Boy has this one been a long time coming.

If anyone ever reads this, I may be out here. Alive, sometimes kicking. Thinking about writing. Thinking about our world and my place in it. Thinking about our connections and our similarities and the way we should love each other.

Wishing I was running, watching Teen Wolf with my teenager, crocheting like a mad old cat lady. Desperately trying to muster the strength and courage and motivation to write here again.


Piper Kerman, I like the sound of your voice…

Dear readers…
Please read this short article…
“Orange is the New Black” author: Prison wastes time, human potential and money
(Credit: AP) “Weeds” creator Jenji Kohan’s new Netflix series “Orange Is the New Black” became an instant hit this summer, due at least in part to th… Read more

Then read this;)

I wanted to remind (if I’ve already harped about this to you) or recommend (if this is the first time you’re hearing this from me) or beg/coerce/threaten (for those who fall into the category of righteously stubborn, piously indignant, mired down in a surface level understanding of existence) you all to buy AND READ this book.
This book is representative of a conversation people in our [or at the very least, my] socioeconomic environments are not having, but should be. We are tragically uninformed and ‘blissfully’ blind to what is happening to those who find themselves dealing with the incomprehensible labyrinth that we laughingly refer to as ‘criminal justice’ in America.
This is the truth of what our inherent desire for retribution, and its pervasive impact upon legislation, means for our incarcerated Americans.
We live lives permeated with bitterness and a desire to see suffering in those who have wronged us and this attitude becomes culture and that culture becomes our justice system.
We puff ourselves up and bolster our indignant self-righteousness with balustrades hewn from our certainty that everyone is capable of behaving and making good choices because we did. Or, we are bitter little children crying ‘If I have to follow the rules… so do they’ which just seems sophomoric in an existence rife with inherent unfairness.
Everything happening in our nation is a result of our lack of education and lack of empathy and lack of foresight in favor of our drive to see bad behavior punished in whatever way seems like it will make us feel better at the time.
A perfect example is my run in with the idiot employees at Bar 3 BBQ in Belgrade the other day, and my gut wish to see them suffer for their poor treatment of me, and COME ON, it was just bad (OK, exceedingly careless and unnecessarily lazy) service at a restaurant, they didn’t kill my best friend.
BUT… writing this little blurb helped me realize that I’m as guilty of perpetuating this pathetic mind-set as anyone. I will absolutely give myself a bit of dispensation since I am actually mentally ill and it precludes me from appropriate behavior and response at times and yes, sorry, it’s unfair that I get special treatment because I have these issues but… life is inherently unfair REMEMBER? If you aren’t mentally ill, simply chalk my perspective up to my overdeveloped sense of balance… I may get special treatment (ok I may deserve, not always get, dispensation) and allowances might be made for my behavior because of my issues, but hey, YOU get to not be mentally ill – so – it seems like it shakes out pretty evenly to me.
 I do like to think I am more capable than some of reevaluating myself and my thought processes in pursuit of enlightenment and my desperate desire to better my corrupt and irreverent and excruciating and irrelevant existence.  If you strive for these things in yourself, keep in mind…
that confinement doesn’t rehabilitate. Are we really so bloodthirsty a society that our desire to see people ‘pay’ for their behavior blinds us to even a shred of what our humanity (and often our ‘religions’) would demand of us with regard to our fellow man?
Instead let’s try introspection and education, conversations with sincerity, and a broadening of our small minds…
Maybe little reminders like this lovely memoir will spark something in us… maybe these things will help us work toward removing our blinders and coming together in kindness and humanity so that we can attempt to treat our fellow man with dignity… rather than contempt born of our own pain, insecurities, and bitterness.
This will be my last post until I return from what I hope will not be a crushing and defeating experience from which I cannot recover, but instead will be an enlightening, illuminating, and motivating decent into the bowels of our society which will prove a treasure trove of heartening observations, deep learning opportunities, and a few outrageously campy tales – Federal Corrections here I come!
Thanks for reading and I hope some of you are still here when I get back… my stories will undoubtedly be hilarious if not spectacular;)
Crazy Liah aka despoticloset.
Sent from my iPhone.
“No matter where I get, I fail to appreciate my arrival” – thejackieblog

Musings for my minions…


‘high-maintenance’ girl shit…

Was just perusing a decent little article about the splendidness of our misogynistic culture and realized with a perfunctory slap to the forehead that I might be missing something important in my interactions with men… are they really looking at my nails? I mean, they’re generally tidy… clean and filed, but never polished or quite ‘done’… does this make me less sexy?

