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| Jenley Do-Wrong . . . |
The heaviness that continues to compress my heart continues to defy description; a description that continues to sound pathetic, whiney, get-over-it-already-would-you-ish as time goes on. . . so, instead, I'll share a little story that has nothing to do with heaviness. Then again, it's really all part and parcel of the package (huh? what the hell does that mean) . . .
So, I walked the dogs the other morning in my most, I've completely given up, World! getup yet: thick, black soled, royal blue quilted Merrel booties, black fleece pants that belonged to Bob but are high-water even on me (they're practically capris on me—they had to be knickers on Bob, and no, I don't know why he kept them, because though he was known to sport some pretty funky ensembles out here at Wrenwood himself, I don't recall him in Erkle-inspired fleece), which effectively reveal my grubby white thermal socks, and have such bulky, ill-placed pockets that I look like a Canadian Mountie with these babies on. Every time I don them, I think, "Okay, I mean it this time—Salvation Army!" but suddenly, inexplicably, I am enveloped in Bob's love, his very essence. That man was King of Not Caring What Others Think About Me, and for that reason alone, I toss my dignity aside and strut down the road in my black fleece clown pants.
So, I walked the dogs the other morning in my most, I've completely given up, World! getup yet: thick, black soled, royal blue quilted Merrel booties, black fleece pants that belonged to Bob but are high-water even on me (they're practically capris on me—they had to be knickers on Bob, and no, I don't know why he kept them, because though he was known to sport some pretty funky ensembles out here at Wrenwood himself, I don't recall him in Erkle-inspired fleece), which effectively reveal my grubby white thermal socks, and have such bulky, ill-placed pockets that I look like a Canadian Mountie with these babies on. Every time I don them, I think, "Okay, I mean it this time—Salvation Army!" but suddenly, inexplicably, I am enveloped in Bob's love, his very essence. That man was King of Not Caring What Others Think About Me, and for that reason alone, I toss my dignity aside and strut down the road in my black fleece clown pants.
Gracing my upper body was a long purple scarf wrapped so many times around my neck that it looked like I no longer had a neck, and the green and black plaid flannel coat Bob often wore out to the backyard, to "do chores," which is about six sizes too big for me, which means it was about four sizes too big for Bob, again, wrapped in more love . . . and, I topped this all off with a stocking cap that failed to contain my now-short and insanely unruly hair. This image alone could be classified as a tragedy, a comedy and a musical (can't you hear the circus music playing?) all at once. . . if anyone could give me a tiny clue as to which decade this f'n "process" is scheduled to be over, I'd so appreciate it . . .
And if I could, please, make one more request/demand/plea: if I ever mention cutting my hair again, call for an intervention asap. Tranquilize me, tie me up in a straight jacket, lock me in the Olde Tyme village stocks, go Clockwork Orange on my ass—whatever it takes—till the urge safely passes. I know it's been nearly two years since my last "real" haircut with a "real" style (and while we're on the subject of "real," let's be real—with my hair, the phrase "real style" is relative, as there really is only one real style for curly hair, and that is curly.), but I didn't factor in that it was also another lifetime ago, when I used to care about such things. I had over six inches cut from my hair maybe a month ago, to above my shoulders—barely long enough to make a li'l nubbin of a ponytail—and I've been cursing the move ever since. Literally, as in, I hate my fucking hair!!!!!! Why did I fucking do this?!?!? Bob, you were right!!!! You're always right, dammit all to heeeeeeeellllllll!!! I do not have good hair for short hair, not at this stage in my life, when short hair = having to do my hair, which = more on my To Do list, in addition to, getting out of bed. That's it for my "to do" list, btw. 1.) Get out of bed today. I'm kinda stuck on #2. . .
