whole new me or something. Maybe not. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking but I will tell you this…it’s not being blond that makes you have more fun. It’s being absofuckinglutely happy. I mean, duhhhh.

Holy crap, I just wrote a whole blog post about my hair.  How frivolous can I be tonight?  Very, apparently!  But yanno, I promised I wouldn’t be a cryptic bitch anymore.  I nevah evah promised I wouldn’t be all fluffy now and then!

Rocking My Summer Kisses,
Me

I pulled up to his house to find him standing outside, looking somewhat ragged in his laundry-day clothes.  Still, something about that killer smile and beautiful Latino skin always drew me in closer than I wanted to be.  As he sauntered up to my car, he came to my door, opened it and said, “Get out of the car and move to the passenger seat so I can drive, please“.

In my head, I thought, “Did this joker just order me to move to the passenger seat of my own damned car?” and yet the only words to leave my mouth were, “Okay…where are we going?”.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, he looked at me and said, “We’ve got errands” and left it at that.  Completely accustomed to his inabiltity to be absolutely forthcoming with information, I pulled my sunglasses over my eyes, leaned back in my seat and said, “Well, I’m hungry so one of our errands needs to be food, please.”

In my head, I thought, “Why the hell am I asking him to please remember to stop and get me some food when this is my own damned car?” and yet, rather than saying anything, I ran my fingers through his newly salt and peppered hair and asked him if he was having a bad day.

As he started to answer my question, he rolled down the driver’s side window, took a Marlboro out of its pack, lit it up, blew his smoke out into the world and smiled.  He then held my hand and said, “I know you don’t allow much smoking in your car but I thought that since it’s me, it’s probably all good”.

It was at that moment that I puled my sunglasses down my nose, peered over them, and finally said, “God, you’re such a a dick“. 

He then smiled at me and said, “I know“.

Reluctantly, I stroked his hair yet again and said, “It turns me on a little bit…okay a lotta bit but at the same time, damn dude…you’re being hella brazen and dickish today for sure.”

He then smiled at me again and said, “I know.  Women like it when a man is a little bit of a dick.  They like it when a man tells them what to do and takes charge.  The sad thing is this…in order to get a woman these days, you have to be just a little bit of an asshole.”

“True”, I said, “but I think you take it to a whole other level.  On the real real, Jo-Jessica”.

Silence filled the car as I tried to examine my reasons for even hanging out with this dude in the first place.  Intent on having a good day, I put my busy head to rest and decided to just let it be until the day when I actually felt like dissecting the fuck out my tendency to be attracted to men with a little attitude and a whole lot of sexiness.  Apparently, today is that day.

I’m guessing that it must be extremely hard to be a man who’s trying to figure out what exactly it is that women want.  Ancient Chinese secret, boys…not even *we* know what we want half of the time.  Sure, we’ll tell you that we want someone who is attentive, humorous, smart, sassy, educated, hard-working, reliable, faithful and basically impossible to find but at the end of the day, all of that flies out of the window when the right chemical explosion takes place.  It’s fucking pathological, really.  We know that “bad boys” are well, bad for us, and still, man oh mangoberry, when one walks into the room with a tip of his hat and a little bit of swagga, our hearts palpitate and we instinctively turn on the little flirty bug inside of us.

Um well, okay…at least *I* do.

Don’t get me wrong though, fellas…I don’t want to end up with a bad boy.   I’m sane enough to know that they are super duper fun to have a casual relationship with but holy hell, if I can’t pin you down to committing to one Saturday night a month, I’m sure as hell not going to be counting on you to be there for me day in and day out.  And listen up, brotha…your bravado and swagga may be sexy as all get out but there’s truly a limit to how far that will take you in life.  Well, at least in *my* life. 

Sure, I want a man that is a little bit aloof but I don’t want one that thinks he makes all of the rules.  I like a man that can tell me what to do but one that doesn’t expect that I’ll really listen.  I’m drawn to a man that doesn’t fawn all over me but sweet pea, ignoring me for two weeks at a time won’t cut the mustard either.  I’m impressed by a man with extreme self-confidence both in and out of bed but acting cocksure and assuming that I will keep coming back for more crumbs?  Oh baby boy, you’ve obviously never *really* met me.

On the flip side, I find desperation to be wholly unattractive.  I don’t want you to need me or hey, if you do, don’t tell me about it every five seconds.  I don’t want you to text message and call me twenty times a day, thanks.  I don’t need to see you every night and oh my Jesus, if you’re already calling me “baby” after three days of dating, we have a problem. I like to hold hands and cuddle intermittently so if you constantly need one part of your body touching mine without any space left for me to be an individual (and not a siamese twin), we’re just not gonna happen, Chico.   Don’t ever ever evahhhh drop plans with someone else just because I snap my fingers and if you do, don’t let me find out about it FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. 