I don’t hate a nice manicure, I have nothing against gel nails or shellac or any of that super-fun chick crap. I just think it’s expensive and time consuming and I really hate making awkward small-talk with ‘salon-person’.

Plus, am I delusional or wouldn’t men everywhere prefer I utilize every extra second of my existence cultivating my blow-job skills?

Project 50K


21 Miles as of Thursday.

Everything hurts. Knee is pretty uncomfortable… tried to sabotage today’s run but I prevailed!

My bingo wings chafed my side boob for an amazingly painful and humiliating side-effect during today’s run.   A newfound respect for and awareness of spontaneous combustion has developed.  I am considering relocating one of the fire extinguishers so that it is within reach of my treadmill.

Project of the Week: 50K


Fatgirl, who exercises somewhat regularly, is attempting to run approx. 30 miles this week.  

DYK? Fatgirls don’t make good runners? No kidding, it’s true!  Now don’t go getting all offended by the Fatgirl term.  I could say curvy, voluptuous, bootylicious, the dreaded ‘plus size’ BLECH!, or a number of other things about my figure, Fatgirl is simply the most motivating for the current project. Back to the running… I used to run a bit when I was young and thin (in my early 20’s) and never really put much effort in and never really got very good at it though I was in great shape.  I was simply not built for it.  I started again when I hit 30 and got much better at it with much less to work with strength and youth-wise and much more to work with flab and booze-wise. I ran for a few years off and on, doing a few 5K races (as I said I was never very good at running) and pretty happy with myself for doing it.  Then I had another baby and zzzzzzzzz…… well you know how that goes.

Now on the downward slope toward middle-life crisis (or smack in the middle of it) I am out of shape, and REALLY not built for it.

FYI: Running is HARD.  

I see those little cuties running around the world, doing marathons and smiling and looking cool and I want to smack them.  Sure, I might smile and wave and wink and blog while running too if I weighed 118 lbs.  My joints wouldn’t ache, my flab wouldn’t jiggle me off the side of my treadmill, my boobs wouldn’t require two + sportsbras in a size too small to keep them contained, my yoga outfit turned runners gear wouldn’t be soaked with sweaty fatgirl sauce, and my hair and make-up would remain perfectly in place so that the finish-line photos didn’t look like some longer haired slightly feminized version of Nick Nolte’s mug-shot (to be fair, my outfits are much cooler).


Sure. If I weighed some 60 lbs less. But I don’t. I rock a fluctuating 180 – 188 (it’s not uncommon for my weight to change 5 lbs in a day) and most of the time I think I look pretty great, but there are those days. When I say pretty great, I don’t mean great in the same category as pre-kid, pre-stress, pre-heartbreak, pre-chaos great. Not like those years in my 20’s kinda hot, (boy, if only I could convince that girl to keep running) but still hot enough for me. I may never get to a point where I am a good runner, but that isn’t going to stop me from hurtling my tired, heavy, old, sweaty, achy, flabby body through space at whatever break-neck speed I can pull off. Wish me luck!

As of yesterday she is at 13.69 miles. 

Current Status:

Sleep – 4-6 hours

Left ankle – swollen and sore

Right knee – pinches when bent and straight and walking and running

Lower back – Tight 

Mid back – Tight

Upper back – Tight

Shoulders – Tight

Neck – Tight

Hips – Sore 

Stomach – Still flabby

Boobs – Still too big

Morale – Stable



Champagne Thought Bubbles…

Love is the ability and willingness to allow those that you care for to be what they choose for themselves without any insistence that they satisfy you. – Wayne Dyer

This is a stunning concept which I wholeheartedly believe would change the face of all our relationships were we to embrace it and commit to it. Sadly, our uncontrollable desire to see our own needs satisfied and our inability to conceptualize in everyday life thwarts us.  Perhaps a bit more effort… or just a bit more Cabernet?

