Self Indulgent Posting of Half-Finished Poetry, Part 2

Okay, for no other reason than that I feel like it, I am putting this one out there. While most poems I indulge in are not typically of the autobiographical variety (in this area, I'm more interested in the words themselves -- like in this one -- than blathering on about myself), this one is a bit personal, actually, so I hesitate -- but at the same time I aim to be a more fearless writer, so what the hell.

Uh, not finished, as they are never never ever finished. Never. Ever.

What Needs to be Reconciled

I am afraid of this: that, someday, my daughter will not love me.

That one day, or over a course of days, she will pull away, a skydiver whose chute has just deployed, up and up and up until I can no longer see. She will be a blur, a wisp, a caveat, so distant that I question if it were ever her, really. It is easy to imagine. It is easy.

Each day, there are new reasons. Each day, she is less a girl. Each day, she pushes herself upward, a race of growing bones and needs. I ask too much. I wish things for her that I once wished for me. That I still wish for me.

She curls into my arms, long legs folding up beneath, round face a perfect match for the crook of my neck, even as she is long, long, longer almost than even me. I think of her that way -- long, not tall -- is that strange? Long limbs and long hair and long future rippling out ahead like a ribbon of highway, rippling and pale and lean, cutting through wilderness like water, like diamond, like a guillotine.

Stuff That Makes Me Laugh

My friend Carrie, who is quite possibly the funniest person I know, sent this to me today (the image here is but a small teaser . . . you know you can't resist that kind of hilarity).

I've seen this before, and perhaps you have as well, but it makes me laugh the kind of laugh which has no sound -- and that would be my favorite kind.

What to Do in a Terrorist Attack

CUI (Communicating Under the Influence)

I had a conversation with a friend recently about the prevalence (and effects) of drunken e-mailing. I, for one, have sent an e-mail or two (or 47) under the influence of varying levels of alcohol intake. Apparently he has as well, as he related a story of moral outrage and the threatening of government officials, which these days is apparently as easy as the click of the send button. Nice!


This got me to wondering just how widespread this epidemic really is (and by epidemic I mean something I personally do that I'm assuming other people do as well lest I be viewed as a complete asshole. Can a girl be an asshole? I've never thought about that before . . . but I digress).


So, I did what I always do -- I googled it (Does "google" as a verb require a capital? Discuss). Turns out there's a word for it: d-railing. Of course there's a word for it. There's a word for everything. And that takes all the flippin' fun out of it.


Anyway, I personally have found that my own e-mails are far more interesting (to me) if I have imbibed ahead of time. Not that I plan it -- typically, it just happens. But man does that keyboard fly after a couple of Killian's. Seriously. I will not admit to writing professionally after having a drink or two . . . nope, not going to admit it. You can't make me. So there.


Fortunately, at this point, I have not created any irreparable damage to my life or reputation via my communicating under the influence; however, I am not ruling out the possibility. I like to live on the edge. So, taking a casual poll from my oh-so-many readers (and then there are echoes as if shouting into a well), have you e-mailed under the influence? And how did that work out for you? Received a drunken e-mail? Share your shame and indignity. I have time.

As for drunken blogging . . . I'm only on my second margarita, so I hardly think this counts.


By the by, as I was googling I got a bit off topic and found this: Bay Area Bug Eating Society. Jesus, people are fucking weird.

image courtesy of flickr.com

F*n Awesome

Okay, here's my new plan for boosting self-esteem. Every time I write my name, I will add "F*n Awesome" in the middle. Such as, Angela "F*n Awesome" Shultis. I have hit on this plan completely at random (well, almost), and think it's fantastic. Consider the possibilities:

As a by-line:

"City of Ferguson road construction projects on schedule"
By Angela "F*n Awesome" Shultis

As an e-mail signature:

Best,
Angela "F*n Awesome" Shultis

On the resume:

Angela "F*n Awesome" Shultis
Professional Writer

On a name tag:
"Hello, my name is: Angela 'F*n Awesome' Shultis"

Ohhhhh, I feel better already. You really need to try that. Seriously. Let me know how that works out for you.

Now will someone please take a photo of my man arms?

