Blog on the Run I

You'd think that after so much time away, I'd have no problem sitting down tonight to write this post. And yet, I'm in a world of what in the world should I write about? Wondering what on earth could possibly sound interesting when nothing of any interest has happened at all. (My crazy ski mask wearing neighbor who still happens to be locked behind bars with no hope of posting bail, presently excluded of course.)

So let's recap, shall we?

My feet still have blisters. The play is officially over. Lucy had her rabies vaccination. KC is driving my nuts. And honestly, if I never have to hear anything more regarding any of the Jonas Brothers, I will consider myself blessed.

I'm hitting the gym, and if I didn't know any better, I'd swear it was hitting me back. The pancake breakfast at church was not on Saturday as I previously believed, but on Sunday. I bought a new apron for the occasion. It was that exciting...

I watched Atonement and was disappointed that I didn't like it as much as I was hoping I would. James McAvoy however has finally convinced me that Colin Firth is not the only man I might consider running away with. In fact, if he ever gets around to asking (which he won't)I am halfway gone already...

Crazy But Not

Stress sucks.

And regardless of more positive spin than I can stand, there are moments when I dip into the well of negativity and come up with something so heavily endowed with metaphors for being pissed, angry, upset, stressed, worried, and you name it, that my pen turns to poison and you get something reminiscent of something I might have written with my internal eighth grader at the wheel.

It happens...

And when it does, I post it here. Like I've said before, I don't always control the things I write when it's my heart that determines the things I need to say.

Therefore put your phones down!

I am not on the verge of a mental breakdown. I'm not thinking of finding a very tall bridge with no water underneath it anywhere. And I'm certainly not going to go the route of Sylvia Plath, Virginia Wolf, Anne Sexton and countless others who forged mountains with their words and left heartache in their wakes.

I simply have bad days and people I'd like to throttle. And fourtunately, enough self control to stop myself from doing so, though the temptation is like an oyster with the promise of a bright, shiny pearl inside.

Gloomy Writing on a Depressing Day

I wrote this last week when I was having an incredibly bad day. And though the subject matter is a little dark, depressing and in need of a giant sized happy pill, I do tend to write from the heart when it's my heart that's hurting...

Therefore subject matter aside, it belongs here. Regardless of whether or not I think it might be too much for some to read, too disjointed to understand, or too much of me coming through.

If there is a deep end of the ocean, I am on the bottom of it.

Sitting with my legs crossed out in front of me, holding my breath and turning blue. The urge to breathe, to fill my straining lungs for air overwhelms me.

I open my mouth and the water pours in, helpless as I am to stop it, I welcome it.

This avalanche of everything far beyond my control, this current that swells itself around me and inside me, brings peace amidst its pain.

Too many times I have said or done the wrong thing.

Acted rashly without considering the consequences. Lived for years really with nothing but regrets.

I act sometimes like it doesn’t matter. That this doesn’t matter. But I am a liar, sometimes even to myself. Instead I bleed with the intensity of my emotions. Tears scorch my skin like little fires left carelessly to burn.

I cannot say that I am sorry enough.

I have apologized to myself so many times.

I cannot ask you to hear me. Or to understand this underwater world in which I live. Floating and floundering. Gasping for air.

Drowning.

Drawing back to the surface to breathe. A rhythm that beats as relentlessly as the ocean to its shore. That builds its foundation on shifting sands.

I am washed away.

Depleted.

With nothing left to give and an arsenal of words to say. A masterful manipulator.

Bending them.

Abusing them.

Withholding them when nothing hurts just as much as something more. Both blessed and cursed to feel them as if to carry them in my hand.

I can hide this well.

This side of me that says too much to empty space.

The real behind the fake. A plastic red shovel digging deeply drawing up earth. The ugliness of the insides spilling out and over.

Weakness should be destroyed if it cannot be controlled, if it refuses to be contained.

And I am always fighting darkness.

I do not give in.

Not easily. There is always fight inside me to slay the dragons. Dragons in whatever form they choose to take, taking their pound of flesh, scratching outside my door. Breaking me into bite sized pieces, leaving me huddled over and feeling helpless.

There is no forgetting.

Just remembering.

Over and over again. Looking down from above as the scene replays, every shadowed angle in slow motion in contrast to the words I say.