Like many things that have happened in the past several months, the haircut seemed like a good idea at the time (all part of this "reinventing" that I "get" to do, which I'm soooo not okay with because I truly loved my life the way it was, immersed in flaws as well as immense love. Like a surly teenager, I'm grudgingly going along with it, kicking and screaming, because I do not want this fake new life, not one fucking second of it, but the only way out of hell is through hell. . .). As always, I digress. . .all I've been doing for what seems like an eternity is wearing my hair in a pathetic twist or pony tail; by cutting it, I would "force" myself to actually put some effort into my appearance, and voila! I would suddenly become part of the Real World again! Boy, did that idea backfire like a '72 Volkswagen Bug without a muffler (my college car, fyi). See, my hair actually looks good in a twist or a pony tail—I can even sleep on it and wake up looking pretty darn okay! But, short hair on a redhead is a slippery slope—one false move, and I look like Carrot Top's twin sister, and now, there's no twist or ponytail option that can save this train wreck . . . needless to say, but I will anyhow, I'm back to growing it out. . . it's a cycle I've repeated as long as I've had hair on my head, and in the wake of this disaster, I can hear Bob's voice, clear as a bell, "I tooooold you sooooo. . ."
But, the beautiful miracle (have I mentioned before, that my definition of "miracles" is pretty far-removed from what the "general public" believes? Another blog, for another time . . .) of this comic-tragedy, is that in spite of looking like the proverbial crack whore of the neighborhood (because you may not know this, but West Lakeland is teeming with crack whores) while walking the dogs, my old neighbors aren't scared of me! They actually recognized me! The bonus (or not) of crazy red hair: always identifiable . . . And they actually stop to say "hi!" (though I'm sure they're all thinking, as I walk away, "Such a pity, to see how she's let herself go—I mean, look at those fleece pants . . .") I've been running into people left and right up here on Walton's Mountain, and it's just wonderful, they practically come running out of their homes, with open arms and all kinds of heart-warming well wishes . . . an endless soundtrack of various "welcome home!" tunes runs through my head as we wave, hug, reconnect: the theme to Welcome Back, Kotter, or my beloved Edward Sharp tune. . . I'm feeling the welcome back love so much, I almost felt like Julie Andrews, belting out, the hills are aliiiiive, with the sound of muuuuuusiiiiiic . . . It reminds me of when Bob came home from the hospital after his very first heart attack, nearly five years ago . . . I know I said it before, but in spite of tough days, in spite of missing St. Paul, it does feel good to be home, and these warm welcomes are helping, immensely. . .
I'm still trying to find the words to describe this Krazy Karnival roller-coaster that continues for me, now riding solo, but I fail. Miserably. I have more unfinished blog entries than I care to count, each one a rambling, incoherent mess, kinda like this one is, up one minute, down the next, never know when the twists and turns will come. I know, I know it's been nine whole months already—get with it, Jen! It should be getting easier by now! Everyone else has long moved on! But I'm still just climbing, clawing, barely inching my way through layer after dirty layer of the f'n process. . . don't wait for me—save yourselves!!!!
I don't know why I think of this often (I don't know why I think a lot of things, often), but I do: a friend had posted on her facebook page, back around the beginning of the new year, that in 2011, she had "finally learned to quit sweating the small stuff!" I thought about that for a very long time (obviously, still thinking about it) and it took a while, but eventually identified what I felt after reading that was pure envy. WTH?! How did she learn that lesson, when—for all I've ben through—all I do is sweat is the small stuff??!! Give me cancer and heart attacks, put me up against packs of mad scientists disguised as doctors at the U of M, give me months of surreal hospice, death, mental breakdowns—that shit I can handle! If there's one thing I learned in 2011 (and 2010, and 2009 . . .), it's the small stuff, the sweet, innocent benign stuff that turns on a dime, changes in a flash into big ugly, unpredictable stuff that makes my breath quicken, tightens my throat, fills my brain with endless chatter, keeps me from sleeping at night . . . the small stuff becomes scary monsters when I expose them to light, get them wet and feed them after midnight . . . "sciatica" becomes cancer, chemo becomes heart attacks, "curative" surgery becomes a crippling, disfiguring, "non-curative" nightmare, "healing wound" become more cancer . . .
I struggle with the most intense case of Worst Case Scenario Syndrome (that's what happens, I guess, when everything one has ever believed in one's whole life has been shredded to beyond recognition, and then given back, in a great big ugly, unrecognizable mess, for one to try to put back together, with a few, very crucial pieces missing) . . . but, I am still in therapy (I heard that big ol' collective "whew. . . "from y'all) and one of my big goals is to learn to put the big and small stuff back in proper perspective. . . by the way, did you know that post traumatic stress isn't just for vets anymore? Yeah, me either. . .