Le sigh.

Maybe what women want…oops, maybe what *I* want is complicated but maybe it’s really not.  I want someone who is obviously into me and is unafraid to admit it but at the same time, I don’t want someone to be obsessed with loving me.  The first time I met my ex-husband, his flight had been fogged in and he wasn’t going to be able to make our fabulous weekend together.  The man moved mountains and switched flights in order to get to California and spend time with me.  When he got here, he didn’t cling to me and once he went home, he made his intentions known without a need to constantly be up my patootie. 

Maybe that’s the dragon I’m chasing.  Maybe I’m just looking for someone who sits somewhere in the middle between desperate/clingy and aloof/non-committal.  Maybe the fact that I’ve recently dated both sides of the spectrum has taught me that one can’t survive without the other.  My only problem is…what’s the likliehood of finding a cocky, sarcastic, take charge kind of guy that also will somehow remind me every day that he’s also all heart and soul?  I mean really, why is that so hard?

Maybe we women…I mean maybe *I* ask for too much.  But seriously, if I am spelling it out for you, uhhhh…I can’t be all *that* mysterious, right?

Dating 101 Kisses,
Me

I’m curvy.
I’m voluptuous.
I’m all woman.
I have breasts that bounce when I run.
I have an ass that shakes when I dance.
I have thighs that touch.
I am not ashamed.
I am beautiful.
I am sassy.
I have a killer smile that lights up a room.
I am desirable.
I am loved.
I am not a fetish.
Men who want me don’t do so because they’re “chubby chasers”.
I don’t dig that kind of man.
Men who love me do so because of everything else.
I’m cool.
I’m funny.
I’m sexy.
I’m beautiful.
I won’t be held down by society’s unreasonable standards.
I won’t let you make me feel “less than” because my weight starts with the number “2″.
I won’t let you tell me that I can’t be loved because of my curvalicious tendencies.
If you don’t see inside of me, you don’t matter.
If you’ve never watched my face while making love to me, you don’t count.
If you question why someone would want ALL OF THIS, then you’ve not really known me.
Yes, there are 32 pounds less of me than there were two months ago.
That doesn’t mean that you can suddenly find me interesting.
That doesn’t allow you to NOW tell me that I am beautiful.
That doesn’t make it okay for you to push for the next thirty to come off quickly.
I am thinner.
I am still the same girl who loves PopTarts and Jelly Bellies.
I am healthier.
I can still drink you under the table.
I am happier.
I can still drive a stake through your heart, you cold cold man.
I am losing more weight.
I will still remember the way you treated me when I hadn’t.
My hips sway when I walk.
My wrinkles crease when I smile.
My ass shakes when I’m making love.
My heart loves when I’m in your arms.
I am not ashamed.
I will always be the same person inside no matter what is outside.
You don’t have to love me.
I love myself.

Empowering Kisses,
Me

Philosophy: In the end, it all comes down to one word:  grace.

At least that’s what it says on my perfume bottle.  And my lotion bottle.  And my shampoo bottle.  And my…oh, you get the drift.

Of course, I never really noticed that keen little phrase stamped all over my scent of choice until the other day, when I was cruising the Sephora with this amazing man I know.    After several cocktails, sessions of witty banter and a much needed nap, I dragged my friend Davey-Joe with me to the mall so I could “quickly” run into Sephora.  As he tried to main-tainnnn while the horror of the very *idea* of that store washed over his body, I quickly scanned the lip gloss aisle then ran to the back, where I proceeded to grab up my Philosophy products for the month.   As Dave ooohed and aahed over scents like Chocolate Pudding and Rainbow Sherbet, I held up my box of perfume to his face and said, “See?  Isn’t that a great slogan?“.

After he read it aloud, he looked at me and said, “Well no wonder you like it so much, Hilly Sue!  That slogan is perfect for you! And Grace Kelly“.

I giggled as we approached the counter but his words have resonated in my head for over five days now.  Thoughts about “grace” and “class” and “mercy” have been dancing through my head like wildfire and I just cannot get deep enough to suss out their true meanings…you know, to me.  I’ve often contemplated what it is that makes someone the picture of those three things and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not really about traditional definitions anymore.  I mean yes, technically, if you want to get all Webster on my ass, it is but still…new millennium, new meanings.

