Do You Know Me?

Do you know me? I believe that you think you do.

I just pulled out in front of you and you swerved around me; I bet I know what you were thinking. You didn't look over at me, but just the way you were gripping the steering wheel, staring straight ahead--been there. I swear to the Lord above I checked five times, but I guess I couldn't see you through the tears I was crying. You're not the only one that cries, lady.

Do you know me? Because you just walked by me like maybe you couldn't see me, pushing this shopping cart, asking for pop cans. I don't know how I got here, either, lady.

Can you hear me? Because I've asked you the same question about one hundred times today, mom, and most of the time, it's gone unanswered, other times, your answer, "What"? stings. It doesn't sound like the "I love you" that I usually get.

Did I offend you? Because when I came toward you and your daughter, holding out my hands, the look of terror on your face shocked me. I know I appeared tipsy, but actually, as my friend explained, just disabled. I know my words sounded frightening while calculating the pace I was coming at you, but, she was so cute, your baby. You're lucky, lady. I won't be having any babies of my own.

Did we fail you? Today you looked at us with disgust when you pinched your thighs. We've upheld you through a lot, you know. What does a little jiggle matter when we still work, hard, each day for you. And those stretch marks? Remember what your o.b. told you? How each day he saw women that would kill to be able to be pregnant and get those things? Remember that?

Dear God, please forgive me.

Dear Manny Ramirez

Dear Manny Ramirez,

Tomorrow is busy, busy, busy for me since my mom and sister are going to be in town for the day, so I need to write you this letter now, before the opening game of the World Series.

Please quit being an asshole.

You've single-handedly ruined any joy that I had rooting for the Red Sox. After the Tigers, they were my team. I relished in them beating up on the Yankees and whoever else they were playing, but this last series, thanks to your theatrics and posturing (fine, and the facts that Grady Sizemore is, well, so freaking hot, and my penchant for the underdogs), I was cheering whole-heartedly for the Indians.

I'm still so annoyed with you that I don't really know who I'm cheering for tomorrow. Let's just say I'm leaning towards the Sox because: A.) A bunch of girls I know here in Blogsphere still love the Sox and B.) Curt Schilling.

Obviously, you're talented. Not many yahoo's make the starting line-up for World Series teams. Obviously, you've hit a home run or two in your day, so you don't need to stand at the plate and watch it go out, arms in the air like you've just risen the dead. Put your freaking head down and run, Manny. Show a little class, a little grace, a little (gasp) respect for your opponents. (You know you should have at least been on second with that little ball-off-the-yellow-line-of-the-wall hit)

Also, making a routine fly-ball catch isn't really worthy of theatrics. You're paid like a gazillion dollars to do so, so just do it, and maybe tap your ball-cap or something small. No hand motions or arm-pumps are necessary.

You're a super-talent on a team of your peers, and I don't see them running around acting like idiots every time they hit or field the ball. I just want to sit back and root for the Sox and the American League and feel good about it again, so please, please, quit wrecking it for me.

Thanks,
Jenn

Lottery Winnings & The Real Riches

I've been busy filling out all of the paperwork to collect my winnings from the Irish National Lottery. Thank God all of my years of praying came through and I finally got that windfall that I've been hoping for. Life will be so much easier now. All I have to do is use the equity on my house to send in a fee to get the rest of my check, but it'll be a small price pay when I have my money in hand.

So, my computer is on the blink, and by blink, I mean "nearing eternal sleep". I keep trying to convince it to stay awhile longer, but most of the time it's non-respondent. So please don't view my lack of comments to you as non-interest; quite the opposite--but when it takes 3 minutes to load the comment page....well, you know. As soon as I get my check from INL, I'm going to purchase a brand spanking new super-computer, and donate to all of your pay-pal links on your pages, OK? (And you, briar's mom? I'm your publisher).

*****

This weekend while I was at my parent's home, Big A came running up the stairs to tell me that she'd taught herself a tune on the piano. "Great, good for you", I said as I continued washing my face and making sure Little A didn't fall off of the stool she was on while brushing her "teef".

Big A scurried out of the bathroom to go and tell her aunt B the same news. "Good for you" she said while she continued to talk to/manage our other two nieces and nephews, while half listening to Big A, who was still talking about how she taught herself "Axel F". (Yes, that "Axel F", from Beverly Hills Cop)

I almost vomited right there, reality smacking me in the face and pinning me up against the wall so that I had nowhere else to go.

That's what I do with Big A. She's easy to mollify, to appease, to pay half-attention to while I'm dealing with the other things at hand that seem so much more important, typically Little A. Because she acts like such an adult, I've let her become more of one than she should be, because when I don't give her the attention that she should have, she's happy to go and read a book or draw, and so I let her.