In The Right

right 3

I read a great post here on WordPress by Clotildajamcracker recently that got me thinking about  conflict and communication, specifically – what is it that possesses us to be rightrightright all the time.

Maybe this is not an issue for everyone?  I personally struggle with this problem every minute of every day.  I am seeking treatment.  I am getting better.  Some in my life might disagree, but I AM RIGHT.

If, as posited by some, our memory – our personal truth – is only an interpretation created by our brain that shapes and re-shapes events into a palatable “memory” that we can accept as real based upon our personal chemistry, environmental factors, culture, beliefs, mores, etc. etc. , then how do we tunnel down into the real kernel of truth in a situation ever?  If each experience of an event can only be understood by the individual and each individual experiences the event (and thus remembers the event) in only their interpretation, then it stands to reason that there is no truth.  (Idolanuel has a great post about this titled “The Disastrous Behavior Of The Memory”. )

If there is no truth, then what are we all arguing about?

How can you be right if there is no truth?

For me, it is the deep down organ hardening wrench that tells me that I am right.  That tightening from just below your clavicle running down to your intestines, thrumming right right right right.  This is how you know.  When this feeling overtakes me, there is little that can be said to dissuade me from my certainty.  I may capitulate to save myself from a tedious argument with someone who obviously has some amnesiac tendencies, but in my mind and heart, I still feel right.  I know it as surely as I know my own face.  If I begin to consider that perhaps my truth is not the truth, I experience terror.  If nothing we “know” is really what happened, then what actually did happen?  And why can’t I remember it?

right 1

Yet I must consider the prospect.  It is only fair and sensible to allow for the possibility that another’s truth might be more accurate than my own.  Perhaps my husband was right in all those arguments? Perhaps I simply “misremembered”?  Perhaps my sister’s interpretation of a childhood event is, in fact, more exact than the one I hold on to?  If we open ourselves to these possibilities, will we get along better?  Lose our desire to be right?  Make those in our life feel validated?  Or is this just another illusion?  How can we believe that another’s memory is any more reliable than ours?  In that case we are now simply arguing with another who may not be wise to the fact that our memories are such betrayers!  We are arguing against their instinctive desire to be right, their lack of understanding about the weakness of their own mind.  So why bother? Because we still want to be right!  Our memory doesn’t have to be right, so long as theirs is also incorrect, we can maintain the illusion that we are kind of right.

If we have our truth, and they have their truth, and somewhere in between lies the real truth, how do we ever decipher it?  Is it simply beyond our reach? It seems nothing more than a guessing game.

If we can never agree about an event, how can we come to terms with its consequences?  How can we continue to exist together when we seem to exist in different worlds?

How can there be anything but chaos?

This is a feeble and tepid description of my current state of terrified psychosis.  I cannot accept that I may be fooling myself with my memories nor can I trust the memories of others if they are as faulty and indulgent as my own. This leaves me in a constant state of paranoia and distress.  I cannot accept that there is no truth, verily, without one we would lose our desire, our passion, our very fragile but imperative sense of purpose.  We would be left without direction, aimless and overwhelmed.  And still not right.

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Princess Leia or The Girl I Never Was…

“From what I can see of the people like me, we get better but we never get well…” Paul Simon 1981

The original Star Wars movie came out the year I was born.  Yeah, yeah, I’m dating myself.  I didn’t see it until years later, of course, but that didn’t stop it and its sequels from becoming a force of influence in my life that I likely, to this day, don’t fully understand.  This could be due to the fact that it was SO AMAZING (YES, I am a huge fan, but not in the obsessed “I hate the travesty that has become the Star Wars franchise aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhh” kind of way) or the fact that the mass-marketing monster we have come to know and love was flexing its remiges in anticipation of its historical flight into global domination, OR the fact that my mother happened to choose an obscure biblical name for me and then shorten its unfathomable and unpronounceable 8-letter garble to sound like “LEIA” (for those who may not be familiar –and… are you really out there? – it sounds like Lay-uh).