Man Arms

This is an inside joke between my daughter and me so it may fall flat as I thrust it out into the "real" world (Does a blog count as the real world? Discuss.)

Recently, TMZ (Uh, did I just admit to reading that? Daily? Stop that!) featured a photo of Madonna and her new trend . . . man arms. This made me laugh hysterically. Why, you may ask? Because for the last two months, my 12 year old has been harassing me about my very own pair. Of man arms, that is. Her words. Man. Arms.

Now I am 5'3" and about 100-105 lbs. depending on which way the wind is blowing, so a body-builder I am not. In shape, though? Thanks to a guilt- and age-driven gym regiment, it's not bad actually. Not bad at all. Did I mention I turned 38 recently? And that I have a new tattoo? Uh, yeah. Moving on . . .

The truth is my daughter thinks I am far too manly -- I drink beer, read Esquire, and enjoy Fight Club possibly just a little too much (and not just because Pitt is smokin'). So the fact that I have well-defined arm muscles apparently just puts me in a category that is just a bit too butch for her comfort.

I have been assured by others in my life that I am not butch. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The bottom line is that I am thinking of bringing legal action against TMZ (and Madonna, what the hey) for stealing my trend. I could use the cash and am, at this point in my life, shamelessly attention-seeking.

This is a very sad excuse for a blog post. I apologize. Hopefully no one is reading this.

If I weren't so effing lazy I would get a photo of my own man arms, and post them here for your consideration (which might be a moot point if in fact no one is reading this). Actually, I believe I will do that, but true to my commitment to procrastination, I shall do it lata.

And if you are reading this, I am sure that is just the hook I need to bring you back. I'm clever like that.

Image courtesy of TMZ.com

Grand Theft Auto

Not terribly original, but I used that title to encourage search engine traffic, so sue me.

Picture this: someone steals the spare set of keys to your Jeep Grand Cherokee out of your Dodge Neon. Would you get the Cherokee re-keyed? Most people would. But not me. Ohhhhhhh no. Cuz that's not the way I roll.

Flash forward three weeks: I have been lulled into complacency by the fact that the key thief (who also scavenged $1.32 in random change and my son's nasty-ass school backpack) is apparently a moron who doesn't realize he can come back and take a WHOLE CAR. Then one day, wake up, husband goes out the door to work, comes back in, and says, with less urgency than one might imagine, "Where's your car?"

I walk out the door and check of course, just in case he has somehow overlooked it, and sure enough, just a blank space where my car used to be. Who's the moron now?

Not so fast.

As it turns out, the car is recovered, oh, a week later, by a cop who, while very friendly, calls the neighborhood it was found in "the Ghetto." We live in a Mississippi River town of 30,000 or so in southern Illinois. Detroit it ain't. This made me laugh, on the inside of course.

Anyhoo, the car was in reasonable shape, but filthy, out of gas, and smelling like the inside of a strip club. Not that I would know.

He was generous enough to leave me some homemade rap CDs and a really lovely Crown Royal cap in place of the 500 pennies that were stashed in the cup holders, but the best thing he left behind? Er, his Illinois picture ID. Uh, yeah. NOW who's the moron, sucker!!!

Funny. Funny. Funny.

What's not so funny is that he left most of my crap in the car but for some reason tossed all of my CDs -- RHCP, Nirvana, Foo Fighters. Strangely, this pissed me off more than the actual car theft itself. Perhaps it's time to re-examine my priorities . . .

Top Five Song List

I am in need of new music to experience, so I am posting my current top five song list (current meaning subject to change at any second) and encourage you to do the same. All two of you.

1. Everlong -- Foo Fighters

2. Funny Face -- Red Hot Chili Peppers

3. Rape Me -- Nirvana

4. I Used to Love Her -- Guns N' Roses

5. Superman -- Goldfinger

Incidentally, my 11-year-old son is walking around the house right now singing "Night Train" by GNR ("wake up late/and honey put on your clothes/and take your credit card/to the liquor store"). I'm fairly sure I could lose custody to the State for that kind of thing . . .

A Poem I'm Still Working On

Someone interesting suggested I should consider more poetry here, so here's one that I'm still working on -- it may actually suck, I'm really not very objective about these things. Regardless, I'm hoping that by posting it here, it will somehow miraculously finish itself . . .

slip


she writes a letter and in it: slivers, planks of wood, symbols for dissection, pause, break, closing remarks. she skipped the salutation and signing; he’ll know. the light pools in its marshy way across the kitchen window but doesn’t enter. the envelope is sure and fit and she is ready to mail in now now now and so she sits by the front door waiting, licking glue and sticking stamps and clips it to the mailbox with a clothespin so there’s no mistaking it. pigeons roost and coo in the porch roof next door. there is a break in the momentum; saliva pools and back inside. she slips.

she writes a letter and in it: slugs, pumice, a shallow grave. deep poultice of love, it's laid on thick. she is clay, stale bread, and this is her last blood chance. derivative of nothing, sealed with crumpled scotch tape. she’s out, down the stairs into the writhing brick street and to the blue mailbox with its cavernous space into which she could possibly fit. small white square seems insignificant now and she’s afraid it will be lost amidst the rest, left in a deep tomb. a gut. digested.

she writes a letter and in it: she forgives. nothing.

New Rules for My Blogging Experience

Clearly the posts I'm writing lately are more for me than anyone else, which is probably a good thing since I currently appear to have one reader (down from an all-time high of oh, say, 10). So another list, this time redefining what will be my blogging experience:

1. I will update whenever the hell I feel like it. My previous blogging experience was completely ruined by my ridiculous need to post daily, lest I feel like a failure. So, since I am writing for myself, I will post when I feel like it. So there.

2. I may curse. This is a warning for you, my lone reader (who will hopefully be joined by another stray friend or two of mine who used to feign interest in this whole thing). Previously, my blog was squeaky clean . . . but, quite frankly, as a writer, I enjoy freedom of word choice. Shocking, I know.

3. I will take topic suggestions. I just thought of that as I was writing this, so I'm putting it out there. I have no idea why anyone would care to suggest something.

Well, I had imagined the list much longer, but I'm bored with this topic already. So, to sum up, I will be erratic, occasionally earn a PG rating, and write to suit.

I may lose my only reader if I keep this up . . .

P.S. That's not me up there, it's Heidi Klum. I know, the resemblance is uncanny . . .

Some Things I Have Not Blogged About, Since I Stopped Blogging

A list:

1. Turning 38. Woo hoo! Uh, yeah.

2. My new tattoo. I will likely mention this at random, approximately 634 times, in coming blog posts. Be prepared.

3. My car being stolen. This is actually a good story. Stay tuned.

4. Fight Club. There's really not much to say about this. Just wanted to mention it, and have a reason to include that very creepy picture of Ed Norton up there.

5. Brett Favre's retirement. There were a couple of rocky moments there, but I think I'm okay now. Thanks for asking.


6. The completely miserable winter I suffered in the St. Louis area, after being told repeatedly by multiple sources that "we don't really have winter here." I'm a sucker.

7. Jack Daniels. Again, not much to say here. Just enjoy it.

8. A complete and total existential breakdown. Okay, but don't tell anyone -- trying to keep that one on the down-low . . .

Oh Yeah, I Remember This . . .

I'm back. I'm sure you are all delighted (cue an underwhelmed silence). I'd decided to simply forget this blog existed -- feeling it perhaps had run it's mediocre course -- when "Colin" posted a comment on my last post, wondering where I'd gone. Not sure that he (or possibly she) really cares, but it got me to thinking. Perhaps it's time to revisit.

And to answer your questions, ColinJ: no, not lost in Florida (though I frequently wish I was). Actually did join the Obama campaign, donating, oh, a whopping 10 bucks or so, which apparently doesn't get me a seat on the campaign bus. On tour with the Chilis? Ohhhh, how I wish it were so (I did manage to get a Chili Peppers logo tattoo during my hiatus, however). And finally, they still might get me on the mp3s, but so far, so good.

Anyway, the truth is I've had a ton, ton, ton of work. But perhaps this will get me writing for fun again. Who knows. So if you care, check back and see if I have anything interesting to say. One can only hope.