I’ve recently scanned my brain in order to categorize the most amazing people I know and you know what I found?  They all exude those three characteristics.  In case you forgot what I am talking about here, let’s review.  I am talking about: grace, class, and mercy.  In the past, I’ve assumed that people had these characteristics simply because they had money and/or were raised with correct manners.  Let me tell you one thing now, my friends…you can be Beau Brumelly and still be none of those things.

There is nothing classy about letting someone else take the fall for something in which you took part.  There is no grace in publicly making fun of other people when you no longer like them.  There is no mercy in assuming the group lynch mob mentality when you only half-assed know what you are lynching in the first place.  Nay nay, you can sit in your big house with your designer clothes and your supposed wordily views but if you act like an arrogant, untouchable douchebag, then you may as well kiss it goodbye, sister.  Erm, or brother.

People often ask me how I stay quiet while dodging bullets that should not be flying my way in the first place.  In various situations, I’ve kept my cool and have not publicly lashed out against anyone.  Well, let’s be clear about something…to do so would be in poor taste.  It would be classless.  It would be disgraceful. It would be merciless.  It would not go along with who I am and/or who I want to be which is…a child of mercy and grace.  In my heart, I forgive people who have nothing better to do than tear me apart without really even knowing me that well anymore.  In my mouth, I keep ugly names at bay and only embrace the words which bring happiness to another person’s life.  In my actions, I show compassion yet also always pray for the mercy of others when I can’t quite keep all of the rest of it together.  I strive to be better, kinder, classier, more forgiving and in general, a better person.  If someone wants to come along for that ride, then all aboard!  If not then bye bye and seriously, no hard feelings.

I’m tired of shitty people getting away with shitty things because I’ve allowed them to do so.  Half of the douchebaggery that is thrust upon us is the dbag’s fault but the other half is our fault for allowing that behavior in the first place.  I’ve stopped allowing it altogether.   Instead, I’ve been focusing on people who make the world spin just by being themselves.  I am absolutely in love (platonically, duh) with my best friends, Davey Joe and Foo Diddy.  I cannot tell you how much stronger my bond has become with both of them since I pretty much left the whole blogging “scene”.  Yeah yeah, I still blog once a week but you know what I mean.  I don’t blog that much and I deleted my Twitter account because it made me want to fly into a psychotic rage every five seconds.

Pause for the cause: Retweets are the death of Twitter.  Mark my words.  If I wanted to see what someone I totally disliked was up to, I’d follow their asses.  End story.

Anyway, back to my amazing friends…

There is a genuine happiness in my relationships these days and I think the fact that I spend way less time online is a huge contributing factor.  I mean, you would think that’s a big halo of “duh” but it took me a minute to get it.  While I absolutely adore each of you that have stuck with me while I’ve gone through my various blog transformations. this blog is no longer my life.  The Internet is no longer my life.  That miserable woman who was full of piss and vitriol (thanks, divorce) no longer exists.  As a matter of fact, I told mah Davey-Joe and mah FooDiddy just the other day that finally finally finally fucking finally, I feel like the girl I was before I got married.  Just like her.  Except older and a little more wrinkled, mostly.   But but but…I’m her.  I always was her.  As a matter of fact, I’ve always been the same person, no matter what anyone else wants to say on that subject.  Hrmph, I’ve never been anyone else but “me”.  And you know what?  I never ever ever will.

I’m A Grown-Ass Woman Kisses,
Me

When I was eighteen years old, I said no.  I screamed and cried until there was nothing left to give.  I had my power stripped from me and my faith stolen away as a man entered my body without permission.  He held his hand over my face as I sobbed and then he whispered, “shut up, you dumb bitch” in my ear as I finally gave up and laid lifeless beneath him.  Anything for it to be over.  Anything for his hands and his breath to be a distant memory.  Anything for the devastating pain to begin and be felt so that I could heal and move on.  Anything but there.

He did not break me.

When I was twenty-three years old, I said stop.  As the man that I was about to marry asked another woman “do I make you feel good?” in the very bed where he and I slept each night, I screamed for him to just please stop. While I had been at my grandmother’s funeral, he had brought another woman into our home…into my bed…and he had defiled everything that we had built together.  When I found out who he really was, I just wanted it all to stop.  I wanted him to get his stuff of the front lawn, where I had dramatically thrown it, and just leave.  I wanted to devastating pain to begin and be felt so that I could deal and move on.  Anything but there.

He did not break me.

