Cute Vibrant And Oh So Very Round

I saw the above photo online with the title caption and I thought: That’s it! Finally, a description I could accept. I don’t like to hear pretty, sexy, beautiful, charming. etc. etc. Interesting is the only option I considered in the past alongside the likeness of Pumba which I happened to believe closely resembled how I look like though lately, even that is not an alternative anymore. Anyway, I saw the image of this Robin and I yelled: That’s how I like to look like. Exactly like that. Cute Vibrant And Oh So Very Round. Wonderful!

April In My Mind

April is the cruelest month, breeding
lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
memory and desire, stirring
dull roots with spring rain.
― T.S. Eliot

TO what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only underground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.

― Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sponsorship

There is something that bothers me about this. I find it downright sexist.

When It Rain It Pours

Shit happens, right? Some days the pile is just a little higher than others.  ― Rodney Riesel

You can say that again.

At the moment in my part of the world, it’s fucking storming.

Murphy’s Law all the way.

Sometimes I’m wondering what grave sins I’ve committed in my past lives to deserve capital punishments such as these.

The upside is: If I land in hell for whatever reason, I might actually enjoy it. And why not when I already have a lot of practice. Being there would be a walk in the park compared to what’s happening to me__ I would not say lately because it’s been going on for so long even these days doesn’t apply anymore.

The downside? Name it.

I can’t laugh about it anymore. Not even hysterically.

Change it? No can do. First of all, it’s not my doing. Never been.

Second: Unless I want to abandon ship and jump into the sea I better stay where I am and bail water out.

Let’s Get (Re)acquainted

The picture above is D. I am married to him for about 16 years now. He’s my second husband and partner in crime. He’s a chocolate (and everything sweet) loving engineer who doesn’t smoke and only drink alcohol occasionally. His hobby is taking care of me and listening to my outrageous ideas. He is patient, sweet and very, very understanding. I’d like to see him as a blessing in disguise because as docile as he is, he could drive me up the wall sometimes believe you me. Oh, I almost forgot… He is 11 years younger than I am.

The one below is yours truly anno 2020. No need for description. You read my blogs. That says enough.

Love Month You Say?

The day and time itself: a late afternoon in early February, was there a moment of the year better suited for despair? ― Alice McDermott

February is a suitable month for dying. Everything around is dead, the trees black and frozen so that the appearance of green shoots two months hence seems preposterous, the ground hard and cold, the snow dirty, the winter hateful, hanging on too long.

― Anna Quindlen

When God was making the months I think February was a mistake, like a burp. There it was, small, dark, and prickly. It had absolutely no redeeming qualities. ― Shannon Wiersbitzky

Terrible, creepy, dark February weather I remember, and the worst, most frightening days of my life.― Sebastian Barry

I used to try to decide which was the worst month of the year. In the winter I would choose February. I had it figured out that the reason God made February short a few days was because he knew that by the time people came to the end of it they would die if they had to stand one more blasted day. ― Katherine Paterson

Why does February feel like one big Tuesday? ― Todd Stocker

Happy Valentines Day Folks!!!

Indeed

I’m afraid sometimes you’ll play lonely games too, games you can’t win because you’ll play against you.

Mirror, Mirror…

Do Not Define Me

Bohemian…
A person, as an artist, who lives and acts free of regard for conventional rules and practices. A free spirit and open-minded thinker.

Hmmm… My son once described me to his friends as a MILF. To my face he said I’m a bohemian. My ex said to one of his ladies that I was magic, but to me, he said I was a short fat and ugly gold-digging flirt head hunter who was holier than thou one of a kind spirit who got nothing to offer to a man. A man-hater frigid who pretends to be intelligent but otherwise stupid who got a limited taste in music and to top it all manic-depressive. Let’s not talk about how my daughter sees me. That would be a long and complicated story. The point of all of these…

The point is_  we are a lot of things to a lot of people. Each of them has their own version of us. None of those matches the image we have of ourselves in our heads. Not even close.

I see myself as a plain Jane of average intelligence. Aloof and introvert, shy melancholic and highly sensitive.

So many people will disagree. For most, I am confident, assertive smart outgoing social.

Alpha they say.

I’m not an Alpha. I’m not even Bravo Charlie or Delta. Just kidding. I’m more of an Omega. Really.

No. Seriously, I don’t give a damn how people see me. As long as their opinions are not interfering with my existence, they can draw/paint every picture they want.

Oh.

My husband puts me on a pedestal. For him, I can do no wrong.

Easy you might say. No, it isn’t. You don’t get feedback that way. You don’t get constructive criticism which helps you to grow and improve as a person.

He was brought up in this fashion, believing he is a shining golden boy who is perfect in every way. The result? He has a problem with anything that defies that image of him, hindering him to grow to his full potential and evolve as a human being supposed to be through years of experience and making mistakes. The consequences of that upbringing he is still reaping to this day via his work, social contacts, relationships in general. Whenever troubles reach his shore, he automatically assumes that it is because of an external factor, others, not him, never him.

I don’t want to be like that. Just hand me a mirror.

I want the truth.

But what is the truth?

Everybody has their own truths.

You know… That image again we have in our heads? That doesn’t match with the ones they have in theirs? That.

Now, the circle is complete.

New Beginning To The Same Old Story

Tonight’s December thirty-first,
Something is about to burst.
The clock is crouching, dark and small,
Like a time bomb in the hall.
Hark, it’s midnight, children dear.
Duck! Here comes another year!

Say What???

Everything’s kind of opaque and ineffable.

I mean, one instance I’m animated, happy and glorious, right after that I become quite not implicit and assured, or I am confused and cluttered about life or I’m temporarily in a hodgepodge of feeling something sure-enough and feeling torpid and toom– sort of like I am an out-of-sight landscape devoid of color and peppy life.

That is the moment I thought emotionalism sure cannot be in the same bivouac with life.

Everything’s kind of like that, every single day. Breathing and living became an arduous routine. We were propelled into this state, like a garden-variety of misplaced inanimate objects pushed in a circle, like a prosaic assemblage meant to be displayed or hung in order for a designated niche to look lively and polychromatic, like we were lunged here just so our place wouldn’t look arid and unaccompanied, like we were born into this just so the integral void would be replaced by wights, like we were shoved into this without any given druthers.

We were woebegone lodestones that had been attracted and captured by life.

Living’s been colorful, you know? also tiring, disquieting, and discombobulating. Living became an uncongenial groove, something I wouldn’t want to be near or be placed in, something I wouldn’t want to get wind of, something better left unnoticed or undisclosed.

But when I am surrounded by people I desiderate and I set store by, only life and the way I feel become less onerous and more endurable.

Maybe, just maybe, life figuratively turns into a narrow and rough road when you perambulate by your own bootstraps. Some things are quagmires that are mystifying and hard-bitten to fix when you are broken-down, cloistered and etiolated, but everything becomes painless and lenient when there are people beside you who are willing to peregrinate and carry half the baggage of your pain and are willing to buoy up some of your throes.

In defiance of the mixed and capricious emotions I have, contrary to the uncertainties and debacle I might stumble upon, and knowing how painful and hellacious life is, perhaps life itself isn’t a voyage meant to be lived alone.

Words by Lois Anne Amigleo

The House

Mother says there are locked rooms inside all women; kitchen of lust, / bedroom of grief, a bathroom of apathy. / Sometimes, the men – they come with keys, / and sometimes, the men – they come with hammers. ~ Warsan Shire

Does it sound alarmingly like this? It does to me.

A woman should be a cook in the kitchen, a lady in the parlor, and a whore in the bedroom

But then again I’m paranoid and overthinker. You know…

A person who thinks all the time
Has nothing to think about except thoughts
So… he loses touch with reality
And lives in a world of illusions
By thoughts I mean specifically, Chatter in the skull
Perpetual and compulsive repetition
of words, of reckoning and calculating
I’m not saying that thinking is bad
Like everybody else
It’s useful in moderation
A good servant, but a bad master
And all civilized peoples
Have increasingly become crazy and self-destructive
Because through excessive thinking
They have lost touch with reality
That to say…
We confuse signs
With the real world…
This is the beginning of meditation
Most of us would have
Rather money than tangible wealth
And a great occasion is somehow spoiled for us unless photographed
And to read about it the next day in the newspaper
Is oddly more fun for us than the original event
This is a disaster…
For as a result of confusing the real world of nature with mere signs
We are destroying nature
We are so tied up in our minds that we’ve lost our senses
Time to wake up
What is reality?
Obviously… no one can say
Because it isn’t words
It isn’t material, that’s just an idea
Reality is…
The point cannot be explained in words
I’m not trying to put you down
It’s an expression of you as you are
One must live…
We need to survive to go on…
We must go on.

I’m getting sidetracked again. Heard this one somewhere but I’ve have forgotten it and remember just now. It supposed to be something about meditation or something but listening to it made me jumpy and edgy and itchy. Like yoga, it makes me more nervous than I ordinarily am. But let’s go back to the topic at the beginning of this post about rooms and lust and lady and whores which put another idea in my head about a knight in shining armor that in reality just an ordinary bloke in tin foil.

In my experience, conscious or unconscious, men, in general, expect women/girlfriends/wives to be surrogate mothers if not parents, organizers, housekeepers, psychiatrists chefs chauffeurs jack of all trades and above all vessels for their lineage and co-breadwinners and a whole lot more while looking like a pin-up model 24/7 opening the door for them when they come home, a glass of something strong in hand and ready for a good tumble in the hay, all of that without complain. They never consider the possibility that maybe we want a male version of what they expect but you will never find/read/heard something like this: A man should be a cook in the kitchen, a gentleman in the parlor, and a gigolo in the bedroom plus an Onassis when it comes to financial capital  and a true blooded prince when it comes to pedigree anywhere because of what else but double standard it is.

Keys or hammers, change locks before they come and don’t let them too close if you value your core and your sanity. Close but not close enough to do some damage that could never be repaired. We have a saying in my country that when it comes to loving someone, don’t give your all. Leave/save some for yourself in case so you will be able to bounce back no matter what. And if they come as Thor, buy the biggest magnet you can find and take away their hammer, but not before you hit them hard on the head to cause enough amnesia.

Till next time.

LMAO

I stumbled upon an article while searching for__ basically nothing and everything that made me laugh so hard it made my day. I have never been to the place and there is no way I would or could be there ever because it is in the country which will never ever be in my bucket list. But the author wrote the piece so graphically I could almost imagine how it looks like. She said:

You go there to feel good but you leave broke, disoriented, and with the new-found knowledge that you have a vaginal disease.

Unlike Vegas, Whole Foods’ clientele are all about mindfulness and compassion…until they get to the parking lot. Then it’s war. As I pull up this morning, I see a pregnant lady on the crosswalk holding a baby and groceries. This driver swerves around her and honks. As he speeds off I catch his bumper sticker, which says Namaste. Poor lady didn’t even hear him approaching because he was driving a Prius. He crept up on her like a panther.

Isn’t it hilarious?

Here’s another one:

Next, I see the gluten-free section filled with crackers and bread made from various wheat-substitutes such as cardboard and sawdust. I skip this aisle because I’m not rich enough to have dietary restrictions.

Ever notice that you don’t meet poor people with special diet needs? A gluten intolerant house cleaner? A cab driver with Candida? Candida is what I call a rich, white person problem.

Now, I know that I’m rich (I have lactose and gluten intolerance) and in danger of becoming a white person. (Not that it’s bad. I always dream of having long blond curly hair I can shake in the wind in a slow-motion fashion.)

This one is epic:

Next, I approach the beauty aisle. There is a scary looking machine there that you put your face inside of and it tells you exactly how ugly you are.

They calculate your wrinkles, sun spots, the size of your pores, etc. and compare it to other women your age. I think of myself attractive but as it turns out, I am 78 percent ugly, meaningless pretty than 78 percent of women in the world.

Isn’t she genius!

Her name is Kelly MacLean and if you want to read the whole article, head on HERE. And if you are feeling sensitive while reading, remember this ( directly quoting one of the commenters) Don’t take it literally or personally. The humor lies not in fact but in jest. 

Low Maintenance

My father once told me that I need to marry a rich man.

