Illiterations: Laughing At My Own Expense

This is not a friendly, emotional, or reflective post. Nope.  This is directed at the ASSHOLE stalking my personal blog while all the while thinking that I am writing for YOU.  Imagine the ego. Since you can no longer leave bile-spewing comments on my blog itself, you are now trying to stalk me from WhatsApp, texting me condescending opinions about my life, which you have no other information about. Get over your infatuation with me, and what I am doing, and how I am enjoying my life.  Go find your own life and happiness, and don't concern yourself with me.  I am happy. And, just to be clear, I have enjoyed a number of men since my marriage ended.  I have fallen in love, and I have never looked back.  It has not been hard to meet men who want me.  I can happily say I am still friends with a number of the men I've recently dated.  They are ALL younger than me, some by quite a bit. Only a NARCISSIST would be concerning themselves with my personal li...

There's this [boy]. ... It's as if I have taken love heroin, and I can't ever have it again. I've opened Pandora's box, And there's trouble inside.   -- William Thacker in "Notting Hill"

 I'm three months out of a mass scapegoating.  Yeah, it really is a thing.  I'm not gonna write about it here but suffice it to say that if you've experienced it, you know it's a thing, and if you have not, you can Google the scapegoating phenomenon and what sociologists and psychologists have to say about it. Anyway, the coven of people who scapegoated me were once a sweet little group of friends who would never have betrayed each other, nor spoken ill of each other out of earshot.  Or in, for that matter.  One of the things I loved about our little friend group was that, by and large, I was the one who pulled us all together.  I was very proud of that fact. Since the initial event, though, I have been reflecting on how I connect with other women and make friends.  It has made me scratch my head a bit and wonder if I should listen to my inner voice when building friendships.  You see, what I have ultimately concluded is that our solid, happy grou...

 Six years ago, I shared a post  about the experience of being targeted by people close to me, behind my back and in secret.  I was a very strange experience, and, as an investigator of all things, and a researcher by nature, it sent me on an extensive journey of introspection and education.  I wanted to understand the psychology behind the actions of such people who would surreptitiously create and carry out a campaign against a person they publicly referred to as a friend. At the time, I learned a lot about the mindset of people who are attracted to one another in unhealthy ways that ultimately become an intention to damage, defame, and destroy a targeted person.  It's called scapegoating, and it's a human group dynamic that has been observed throughout history, and as far back as biblical times. As I read about scapegoating--which I did because I can readily identify times throughout my life when I was targeted as the scapegoat by people I loved--I came to un...

What would we women do without the guys on the fringes? The men who love us unconditionally even knowing that we will probably never go out with them. The men who see us for who we really are while we are busy chasing the bad boys; the players; the guys who are going to take advantage and then forget about us. But then those men on the fringes... they're the real ones. They aren't poster boys for Chippendales or the firefighter calendar, but they are there for us and we lean on them. The Fringe guys. They prop us up when we are falling apart. They remember our birthdays and the day that our pet passed away. They remember our favorite color and they want to brighten our day almost every day. They love us and when we make excuses for why we won't date them they believe our excuses. They listen to our conscience-easing excuses, and they hope that they can believe the maybe of it. We say maybe and they hear yes when we mean no. And all of that keeps it going round and round, ov...

Nobody ever thinks the person they fall in love with is pretending. Nobody thinks that the person that is "their person" is lying. Imagine meeting somebody so deeply invested in lying about their most primal reality that they are unable to see the truth themselves, possibly. Imagine that person pursuing you; cultivating a romantic life with you; asking you to marry them. How could you tell? How would you know when that person that took many years convincing you to fall in love with them was telling a lie? Then imagine spending another 10 years with that person. Imagine investing in a life; in each other's families; and in businesses and dreams. When all of the trappings are set up to be exactly what they're supposed to be, and all of the interactions with family and friends seem to be what anybody would dream of; how would you know? And, as the years pass and the carefully constructed stories and facades stop supporting the weight of the mounting troubles; do you know...

