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?
I love conspiracy theories.
I wish ‘they’ would come up with one about me.
I read something recently that struck me in the heart like an ice pick … the gist of it was:
“I’d always known I was forgettable, I simply didn’t recall how it felt to be forgotten…”
This is perfectly, succinctly, me.
Whew! That last one was more like Champagne Bubble Bath…
It’s happened. I’m officially that ‘housewife’ that perks up when she notices that its 2pm because she’s convinced herself that this is an appropriate time to enjoy a glass of cab to relieve the day, round out the day, get through the day. It’s surprisingly easy to accept, much less guilt and bullshit than I expected. The one thing that continually irks me, however, is I am NOT a housewife. I mean, technically, I guess you would have to categorize me that way, but I am really no housewife. Not that I can accept and not that any sane or sober man would accept. I don’t think that moniker could ever hold me. Or sustain me. It is a disservice and an insult to the intelligence of anyone with a modicum of insight to assume they would accept this about me. Right?
As I am sitting here in (for once) clean ‘loungewear’ in my perfect, tidy, safe little corner “office” in my front room, which I no longer need as I am unemployed AND not finishing my degrees yet I still adore and refuse to even ponder giving up, I notice the random monotonously ‘normal’ things that I always notice and decide to share one thought with curiosity about other people’s thought patterns bubbling in my head like Gizmo’s back after an accidental misting…
The flowers pictured on the tissue box plopped haphazardly to the left of my decrepit laptop (something that ‘working’ superwoman of the past would never have tolerated) look like a male-devouring female praying mantis licking her chops in anticipation of a particularly delectable meal. This makes me think of Thanksgiving. More on this later in the week…
It also makes me think of Black Widow spiders, for which I have a diabolical affinity, which makes me think of Scarlet Johansson, for whom I have what might, by some, be considered a shocking affinity, which makes me think of religion and homosexuality and bisexuality and Christianity and war and judgment and hate and acceptance and immurement and immolation and imagery and alliteration and tolerance and adultery and murder and love and endangered species and sex and honesty and societal norms and heroism and confessionals and Kant and democracy and polarization and motherhood and self-loathing and vinyl and black nail-polish and living the exceptional life… to name a few.
Isn’t the mind a terrible thing to taste?
How much of my thought pattern is being influenced by my current immersion in the hot summer read that I am embarrassingly reading only now and only because of all the ‘talk’ surrounding it, I don’t know. Oh, and please don’t infer that the book is anything other than riveting, I am thoroughly enjoying it as it is so achingly familiar. (Gone Girl, if you are wondering) OH! That gives me an idea! I will post my current reading list (which I will have digested 75% of in the next 4-6 weeks to avoid the sub-letter’s derisive and unforgiving scorn) so that I might get some solicited referrals for additions.
As I am not working or finish my degrees, my mind is a caffeinated jitterbug junkie desperate for a fix that scrubbing my molding with a Clorox soaked toothbrush just cannot provide so I am reading with more tenacity and voracity than ever before in my life… this is a staggering amount of reading BTW as my firmly established identity as a famished and dehydrated word-whore whose frantic crusade for sustenance has morphed, horrifyingly, into what amounts to an addict pulsing with need, rushing headlong into schemes and opportunities for satisfaction, no consideration for consequence.
Oh, wait. Now it simply mirrors the rest of my existence.
My therapist says …
“You can’t change what you’ve done but you can change who you are.”
God*, I hope so.
*I say this, always, as an expression; Never as an incantation, nor a prayer, not to blaspheme, not an insult, not in any seriousness, nor to any particular ‘God’ especially yours. So if you have issue with it… pray on it, meditate on it, whatever it is you do to be an exemplary “insert your religious/spiritual identity of choice here” and please, with all due respect, keep your yap shut about it to me because to me it is simply and unequivocally an expression, harmless in intent and only imbued with what power we assign it through our connotation. In addition to which, if you are so offended by someone of differing belief’s use of a term that means something different to them than it does to you, then IMO you have bigger issues to deal with than me and my little blog and ought to put your passionate efforts to use in more productive ways.
It occurs to me that at some point while popping out a Champagne Thought Bubble I will misspell champagne. This will be because Champagne Thought Bubbles are typically produced while I am imbibing. In case it was not obvious. This will also be embarassing.
I think it’s really apropos that my autocorrect always changes my blog name to desperate loser.
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