I cringe from these thoughts. Shaken. Wanting to cast them away. To throw my nets back into the darkness of the sea and let them sink to the bottom of its floor.

Still there is light, and I am always seeking it. Looking ahead as best as I can, believing. Believing everything of what I have and still have hope to find.

A better world.

An emotional distance.

A peace that radiates out from me.

Bad Vibes

There are times in life when you should never question your gut feeling on something or someone. And a call from my Landlord last night proved my point precisely. When someone is giving off bad vibes, it's okay to do whatever it is you have to do to keep yourself and your family safe, whether it be shutting a door rudely in someone's face, letting them know you don't want to be friends, let alone neighbors, and when and if the moment calls for it, utilizing your local law enforcement when and if a moment arises that requires it.

In this case, I didn't call the cops. I didn't have to. The two women he must have scared half to death did that for me.

Man charged with robbery

Location emitted - Police captured a man who allegedly attempted to rob a store Sunday ---- about five minutes after receiving the 911 call reporting the incident.

"My neighbor," 43, of ------ was charged with second-degree robbery, a felony, and sent to jail without bail, police said.

Store employees reported a man wearing a ski mask approached a female cashier with what appeared to be a handgun and announced he was robbing the store, police said.

The cashier was unable to provide the man with money, and the man left the store after a second employee approached the front of the store, police said.

Nobody was injured, and no handgun was recovered, police said.

At the moment, chances are he's still downstairs, I don't know for a fact, but I do know I'm not going to go looking. My Landlord says an eviction is imminent. But until he's gone, there aren't enough locks on my doors to feel anything that might resemble safe.

Waiting To Wake Up

A lot on my plate this week has made the simple act of turning my computer on all but impossible. For those of you who read regularly, or chance a glance every so often, my sincerest apologies for having, for lack of a better word that could actually describe my current situation, a life.

I really have no excuse but to say that I've been busy.

Busy at work. Busy at church. Busy at the gym. And then finally back to home and hearth where my bed has become my best friend and the TV is only on long enough to hear the morning news.

Hell, even Brenda has felt the absence. Tonight was the first night in more nights than I can count that we've actually managed to have a conversation that didn't happen in an email format.

It's been rough. Just rough all the way around trying to manage all this extra I've brought in.

Last night was the opening night for our play and I have to say, I was a little nervous about the whole affair, but it did seem to go off well regardless of, and let's be honest here, the music situation which did not see any improvements made at all. Still one could say that the final product as a whole was a satisfying production of faith and fellowship.

The fact that I remembered all my lines, faked a sobbing scene (as convincingly as I could manage without feeling like a total and complete ass) and sang in public should actually be more than enough to say, "Job well done."

Except it's not done. Not exactly. We've two more shows to do before I can forget every word I've done my best to commit to memory, along with my arguments to the tech guys why it's not necessary to sob for thirty seconds just because the script calls for it. Poetic license, I said, is about what feels right and honestly, I'd be good with ten seconds if they would go with it.

As for the gym, that is going very well. Although trying to convince my body that it's okay to move again after five miles is no easy sell. In fact, if my body had anything to say about any of this, it would probably disown me in a New York minute.

There are certain things however that must be done regardless of the pain, discomfort, or the amount of whining that goes with it. And getting my ass to the gym is just one of these things...

And speaking of my ass, I do have to say, it's looking mighty fine.

Blogging the Miles

I'm in the middle of a great clean the house, urge to purge and put things away whirl of activity, so I've got to keep this brief...

This weeks mileage, of which I am ever so proud to have logged on the treadmill, was (drum roll please) 16.5 miles of varying inclines and speeds.

I am officially exhausted... But feeling absolutely wonderful!

I will however officially commit myself if I ever start believing that anything resembling a marathon sounds like a good idea.

Big Bite, Little Dog

Once upon a time, I thought puppy ownership would bring a sense of calm and rewarding joy to my home. My head was full of thoughts about the dog I hoped one day to have, a big giant of a Great Dane I would call Duke or Daisy, depending on which way the gender happened to go, and we would all live happily ever after, ever after, after...

Apartment living however put a small scale hope on my big scale dreams and the dream reinvented itself in the form of something smaller.

I have never been one however to like small dogs. Sure they can be cute. And sure you can put them in fuzzy little sweaters with matching booties if you really want to publicly humiliate yourself as well as your dog, but small dogs all have one thing in common.

