Mama Dot

There was a time when Buddha wasn't with us. Some days...it seems like centuries ago. (That kid's developed a mouth like his mother. Woe is me. Really.)

When Buddha wasn't around, the Pack Mule and I would go to the dreaded IHOP for a late-night feeding frenzy after he finished up at work. It was a regular hang-out for us because he was still working in restaurants which meant that nothing was open when he was finally cut loose each night. I would skip dinner, grade papers, work (ahem...fuck around) on the internet, and otherwise wait for him to be done. He'd run by our place, pick up my large ass, and drive over to IHOP.

And the culture of IHOP. Holy shyte. For reals. (We'll save such introspection for another post. I am a people-watching whore and will admit it to anyone who queries.)

We were heading that way when a car cut us off in the parking lot. Really? Lady? 2am and you think you're gonna have a problem with parking? Go right ahead. Jackass.

Jackass was immediately referred to as Mama Dot because that's what her fucking license plate read. Really. Again? (I need a Really button I can just point to when I'm out. I'm almost tired of uttering the phrase as of late.)

Justice was ripe and at work in the world that fine early fucking morning when all I wanted was a steaming plate of Harvest Nut and Grain pancakes with tons of butter and hot-ass syrup. (Now's a good time to share my sorrow. I will no longer be able to indulge in that fine fare as I cannot even consider consuming anything with nuts or seeds. Or seed pockety things - ya know, like popcorn. Diverticulitis has struck with a fucking vengeance. Again. That's another post.)

Back on track, ADHD Mouth.

Mama Dot was evidently racing for a front parking spot. Like me, she was not a waif and could have stood to park a few lanes away to add a few steps to her Richard Simmon's pedometer. But nooooooo. She had to get selfish and absorbed in her likely-ordered Chicken Fried Steak and Eggs.

Bitch shoulda held back. Really. (Not a question here. Just a statement.)

Cause her vanity-plated minivan that almost plowed into my Pack Mule's truck rear-ended someone right in front of the huge windows of IHOP.

The Pack Mule and I noshed at the feed trough while Mama Dot dealt with the cops and the rear-ended one.

As someone I know mentioned recently, irony - it's what for breakfast.

Drawing Conclusions

I've come to the conclusion that I don't have to rely on Facebook for updates on my friends. Sure, it's fun. I get that. It's literally in my face, screaming for attention. It's also a literal pain in the ass when someone from my past decides to surface.

Years ago, I would have sweetly and silently ignored the horror show and acted as though things were fine. You see, I shoulder things well. I grin and bear quite well under a variety of circumstances.

However, the very letters scrambled on the monitor, spelling out this idiot's name is enough to make me heave. This person forever laughed at Facebook - touting that the internet was a ridiculous waste of time and that people who spent time in cyber land were merely in need of a hobby. Guess who just got a hobby?

This is going to sound ultra-high school. I don't particularly care. Any person who becomes friends with this fool after I've already explained ad nauseum why I cannot stomach to be in the presence of the ass will have to be unfriended. Defriended? What the fuck, they're not my friends. If you're not man (or woman) enough to say, "I'm not going to indulge the attentions of a freak," I simply cannot be around you anymore.

I know this is convoluted. I realize you're likely confused. I get it. But I cannot go into more detail because I promised myself I wouldn't give this person any more time than has already been tossed out there into the universe.

Out of His Mouth

The Buddha kid's been driving me crazy. Really. He's got such a mouth these days.

Those of you who know me well aren't surprised. I know. He gets it honestly.

Tonight he decided to share some insight with me. So glad my 5-year-old could inform me with some rather important information.

Me: You know who lives in Washington DC, right? (We were watching a preview for a rather brainiac show. The Real Housewives of DC. I know. I'm smart, informed, and cutting-edge. We shall cover that in another post. Another time.)
Him: What?
Me: Barack Obama. He lives in the White House in Washington DC. He's our President!
Him: No. He's not.

Me: (Pondering this utterly shitty response since the kid KNOWS Barack and reveres him. Really).

Me: Yeah. He's the President and lives in the White House.
Him: Nope. That guy who the talllllllll (mimicking the tallness on top of his own head) magic hat. The man with the magic hat is the President.
Me: Oh. Abe? Yeah. Abe Lincoln is one of the FORMER Presidents. Absolutely.
Him: And that other guy with the curls on the side of his head? (Mimicking curls on the side of his own head a la Hasidic Jews.)
Me: That's George Washington.
Him: Yup. Him? The one with the curls was the first President. Then the magic hat Abraham was next. Then Barack.