When he said this, I didn’t quite grasp what he meant or what he was trying to imply. It took me five decades to understand where he was coming from but it doesn’t mean I agree with his implication.

True, when I was young they had to coat me with baby oil before I could walk the six kilometers wasteland between our house and the only primary school in the neighborhood. I was or rather my skin was and still is allergic to grasses of any kind among so many other things. Even to these days, my naked skin cannot have direct contact with any surfaces that meant for public use like park benches, restaurants tables and chairs, buses seats and so on. I get itchy bubbles on my skin the very minute I come in contact with I think full of germs surfaces even though at first glance they look spotless. I bruise easily as well.

Oh…yeah
My skin is like a map, where my heart has been
And I can’t hide the marks, but it’s not a negative thing
So I lay down my guard, drop my defenses, down by my clothes
I’m learning to fall, with no safety net, to cushion the blow

I bruise easily, so be gentle when you handle me
There’s a mark you leave, like a love heart carved on a tree
I bruise easily, can’t scratch the surface without moving me
Underneath I bruise easily.

No, just kidding.

Prolonged contact with hard surfaces always resulted in bruises that never fade but turn into leathery skin like an elephant hide.

And I don’t know why.

I could not help our mother to wash our clothes either for I was allergic to any laundry detergent, liquid or powder. They made my hands look like raw meat. Which reminds me of the time I was on a cruise and tried Yves Saint Laurent products from the ship’s cosmetic sections. That was a big mistake. My eyes looked like someone had punched me and my lips will pass for a Botox treatment that had gone horribly wrong.

Another thing is I cannot sleep with someone next to me. Not then, not now. I always get the only bedroom in the house when we were growing up. That or I stayed awake whole night fiddling with the priceless possession of my father, the radio. Two husbands and I never managed to share a bed/room with any of them. I can’t stand the smell of another person on the pillows and bedsheets. I can’t stand them breathing next to me. I can’t stand their presence in the room. In short, I want to sleep alone.

Someone once remarked that I remind her of the story about the Princess and the Pea because I can feel every single tiny grain of whatever on the bed whether it is particles of dust or one single crumb.

How much I love working in the garden I could not do it without surgical gloves under ordinary garden mittens. I can’t stand the feel of soil between my fingers but not as much as I hate dust under my feet. Anywhere but not under my feet and between my toes.

Again, I don’t know why.

You might say my father is right. I have to marry a wealthy man, but let me tell you the other side of the story.

I am low maintenance.

Lower you cannot get.

First of all, I don’t like bling-bling or branded items. Don’t get me wrong I have them for sure but I hardly or don’t use them at all. They are given to me as gifts, from people who thought like most women, I wanted to own few if not all. I don’t go to the hair salon. I cut my own hair using ordinary household scissors that meant to be for papers. I do it in just three moves. I bend down, cut my hair straight, then trim both sides to frame my face. That’s all. I don’t wear make-up and just discovered lipstick when I was forty-eight. I don’t polish my nails, either. Heck, I don’t even shave my legs.

I don’t even need sex.

I don’t go out, rarely drink alcohol, I hate restaurants and dislike parties. I don’t even have to tan my hide, literally. I know… I know… I am already tanned by nature, so…

I don’t gamble or smoke, no expensive hobbies because my hobbies are reading, walking, writing and gardening. The last one is probably the only thing I splurge money on. When it comes to plants… I will gladly skip dinner.

So, how can my father say I have to marry a millionaire? I refuse to believe that was the (only) reason why he sold me to the highest bidder. That bidder once told me that simple things make me happy, and that is the most difficult thing to achieve because simple things are hard to come by. For him at least. When another bidder who outbid him confirmed this, I begin to consider the possibility that probably there is some truth in that claim. I am not convinced so far.

And I don’t know what to write anymore because it is a full moon and I can’t sleep and my thoughts are muddled and I want to take a bath but it’s midnight and my hair will not dry properly and I’m against using a hair dryer because it dries my hair and if I lie down with semi-wet hair I will wake up with semi-dry flat hair that is so brittle I have to take a bath again.

That’s all for now and till the next full moon.