Behavior. Bad behavior.

It's always been my opinion that small dogs are more prone to bad behavior for one reason and one reason alone.

They're small.

And seriously, I can't blame them for thinking they need to be a little nippy. A little intimidating to make sure that everyone gets it that just because they're small, it doesn't mean they're not tough.

And little dogs are stubborn. They want to win. They need to prove themselves top of the food chain right, ruler of the roost. And they don't like being told no. Not ever.

Big dogs don't have this problem. They're hardwired in a completely I'm in control and don't need to assert myself to prove my point way.

Little dogs? Little dogs are just wired.

Now I love my Lucy, don't get me wrong. But there are days when she is pure trial and tribulation, with the biting, the chewing, the barking, the whining, the pouncing, the prancing, the leaping, the flying, and of course, her nocturnal habits which keep me up all night long.

Something has got to give.

And by giving, I have a feeling it's my purse that's going to be footing the bill on this one. Lucy is a dog obedience class waiting to happen. And oh, it's happening soon.

Neighborhood Crazy

The man downstairs is a public menace. A danger to himself, as well as to those around him. I considered phoning the police tonight. Not something I would normally do, but there is only so much screaming and shouting one can listen to when someone is threatening to do away with someone else.

And me, being the stupid girl that I sometimes am, crept down my back stairs with cell phone in hand to record every yell of his conversation. Or at least just enough of it to play back to my landlord and whomever else might be interested in listening. After all, a girl with proof in her hands or in this case on her phone is hard to dispute when it comes to complaints against her vile neighbor.

My landlord however didn't have very much to say other than an admonishment to deadbolt my doors, as if they weren't already double locked to begin with, and to call the police should things begin to escalate. And though I really wanted to thank Frank for such stellar advice, I managed to hold back. Also holding back my if you wouldn't rent your apartments to headcases and substance abuse users perhaps this building would be a nicer place to live comment while I was at it.

All of this makes me desperate to move. Far away from the insane asylum that seems to show up in all forms below. KC, of course, was nervous and ready to flee to our friends and neighbors in the house next door. And they in turn offered their home as refuge in case we needed to make fleeing an option. And though it was very much appreciated, I was steadfast about not letting someone else have the power to make me feel as if I needed to leave my home.

Frank meanwhile was leaving messages for the lunatic downstairs on his home phone, while the mental patient was outside pacing in the middle of the street in a full on rave of fuck this, fuck that and I'm going to squash you like a mosquito to his other side of the conversation phone companion.

My trigger finger was itching on the 911...

Sending KC off to bed, a feat almost impossible considering that his music was loud enough to be heard two counties away, it was with pleasant surprise to hear the volume level suddenly go down. Pleasant however turned itself quickly around by the sound of creaking on the back stairs to my home, and a persistent knock on my door.

I debated answering it. Questioning the intelligence of opening my door to someone who obviously is off his rocker and in need of lots and lots of counseling. And yet I did. And I did only because I know his type. The type that will knock until the rooster crows and the sun comes up until you answer the door all because they know without a shadow of a doubt that you're in there.

I opened my door halfway. Just enough to know he wasn't packing, and just enough to slam it right in his face if I had to. And just enough so that my Mother who when she gets around to reading this post won't think I was being overly foolish or naive.

The apologies spewed from his mouth like they were something I needed to hear. And right away I drew myself back from the smell of alcohol emitting from his entire person, as if he had taken a bath in it and then doused himself with a whole bottle for cologne.

"Why didn't you just come down and ask me to turn it down?" he asked.

I looked him right in the eye, with a not happy, not impressed and not in the mood for his bullshit look on my face and replied with sarcasm, "Because I would feel safe enough to?"

"I'm a nice guy. You don't understand. I'm going through some tough times. My ex-wife she just doesn't understand that I want to be left alone. I mean I try to tell her, but she just won't listen and it's really stressing me out," he said in a drunken slur.

"I'm sorry you're having problems," I answered him, "but they're not mine. It's late, and I shouldn't have to tell you to turn your music down. And it's not just me you're bothering. It's all our neighbors. So do everyone a favor and just be considerate."