Speaking of scary stuff, I attended my first graduate writing classes Monday, and I was so scared I started sweating profusely at home around 2 pm, switched bags eight times (do I use my backpack? Bob's old briefcase? My fashionable laptop "purse?" My old work shoulder bag? Bob's briefcase won out), left at 4 pm to make sure I got to St. Paul and found a parking space before my 6 pm class started. Got to campus at 4:35. . . to top it off, I sat right next to the professor in class (the room was arranged in a big square, and it was the luck of the draw—the chair I chose to sit in happened to be in the "front" of the room). All I need now is a pocket protector and some tape for my glasses, and I'm set. . .
The class sounds challenging—I am actually going to read real books! Novels! Memoirs! Poetry collections! Things other than grief self-help books! And writing real pieces! Short stories! Essays! Poetry, even! More than just whiney, inane blog entries! I already have to read a book and hand in four 2-3 page papers for next week's class! I am scared out of my mind!
I told my mom that I think I talked more in this very first class session of graduate school than I did my entire undergraduate career. Poor, unsuspecting suckers, don't know they've suddenly become my newest group therapy . . . and I'm probably the oldest in the class, by a good 20 years. So yes, on the first day, I've already taken the role of "that" annoying "non-traditional" student who commandeers the class, divulges way too much about her life, dispensing all kinds of world-weary "advice" to those whipper-snappers, completely oblivious to the yawning and eye-rolling going on around her . . .
I am looking forward to writing things other than this blog. No offense to y'all, just that I really am growing rather weary of thowing my life "out there" as I've done for the past two years . . . you'd never know it, but I am a rather private person and being so "out there" with this blog has been exhausting. Therapeutic, but exhausting, and sometimes downright uncomfortable. After I hit that "publish" button, I so often want to follow that with "delete. . ." I could talk till the cows come home but the truth remains: unless one has walked the path, ridden the rails, no one truly knows the meaning of Krazy Karnival Ryde. At this time, I still lack the ability to "make" anyone understand my journey, and at some point, I am going to have to be okay with the fact that I cannot "make" anyone understand anything. Myself included. . . even as excited as I am to be in the class room, the sobering truth remains, and that is the reason I am in the classroom to begin with. Fuck reinventing.
I don't think I'll discontinue this blog, but the entries may be even more sparse than they have been . . . then again, they are good exercises in writing . . . Stay tuned . . . or not . . .
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| this is not me. . .but dang close these days. . . |
But, the beautiful miracle (have I mentioned before, that my definition of "miracles" is pretty far-removed from what the "general public" believes? Another blog, for another time . . .) of this comic-tragedy, is that in spite of looking like the proverbial crack whore of the neighborhood (because you may not know this, but West Lakeland is teeming with crack whores) while walking the dogs, my old neighbors aren't scared of me! They actually recognized me! The bonus (or not) of crazy red hair: always identifiable . . . And they actually stop to say "hi!" (though I'm sure they're all thinking, as I walk away, "Such a pity, to see how she's let herself go—I mean, look at those fleece pants . . .") I've been running into people left and right up here on Walton's Mountain, and it's just wonderful, they practically come running out of their homes, with open arms and all kinds of heart-warming well wishes . . . an endless soundtrack of various "welcome home!" tunes runs through my head as we wave, hug, reconnect: the theme to Welcome Back, Kotter, or my beloved Edward Sharp tune. . . I'm feeling the welcome back love so much, I almost felt like Julie Andrews, belting out, the hills are aliiiiive, with the sound of muuuuuusiiiiiic . . . It reminds me of when Bob came home from the hospital after his very first heart attack, nearly five years ago . . . I know I said it before, but in spite of tough days, in spite of missing St. Paul, it does feel good to be home, and these warm welcomes are helping, immensely. . .
I'm still trying to find the words to describe this Krazy Karnival roller-coaster that continues for me, now riding solo, but I fail. Miserably. I have more unfinished blog entries than I care to count, each one a rambling, incoherent mess, kinda like this one is, up one minute, down the next, never know when the twists and turns will come. I know, I know it's been nine whole months already—get with it, Jen! It should be getting easier by now! Everyone else has long moved on! But I'm still just climbing, clawing, barely inching my way through layer after dirty layer of the f'n process. . . don't wait for me—save yourselves!!!!