When I was thirty years old, I said enough.  As the truth about who my mother really was came to light in my trembling hands, I packed my bags and moved away from her house like a thief in the night.  Years of her mental abuse and almost psychotic activity was nothing compared to finding out that she’d embezzled from my sister and I for years.  She stole our trust fund money and lived off of it while we had to fight our way to go through college and live very simple lives.  I confronted her repeatedly only to get the doe-eyed stare that most people give when they’re fully incapable of just admitting their wrongdoings and saying they are sorry.  I wanted to get in my car and drive as far away from her craziness as possible, lest I end up just like her.  I wanted the devastating pain of not really having a mother to being and be felt so that I could deal and move on.  Anything but there.

She did not break me.

When I was thirty seven years old, I said goodbye.  Not only did I say goodbye to the marriage that I thought would last forever and the boy I’d once thought hung the moon but I also said goodbye to my dreams of a perfectly lovely future.  As I tripped through the next year of my life, often sad and bitter, I wanted to hate the man that I had once loved so much.  I wanted to hate anyone who was happier than I was.  I wanted to hate myself for my part in our destruction.  I wanted to feel everything yet nothing at the same time.  I wanted to reach out to him and I wanted to smash the windows of his car with my baseball bat.  I wanted to lay down and die.  I wanted to wake up and live.  I wanted the devastating pain of losing him and what I *thought* my future would be to end so that I could deal and move on.  Anything but there.

“We” did not break me.

When I was thirty eight years old, I said fat chance.  I sat down to write this blog post with a million petty little things in mind.  I thought about the people who have seemed to come and go from my life lately and in those thoughts, I gathered both the smiles and the tears.  I thought about the people in my life who are currently being petty and judgmental rather than being good friends when I need them the most and rather than snarking or lambasting them, I forgave them and wished peace upon their troubled hearts.  I thought about the boss who doesn’t know how to speak to me correctly and realized that she’s probably doing the best with what she has.  I thought about the people who want to run my life and tried to believe that they do it from a place of love.  I thought about the people who want to talk shit about me and realized that those aren’t true friends anyway.  I thought about the whispers behind closed doors and the jokes at my expense.  I thought about the hateful comments left about me on other blogs and the ones people don’t know get forwarded to me.  I thought about the random man who called me a fat piggy bitch the other day and the random woman who called me a cunt.  I thought about the people who judge me without really knowing me and the ones who really know me and don’t like me just the same.  And when it all filtered through my head in the ten minutes it took to write this blog post, here is what I came up with…

They will not break me.

If I’ve been able to survive date rape, a cheating fiancee, an abusive mother, a craptastical divorce and other items that I don’t even want to talk about here, then what the fuck makes anyone think that they are going to be the one to break me?

Be petty.  Be judgmental.  Be small.  Be dishonest.  Be two-faced.  Be ugly on the inside.  Be hateful.  Be dramatic.  Be a terrible listener.  Be selfish.  Be whatever the hell it is you want to be.

Me?  I’m going to be over here feeling strong and happy.  Unbroken.  Untainted by other people’s need to bring another person down to their level.  I’m going to breathe in, forgive people who have hurt me, breathe out, then move the hell forward.

Unbroken.  Did I mention that already?  Oh well, let me say it again.

Un-mutha-fuckin-broken.

Seriously NFA Kisses,
Me

[ Chances are that half the people reading this will think they know what this post is about.  Trust me when I say that it's not about anything.  Just love and strength, thanks. ]

They say that right before you’re about to die, your entire life flashes before your eyes.  I’m here to tell you that in my case, that’s not entirely true.  As a matter of fact, earlier this afternoon, when I was sure that I was about to die, the biggest thoughts going through my head were about unfinished business and the fact that I haven’t told everyone exactly how I feel about them.

But hey, before I wax all prolific, how about I tell you how I almost died?  Yes, seriously…I like literally almost died on Sunday, August 1st at exactly 4:47pm, Pacific Daylight Time.

As most of you know, I took a tumble across a courtyard about a month ago and because of that, my knee is still jacked up beyond repair.  Well okay, there probably *is* a repair for whatever is going on but I’m totally not going to seek it out until next month when I have some damned health insurance!  In any case, every now and then I like to take half of a pain pill so that I can relax without the constantly annoying knee-screaming action that comes after a workout.  After a long morning of beefing up my exercise routine then running around town with a fella much younger than I am, all I wanted to do was break that Percoset in half, prop up mah leg and enjoy a little Project Runway or perhaps even some Supernatural reruns.

