Tremendous Blondette

A random thought crossed my mind this morning on the drive to work. Tonight, Barack Obama was in Kansas City speaking. I considered attending, but realistically, it wasn’t gonna happen. I’m not saying I am pro-Obama; I’m just interested in listening to the views of the candidates. I also happened to see a billboard for a certain young lawyer a friend of mine knows from school, who happens to be running for State Representative. He’s at most 4 years older than me.

Anyhow, I began thinking about how I would be a terrible wife of a politician.

Here’s why:

1. My weight fluctuates too much. There would always be rumors about a “baby bump” or the media would just have a lot of fun calling me fat and comparing me to Monica Lewinsky, Tipper Gore, and Sally Struthers.
2. I’m sort of clumsy.
3. I have a hot temper. I keep it in check by not saying anything. That’s why most people don’t know it’s there. but…it is.
4. I’m a messy eater.
5. I like to drink on occasion. This sometimes leads to intoxication.
6. I wouldn’t be able to blog anymore! at least, not as openly as I do now. And, I’d probably have to destroy this blog. That my friends, is unacceptable.
7. My knowledge of US History is getting rusty.
8. I’m not a good speller.
9. I may be a libertarian. I’m not quite sure and it’s none of your business.
10. I’m not very photogenic. The photographic evidence of numbers 1, 2, 4, and 5 would be simply appalling.
11. I’m too helpful. I’d always try to make things better–that’s not generally possible in politics.
12. I’m too indecisive. I’d always give every angle on a problem and possible solutions without passionately supporting any of them.
13. I sometimes don’t vote. I leave for work before the polls open, and I don’t come home until after they close. And my office is 20 minutes away from my polling facility. I vote when I know what I’m voting for (or against.)
14. I’d campaign in LOLcat. “MY HUSBAND! YOU MUST VOTE FOR HIM!” “We can has constituents?” “Bukkets for All!”
15. New official mascot of something: the alpaca.

About 5 times per day, I think, “I should blog about that” and begin composing in my head. Most of the time, those thought out posts never get typed up and published. It’s been a while since I posted anything of true substance. There’s been a lot of whining, pleas for understanding and acceptance, and attempts at cheer.

Sometimes, those five things aren’t really five things for blogging–sometimes they are poetry, one or two lines of beautiful prose, witty retorts, mindful observations, expressions of the beauty that is held in each moment. I am nearly always composing something. The quilt sewn of thoughtful emotion is omnipresent, warm and hypnotic.

I also admit that I use my blog to express to people how I feel without ever having to speak directly to them and say “this is how I feel” or “this is who I am and I want you to be engaged.” I want people to have the chance to know me aside from the quiet, bawdy, witty, sweet, giggly, lascivious, workaholic, flawed, immature/mature, impish person I am. I want people to accept me. But, I also have this desire to be scolded and punished. I think it is why I sometimes tempt fate or push limits. I want to be hurt. I seek out people and situations that will make me feel guilty, ashamed, deflated, stupid, and childish. Or maybe I’m just Catholic. (and Irish)

Should I stop writing such posts about myself? (but really, aren’t all my posts somehow about me?) It may be time to stick with current events, books, and movies. (and the occasional cat or alpaca post.) Do people really need to read about me? (but, they do read my blog. and what else would they be reading on my blog? not CNN.)

Even in my non-fiction, I have no real plot. This amuses me. My biggest problem with writing fiction has always been creating a full plot–I can never decide on a middle or an ending. Maybe this carries over to my own life. I can develop characters and write scenes, but I can never quite decide how they all fit into a storyline.

So, Readership (if I still have a readership), your writer implores you to vote:

1. keep blogging (no more tonight–I should sleep)
2. pack up the laptop (trick’s on you–I have a desktop too!)
3. keep smiling, shining (my psychic friends tell me they have a feeling about this one)

You should know, Readership, as you vote, that I have a “You Might Be Katie Leas If” post in the works. (they’re generally extemporaneous with a sprinkling of premeditation.)

Beautiful Words
gossamer
serendipity
teeming
eloquent

Beautiful Statements/Quotes

The earth laughs in flowers.
e. e. cummings

ee cummings Poetry my favorites
Sonnets from the Portuguese- Elizabethe Barrett Browning more favorites

Beautiful Other
Tagged Beautiful on Flickr

humor

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

Is this self-indulgent? Maybe. I’m stressed and feeling really shitty about how I’ve treated people and responsibilities lately. But, I’ve also been averaging 20-25 hrs of sleep and 60-70 hrs of work per 5 day work week. I can’t shake my anxiety without medication–sometimes that is alcohol.

