Quoteful Thursday-FDR and Fear

quote-the-only-thing-we-have-to-fear-is-fear-itself-franklin-d-roosevelt-157985

I wondered if I was going to be gutsy enough to write about the recent goings on in my life. But I’ve been too afraid. For so many years I’ve been ruled by fear. Fear of what others would think about me. Fear of being alone. Fear of losing my sanity. Fear of not having enough money. Fear of death. Fear of unemployment. Fear of being a drunk. Fear of being fat. Fear of not being good enough. Fear of being found out. Fear of leaving my husband and making him sad. Fear of upsetting and hurting my children. Fear of just about every fucking thing you could think of.

Hell, I can’t even grocery shop without feeling the icy cold grip of fear wrapping around my heart. No, I’m not standing in the freezer section with hardened nipples. I’m trying to slow my thought process down and not be ADHD girl. To be fearless and say I can do the simple task of shopping without crying. I’ve always had Roger Darling to rely on, but not anymore. After 24 years I’ve decided to separate from him. I care very deeply for the man and we’ve had a good life, but it’s time for me to move on. I’ve tried for years to change my feelings for him. To try and love him again. There is no solace in knowing that I’ve broken his heart and the hearts of my children. I’ve broken apart my family.

I’m not asking for pity or empathy. The only thing I ask for is understanding. I pray for it everyday.

In a week I will move out of our home and into a little one bedroom apartment. I will leave all that I’ve ever known. I have not lived on my own since 1989. People, it is 2013 and I am 45 years old. I’m scared as fuck but I’m ready.

I have so much shit to pack. All I really want to do is go to sleep, wake up and have it be next week. I’m tired of hurting myself and those around me. I don’t know how it works, this moving on without Roger Darling. This not talking to him everyday. He’s been my confidant, lover, and friend. I want us to continue being friends. To not be the normal ones that go our separate ways. We’ve never been much for normal anyway. Hell, we raised our children to be outspoken, rebellious and fearless. We tried to live our lives that way too. I guess I didn’t comprehend the memo though.

I’m hopeful that in time Roger and I will be able to meet for a cup of coffee and conversation.  I know we’ll talk mostly about our children and what they’re up to. Meggie, the teacher. Adam, the lawyer. Chris, the lumberjack. Claire, the scientist. But I hope we touch on the subject of our past life and how good it was for the most part. I’ll want him to know that although we are no longer together, I’ve never regretted being married to him.

It was my destiny to be Roger’s wife and Meggie and Adam Boy’s mother. Unfortunately, I have to change the end of the story and go it alone.

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That First French Kiss

Give me a kisse, and to that kisse a score;
Then to that twenty, adde a hundred more;
A thousand to that hundred; so kisse on,
To make that thousand up a million;
Treble that million, and when that is done,
Let’s kisse afresh, as when we first begun.
~Robert Herrick, “To Anthea (III)”

He was 13, and so was I. We were babies. I was tall, curvy, and built. I may have been 13, but I was 5 ‘ 6″ tall, long flaxen hair, blue eyes, and size DD breasts. He was short, dark haired, and a bad ass. His gorgeous eyes, I fell into on a regular basis. He always liked girls like me. Thick. I remember he took me home to meet his mother and she was convinced I was 18.

He thought I was fast,  cuz I’d kissed a 16 year old boy before. I thought he was adorable. With his backwards baseball cap and smart mouth. I gave him his first French kiss. On Huron Parkway, just before he was about to walk home. I can’t remember if we ever kissed each other again. Or how our story ended. I remember that kiss though. And so does he.

How do I know he remembers? Because we found each other again. 31 years later. We chat from time to time and laugh about how cool we thought we were. Now we’re grown. Have kids of our own. And we pray to God that they don’t do half the crazy shit we did when we were growing up.

I have often thought of him. How life had turned out for him.  It took a mutual friend contacting me on good old Facebook to get us reacquainted. She said, “you know, his mom still talks about you showing up at his house with him and her being convinced you were 18.” I laughed, and told her, “I’d completely forgotten about that.”

I will never forget that kiss though. He was a great kisser. Even at the age of 13, he was a great kisser.

Sweet Child O’ Mine, A Meeting with an Old Friend

She was drunk. She had hoped it would help her sleep. She had hoped it would help her to be able to finally climb into the bed that she had shared with her husband of over 20 years with. She was so tired. So fucking tired. Her husband had been convicted of hurting a child. Her youngest son had run off in response, while her oldest stayed by her side. She’d been barely holding it together for too long. Living in a little cocoon. But at that moment of trying to get into bed, she finally broke down. Finally, she laid on the floor and wailed. Her oldest son, her child, her baby, had to see her in her weakest state. Drunk, and sobbing uncontrollably because she couldn’t get into the bed she had shared with a man who was now in jail, as he would be for years to come. She begged her son to call her mother. He did, while taking care of her as well. He waited for his grandma to get there and put his mother to bed, so she could get some rest after living a nightmare that actually came true.

She walks into the bar and I see her as she once was, when we were just teens. Striding towards me, she is statuesque, blonde, violet blue eyes, and wearing a huge smile. As she zips to the table, so many men turn their heads to look at her. Some of them appear to get whiplash as a result. She’s a ravishing beauty after all that she’s been through. We hug for what seems like forever. We haven’t seen each other in 26 years, but you’d never know it, by the sounds of our laughter and the constant exchanges of “I love you.” I think to myself, “Oh my God how did I ever let this light out of my life?” We were best friends at one time. But life pulls us in different directions. Even though we lived just a few towns away from each other, our lives were busy. She was married, and so was I. We’d each had two children. We were part of our community, and our kids kept us plenty busy.

I’ve already ordered her a Bud Light. I’m sipping white zinfandel and water, because I have to drive home after our meeting. We sit down and start talking. She goes first because she has a story to tell. One that is difficult to hold in. I let her have the floor. I let her go, and let go she does.

But this story is not about her ex-husband. This story is not about her sons. This story is about her. A beautiful woman, that was my best friend during our teenage years. She and I fell away as high school friends often do. We find lovers that we marry and plan on staying with for the rest of our lives. We have children that mean everything to us, that make us better somehow. That we in turn make better by raising them up right. We become involved in the places that we live, in our communities, in our children’s activities, in our lives. It becomes our lives and nothing else matters. But then the unthinkable happens: your husband is accused of taking advantage of a young woman.

She told me that she knew that the light had switched in his brain somehow. They’d been married for 20 years and he started becoming abusive – mentally at first, and then physically. But she had been living with the mental abuse, or as she called it, “passive-aggressiveness” for so long she knew how to diffuse it. For some reason though, this time she no longer could. He started hitting her. Why after so long? She has no idea. But he did hit her. He made her feel small, like she was inadequate. He turned into a stranger. Someone she didn’t even know. She stayed though, for her kids, for the idea that they were “pillars” of the community. They took good care of their kids and the kids of their friends.

When her husband eventually went to prison, she hid herself away. Her youngest son started his senior year of high school shortly thereafter. He told her that he was dealing with some aggression at a home football game. That was what brought her out of her funk. She said to her self, “no one is going to make my child pay for the sins of my husband.” So the next football game, she went. She dealt with the animosity, so that her son didn’t have to. She is one tough momma bear and she loves her boy immensely. While she was there she saw a good friend of the family who, taking her hand said, “If you need anything, anything at all, call me.” She looked at him and knew that he meant every word he said.

She did eventually call him, and they became inseparable. He brought her back to life. He helped her figure out her way, helped her figure out how to continue to take care of her boys, even though she was damaged. He helped her to realize that the man she had married all those years ago was no long the same man. He helped her figure out that the men that were contacting her with offers of help, were only wanting to take advantage of her. To fuck her, own her, hurt her even more, and then disregard her like yesterday’s trash. If she didn’t have this wonderful, flawed man in his own right by her side during this time, who knows what mistakes she might have made.

She finalized her divorce as quickly as possible. She lived in utter poverty for two years. Sometimes, without even electricity, warm water, heat, or food. In short, all the damn things that we normally take for granted. She had nothing. Every time she went to an interview, they would uncover her history and the job offer would disappear. She would think to her self, “They have no reason to judge me. I am NOT the sins of my husband. I am ME!”

Taking a break, we both look at the crucifixes around our necks. As our conversations have progressed, we keep touching them throughout. This recognition turns our conversation towards the topic of faith, and therapy, but mostly faith. We realize as we hold hands across the table and cry, that our faith is what’s gets us through. I told her I haven’t taken my crucifix off for 14 years. When I had to have an MRI recently, it killed me to remove it for even that hour. She told me that her original crucifix broke, and she found herself lost without it. She then acquired the one that she wears now, and she finds herself touching it daily. It’s her center, as it is mine. She says that without her boyfriend, her faith and her therapist, she would have never made it through this part of her life.

She’s grown. She’s changed. Yet she’s still the wonderful and fun girl she always was. With a twinge of jealousy, she looks at me and says, “You are so lucky. You get to grow old with the man that loves you. My ex-husband stole that from me.” She does tell me though that she has been redeemed with her new love. The man who simply took her hand at a football game, and said if you ever need me, call. God, she is so glad that she did.

I think she’ll make it, I do. I think she has found her happiness. She’s found it in her children and in this new man that accepts her for what she is – good woman, with a tough past. But then again, who doesn’t have a tough past? Who doesn’t have a broken road? Isn’t it astonishing when that broken road leads us to the right one?

As I leave her, we hug some more. We once again exchange our “I love you’s.” We promise to not leave 26 years between us again. And we haven’t. We talk almost daily. She is of my heart and one of the strongest women I know. I love her now and forever. What her husband did, doesn’t define her, or her grown up babies. I admire her strength and the ferocity of her love. She is a good woman, a strong woman. And she always will be.

***Edited by t from aslongasimsinging.wordpress.com. Read him. The man rocks my world, and makes my pretty words more beautiful with his touch. This may be my last post for awhile. I promise to come back. Just not sure when. Take care my dear readers and followers.***

I’m STILL Looking for that Other Damn Street!!!!

Photo courtesy of Merrith Kujawa (Figured it was appropriate, because I’m usually so sparkly. Not feelin’ it lately though. So I leave you with this today.  Dealing with sadness, jealousy, PTSD, and a host of other issues. And yes, after 44 years I keep falling in that damn hole. I’m learning how to crawl out of it though. By God’s good grace, I am.)

Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

 Chapter 1

I walk down the street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I fall in.

I am lost . . . I am helpless.

It isn’t my fault.

It takes forever to find a way out

Chapter 2

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I pretend I don’t see it.

I fall in again.

I can’t believe I am in the same place.

But it isn’t my fault.

It still takes a long time to get out.

Chapter 3

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I see it is there.

I still fall in … it’s a habit.

My eyes are open.

I know where I am.

It is my fault.

I get out immediately.

Chapter 4

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

Chapter 5

I walk down another street.

~ Portia Nelson ~

(There’s a Hole in My Sidewalk)

I AM Unbreakable

Fireflight
Unbreakable lyrics

Songwriters: DALEY, NIOMI MACLEAN/SANTANA, CHINK
Kick ASS Christian Rock Band
Where are the people that accused me?
The ones who beat me down and bruised me
They hide just out of sight
Can’t face me in the light
They’ll return but I’ll be stronger God, I want to dream again
Take me where I’ve never been
I want to go there
This time I’m not scared
Now I am unbreakable, it’s unmistakable
No one can touch me
Nothing can stop meSometimes it’s hard to just keep going
But faith is moving without knowing
Can I trust what I can’t see
To reach my destiny
I want to take control but I know better
God, I want to dream again
Take me where I’ve never been
I want to go there
This time I’m not scared
Now I am unbreakable, it’s unmistakable
No one can touch me
Nothing can stop me Forget the fear it’s just a crutch
That tries to hold you back
And turn your dreams to dust
All you need to do is just trust God, I want to dream again (I want to dream again)
Take me where I’ve never been
I want to go there (I want to go there)
This time I’m not scared
Now I am unbreakable, it’s unmistakable (I am unbreakable)
No one can touch me (No one can touch me)
Nothing can stop me God, I want to dream again (I want to dream again)
Take me where I’ve never been
I want to go there (I want to go there)
This time I’m not scared
Now I am unbreakable, it’s unmistakable (I am unbreakable)
No one can touch me (No one can touch me)
Nothing can stop meMy dear friend Jason posted this on my FB page today. He told me that he knew I would identify with the lyrics. I’d never heard it before. I closed my office door. Turned the volume up, closed my eyes and let the lyrics wash over me. The words that stopped me in my tracks were: This time I’m not scared, Now I am unbreakable, it’s unmistakable (I am unbreakable), No one can touch me (No one can touch me), Nothing can stop me

I believe that now. I really do. The only limitations I have are the ones I put on myself. So now I don’t limit myself. I know I can do any damn thing I want. Who knew I could lose 150 lbs.? Who knew I could write and have over 400 followers from all over the world? Who knew I could raise two incredibly bright children or be married over 23 years? Who knew I could make you feel every word I write? Who knew any of this could happen? Who knew that at the age of 44, I would finally be comfortable in my own skin? Who knew? I thank you my dear Jason for sharing this song with me. I hope you know how much I adore you. Oh and I still think that you should be wearing your hair like James Dean in a sexy pompadour. 

With Her Words She Healed Him

Michelle and Michael touched each other in a way that best friends never should. Then again, they never really did touch. However, for one night they gave each other what they needed because they knew their connection was strong. They knew that they could trust each other. That is until Michelle fell for Michael. She had became lost in his words. She believed him when he said she was beautiful. He awakened her soul and her body. Then, she being the silly girl she was, she swooned so hard, she fell and broke her tender heart.

Michelle was online late one night chatting with friends and playing some boring online solitaire game. She saw Michael’s message pop up and responded to him immediately. It always made her heart skip a beat when she saw the green light appear next to his avatar on her social network page.

“You there?”, he asked.

“Of course I am, aren’t I always?” Michelle responded.

“Want to chat for a bit?”, Michael asked.

What a dumb question for him to ask. Of course she wanted to chat with him. She longed to see his words appear in the private message window. He was her best friend, but she loved him too. A little too much sometimes.

“Honey, you know we never chat for a bit”, she said.

He responded with little smiley emoticons. Then they talked about life. How their families were. What was going on at work. About their idiosyncrasies that their spouses never understood.  For some reason they always “got” each other though.  Michelle thought about how over the years they built a great friendship and a strong emotional bond. Michael felt it too. He’d made sure to tell her as much.

They always bantered sexually. It was typical for them to do that. Michelle always felt safe with him. Needed, necessary, smart, and loved. Like she mattered. Michelle had been drinking vodka, so her tongue, words, and body felt loose. Their messaging turned to more intimate talk. More sexual than usual. More primal.  They discussed their sadness over not being touched in such a long time. Of needing to be needed. Desiring to be desired. They wondered what was wrong with them. They kept questioning why. Then Michelle let the vodka take over and started talking dirty.

Michelle asked, “What are you wearing?”

Michael responded, “Pajama pants. You?”

She said, “I’m fully clothed, but I can take something off if you want.”

He said, “Make yourself comfortable and take everything off.”

She laughed and then typed, “Of course I will, I love being naked.”

He responded, “Great, now I have a hard on.”

“Good”, was all she said in response.

Here she was a little drunk, sitting naked in the living room and chatting with her best friend. For some reason it felt right. Like it’s what she was meant to do. She’d always healed with her body, even if it was virtually.

She asked, “What do you want me to do?”

He said, “I haven’t been touched in so long and neither have you. Let’s take care of each other tonight.”

Michelle was scared but knew that she wanted to please him. To please herself. She longed to have him touch her, make her feel alive. Fuck her. But they belonged to others. Michael loved Michelle, but never felt that spark that comes from love and longing. But this night he longed for her, even if it was virtually. So she gave him what he wanted. And ultimately what she wanted.

Michelle said, “I’ve never done this before, please tell me what to do.”

Michael said, “Talk to me like you usually do. Tell me what you’d do to me if you were here, naked, and in bed with me.”

She did. She told him all the things she would do to him. In vivid detail. She knew that it was affecting him because he had stopped typing.

She asked, “Honey are you still there?”

Michael said, “Of course, but you’ve made me feel so good and I’m so close, I can’t type anymore.”

Michelle said, “Then don’t type. I will. I’ll give you my words and you let go for me. I want you to feel me. Like I’m right there with you.”

She kept typing. She kept telling him things she’d do to him if she was in bed with him. She kept telling him that she loved him and wanted nothing more than to please him. To have him please her. He didn’t type anything for a few minutes, but that was okay. She just kept saying how much she wanted him. A few minutes later,  he typed the sweetest words she’d ever seen.

He said, “Thank you for giving me what I needed. You made me feel incredible.”

Michelle replied, “You know Michael, I’m always here for you. I love you.”

“Now it’s your turn”, he said.

She replied, “No honey, I’m good. Knowing that I helped you. That I made you feel good is pleasure enough for me.”

They said their thank yous, and I love yous.  Promised that what they did would never change their friendship and their bond. That night when Michael signed off,  she was still naked and alone. She re-read her words to him, touched herself and came.

At the crescendo of her orgasm, she  yelled to an empty room in all her nakedness and vulnerability, “Michael, I love you!”

When she was done, she saved their messages and then closed down the computer for the night. Threw on a t-shirt and boy shorts. Poured herself a Ketel One on the rocks and slammed it. Crawled into bed, laid there waiting for the let down of the alcohol and cried herself to sleep.

What Price, Freedom?

We are so used to numbing ourselves with food. However, we are no longer numb.

We are alive.

We want to experience everything.

We have the rest of our lives to do just that.

We are so afraid though. We’ve never felt so free. Freedom scares us.

(Yeah I said this. I know it’s scary that I can say something so profound, but dammit I swear I did!)

I was talking to a dear friend today who is struggling to find herself. She and I numbed ourselves with food for so long it’s hard for us to feel without hurting. It’s like that of an autistic person who’s senses are in hyper drive. It’s the same for us that have broken out of the addiction of food. Our bodies are finally free but so are our minds.  Let me tell you our minds can think and do some crazy shit.

What she and I feel is static electricity running through our bodies. It’s a restlessness I can’t even explain. It’s the feeling that we need to go out and experience everything we couldn’t when our bodies were morbidly obese. The euphoria is amazing, but it’s also exhausting. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I don’t think I felt this good when I was in my teens. I know I didn’t. I can tell you why. Because now, I’m thinking like a teenager and like a woman confident in her body. Confidence is sexy, but sometimes I’m a little too damn confident!

B. finally got herself out of a marriage that was no longer working.  After losing weight the light bulb went off. She realized that what she was doing was merely existing.  And she got tired of raising a husband like a child. She decided the best option for herself and the children was to move on. I have supported and loved her through it all. My heart breaks and cheers for as she struggles to find happiness. B. has no idea how incredibly strong she is. I am so proud of her. Yes, I’m envious in some respects. Not so much in others. Her life has been tumultuous. I hope that my words and actions have eased some of  her pain.

We’ve both lost 150 lbs, each. Yes, an entire person. That person dragged us down, made us tired, and unhappy. We are finding though that we are still weighed down. With doubt, uncertainty and sadness. We are still searching for balance. For bliss. We may never find it, but we will go through hell looking for it. And I know she and I will always be at each other’s side. We’ll hold hands and love each other through it all. She has been my constant for 30 years.

I can’t say that I haven’t had my issues while going through such a profound transformation.  I have thought about running away from my life and starting over. There are so many questions unanswered, and so many what ifs going through my mind. I struggle to find peace within myself everyday. I fight battles with a mirror, and my psyche. Fuck I’m a mess, but my sparkly heart is good. I seek new people and new connections every day. I look for new ways to thrive. I can’t sit still for long. If I’m stagnant, then I die. And baby I’m not dying for a long time.

I remind B. that her heart is good, but she must be guarded with it. Do not give it to the first person you meet. Do not tell them deep, dark secrets. Keep those inside and share them with the right one.  I know she will find someone that is good for her, but she has got to find peace within herself first. Be happy in being alone or with her kids. Know that what she is doing is right. All I want for her is peace of mind and happiness. I want it for both us.

A 27 Year Old Love Story

Why, why can’t we stop talking, loving, dreaming after 27 years like it was yesterday and I was 17?

Those are her words. Not mine. My sweet friend sent me an email a few days ago asking me so many questions. But this one stuck out the most. Why? Why do we fight the love we’ve been dreaming of? Sometimes for 27 years. Why?

She met him in a parking structure when she was 17 years old. A baby, but she knew what love was. She felt a connection with him immediately. She saw her future in him. He was a beautiful young man. She, a beautiful young woman. Their lives full of promise. They were young. He was a rebel, and so was she. He was in a band and she, well she gave the ultimate fuck off to the high school she graduated from. She smoked in the girl’s bathroom after she got her diploma. Ha! Okay so that wasn’t that rebellious, but she’s from Saline. We did what we could to rebel!

Her life turned away from her rebel boy. She moved away. He followed. She pushed him away. She married a man that she though she should be with. Who should have been the father of her children. This “Christian” man turned out to be the devil. He pretended to be a fine upstanding person, but was evil. He was a bully and he hurt her and their two children. She got away. Took care of her babies, and herself. Her rebel boy supported her through all of this. And yet, they still weren’t together. She needed stability and she was afraid he couldn’t give it to her. We women, we are always looking to be taken care of.

She met another man, and he was good to her. Her children. But he wasn’t her rebel boy, who was by now a full grown man. When she thought of him though, she still thought of 17 and the promise of that age. 17. I don’t think there’s an age we women remember more. 17.

She broke off her engagement to the good man. She finally decided to think with her heart instead of her head. After seven years she will reunite with her rebel boy. Who is now a man. Who should be the father of her children. Who should be her partner. Who should be her whole world. And now he will be. They will be together. Come hell or high water they will be, together.

When she wrote me, she asked my advice. I told her, Baby, RUN! Get on a plane, drive, take a bus or a train and get to him. NOW! Don’t wait anymore. 27 years is a long time to love someone from afar. Think with your heart. Go to him. Love him. With everything that you have. Don’t EVER live with regret. Know for sure that he is the one. I get the joy of seeing them reunite. Of her finally finding her way down an endless, broken road that will lead her back to him.

 

I Think I’m Finally Spent

God Dammit, I’m exhausted-Lili von Shtupp

So after running around like a chicken with my head cut off for the last 18 months, I’m spent. Because of all of the changes in my life and the sedentary lifestyle I lived for 13 years, I’ve been running on overdrive and adrenaline. Don’t get me wrong it’s been fun for the most part, but I’ve become distracted, disoriented, and disorganized. This Sparkly Girl needs to disconnect and re-group. I’ve found something I’m good at and I’m extremely passionate about it. I’ve found writing. I never in a million years thought I was good at it. This all started from funny Facebook status updates. Serious status updates, lyrics and quotes. Inspirational shit too. Somewhere along the way, I got over-extended and tried to do too much. I’ve lost sight of family, friends and well, the rest of my life.

I need to slow down. But I want to write every damn day. 24/7 preferably. I don’t care if I get paid for it. I get new followers every day, so I must be doing something right. I’ve been told by friends and acquaintances that I’ve given them a voice. That I crawled into their heads and brought out their innermost thoughts. By putting myself out there, I’ve helped them sort out their shit. Unfortunately, I haven’t taken care of my own life. I’m going to take a few days off. I’m not going to post until next Monday, when I’m in West Virginia with my sister from another mister. Hopefully I won’t be chased by a huge ass snake while I’m there. I’m sure Tracy will be glad to take pictures of me running around, peeing on myself, and screaming like a girl. I know she and I will make great memories that I’ll want to share. I’m going to post some of her beautiful photography. She is a goddess behind the lense.

No worries, I will keep writing. On paper for now. As I’ve told K., it’s called longhand. Why I call it that, I’m not sure. Think it’s what my great-grandma called it back when I was a kid. I’ve got a book noodling around in this lovely blonde brain of mine. Some parts of it have already spilled out onto my blog. We’ll see what happens. Keep following me. Keep sending me pictures for stories. I think that’s my favorite. A lot of my readers send me their pics. They tell me a bit of their story and I create a story from it. I embellish of course. Add my own characters, my dreams, my wishes, my past. But it’s fun to go back to the person who sent it to me, and they tell me how close to the truth I get. I’ve even done it for one of my followers. I think that was the MOST fun!

So long for a few days. This demented Tinker Bell and blonde bombshell is going to sleep the sleep of the dead. When I get back, WATCH THE FUCK OUT! Giggle. Oh wait, Roger Darling is telling me to go clean the cat litter. AWESOME!

I’m Just a Girl in the World

I’ve had a little No Doubt on the brain this weekend. Just a Girl is one of my favorite songs. Meggie and I have sang it together on more than one occasion. It’s fun to sing and scream and all that good stuff. It’s a girlie anthem, but so much more. We want to be girlie, but we want to be tough too. This song explain that to a T.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been a bit of a cranky cunt this week. Ah well, this feeling will pass. Usually happens once a month. Ha! The tears, the crankiness, the I don’t give a fucks and the absentmindedness. Damn hormones. Sometimes I wish I was a dude.I swear Roger had to tell me 14 times to bring my phone when we were leaving to go to a party yesterday. Of course, we got in the car and I couldn’t find it, because it was in the damn trunk! I swear to you he was going to shoot me. It took us 27 minutes just to get out of Tecumseh. I had to stop to pee too. Hahahahha!

I’m thankful that I have so many women in my life that are more than just girls. We don’t take shit from anyone. We love with everything we have, but we’re tough too. I don’t know many men that would tell us no. That we couldn’t do something. Okay if it was dangerous, maybe they would. I like to think that the men in our lives give us the freedom to be ourselves because they want to see what we’re going to do next. God, I hope that’s true. Maybe they’re just scared. Hell, I don’t know.

I know that’s why Roger Darling let’s me be free. His smile, his encouragement for letting me be me, is really something. I can’t even put it into words what it means to me. I wake every morning knowing that I’m a lucky girl. That I’m more than, just a girl. Hey, maybe I’ll start wearing a bindi. Let’s see if we can bring the style back. Scratch that, I’ll just wear my tiara!