I don't know why I think of this often (I don't know why I think a lot of things, often), but I do: a friend had posted on her facebook page, back around the beginning of the new year, that in 2011, she had "finally learned to quit sweating the small stuff!" I thought about that for a very long time (obviously, still thinking about it) and it took a while, but eventually identified what I felt after reading that was pure envy. WTH?! How did she learn that lesson, when—for all I've ben through—all I do is sweat is the small stuff??!! Give me cancer and heart attacks, put me up against packs of mad scientists disguised as doctors at the U of M, give me months of surreal hospice, death, mental breakdowns—that shit I can handle! If there's one thing I learned in 2011 (and 2010, and 2009 . . .), it's the small stuff, the sweet, innocent benign stuff that turns on a dime, changes in a flash into big ugly, unpredictable stuff that makes my breath quicken, tightens my throat, fills my brain with endless chatter, keeps me from sleeping at night . . . the small stuff becomes scary monsters when I expose them to light, get them wet and feed them after midnight . . . "sciatica" becomes cancer, chemo becomes heart attacks, "curative" surgery becomes a crippling, disfiguring, "non-curative" nightmare, "healing wound" become more cancer . . .
I struggle with the most intense case of Worst Case Scenario Syndrome (that's what happens, I guess, when everything one has ever believed in one's whole life has been shredded to beyond recognition, and then given back, in a great big ugly, unrecognizable mess, for one to try to put back together, with a few, very crucial pieces missing) . . . but, I am still in therapy (I heard that big ol' collective "whew. . . "from y'all) and one of my big goals is to learn to put the big and small stuff back in proper perspective. . . by the way, did you know that post traumatic stress isn't just for vets anymore? Yeah, me either. . .
Speaking of scary stuff, I attended my first graduate writing classes Monday, and I was so scared I started sweating profusely at home around 2 pm, switched bags eight times (do I use my backpack? Bob's old briefcase? My fashionable laptop "purse?" My old work shoulder bag? Bob's briefcase won out), left at 4 pm to make sure I got to St. Paul and found a parking space before my 6 pm class started. Got to campus at 4:35. . . to top it off, I sat right next to the professor in class (the room was arranged in a big square, and it was the luck of the draw—the chair I chose to sit in happened to be in the "front" of the room). All I need now is a pocket protector and some tape for my glasses, and I'm set. . .
The class sounds challenging—I am actually going to read real books! Novels! Memoirs! Poetry collections! Things other than grief self-help books! And writing real pieces! Short stories! Essays! Poetry, even! More than just whiney, inane blog entries! I already have to read a book and hand in four 2-3 page papers for next week's class! I am scared out of my mind!
I told my mom that I think I talked more in this very first class session of graduate school than I did my entire undergraduate career. Poor, unsuspecting suckers, don't know they've suddenly become my newest group therapy . . . and I'm probably the oldest in the class, by a good 20 years. So yes, on the first day, I've already taken the role of "that" annoying "non-traditional" student who commandeers the class, divulges way too much about her life, dispensing all kinds of world-weary "advice" to those whipper-snappers, completely oblivious to the yawning and eye-rolling going on around her . . .
I am looking forward to writing things other than this blog. No offense to y'all, just that I really am growing rather weary of thowing my life "out there" as I've done for the past two years . . . you'd never know it, but I am a rather private person and being so "out there" with this blog has been exhausting. Therapeutic, but exhausting, and sometimes downright uncomfortable. After I hit that "publish" button, I so often want to follow that with "delete. . ." I could talk till the cows come home but the truth remains: unless one has walked the path, ridden the rails, no one truly knows the meaning of Krazy Karnival Ryde. At this time, I still lack the ability to "make" anyone understand my journey, and at some point, I am going to have to be okay with the fact that I cannot "make" anyone understand anything. Myself included. . . even as excited as I am to be in the class room, the sobering truth remains, and that is the reason I am in the classroom to begin with. Fuck reinventing.
I don't think I'll discontinue this blog, but the entries may be even more sparse than they have been . . . then again, they are good exercises in writing . . . Stay tuned . . . or not . . .
I see that the new haircut, is not working very well...LOL. Next time you suggest it, and you know you will, I'm just gonna say...NOOOOOO !!!! Gees, it's all a learning experiece, isn't it ? Love ya, Girl..
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