But it’s also part of being accountable. I’ve erred. So, here I stand to say, “world. family. friends. please forgive me so i can forgive myself.”

I find myself in constant anxiety over my imperfections, expectations, and mistakes. I feel like I’m not living up to who I claim and aspire to be.

Earnest
Loving
Helpful
Mature
Humble
Grateful
Funny
Powerful
Strong
Joyful
Compassionate
Genuine
Understanding
Passionate
Intelligent
Witty

Right now, I feel as though I am
Selfish
Flakey
Immature
Irresponsible
Weak
Neglectful
Idiotic

I owe people apologies. I feel that’s all my life consists of lately. That I felt I had to defend my integrity to mine own family–and I did–was hard.

Apologies:

Oma-for not letting you know how much it meant to me that you sent me your rings. I love them; I appreciated the gift greatly. I was sincere in our conversation.

Dad- for not saying thank you. For not trying.

Tara, Mark, Rob- for all my non-sense the past 2 or 3 weeks. And there’s been a lot.

Gracie- for not letting you play outside more. for not being home or attentive when I am home.

Mom-for not being able to help you.

Self-for not taking care.

I’m at that point where I all I can do is say “I’m sorry,” say a few prayers-and trust me I have, and learn from the experiences.

While we are on the subject of alpacas–they made someone’s list of the Worlds Most Interesting Animals!

A prize to the reader who can guess which of the these animals (other than the alpaca) is my favorite!

http://www.quedat.com/2007/09/02/25-of-the-worlds-most-interesting-animals/

#9 on David Letterman’s list of things to do before he dies…

OWN AN ALPACA RANCH!!!!!!!!

Yes, I just screamed in my living room.

I’m not even sure where that came from. It’s Monday, so I have been in meetings most of the day and am just now getting through my email.

So, here are a few random things:

• I miss Project Runway. I’d watch episodes online, but I’ve not had a lot of success with that thus far. I’ve been watching Moonlight online (because it airs on Friday nights and apparently, I have a life –okay, or I work really late). You should check out Moonlight–I’d be curious to know if anyone else 1) likes it 2) thinks the guy who plays Mick is just the sexiest man ever 3) Thinks Sophia Myles is gorgeous 4) Thinks that the combination of the guy who plays Mick and Sophia Myles is arrestingly unfair because they are both so beautiful together 5) has the same issues with the media player cbs.com is using for all of it’s “full episodes.” I used to watch Grey’s Anatomy online sometimes if I missed it and I don’t recall it having quite as much lag time.
• I am actually really looking forward to watching the BCS Championship Game tonight. I’m not pandering here.
• I still really enjoy watching PBS on Sundays. I just seem to miss it a lot because I seem to be up and doing other things or just don’t bother to turn on the television.
• Last night, I had “Second Thanksgiving” with my mom and stepdad. It began with a late afternoon phone call from Bob (my stepdad) telling me that he was making a turkey. Yes, Bob loves his turkey. We also has homemade stuffing, sweet potatoes, corn, and pumpkin pie. They sent me home with pretty good hunk of meat. hehe. Vegan turned CARNIVORE! RAWR! (I enjoy poultry. I will just skip the red meat.)
• Sometimes, I take the long and winding path to truth. It’s usually because I figure with time I’ll deal or get over something and no one has to be the wiser. Why upset other people for no reason? I mean, then too many people are upset. Apparently, I’m a dumbass.
• I’m in a bit better of a place than I was last week. At least I think I am.
• The lost package from my oma was found and retrieved. Turns out, she didn’t hate me (I called her when I discovered its whereabouts) and that the post office managed to mislay it (aka, it was shoved behind something else and because it was small they missed it.-This is good and bad. If it hadn’t been obscured, then they would have sent it back to my oma. Of course, if it had been in full view; I’d have picked it up in November when I first went to the Post Office Annex to retrieve it.) Anyway, it’s an example of me being one lucky gal.
• The sight of my cat’s fur flapping in the breeze on Saturday when I let her out on the balcony (unseasonable warmth!) was truly amusing. I can see it even now.
• My face is hot with thinking and censoring and being me. And I’m hungry.

Sometimes I must force myself to write. It’s not because the words aren’t brimming and the sentences aren’t composing–it’s because it takes a lot more energy to sit down, type out, and edit the fluid that seeps. There’s nothing that feels like caged words. And trust me, I have many. But turning the key…it sometimes just makes things…worse. It welcomes a stampede. You know what happens during a stampede? Things get crushed. Things get trampled. Things get reshaped in a way you weren’t expecting and maybe don’t like–or maybe you do.