The last thing I truly remember was the crisp ripping noise that happened when I popped open my Diet Grapefruit Soda.  After that, it’s all pretty much a blur so please bear with me as I try to suss this all out.  I must have opened the soda then popped the pill into my mouth quite rapidly.  All I remember at that point is that something suddenly felt very wrong and I couldn’t breathe.  At first, the pill seem to almost be lodged in the wrong place until I freaked the fuck out, inhaled deeply and uh, probably sealed my fate by lodging it deeper in my windpipe.  Suddenly, and I shit you negative…

I. could. not. breathe.

Panic ran through my body from my head to my toes.  Everything started to go numb and tears started to flow from my eyes.  Nobody was home but me and I tried desperately though fears and tears to remember everything I was every taught about the Heimlich Manuever and other such CPR hotness.  I tried giving myself The Heimlich but had no idea if I was doing it right.  I then thrust my stomach against the bathroom counter, hoping that would work.  Somehow, and I have no IDEA why, the rational part of my brain took over and I started pouring hot water in my throat because I was under the impression that hot water would start to disintegrate a pill.  I then stuck my finger down my throat because I figured that maybe if I could somehow get myself to barf, it would knock the pill loose and I would be saved.

Oddly enough, that totally worked.

Keep in mind that all of this happened within maybe a minute and a half.  However, somewhere between the battlefields of The Heimlich, the hot water and the pukeology, I managed to hork out that pill!  As I watched it fly across my bathroom, I started crying harder than I had in quite some time.  I’ve been in some sticky situations and have had some terrible panic attacks but never in my entire fucking life have I ever been that scared.  Not ever.  I tried really hard to just sit down and allow myself to cry like a baby but thanks to the many different things I had tried to get the pill to come back out, I was now unable to stop myself from gagging and vomiting.  I’m not even gonna lie here…somewhere in the middle of all this almost dying and barfing my guts up, I totally pissed my pants.  I’d be more embarrassed to admit that but yanno, hi…I almost freaking died!

Physically, I’m totally fine.  My throat feels a little raw and my stomach hurts from all of the drama llama caused by the barfage.  Mentally, I have no idea how I feel, honestly.  Part of me wants to make a joke because you know, when I am really uncomfortable, that’s what I do.  I want to yuk it up and remind you all about the fact that I’ve always said that I’d probably die by choking on food.  No no, not because I am voluptuous but because I have problems chewing and eat really slowly because of that.  I’d love to make jokes about me flailing myself against the bathroom counter and totally peeing in my cute new panties but really, it’s tired and it’s been done.  Yes, even only an hour later, it’s all somewhat amusing and yet still, if I don’t pause and look at what really happened here?  I’m scared that I am going to bury that utter fear and sadness somewhere with all of the other crap I often stuff down inside of me, never to be seen again.

As I mentioned before, my life did not flash before my eyes.  I thought about the man I spent this morning with and wondered why it is so hard for me to tell him how I really feel about him.  I thought about the friend who hurt my feelings big time today and wondered why it was so hard for me to look past her seemingly hateful nature and just accept her for who she is.  I thought about my nephew and how I would never get to see him grow up.  I thought about my poor Dad being responsible for my body and then thought about the ex-husband that I’ve so desperately wanted to not hate for quite some time now.  I thought about the fact that I too often don’t tell people to mind their own business and let me make my own mistakes but that I also too often don’t thank people enough for caring about me and saying the things they know I don’t want to hear.  I thought about my best friend and how amazing she is and how I just never told her that no one has ever been a better friend to me than she is.  I thought about people that I no longer speak to and wondered if they would cry if I died and furthermore, if I somehow made it through all of this and they died before me, would *I* cry if they died?  And if so, what did that all mean?   I thought about the pettiness that tears us all apart and the little things that bring us all together.  I heard one man’s voice telling me how being with me was “excruciating” and another man’s voice telling me that nothing compared to the feeling he gets when he gets to be around me.  I wondered why I never had children.  I thought about the fact that I was going to die in a tank top and pajama bottoms.

Most importantly though…once that pill was dislodged from my vortex and was flying across the room, through the hot tears and fearful sobs, I wondered why God was giving me this second chance.  I wondered what the hell *I* have done to deserve it and how the hell I am going to use it.  I am one little person who rarely feels like she means that much to anyone (even though it’s not true) yet somehow I was spared and was allowed to stay here on this Earth and maybe do something wonderful and amazing with my small little life.

I don’t want to get all “post-traumatic drastic” but there are some things I need to say to some people and some fences that need to be mended.  There are a fuckton more “I love yous” that need to be handed out and a million and one smiles that need to be given on a daily basis.  I’m letting the pettiness wash away.