I loved Princess Leia from the first moment I saw her.  I begged to be taken to the drive-in showing of Return of the Jedi at age 6.  It was magical and I remember that trip very fondly.  It wasn’t just her ball-busting attitude or her faux-demure sexiness; here was FINALLY someone with whom I shared the same name!!!  It was the most novel and validating thing that had happened to me at that point.  Other kids grew up knowing another Jennifer or Sarah, another Kelly, Jessica, Amy, Kim, another April, even the occasional Misty or Tiffany.

Not Leia.  Not Lay-uh.  Not me.

Not until I discovered her.  She was everything I wanted to be, a princess, a bad-ass, a big bun-wearing icon with a space gun!  Oh, the famed gold bikini didn’t hurt anything either and no, I was never smart enough to find and wear one while my body could still sport it without guffaws and jeers.  A year ago I did finally (as mentioned in my Halloween post) don the big buns and white, TOTALLY see-through, neck to floor dazzler that is more my body’s speed these days.  It was liberating and somehow just felt right.

Liah as Leia

And yep, that’s my border collie dressed up in the same costume as me.  No need to comment.  I know.  My husband also dresses up as Darth Vader every single year.

Beyond the name, I simply identified with the galactic goddess and never got over it.  I loved Carrie in a few other of my youth-years faves such as The Burbs, Loverboy, and who doesn’t love When Harry Met Sally?  I fell so hard over her that I even gave my first daughter a nod to her with her middle name, though I was too much of a coward back then to admit to anyone that it was a factor in my choice.  Interesting what anxiety /depression/mental illness will do to your concept of self and
confidence.  I haven’t thought about that in years.  Funny.

I was delighted to see her begin to show her mettle with other projects over the years (Postcards From The Edge is still a major favorite – though I was just beginning to experience my pre-pubescent angst and perhaps couldn’t truly identify with its themes, as I get older and crazier it speaks to me in all sorts of new and amazing ways – like everything, I guess) and recently after my (breakdown?), well, let’s call it when I “broke”, I finally read Wishful Drinking ( I am a voracious and eclectic reader, however recreational reading has been a rare luxury for a long time as I had been pursuing 2 degrees full-time while working 2 jobs, one full and one part time for several years before I “broke”) and confirmed a lifetime of suspicion.  We are meant to be.  Like Alanis and the 1994-era me, we have a bond.  As another favorite, Emma Thompson, said in the gooey shame-fest Love Actually, about yet another lifetime favorite, Joni Mitchell… “I love her, and true love lasts a lifetime…”

I think I laughed for the first time in months when I read Carrie’s beautiful little memoir at 3am in a bout of insomnia … I couldn’t put it down.  I cried.  I ached.  I belonged.

She refers to her addiction (s) pervasively throughout the narrative and then on page 239 … Eureka! She nails it. She describes her weekly meetings and realizes that she doesn’t have to like them, she just has to go.  I was floored… I don’t have to like it, I just have to go.  (Not to addiction group – I don’t believe in it.  Period.  Nor is addiction my crowning issue but if it were I think Rational Recovery would be more my bag, baby.)  No, it was everything else that it clarified for me… therapy, getting out of bed, showering, getting dressed in clean clothes, working out, writing… EVERYTHING ELSE.  I don’t have to like it, I just have to do it.  So succinct.  So purely enlightening it was like the beam of a light-saber turned on in my dark room (I was reading on my iphone as I often do with books I must read immediately and cannot wait to order from Amazon) and along with the oh-so-familiar hum of its energy… I came back to life.

Now don’t get wild here, I am not well.  I am not even better on some days.  But I am willing and that’s an amazing place to start.

Thanks Carrie.  You rock.