From My Parents Basement

As I sit here, embarking on a new journey in life from the depths of a suburban Cincinnati home, I cannot help but wonder why it is that people fear the unknown as much as they do. I, for instance, am currently living in a state of suspension, all of my wordly belongings littering the floor of my childhood bedroom with some remnants of my old life in the house I shared with my fiance up until 4 weeks ago, when he ceased to be my fiance and became another part of my old life.

With plenty of help from a newly acquired gay entourage and a generous dose of gay-bar karaoke and Broadway shows, I have decided that from now on I will do whatever I want to do whenever I want to do it. I have spent my entire life seeking validation from one source or another, be it my mother, one of many therapists, judgemental friends or controlling boyfriends. I am tired of rules written by those who cannot do, and teach. I am done listening to the advice of those too miserable to confront their own demons, who feel much more comfortable lecturing me on mine. I am finished with men who want to put me in a box, and family members who want me to live according to their values. And, for Christ's sake, I am not going to pay any more therapists to tell me what I already know or mind-fuck me into thinking that I am wrong because I don't agree with them. For a fee. So I like to do things differently. I am over feeling bad about that.

Dr. Suess, a very wise man indeed, said "Do what you feel and say what think, because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind." Truer words have not been spoken by any doctor I have made out large checks to. And so I am embarking on a new journey in which I move at my own pace, trust my own instincts, and fuck up and fall on my face without falling apart afterward. No more paranoia, no more unnecessary shame, in short, no more giving a fuck.

In my parent's basement, I am being reborn. I am being resurrected. I am a phoenix rising from the ashes of my own decade of joyless decadence. And soon I will have my own place in which to write and to sing and to feel joy at the independence, the true independence of mind, body and soul that it has taken me 28 years, several medications, countless fuck-ups, some colossal family issues, at least 7 therapists and 2 broken engagements to acquire.

Le Spa

Well, my intention was to write a blog entry on the merits of home spa treatments, coupled with Bud Light and ciagrettes, for the more advanced and asthetically inclined midwestern girl. I was going to talk about my evening spent with bedroom manicures, olive oil soaks and Biore facials. And the just trashy enough combination of this month's Glamour, a bag of weed and a recent T.J. Maxx shopping spree (the "personal care" section is beyond reproach) is enough to set my suburban heart aflutter. That being said, I am so worn out from my hillbilly spa night that I find it difficult...just...to...type. In the spirit of sharing, though, I offer these quick tips until I may be proactive enough to go into detail:

• Olive oil is your friend. Use it to condition cuticles, to keep nail polish from smudging and, when mixed with sugar, to exfoliate hands and feet. (To exfoliate your body, or if you have sensitive skin, use brown sugar.) Rub in circular motion until sugar dissolves.
• Drink some water, bitch! Water will naturally detoxify your body and help it to function most efficiently.
• Not just for cow udders anymore, Bag Balm will moisterize dry winter hands and feet (and knees and elbows) so that you will remain summer soft while everyone else develops scales.
• Remember that shaving exfoliates! Don't use a scrub after you've shaved-it might irritate skin. Exfoliate before shaving or skip it-while removing hair you will remove dry surface skin as well.

Happy spa-ing! Remember that just because you can't afford to be among the rich bitches at the salon doesn't mean that you can't look as good! Smug satisfaction goes farther than a Gold Card!

Musings on Jeff Buckley/Life In General

As strange and silly as it may sound (be), even something
as simple as wearing a Jeff Buckley t-shirt reminds me to
think like an artist. To find the beauty and narrative in
everything, even, especially, pain and sadness and regret,
is to truly see and interpret life as it is. Attitude is
important, but to be positive to the point of delusion is
counterproductive. To actually recognize and experience
true sadness, and to then weave art from tragedy, is
absolute freedom. This is something that I lose sight of
rather often, and something that I need to recognize and
maintain in order to become a whole person. DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT
let an ugly world harden your creamy center.

Where is My Cherry?

I’ll only do this with the lights off...
I've never done this before. You see, I am trapped in a maddening purgatory, floating somewhere between the obstinant curmudgeon uninterested in anything more high-tech than a microwave and the modern woman who knows that advances in technology make life more convenient and are necessary in order to survive in any personal or professional setting. Not that I ever really want to survive in a professional setting, but it may be unavoidable someday. I still carry a cell phone that only makes phone calls-no camera, no downloads, no internet access, only 3 strange melodic choices of ringtone, etc... And until recently I deemed MySpace and FaceBook ridiculous and loathsome outlets of self-promotion, and I am still not even entirely sure how to replace songs on my iPod. On the other hand, I have recently begun the process of "pimping" my MySpace page rather than letting it fester unvisited in default display, I signed up for FaceBook (it was only to see Bachman’s Halloween pictures, but still...) and I have now decided to make a cautious foray, eyes closed and hands outstretched and hesitant, into what the kids today are calling blogging. I still have trouble saying it...because really how fucking self-important is it to assume that anyone gives a shit about what you have to say and that, furthermore, it should be posted in a public venue? Pretty self-important, I think, but since I am a self-obsessed attention whore anyway I guess that self-important isn’t too far out of the ball-park. At least self-importance conveys a positive sense of self-esteem, whereas self-obsession leads to self-destruction in my case. The problem is, what does one blog about? Are the mundane details of my everyday life expected to hold other MySpacers rapt in attention and anticipation for the next word? Or am I supposed to embellish the details so as to appear more interesting, as seems to be the protocol with the rest of MySpace and networking sites in general? I pick the latter, I guess, because if everyone else is subtly upping themselves I am going to look like a loser if I shoot straight. I suppose that, as we all do our first time, I will fumble around in the dark at first, grabbing the wrong thing here and there, feeling like I’m doing it just because everyone else does. Then I’ll get the hang of it and work the blog with finesse.Eventually, I will become a master of the ways of the blog, know just where to touch it to make it scream. Oh God! I’m finished. So there it is... I’ve done it and I can’t take it back. Was it as good for you as it was for me?