Many people wouldn't know it because I hide it well, but I am a highly sensitive person.  Grrrr, I grit my teeth as I write that, because I find that to be one of those statements that can be applied perhaps more liberally to explain things away (i.e., make excuses or avoid responsibility for something else).  Kind of like ADD has been painted on many, or used by many, as a handy explanation for occasional, or off-handed, inattentive behavior. Most highly sensitive people would not choose a profession like mine -- real estate -- and that's a very valid point.  It's been my struggle to be this way and to be in my business.  On reflection though, life in general has been hard, with respect to the life of a highly sensitive person.  As a kid, I was always the odd kid out.  I was the one bullied and even tortured by a few select individuals.  I never understood why, but I supposed that since bullying has no "appropriate" reason to exist, why would I ...

Hidden Room Wander the decaying old neighborhood Along a damp dark alley Through a heavy oak door Up creaking yielding stairs To my hidden room Scratchy record plays memories Vinyl upholstered couch invites me Metal framed chairs for friends     So rare Smudged metal framed window Looks out on industry and factory    And tenements Only blocks from my life Many years from my life Few steps from there to here Decades from there to here All that I am not there And all that I am here Everything kept hidden there Can be unleashed here 

You know how they say, "Never get down in the mud and wrestle with a pig"?   The reason, it is said, is because eventually you realize the pig loves it.   And so, it is with that advice that I have worked hard to avoid slinging mud -- even if it ’ s the truth -- when my " pig"  of a husband starts up with the character assassinations. How hard is it to keep my mouth shut when he is disparaging me in incredibly personal terms?  Well, it doesn ’ t matter that they are untrue statements. It doesn ’ t matter that he is twisting what happened to fit a narrative he created long before I realized there was cause for concern. What matters is that somehow, in some way, I know that somebody I know and care about is going to see what he wrote before I can hide it or block it or delete it. I ’ ve been a spectator on the sidelines when a friend or somebody I cared about, has gone through this same thing with somebody.   Trying not to respond; to avoid...

  I will remember you.  All the things that lead us   To that moment in my life That broke old shackles;   That started new patterns; That awoke the sleeping wolf. We do not need promises. Your gift to me was that moment. Your gift to me was  everything that led to that moment. I look at you and feel alive,    In a way I had been dead for years. You show me who you are,   I know this. I know our moment   was just that; a moment. And just as I have left   men with moments In my younger years,   I hold on to ours, now. You unchained the wolf. And she walks free, and proud, and ready. -- Nico Holmes

The moment--the surprising, amazing, moment--his lips brushed mine, I was transported by his tenderness.   How long had it really been since I had experienced tenderness alongside physical closeness? I didn't know and I was suddenly drunk on sweetness; appreciation; gentleness; and feeling wanted. Tenderness crashed in on me.  And as I write, I realize that feels like an oxymoron because how could tenderness be crashing if it's tender? And yet so much like the void of a vacuum; of a black hole in space; the absence of something is static until the presence of that same thing comes thundering in and suddenly it is a roaring revelation of understanding and feeling. And at each step into the moments past that kiss, tenderness came first. Tenderness was all of it but not only it. It was everything I had almost forgotten I needed; it was nothing I had had in so many years.

You know how when you're growing up there's a point somewhere early in your life where you recognize that things have a value. You might not use that language. When you're little you don't think in terms of those words; your vocabulary isn't big enough to think in those words. But you recognize the concept of value and the concept of cost. When I was very little, my mom had this idea that she could teach my sister and me the value of things and the concept of saving money by having what she called, "her little store." That was a really excellent idea in concept. I think that it worked really well for my sister, who saw all the cute trinkets that my mom had in her tiny store (which was a wonderful metal powdered milk tin--a thing that I am sure if it were still in existence would be worth quite a bit all by itself).  When she looked at the things that my mother offered in exchange for the total of a saved allowance, my sister recognized that she could save ...