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3 glasses of cheap pink sweet wine into my night.

11 boxes packed.

8 bags of trashed hauled to the curb.

Two sets of mattresses in the hallway ready to be taken to the truck.

I am almost 35. Why am I dragging around so much crap? Seriously. We just moved a half of a year ago and I have boxes that are unopened and nothing really missing from my daily trek through life.

My Mother’s condition worsens.

My financial condition worsens.

My relationship remains stable and loving but in a holding pattern…

Its 9 freakin thirty and the movers will be here in 11.5 hours.

I am moving back from the burbs where I can escape my neighbors and friends at all times. I will be forced to see them all on a freakin daily basis. The grocery store. The dogpark. The f*cking coffee house.

I will be doing my duty as a child. I will be saving for a house and more freedom. I will be going to school.

Did I mention that I have decided to become a Veterinarian? Thats right. The school that is more difficult to get into than medical school. No stress. Really.

Found a stash of tomato boxes left over from the farmers market. Good for picture frames and DVD’s.

I won’t be able to escape my friends.

My friends will be closer.

My f*cking shrink will be 5 blocks away.

My dogs will love going for runs over the bridge and around the monuments. They will miss the yard but I think they would rather be with me while I trudge through a workout than in a yard alone while I cook dinner.

I will be closer to my Grandparents and the baby.

I won’t be able to escape my Grandparents and the baby.

I should probably shut up and finish packing.

I just tossed every magazine I own, all clothing I don’t love and books I will never read.
Thank you Oprah.

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I think she looks great and is totally glowing!!!

Bet you didn’t know that I had 2 years of art school back in the day. I decided before I settled on Communications, to be an artist. I loved it. LOVED IT. And then somewhere about 10 years ago I just stopped creating. I use to draw pictures in my day-planner of the dogs I would see at the park and doodle disturbing images when I was down in the dumps.

I can not tell you why I stopped. I did keep making jewelry – but how creative is stringing beads?

The other day I was in the grocery store of all places and a sketch book caught my eye in the school supplies section. Now its as if I had never stopped! I am doodling and creating and thinking of buying paints again… It feels so amazing to channel this creative thing again.

Last night I sat in my bed with a glass of red wine and out poured a creepy old hollow tree with crows on the branches. It felt amazing. It would also seem that I haven’t forgotten all that I learned in my art classes. Yes I am a bit rusty, but its still there!

So after looking at the 1973 December issue of Playboy, and a few days later seeing a movie with a GREAT burlesque scene, I am totally convinced that we need to rewind our porn/naughty pics and go back to classics.

Take this playboy cover – it is so hot! But it shows nothing!!!
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Lets go back to relying on our imaginations a little more. There is no mystery in watching two hairless women go to town on each other… I mean sure its a turn on the first time you see it but really? Come on! Lets show our natural bodies, flaws and all, and get our imagination’s involved!!!!

The night shift stinks.

But I love my new job!

How does one adjust to this MADNESS of a schedule?????

This post needs no words.
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So she has cellulite. I have it. You probably have it.

Get the fuck over it America. She looks fine! In fact better than most of us!

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I was born into the biggest family you can imagine. No – I don’t have 17 siblings and my parents didn’t either. But if you go back to my grandparent’s generation (the surviving 2 are almost 95 yrs old) there were 5-6 kids in each of our local families and they were very close and still spend as much time together as possible.

4-5 generations later… Last night my “baby” cousin Lydia (who is a married Doctor and speaks Japanese) stopped for the night on her way home from a quick trip to Pennsylvania. As we munched our burgers and drank beer – laughed and shared pictures, it struck me that each of them are home to me. And there are HUNDREDS of them.

The (still) annual descent on our little beach town in NC was an amazing thing for me growing up. It was the most stability I could ever imagine. I knew without a doubt, that every August, come hell, highwater or hurricane (we have experienced all), I would be enveloped for a week or two by my enormous family. My mother would relax into the southern atmosphere (and libations) and leave me the fuck alone for a while. My cousins and Aunts and Uncles always seemed to understand that I came from a home that was less than perfect and they would spend the full extent of our trip loving me and building me up. Some years it honestly was enough to carry me through the next twelve months. My Uncles (who have all passed away now) Vance, Marcus, Jack, Bill and Guy(the most recent loss and biggest sting tonight) would remind me how strong I was. It was as if they just sensed what I needed by some strange psychic genetic thing. My aunts (most are still here) taught me all the southern belle things my mother DETESTED about her heritage. I laughed at most of it but to this day still embrace a lot of it!

