Hell of a (pair of) Women

I speak of my friends over at Evilslutopia.com frequently, or JezeLilith, as they're better known in my personal life when referring to both simultaneously (kind of like Sirquita, which sounds like a really exotic tequila, which I won't be having anytime soon, rum being a better friend). A while back, things in my life weren't going so awfully swell, and predictably, I fell into a bit of a depression. Or, if you're going to have some idea of what amazing friends they are, you'll have to understand what they helped me overcome, which means I have to pull my head out of my ass and stop making light of what was going on. I don't deal well with being broke, out of a job, dependent on someone else for everything from tampons to my basic daily needs (like food). In fact, I don't deal at all. My method of handling stress is to turn it all inward and pretend my problems don't exist--I find a hole in my head to crawl into and disappear. I need a job? I read a book, clean the house, take the dog to the park, scour the internet for my next shopping bag...anything but deal with the problem by doing something about it. Sure, I did send out numerous resumes and contact numerous people, but after the sixth job rejection in two weeks, I shut everything down and quit looking for jobs. My relationship with Sir nearly disintegrated at a few points under the stress of our individual job stresses, plus my lack of effort in searching.

At the height of this depression, at my breaking point, Lilith and Jezebel stepped in and intervened in a manner that was crucial to restoring my confidence and giving me the boot I needed to start searching again. They suggested that I do some guest blog entries on their website, featuring women in art throughout history; the idea was dynamite in my arsecrack--they had no sooner suggested it than I was already researching my favorite women and looking for more inspiring women to feature in future blogs.

Yesterday, they put up the hardest blog I've written, about Frida Kahlo. Trying to write about her life was like (sorry to borrow an aged and overused expression) nailing Jell-O to the wall. Green Jell-O. How do you write about someone who left behind a body of artwork as her autobiography? How do you delve into her mind and try to get an accurate picture of what she was trying to say? The outcome, I think, is something to be proud of.

And Jezebel and Lilith? Thanks for the kick in the right direction. First you caused my marriage, then you caused me to be happy again. You troublemakers with strong personalities, you.

Whippoorwill says, come home, come home

There is one word echoing in my skull's empty caverns, and I'm certain beginning and ending, not to mention filling up, a blog with the word AWESOME doesn't cut it as far as content goes, but I'm really tempted to sum up my trip to Seattle thusly nonetheless regardless (<--that, if my favorite college roomie, henceforth known as Dr. Dre, was reading, would be ticklesome because her boyfriend's most oft-used words for most of our three years rooming together were: thusly, nonetheless and regardless). Southwest Airlines doesn't have pretty planes built after 1980, but they let me preboard so I didn't miss the announcement and I got to pick my own seat, so I forgave them the uncomfortable fake leather seats. Seattle's wretched coldness strengthened my resolve to enjoy the sun while I'm in California even if it gets over 100 for 3 months in a row, and mandated the purchase of a new North Face jacket prior to a baseball game between the two worst teams in some professional league or other on the national level (sports be not my realm of interest). My momma-in-law, the Baroness, provided a two-day getaway vacation to her new landholdings in Eastern Washington, which was in the throes of a beautiful early summer. The view from her expansive deck out over the Yakima river lends the viewer incredible peace--river, miles and miles of gentle hills, small mountains in the distance, stars at night...

Friends were seen, family loved on. My sushi appetite was sated, temporarily.

When I pulled my hot pink suitcase home, however, the most wonderful present awaited me: Sir, home, attached to a land-bound posting so he can be home every night, not on a ship sailing out to sea for two months. No amount of fun and revelry away from home can ever make up for the happiness of coming home to Sir.

The cappuchino swirl

Amongst my group of girlfriends, when one is panty-peeing excited, there's a word we yell [type] out: SQUEEEEEEE!!! In order for it to work properly and adequately convey the level of excitement, one adds/subtracts "E"s and exclamation points.

Thus:

Girlfriend: SQEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!
Me: You got engaged, right?

Girlfriend: SQUEE!
Me: You saw a beluga whale at SeaWorld?

There's also the drunken "squee" that occurs whilst typing online between ourselves, but that usually involves significant typing errors that can only be authentically reproduced by the imbibed-impaired themselves.

That said, there is some measure of "squee-ing" occurring in my life today. At somewhere around 1pm, a shuttle is picking me and my hot pink suitcase up from my home and depositing me at the San Diego Airport, where I'll purchase magazines and...fly home. To Washington, to Seattle, to things I know and people I love. Ordinarily the ensuing squee would look like this: SQUEEE!! but for one drawback, a not insignificant fact that casts a dark shadow on my excitement. Sir, courtesy of the Navy, will not be going with me, and this morning I kissed my last kiss until August.

Swearin' like a sailor('s wife)

Here's where I admit, after a perusal through my blog, that I swear a lot. This might offend a lot of people, but after growing up as an apologist, I've decided not to make restitutions for what I acknowledge as a possible character flaw. Certainly I'd cringe to find out my childhood pastor and his wife read my site.

As dearly as I loved my pastor and his family, I realized that most of the dreams I had were unachievable so long as I put great stock in how they viewed me, especially with regards to whether or not they'd allow me to babysit their youngest daughter knowing what a mouth I've got on me. That's all well and good, except that I used to dream of being a writer until I realized that I couldn't ever own up to anything I wrote if there was a chance they'd read it. Fuck what my family thought; I knew obligatory society rules would protect me from permanent outcast status and eventually they'd come around to seeing what I see or at least agreeing to disagree. I couldn't grasp of a world in which the elders that I respected thought of me as a bad person, and I adapted my outlook to fit the sort of person I felt I ought to be.

Entering college was the cliche eye-opening experience in which I began to cautiously engage in various behaviors I'd previously thought of as despicable: I smoked, I swore, I drank (underage!), I lied. Each transgression was worse than the next as time wore on, until I couldn't see myself as a good person any longer. After graduating college, I'd fallen into a depression wherein I felt myself to be a worthless human being, living in my parents house and unable to find a job with my expensive degree. It culminated to a head one night as I cracked open a fresh bottle of Sapphire gin and proceeded to dump the contents down my throat, one martini glass straight at a time; I stripped myself naked and locked myself into the bathroom. My parents, understandably worried, broke down the door and spent the night praying over me, willing me to live through the night. I've wondered why they didn't get my stomach pumped considering the nearly-lethal amount I'd consumed on an empty stomach. My Irish cast-iron stomach failed me, for the first time in nearly 20 years. The following days were black, but I no longer had the courage to care if I died nor the energy to blot out my life. Ironically, I lost the last shreds of my faith somewhere along the lines when I realized there was nothing waiting for me at the end of my life, only the memories of what I've done with the life I have.

It wasn't long after that I met the man I fell in love with (with help from my friends at Evilslutopia.com) and eventually married; in many ways, he's been my reason for living and the force that propels me through my days. Because of his support and unwavering love, I found it in myself to face the dreams that I'd long ago schucked to the wayside in favor of modeling my life after a person I couldn't be and began looking for the me I wanted to be. I've embraced my vulgar and intellectual sides equally, realizing that the intense pleasure I get from a well-executed swear word is as valid a reason to continue as is the intense pleasure of a great roll in the hay or my love of collecting outdated idiomatic phrases.

So if in my vulgarity I offend, I hope you find diamonds in the rough elsewhere. Or else, there's the door. It's a small "x" on your screen that allows you to vacate the premises.