"I don't want to cause problems." he whined, "I was just thinking that you seem real nice and we could be friends, you know, I think we could be really good friends. You're a good listener. That one day when I came upstairs, it's because I was thinking that we could talk or something." Eyeballing my chest, he looked at me as if he expected me to be excited about the prospect. I decided it was time to put this one right to bed without delay.

"Listen Pasquale, don't take this the wrong way, but we're neighbors, not friends and we're not going to be. I thank you for apologizing, I would appreciate it if you kept things to a dull roar, but that's it. Now it's late and honestly, it's been a long enough night. So goodbye."

And with that, I politely but oh so firmly shut the door, locked it up tight, and retired to my reading room to write this blog.

If anyone happens to know a really nice place in need of a really good tenant let me know... I think I'm going to have to move.

Act One, Scene Two, Take Three

They ask you, "Would you like to be the narrator in our play?" And you think to yourself, yes, why not? After all a narrator can't have that many lines... Easy.

And then they had you the script. And you read it. And your jaw drops to the floor as you realize what it is you've just done...

What they didn't say. What she didn't mention was who the narrator actually was in terms of the story. And in this case, narrator being the lead who says more than any other character has to say.

And you're screwed again for saying yes when you really meant no thanks. And you're stressed because next week is the big huzzah and you've got act one and act two mostly in the bag but act three doesn't happen unless the script is still in your hands.

Oh and the singing? Well the singing would be just fine. Your part that is. It's just singing with a woman who is completely tone deaf and rhythm-less that is making it difficult.

But all will be well. In fact, tonight they've decided to take it on the road to yet another church and everyone was so eager to do it and even though my lips kept trying to form the word no, it kept coming across as a sure, why not, yes...

Immediately after this thing is done, I'm going to sew my mouth together and go mute. It's the only way...

Short, Sweet, & Sleeping

Saying you're too tired to write may be no excuse, but it's the one I'm running with tonight. And to be honest, it's all I can do to keep my eyes open right now. Not that I don't have a thousand stories to tell. I actually do...

Stories like my weekend trip to Petsmart and the moron guy who asked whether or not our dogs came straight from Italy. Had I been given the opportunity, I would have made up a tall tale worthy of Paul Bunyon when answering that one. Instead Jo took the reigns of control and answered him with honesty. Her excuse? There were too many people around waiting to hear the answer to be sarcastic. My opinion? The more the merrier.

And really, while I'm on the subject of dogs, I did take some exception to this morning's news. Evidently people in California have nothing better to do than mock the ugliness of their family pets and held some sort of contest yesterday. Now this probably, or I like to think it probably would have escaped my radar had it not been for one thing. An Italian Greyhound scampered away with the title. (For the second year in a row.)

But seriously, I saw pictures of the dog and I really have to say, it was quite unfortunate. There's nothing like a few bad birth defects to really make you look like you've been thrown under a bus... More than a few times.

Let's just say that I hope Victoria's owner loves it for the wonderful little dog I hope that she is... For title or not, no dog wants to be crowned queen in a casting call for the downtrodden.

5 Mile Marker

I did it!

5 miles! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5!

And my feet don't just hurt, they're killing me!

I may have to cut them off... Or never walk again. I haven't quite decided which just yet.

But I did it! Without... With lots of whining and perseverance! And then of course, more whining.

Still... 5 miles. That's an accomplishment.

Two weeks ago my couch would have laughed at me. I would have laughed at me. But right now, despite the fact that I can't feel the entire lower half of my body, this is feeling pretty good.

Oh my God!

Who knew the inner me was into exercising?

From the Photo Geek Archives

It's become customary to indoctrinate any new pup into my family, by making them wear a ridiculous baby outfit turned dog dress.

And though I'm sure I could dig out a lot more pics with a wide assortment of dogs, I figured these two would be enough to get my point across.

It doesn't matter how old you get or how adult you're supposed to be... You're never too much of anything to still be just a kid inside.

On the bright side, I've at least conquered my pet naming issues... Not that Pickles wasn't a cute name for a beagle and all, but really, who in their right mind let's their daughter name a dog Pickles? Mom?

A Flop of a Flick

Watching a bad movie is like committing yourself to watching paint dry. You just can't wait for it to be over. And yet, you just can't let it go without knowing how it ends.