Thanks for the history lesson, Buddha.

So.

Curls.


A magic hat.


And Barack.

Everyone clear on this history lesson?

Favorite Lines

There's an educational author I adore who has shared an inspirational cache of lesson ideas with teachers like me who want our students to latch on to the written word and find themselves pulled into pieces of writing and then pushed into sharing their thoughts and emotions with others through their own pencil scratchings on a crinkled piece of loose leaf paper.

The original idea is to take note of the FIRST LINE of an author's piece of writing. I've revised this to include any line that draws you in, makes you taste, causes a sharp intake of breath. Anything that causes a physical reaction has got to be remembered, discussed, reviewed, and, sometimes, revered.

I oftentimes find myself taken with the musical quality a finely-sharpened pencil has when it moves across a single sheet of paper on a desktop. Likewise, I have to have a pen that will easily glide across paper. If I don't have the writing instrument of my choice, my words become stilted and harsh. I'm at my best when I have a keyboard creating a staccato of clickety-clacks as my thoughts appear on a monitor.

With that said, I need to share a few of my favorite lines, gleaned from books I will read again and again. Take a moment to delve into these wonders. Then, clickety-clack a few keystrokes and share something in the comments.

From Adriana Trigiani:

• Aunt Alice has a small head and thin lips. (That's a terrible combination.)
• That girl is not built for heaving lifting.
• He looks like a desert sheik from the movies, but he sounds like the rest of us.

From Frances Mayes:

• I am about to buy a house in a foreign country...a previous scarlet paint job seeps through in rosy spots like a box of crayons left to melt in the sun.

From Wally Lamb:

• On the afternoon of October 12, 1990, my twin brother Thomas entered the Three Rivers, Connecticut Public Library, retreated to one of the rear study carrels, and prayed to God the sacrifice he was about to commit would be deemed acceptable.

Want to chuckle? Sometimes belly laugh? Grab a Trigiani book. Just trust me on this. The Big Stone Gap series made me snort out loud and shake with uncontrollable laughter. The southern idiosyncrasies, the accents, the subtle nuances of a small town - all of them were at once foreign and familiar since I'm a NY transplant now in southwestern Virginia.

Need to understand why people make choices? What brings them to a crossroads? Mayes' Under a Tuscan Sun could be the one to take you there. The book is so much more than the movie. Isn't that always the way?

Love going on a psychological journey through generations while being privy to knowledge, insight, and more aha moments than should be legal? Lamb's the one for you. I refer to I Know This Much Is True as my bible of sorts. Lamb is able to deftly weave a piece of family cloth with nubs and knots that your mind's eye repeatedly revisit while reading. I read and reread this one at a very difficult time in my life - questioning my history, future, present. The whole bunch of me. How I related to others. Dominick, Thomas' brother, became my twin in a sense because we both have such an art of survival. Yet this survival instinct oftentimes carved pieces of ourselves with such a cost.

The Last Bastion

This is the last time I'm moving my shit around the blogosphere. For real.

If I have to somehow reinvent myself because I've been duped into thinking certain people are trustworthy...hell, even WORTHY...only to be disappointed, I'm going back to the old-fashioned fucking journal.

Maybe this will give me time to find a fucking pen I like. I'm not journaling in pencil. And although a BIC will do in a pinch, my plump hands certainly don't pine away for a pen that comes in a pack of 20 for a buck at the Dollar General. I'm a pen snob. So be it.

Here's the latest blather:
How is it that I have good judgement (or so I'm told) yet continue to put forth more trust to people who either manipulate, misuse, or muck it up? For real.

I'd like to say that I'll take a hard line and make people prove themselves beyond a shadow of a doubt, but my gut says that's not going to happen. I think my failure to shut out those who drain me is due to a serious crack in the veneer that is my (sometimes black and hardened) heart: I'm a fucking helper. I help. Support. Love. Believe. Do.

I'm a doer to the point that I sometimes lose myself while focusing on others.

While I'd like to change this ick about myself, it's not going to happen overnight. Sometimes I think I'm meant to be Miss Caretaker, but I learned a lesson long ago from someone who attempted to repoint the mortar and bricks of my life:

If I don't learn how to take care of myself, I'll be lost in the dust.

I've shared that lesson (well-meaning do-gooder, I am) with plenty of people over the years.

Now it's time I revisited the lesson and did something with it.