These are my precious things.
This is my precious life.
Apparently, these are my precious tears.

Freaked The Fuck Out Kisses,
Me

I stood leaning against my car, trying to look mad when all I really was feeling was some sort of undefinable pain.  He walked to where I was standing, arms crossed, and upon seeing the look on my face, took my hand and said, “Come on inside and let’s talk, okay?”.  I reluctantly let him rub my back as I walked into his front door, knowing what was about to come.  I found the familiar spot on the floor in the corner of the room then sat down and curled my knees up to my chest…a position that had only recently become comfortable after having lost 25 pounds.    I wanted to look up at him but I couldn’t.  My eyes darted across flecks of carpet and sunflower seed shells that had found their way under his couch.  It was like I was under water, trying desperately to hold on to the anchor keeping me there rather than coming up and gasping for air.

“I came…”, I started to say, “I came to…”.

My words trailed off as the flood gates opened and tears started streaming down my face.  These weren’t the kind of tracks that formed when soft tears fall but rather the kind that had been bottled up for too long.  There was a sobbing that I had only maybe felt once or twice before, back when I actually allowed myself to cry.

He came to where I was sitting and wrapped himself around me as best he could.  He took my head and put it on his shoulders and said, “I know.  I know.  I know.“  He held my hand and listened to me for hours.  I had come to tell him that I was wrong and that I was sorry (baby).  I had been distant, aloof and cold because I was afraid to feel.  I wanted him to know that I was done turning it off and that I was able to be myself again.  I wanted to tell him so many things but he knew just by the way I held his hand and clung to him for dear life.

That was the first time I had cried over a man or to a man in quite some time.  In fact, it was the first time I had cried over much at all.

This afternoon as I relayed this story to a co-worker, her mouth dropped open in complete shock.  “Wait“, she said, “You cried over a boy?  You don’t cry…especially not over men.”

It was at this moment that I realized just how cold and hard I had recently made my heart.  I mean, not only that but I had locked the damned thing up so tight that no one could see just how rapidly it was bleeding on to the floor.  I’ve held it all in…the pain, the resentments, the anger, the fear and most of all the utter devastation of certain losses.  I’ve done what I always do but this time with an army’s strength.  My foot would stride in front of the other over and over again until I had tucked my hair under my helmet like a good little soldier and had become immune to emotional gloom.  I put on my sunshine smile and met each loss and each obstacle with a genuine rationale that none of them mattered as long as I focused on the good and amazing things in my life.  You know, finding the good in things is never a bad idea at all but as human beings with such varied emotions, we have to be able to take those face punches and let the bruises show rather than hiding them with make-up.

It’s not a falsehood that my life is good because really, it is.  I am blessed to have a man who sticks by my side, waiting patiently for me to be able to commit and be ready to love again.  On the flip side of that, I’ve had young men crawling all over me and offering me their paltry affections while I heal my heart and decide what I truly want.  My friendships feel more genuine than anything I’ve ever known because I am finally allowing myself to just be the me that I want to be, no apologies.  In fact, it was awesome the other day when one of my besties said to me, “Okay, you have to tell me when things are bad in your world because I am oblivious and think you are always okay.  I feel like such a bad friend” and I was able to turn around and honestly look at myself then say, “It’s not really your fault.  I hide myself away from the world and only show you the happy side most times.  You’re not a mind reader.”

I guess what I’m trying to work through now are the sad emotions.  There are unspeakable losses that I’ve suffered over the last few months and while some were my fault and some certainly were not, they mattered.  Just because I am not the type of person to weep all over my page here at any given moment like I used to, that does not mean that I am incapable of feeling.  In fact, it’s quite the opposite.  I have been giving away so many of my precious affections to the people that are constantly in my face that I have forgotten that it’s okay to mourn the losses of those that aren’t.  Saying that I miss someone’s presence in my life is not the same thing as surrendering and admitting defeat…it’s just an honest declaration of the way my guts feel on any given Sunday.  Just because I’m healthy enough to know when other people are bad for my life that does not mean that I’ve forgotten how they once made my heart smile.

I’m not callous.  I’m not cold.  I’m not the woman “who doesn’t cry and especially not over men”.  I’m not a soldier.  I’m not hard.

Behind the bright smile and the constantly flowing jokes lies a person just like you…a person who is doing her best to survive in a world gone mad.  I make mistakes like everyone else and I pay for them…like everyone else.  A man who I am not supposed to care about one bit hurt me so deeply this last weekend that I cried in his arms, despite the fact that I’ve only known him a few months.  I sat in the middle of another man’s living room, finally showing him that I was ready to love after telling him for such a long time that love was a fairy tale only to be stomped upon by giants and ex-husbands.  I reached out to my best friend yesterday and basically said, “I need you.  When can I see you?”.  I sit here, for the first time in almost six months, opening myself back up to you, my readers.  I’ve only been showing you half of me for quite some time because I wasn’t ready to face some of the pain again.  I wanted to go on living my life of dancing, drinking, smoking the weed and dating much younger men.  I wanted to go on smiling and pretending that it’s all going to be okay as long as I never let myself hurt again.

The truth is that yes, it *is* all going to be okay but the only way to make that happen is to cry just as much as a laugh, scream just as much as I’m silent, reach out just as much as I retreat and to apologize just as much as I assume and attack.  There is no yang without my yin and in my maniacally happy state, I forgot that allowing myself to feel the bad didn’t necessarily mean that I would go back to the same misery I felt a year ago at this time.  In fact, I think that as of today…right now…I am the most balanced I have been in quite some time.  This is why I am finding it so easy to lose weight.  This is why I am finding it so easy to bond with my friends.  This is why I am ready to tell him that I only want to be his and that I think…I think I may love him.

Best Friends Forever Kisses,
Me

A weird thing happened at the mall earlier today….

Well, not really “weird” if you’re me and happen to have conversations with the most random people in the world but still, it was something I hadn’t seen in a while and it both broke my heart and made my jaw drop down lower than it has in quite some time.

You see, I’ve become quite fond of mall walking and before you ask, yes I am indeed a ninety year old woman in disguise.  Seriously though, it’s over a hundred damned degrees outside so there are limited options for getting cardio these days.  Either I walk inside of the mall with the old folks, try to do my workout video before the guy I live with gets home, work out at five in the freaking morning OR I sweat my ass off and whine the whole time.  Uh huh, mall walking for the win, right?

Anyyyydoodle, sheesh…

After finishing my walk, I may or may not have been kinda sorta stalking the DSW Shoe Warehouse window when I heard these teenage boys giggling behind me.  What caught my attention is that they were snorting while they laughed and we all know how much I love a good snort snort here and a snort snort there!

“Fer sure, dude…that bitch looks like she is part whale, part pig and part tub of lard!  I wouldn’t kiss that gross bitch with your tongue, man!”.

Now then, not being the skinniest straw in the box my damned self, I reeled around to say “excuse me!?!” because I had, of course, assumed that they were talking about my fine flabby ass wobbling in my tight workout pants.  Instead, what I saw was a rather large teenage girl sitting on a bench nearby, listening to these boys berate her.  She was undoubtedly pretending to be oblivious and holding back her tears.  Her face looked white and from experience, I could tell that she was pretending to be busy or to be looking for someone or to be anywhere but there.

“Dude…I dare you to go up to her and ask her on a date!  Come on, bro…see if Shamu jumps at the chance!”

I saw her looking for the nearest exit as tears welled up in her eyes.  I saw one of the boys approaching her and felt a pang in my heart.  Was I really about to witness this girl get terrorized by these awful young hooligans?  And furthermore, when did I start referring to people as “young hooligans”? Anyway, I had to think rather quickly on my feet!  Suddenly, and without much forethought, I was happily walking her way, sitting down next to her and chatting with her about Lord knows what.  Seriously, I don’t really even remember what I was going on and on about but it was something cool, I’m sure.

At first, the girl looked at me like I had two heads.  I think she wondered who the hell I was and more importantly why some old broad was talking to her in the middle of the mall.  As the young boy deviated from his path and went back to his cackling cohorts, the light bulb went off in her head and she turned to me and thanked me.

“Thanks so much.  I really didn’t want to mess with those guys.  I’m sure you understand what it’s like to be fat and be made fun of and not have any boys like you.  It hurts and it’s embarrassing”.

Oh hell nahhhh, did this bitch just call me fat?  What the HELL?  Haha, I’m kiiiiiding.

Anyway, I assured her that I did remember a time when it hurt and when it embarrassed me.  I told her that she was not alone and that millions of women all over the world felt inadequate for one reason or another.  I told her that it was okay to and even somewhat normal to feel self-conscious around boys, especially at her age.  But then, I opened her eyes to adulthood and the glorious treasures that awaited her.