I went to listen to her rendition of "Axel F", patting her back and actually giving every ounce of myself to her; to that moment. I know that it cannot be like that, each minute of each day, but I've made a resolution to at least give her some undivided time each day, because I don't do that now. I'm not sure I even believe that "undivided" is real any longer, but I'm bringing it back.

She was my baby once. She was the first to break my heart with her sighs as she laid upon my chest. She taught me the first that I knew of the deepest kind of love. I owe her much more than I've given.

I brought back all of the piano books that I used as a kid, and I'm hoping to somehow get the piano from my parent's home into my home..."Axel F" is just the beginning of really bad songs that I know---my first mastering on the piano was "Making Love Out of Nothing At All".

And the neighbors thought that they hated my 80's music blaring....

I'm hoping this posts when I hit publish and doesn't crash. If it does, so good to be back, and I will remember you all when I'm collecting my funds. Go ahead and send me your mortgage statements, I'll get right on those.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do....

....But I've got to do it.

I wasn't going to blog about this, citing un-originality and the risk of coming across as holier-than-thou, because if you read my blog, you so know that I'm not.

Yep. It's Britney. I've been guilty of following the sordidness that is her life through on-line entertainment sites and the gossip magazines at the grocery store. You'd probably have to live in a cave to not hear her name at least once a day on reputable news stations. But I'm ending my affair with these sites and publications.

The latest installment which featured her swearing and waving her arms at the cameras disturbed me; it actually caused me to shift in my chair I felt so uncomfortable. And that's when I knew it was over. The sidebars and captions: "Live stream from the courthouse. We'll be there".
"She's been spotted at a parking lot. We are there".
"There are ambulances and police outside her home. We're there".

Stalking her.

Violating her.

Waiting for a new sound bite, new footage of her next insane act, lurking in the darkness that surrounds her, blocking any sunshine that might be trying to peep in.

I know how judged and crazy I feel just being around my family in Po-dunk USA for the holidays. How I cringe and murmur to myself, how I pick at my nails and avoid eye contact, how I squirm from the judgment being assessed upon me by those that I know. I don't just come across as a little off-kilter, I act that way because I feel that way. I cannot imagine what I would be like living under the microscope that she does.

In addition to that, her family called Dr. Freaking Phil to "help" her. Jesus. Like the girl didn't have enough issues and problems. If they want to help her, call some soul that has devoted their life to helping people without recognition or financial reward. Start in the non-profit sector. Some person in a state agency whose office light is on well past the time clock. Maybe then she'd stand a chance. Maybe.

I can't help but feel that girl is drowning before our eyes, and that each click of my mouse to TMZ or Perez was just one more wave pushing her down. I won't participate in it anymore, and not by just boycotting her stories, but by boycotting the sites altogether. It sucks. I'll miss them, I love me my celebrity gossip, but I don't think this is gossip; I feel like this is abuse in a grand form, and I won't be a participant to it, no matter how minuscule of a role I play by visiting their sites.

I'm going to go one step further and ask you to consider taking them off of your blog rolls as well. Most of you that I read frequently and that comment here frequently aren't people that I would believe can find any pleasure in what is happening to her.

And please, no comments on writing about worthy causes, etc. At the end of the day, she's a human being--I believe a very broken, very desperate, very lonely human being--despite the circus that surrounds her every waking moment.

I wish her peace, I really, really do.

Hero

"I'm not a hero. The real heroes are the guys that don't make it--those that are killed in action".

Sgt. First Class Matthew Blaskowski, to his father, Terry, after being wounded in action, May 2005.

Please direct your comments to the post below, Of America & Heroes, which will be given to Matt's parents, Terry & Cheryl Blaskowski.

Of America & Heroes

This post is being used a card for Matt's parents, Terry & Cheryl Blaskowski.

Your comments will be given to them; please post as such.

Words; Thousands of Them, Unspoken

I've felt at a loss for words, of late. My mind is trying to wrap itself around many things, but moslty, no matter which turn it's taking, it keeps going back to a picture.

A picture that my sister sent me. A picture that is making me cry at stoplights. A picture of my nephews, in the arms of a soldier that they love the last time he was home.

He comes home again tomorrow. For the last time, he comes home. The route home will be the same, but everything will be different.

The cries at the airport won't be of joy. There won't be running to him, laughter and sunshine painting the way into his open arms.

The same people will be there as the last time he arrived home. They might even wear the same shirts they wore when he stepped off the plane. The shirts they made by hand, the shirts that read, "My Hero". Except instead when those same people greet him, they will be greeting a casket.

So this week, instead of words, I'm going to post you pictures.

Here are the first 1,000 words: