Friday, February 3, 2012

it just isn't as fair as it would have been if...

Sometimes we have a plan.  Sometimes we live out the entire make believe scenario in our head, right down to the color of our opposers stance.  Often times, the warrior in us armors on, straddles up and fixates often on the appearance of the situation versus the actual quality, warranted walk through.  In my effort to follow through on this purpose that was so easily available, I was blindsided.  The effort behind the decision to finally follow through on my marinated steak, was simply overshadowed by its undercooked, and bloody center.  How often do you settle into the idea that maybe, just maybe it is okay to let go and let live?  And in that decision to let the reigns go, you feel energized, driven, hopeful, faithful, weary, doubtful, scared and then helpless?  And before you know it, you have donned the chef hat, again, and the vision that was once the mignon has now salted over and landed squarely on the cutting board, again.  The disguise that we often times, if we allow it, settle into when picking our garnish, more than we care to admit, overpowers the original seed that was growing with sincerity.  That seed, like many seeds that have been planted, not only need water people, but patience to grow the fuck out...the kind of "fuck out" that it was meant to, predestined to, "label printed and picture shown on packaging" meant to.  Why do we always want to "fuck up" the "fuck out"?  Turns out, I'm not in charge.  I kinda knew that, but it's official, the printing presses have burnt the ink in stating, I AM NOT IN CHARGE!  Just when you think you got the lesson, the lesson isn't the lesson, and the lesson becomes the lesson...did you get that?  Whatever.  All I'm saying is that, it is evident that my own feathered and fancy acknowledgement of self, is only worth a damn if that acknowledgement bids a curtsy to my neighbor, bossy and overbearing.

Yes, I write my own poetry...those poems at the end of my blogs, that often serve as the lace to my dress, are all self thought, self written and self owned.

I'm 7 months in or so at my new job, and I'm 7 months in or so more into loving it.  The 6 month itch for me officially uncreased and ironed out what was suppressed since I changed jobs, and has come out with glory in hand.  Won't make any sense to you if I enlighten bore you with what that means, just know that what was once very important to me at Parkland regarding my personal space has arrived at CMC, and the comfort level to follow through on my quams is fresh and well received.  Thank ya Jesus (and I mean that)!!!

Marcus just informed me that he's heading to Mexico City for work.  The mood changes, the tone is different, and my posture carries a new pose when this happens.  Missing him is the least of my emotional burden.  I've mentioned before how Marcus is great at making me feel like our responsibility is shared regarding all things "grown up", but he truly carries that alone, and effortlessly displays a peace that either is sincere in all forms, or well dressed, mannered, tucked and tinkered to be a prime example of what bullshitting at it's best looks like. 

I haven't forgotton about my desire to present my epiphany at church the other Sunday.  I also haven't forgotten that I have yet to unload and share the Chicago texts that burned and etched a new love in my husband that was always there, just re-visited, re-membering the re-ality that re-affirms who he is and why is is worth re-marrying all over again.  That's the great thing about this blog, you see, even if I wanted to forget, I can't, this damn thing has a great memory and a black and white way of re-appearing when you click re-turn.

I have to find a dermatologist, congenital adult cardiologist and a dentist...any suggestions?

I need to sell my LR3, it eats gas, and wait for it...wait for it...I'm gonna buy a car.  Like a non SUV.  Who am I?

I feel the need to share, about myself...as if that isn't what I do already on this here blog, but everytime it happens to me, I always wonder...does anyone else do this?  So here goes, and please tell me I amn't alone in this.  Every time I make poo poo...by the way, I never used to say that, "make poo poo", but Marcus says it like that, and since we got married, I do too.  Anyways, everytime I make poo poo, I cry (omg, I just lol'd loudly to myself for typing this).  No, seriously, I do.  Not cry because I'm gonna miss the turd, and thinking of it's waste going down toilet breaks my heart, but a tear or two, will always roll down my face as that shit rolls outta me (and there I go again, lol'n).  That can't be normal right?  Lord, here goes...and once, for fun, I made a video diary of it as proof.  I narrated the whole thing, and mailed it to my sister Sally when she was overseas in the war, so she would have something to see, aren't I nice :-)~   Needless to say, she showed everyone, and it's probably on YouTube now, don't tell anyone, ok?

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