When I got older, the time I spent with my various branches of said family served as my “refresh” button. I processed things by talking about what happened and hearing their opinions. Events in my life seem to attain status and meaning in my life by being known to my family. Heartbreak, medical things (small and big), my mother’s deterioration… When my Lydia left this morning I just took a deep breath, processed the past few months and moved forward with strength in my heart.

They are mostly crazy, very drunk, so hysterical it hurts, loving, accepting, judgemental and strong. They marry and procreate and divorce and die. They leave big marks on this world or are hardly heard. The span every inch of the states and parts of the world beyond. But they are ALL mine and I am all theirs. I can not imagine a world without any single one of them. We fight, we forgive, we welcome babies and say goodbye at funerals but mostly we stand fiercely together no matter how far apart we are and make sure we are all ok. Its nice to realize that I no longer need to be at the beach to process and move forward with my life. I can achieve the same thing in one day with one of them. Any of them.

This morning my cousin Jane (Lydia’s sister) called and we had a long conversation about her boyfriend. She and I haven’t spoken in almost 8 months but as always it seemed as if we have never been apart. I could tell she was processing. I provided her with a touchstone and a loving voice. We may not speak again for a while, but we both know we could and come hell or highwater we will spend a week or two together in August.

Cute-n-yummy Pie drove to Williamsburg today to visit friends and it reminded me of someone who totally changed my life. My favorite Professor. Pat.

In 4th grade at Maret I had a particularily grumpy teacher named Mr. McEwan who pointed with his middle finger. I was a bubbly little girl trying to figure myself out and had just lost my father to the great state of Texas. Needless to say I was craving positive attention and it would have been nice for my first male teacher be caring and kind. But each time this crotchity old bastard furrowed his bushy grey unibrow I seemed to suffer. In fact he seemed to have it out for me. His middle finger migrated daily to my forehead and he would berate me in his loud sanctimonious growl for the reason of the day. This was all unpleasant. But I still have a hard time forgiving him for telling me, ” You are just really bad at History.”

How does someone actually say those words to a 9 year old little girl having a bad year? He said it several times. He wasn’t kind. He wasn’t teaching. He was being a fuck-head to one of his students (the only one with divorced parents and a Mother who was clinically insane… but who is counting).

And so I always thought I was just bad at history. Until Pat. The 23 year old mother of a toddler, I was living in my Mom’s basement and working hard to finish my Bachelors at Marymount University. I had finished every possible credit I had to finish without taking a single history course. The jig was up. A history class HAD to be taken. The only one that seemed remotely interesting was “American Revolutionary History”. So I put on my big girl panties and took a history class.

I loved it from the start. Everything about it. I loved Pat. She was a smiley welcoming older woman who had been raised in Williamsburg Virginia. I think her father had been the librarian at William and Mary. So she grew up with living history. She had a different view on everything because of that. EVERY INCH of history fascinated her. She had tidbits and morsels to go with every boring fact known to man. She brought the period alive for us and involved everyone in the class. I looked forward to each and every class and I don’t think I missed a single one.

When the class was over I had earned a perfect A+ and knew for a fact that I had never been bad at history. I had never even met history.

Since this defining moment I have devoured history. I read historical fiction, history books and am an avid history channel devotee. My Father and I have lively weekly conversations about whatever historical period we are both fixated on, from Krakatoa to Ancient Greece. Our George Bush rants count don’t they?

Pat wrote an amazing book before I met her. I have read it many times over the years – and give it as a gift often. You should read it.

Riding Astride, By Patricia Dunlap

I guess the moral of the story is dont let anyone tell you that you can not do something or are bad at something. But I am just glad to have found Pat and that she introduced me to this world’s past.

I live for cleaning lady days. If I could afford it I would have one living here! I love walking in the door to a lemony fresh house sans dog hair! The company I use sort of came with the apartment. And I love them – but if my regular lady doesn’t come I get the dud who doesn’t do even half the job.

So I came home from a somewhat emotionally rough day (thanks Mommy) and was disapointed to smell no lemon. But then it got worse…

1) All my trash cans are back in the wrong place and unlined (one was sitting on the couch).

2) There are 3 dirty dishes in my sink.

3) The TV remotes are NOWHERE to be found.

4) My dogs’ big water bowl is up on the counter and empty.

5) Did I mention the lack of citrus freshness?

6) My couch is cluttered with not only a trash can but all my bags from target that were in my room… Pink baby outfits spilling out where my dogs can jump on them!!! ACK! I guess we will find out if my niece is allergic, huh?

7) The toilet paper didn’t have the cute little fold down my normal lady does. 8(

Yes it could be worse and it is a bit cleaner all around… but after the day I had I hate to spend time straightening up after my freakin house keeper! And my cousin is driving in for the night in a few hours… I would rather be taking a nap.

grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

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