And this is why I just suffered through two tedious hours of trying to figure out what exactly the story line of this movie was supposed to be. And the only thing I can say about it, as I never really did discover its point, is that by far, the credits were my favorite part of the whole damn thing. Not that I bothered to read any of the names mind you. I wasn't all that interested in who starred, produced, and brought this bit of fluff to life in the least little bit. The parting song however was a highlight. And when I say highlight, I do mean the only one.

As much as I know this is going to disappoint you and as much as I would like to share the title of this movie with all of you, it probably wouldn't be fair. There's a bunch of people on Netflix who ranked this one right up there, and far be it from me to embarrass them publicly.

And yet they should be embarrassed. This movie was almost enough to make me cancel my subscription. Almost. But not quite.

I do have good movies on Que for this weekend though so there's still time for redemption. Still if there is a lesson to be learned, it is this... Never trust a movie's rating based only on the number of stars it has.

It's good to remember that sometimes a lemon is still a lemon with four stars.

Old Photos

I was going through my photo box earlier and came across two from my black and white, really big hair days...

Funny. Back then it seemed so normal. Or as normal as I ever came close to being...

I guess I should just be thankful that no one ever stood too close to me with a match...

Tuesday's With Stacey

My head, previously pounding last night, has decided it needs a day spent in solitary confinement. And since I really am just along for the ride, it seems to me that the head does indeed know best and it would be wise of me to just acquiesce to its demands.

Therefor I am staying home today. Without shame. Without guilt. Without nary a thought for the drudgery that has, of late become my job.

Because I can. Because I honestly should. And because today, I absolutely need to.

Sentences

If you are distressed by anything external,
The pain is not due to the thing itself,
but to your estimate of it;
And this you have the power to revoke at any moment.
- Marcus Aurelius

"I take back what I said about you."

"I'm one of the nicest women you've ever known, you should."

"Think a lot of yourself, don't you? Remember those are your words, not mine."

"You're right, sport. I can't imagine what words you'd choose and I'm probably better off not knowing."

"As much as I hate to admit it, this time you're right."

"Who knew it would hurt to be right?"

"Sticks and stones... Remember?"

On Humanity

I'm taking the morning off from going to the gym, and as it seems right now, church as well. KC needs a morning to sleep in, not that I actually think she will as she's an early riser on the weekends while all but impossible to drag from her bed on any Monday through Friday day of the week. As for me, I'm in need of a morning to start off slow and quiet with no interference from the outside world, though quiet is not always as silent as I would like it to be.

Melancholy could be to blame.

And mostly I blame myself for watching and reading such things that more often than not seem to inspire this mood. Yet it can't be helped when the genre itself appeals so to my own true nature and my thoughts constantly reflect such feelings in that which I say, and that which I try to suppress - oftentimes too much, when I write.

The worry itself seems real.

Too much of anything can dull the lines between the honesty of words, the emotions they hold, and the stories they tell. So the question often dangles between two extremes known as the here, now and tomorrow. The in-between of beginning and end.

Any writer, or in reality really, any person can understand the complexity of emotions. Insomuch as they exist and can at times be within our control as well as out of it. But I cannot imagine which to be worse. A passionate display of emotion or an absolute lacking of any at all.

I suppose there is an argument and an extreme for each, though I am more inclined to side in favor of feeling.

Life after all is a melting pot of emotions. Think back to any given moment in your life and the description is already there of how you felt and how it makes you feel again.

I am not one who hides my emotions well.

When I am angry, I am an erupting volcano spewing lava. When I am happy, I am like a red balloon floating high above the trees. When I am lost, I am a lamb bleating in the field calling to be found. And when I am sad, I am the winter wind. Cold and frozen. Far beyond the warmth I've come to crave.

There are times when you can't help but to feel everything of that which is around you. There are times when nothing will soothe your soul as well as a good cry. A keening howl. For things we cannot say, for things we know we must, there are tears for all occassions and there is no shame to allow them to be shed.

Syrup On the Side

I am pancaked out.

And if I ever see another pancake, I swear, I will throw it like a Frisbee as far and as fast as my pancake flipping hands can turn them over.

Round pancakes. Pancakes that looked like Mickey Mouse. Teddy Bear's. Heart's. And one peace symbol pancake later, I learned that my talent for pancake art is probably something I shouldn't have shared.

I am officially on the pancake radar.

And I am so screwed.