“Do you know”, I said, “that I have about four men on the hook right now and simply cannot decide which one I want to be with?”. As she looked at me incredulously, I went on to explain to her that being overweight never has to mean that men won’t come around.  I told her all about the guys in my life, how each of them were very different and how every last one of them finds me lovely, sexy and beautiful…just the way I am.  I told her that it wasn’t ever simply about being fat or being pretty or the way one looks but that it was also about the way one carries herself and the confidence level she exudes when she smiles, talks or shares her heart.  I explained to her that not every man was going to find her attractive or be able to look past her extra weight but that somewhere in this wide wide world, there would be plenty of men who would.

“I dunno“, she said, “guys my age are kinda jerks.”

I assured her that guys my age are kinda jerks too but that you had to look past those kinds of men.

“Yes but, how do you find the kind of men who are accepting of you being fat?”, she asked.

I answered her with the most important truth of all…

“I love myself enough to know that I don’t need a man to make me happy and certainly not the wrong man.  It’s as simple as that.  Take care of yourself.  Love yourself.  Stop looking for love.  Enjoy your life.  Embrace who you are.  The rest will follow.”

I looked at her skeptical little face, unsure whether or not she believed me.  As I told her goodnight, I was pretty sure that I probably didn’t get through to her but even so, I gave her my phone number and went on my merry little way.

Just a moment ago, my phone rang.

“Hi, it’s me, Cassie.  We met at the mall?  I was wondering.  Well, I mean, you were a really cool lady to talk to and uh well….would you  mind if I walked with you tomorrow night?”

As I hung up the phone, I smiled and realized that I’m not sure which one of us helped the other more tonight but either way, I’m really glad my ninety year old ass chose to walk at the mall.  I’m pretty sure she taught me something too and as soon as I figure out exactly *what*, I’ll probably be even more thankful!

Steve Madden Kisses,
Me

I keep meaning to sit down and write about my little lovely adventures but the moment I try to do so, more of my life starts happening and I just don’t want to miss a second of it.  In the last week of my life, all of the little bits and pieces that somehow seemed a bit shattered dried up and were swept away in the knowledge that I am happy and that I have a really good life.

It’s so easy to forget that.  There are moments where we feel so small and alone and in those moments, it’s easy to let fear and anger take over.  Hurt is something that touches all of our lives and whether or not we let it consume us is an actual choice.  It has taken me forever and ever to get it.  I was always the girl who was more freaked out about the one bad thing some random nobody said about her rather than the fifty good things the gaggle of good people in her life had to say.  My life was unhappy and in that unhappiness, it was easy to accept the wrong emotions rather than work hard to embrace the good ones.  Again, this was *my* choice and something that I had to come to terms with in my recent adult life.

People have come and gone a lot in my recent years and no matter who said what to whom or did what to whom or all of that other stuff that nobody truly remembers in the end, they were there.  Each person I have known has touched me and shaped me despite the current empty space where they once stood.  To pretend that they didn’t exist is foolish and cruel but to let their absences break me is something I will never do.  I spent a good year letting the memories of things that I had shared with my ex-husband taint those things forever.  My sudden hatred towards Los Angeles and my inability to watch any television show that centered around Las Vegas were ways in which I was letting the “memory of us” hold me down.  So we shared songs, vacations and other various things that will come up again in my present life.  Why in the HELL did I let the pain and anger of our bad moments take away from the fact that Vegas makes me squeal like a child and that I bowled drunk with some of my best friends in the middle of Hollywood?  I was allowing negative thoughts and emotions to rule my head space.  In my pain, I created a world that was always seen through the eyes of what was wrong and hardly what was right.

These days, I wake up each morning and count at least five blessings.  Seriously, as I’m stumbling around looking for the brown nectar of the Gods then doing my morning stretches, I try to come up with five things that really make me smile.  This morning, I beamed at the memory of an amazing weekend with friends and a sexy sexy boy that made me squeal like an adult!  I was touched by the fact that one of my best friends contacted me out of the blue to let me know that he is visiting me next month just because he misses me.  I was stoked that a musician friend of mine asked if I wanted to sing backup when he starts playing shows again.  I was grateful for the best friend who cooked me super duper yummy pretzel dogs then went clothes shopping with me for hours afterward.  And then I held my breath and sighed as I remembered the little puppy who cozied up to my neck and cried when I had to let her go…

My moments are my bliss and in this new life that I am constantly carving out for myself, I am finding it easier to live a happy life when I remember to open my eyes and see exactly what it is that I *do* have rather than stressing what I don’t have.   There is always going to be something out there to make me cry or wish I had done things differently but my goodness, I refuse to focus on that simply because…

I refuse to be broken.  Not now.  Not ever again.

Davey-Joe Chocolate Pudding Kisses,
Me