Now, that may all seem a little too metaphorical, and I do not apologize. I enjoy figurative language. I use alliteration whenever possible, and I giggle knowingly each time I do. I hope readers “get it,” but even if they don’t, it doesn’t deter me. I am this way with puns and cheesy jokes too. The one out of ten that gets a good chuckle (yeah, I don’t even need a hearty laugh–though those are truly golden–better than warm chocolate chip cookies) is enough for me.

So, here I am. Fan of language. Fan of construction. And you know what word I chose to use all day? What word my great aunt, teacher of English claims shows a lack of vocabulary? (fragments, did you notice?) FUCK. Yes. There you go. My blog is not G rated. (come on, there’s so much innuendo it’s always been at least PG-13.) So, now I’d say my blog is rated R for RAW. R for RAWR. (R for Raw Naked Katie.)

Anyhow. Fuck is so expressive. It’s explosive. Many people giggle when I say it because I look like a milkmaid (taken directly from someone’s comment about my appearance!), I sound like an elf (or something young and high pitched) and I am generally bubbly and rosey cheeked. (above the waist.)

So on a day like today, my first day back to work from vacation, the first day of work after the last day of one of my direct reports (yes, scarily enough, they let me “supervise” other people–and I’m not terrible at it) the first day that I am now responsible for my job, plus someone else’s job (yeah, like I’ve never been in that situation before)–where was I? OH yes, I have a fuckload of work to do. Because I didn’t have a fuckload before.

Right so–work has me stressed because I want to be perfect and do everything–and I’m responsible for quite a bit–and I want to retain the respect of my employers and fellow employees. (Remember, I really do LOVE my job.) But Vacation Katie of bouncy hair fame has to return to being Workaholic Katie of mangy hair fame. Workaholic Katie says “fuck.” A LOT. Every 5 to ten (sometimes fewer!) words out of my mouth today were/was (damn grammar–thought I was going to say fucking grammar, didn’t you?) fuck.

But, I find myself angry at myself. Fuck. Very angry. And I find myself angry at friends. Double fuck. I hate this. I don’t want to belittle anyone’s feelings. I really don’t. Fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck.

Why am I so angry? Maybe because I am weak. Oh, so very weak. Weak. Oh so weak that I turn my back to a seizure. Maybe because I am a hypocrite. Maybe because I keep watching my mom slowly killing herself and I sometimes can’t sleep at night because I see her grey, clammy face and soiled nightshirt when I close my eyes–yet, what do I do to help her? She is a completely different person. She is no longer my mother. Even now, I look at a smiling picture of her with my stepdad, taken in Colorado nine years ago, and I think…that is Mom. That is how I see her. My family has talked at length about “what can we do?” You know what we can do? Nothing. Such is mental illness and dependency. I want to bring my mom the grandchildren she has so longed to love and nurture–but, I fear that will never happen because my mom no longer exists. And then guilt because my thoughts go from the woman who bore me in every way a human being can be borne by another, to a lonely longing. To the desire of the cessation of absolute aloneness in the dead of night or at the end of the day. To write of oneself openly is the greatest narcissistic vulnerability gifted to man and woman.

Or maybe it’s because I know I am running out of time with both surviving grandmothers–one, slipping away from reality mentally and becoming more frail each month, and one half the country away and hating me for being a lousy granddaughter. A granddaughter so caught up in herself and her job that she can’t spare the time to email, write, call, or visit on any regular basis–a granddaughter who feels immense guilt over a mistake not even her own (if you care to know, ask me about my package. ha. see, I can make jokes in any situation.)

Did I mention the father I rarely talk to, and forget to acknowledge on his birthday, anniversary, or any other day of the year? Doesn’t mean I don’t think of him everyday of my 26 going on 27 years.

Maybe it’s because I’m a horrible friend. I deserted 2 of my best friends through hardship. Our paths diverged in the wood…but I should have hacked through the overgrowth and found my way to their trails. I should have been there.

And bills. And my cat. And laundry. And…fuck.

The guilt threatens to collapse me each moment. Each breath.

This is my own personal stampede. Don’t count the elephants out, they run faster than you’d think. And those giraffes have long legs, but they can crush you pretty good too. Meercats too–small and feisty. Big or small…a stampede is a stampede.

The crowd rushes forth and I barely, just barely escape being trampled. I’ve been trampled before. This is why I must tell myself that I can choose to run faster. I can choose to pivot and change course. I can choose to not be consumed.

I still have tremendous hope. I smile, I laugh, and I find joy.

I force myself.