..in the land of misfit toys..

i play the part of the porcelain doll, cracked and dirty in a her rumpled dress with no tea left in her cups...

I see things I want, not the usual materials to make my life shinier or prettier - I see things I want to spite my life. To turn it upside down. My life is not perfect, far from it, but I am thankful for what I have in it. I love my family and friends, my job and my hobbies. I love that I have the ability to do things I love. Don't get me wrong.

But there is a perpetual sinking pit in my stomach that inevitably sucks all of those gracious feelings back down and leaves an icy, angry residual in its wake. It's not bitterness or jealousy, it's genuine anger. Inky, violent anger towards things in my life that I had no control over, that I still cannot fix to this day. I try not to assign blame because one person was not wholly responsible for any singular event but was merely another twist in the rope that is hanging my life by the neck.

My aunt died in the summer of '05 after a long, difficult battle with cancer. The night before, my mother called to tell me that I should come home from college, they didn't think she would last much longer, and that the family was coming to say their goodbyes. I started packing my bags to leave immediately but she told me to wait until the morning, that it would be safer to drive after the sun came up. Early that next morning, as I was getting ready to leave, my mother called and told me it was too late, that she was gone. I remember the shock of it, the dizzy, nauseous feeling as I had to sit on the edge of my bed. I never told my mother and I don't think I even admitted it to myself until years later but I was angry with her, I blamed her for my not being able to say goodbye. If she had let me, if she had just trusted me one time to be careful, had just treated me like an adult, I could have been there with her, I could have said goodbye.

Instead, this amazing and complicated and beautiful woman died without ever knowing how sorry I was for not getting to know her better. She never knew how much I loved her, how much I looked up to her. I never got to say I was sorry for not being there for her during her chemo or her divorce or those last few, painful weeks. I regretted that. I regret it still. And that's where my anger lies; she never knew any of it and even to the end, I wasn't there.

Today I have pictures of her in my room, pictures of this woman I can hardly remember but who I find myself becoming more like everyday. She was difficult and stubborn, traits I can't say I lack entirely. But remembering her makes me angry, it reminds me of all the goodbyes I never got to say and the apologies I never got to make.


My life has not been an easy road but it hasn't been as bad as some. I am grateful for what I have and I love what I am. But there are still times when I look at her photograph on my desk and that anger starts snaking its head up through my stomach, snarling and gnawing and snapping it's jaws. All these knots in my rope, all these painful memories that haunt my mind - they are hard to fight and even harder to forget.

But I do not lay blame, I am not bitter; I simply find that, looking around, I can't be alone. In the land of misfit toys, we are all just that...

misfit.

life's little clearance sale

Today from my life, I craved bold colors, passionate kissing, and more coffee than humanly digestible. Instead, I got 2 hours of laundry, cleaning mud out of my carpet, the constant rotation of taking the dogs out, and another dreary reminder that I'm stuck in the same, monotone place as I was 6 months ago.

I want dancing in Italy, dining in Greece, flowy bright red skirts, peach picking in South America, kissing in Rome, sunbathing in Fiji, brightly painted toenails, flowers in my hair, white russians on a beach in Hawaii, seaplanes off the coast of Africa, hiking in Peru, love notes in Tuscany.....

There is so much I crave for my life and none of it is growing old in a dreary apartment with nothing to look forward to but reruns and the next season of Vampire Diaries.

I'm 24 going on 89 and life is passing me by -- so until further notice..


tomorrow is cancelled.

At least until I plan some great escape with my guitar, journal, dogs, and rustic wild woman getaway bag. Preferably mocha canvas with a side pocket for easy cell access.

totally cute runaway style.

if God had Verizon

today was a challenge to my faiths; my faith in God's plan for me, faith in my relationship, and faith in myself.


i hear the words..'trust God'...'i love you'..'you can do it'....but they fall empty and ring hollow on the floor at my feet before they ever even reach me.

today i was cleaning out my closets and threw away almost everything that reminded me of the times in my life I'm not proud of, which was almost every journal, picture, card, note, stuffed animal, and post it from before January 1st.

the only self-inflicted advice i can give myself is to sleep on it, stay faithful, and to remember that every road must be different or we'd all end up in the same place.

still...it'd be so much easier if God was like ChaCha...

my prayer for tonight will be short and simple:

dear God,
text me.

'eyre' we done yet?

In perspective, I have come to realize how different Austen was in relation to the other writers of England and all of it's social dramas of the 18th century.

Tonight I started watching 'Little Dorrit' by Charles Dickens and while I enjoy the story in itself, it's amazing to see all the different perspectives of the same England society. Austen painted in pastels and watercolors where the Bronte sisters brushed in charcoal.

A distant acquaintance brought up Jane Eyre tonight and the wheels started spinning, albeit not much quicker than their usual whirring default :)

The story alone: virginal, modest, but poor girl has hard life, intrigues rich, self-important man with a dark secret, bad hair, and even worse home decor. Blah blah, secrets are exposed, said girl suffers love and it's effectually painful aftershocks. Then fate deals both a decent hand {depending on the perspective} and they end up together despite. The end.

That being said, I don't understand how Austen can portray such vivid character details about the normal, day to day life with such light, beautiful eloquence and the Bronte sisters can portray the SAME life that while leaving the reader feeling as if their brain has sucked on a fresh lemon. Albeit for me to denounce one of the greats but really, the only common thread between the sisters and Austen is that everyone ends up in a prudent match. The problem with Jane Eyre is that you would really prefer her not to.

Personally, I would rather be a charming, well-loved, and financially independent schoolteacher to the poor but witty girls of the town than marry someone who drags me to my wedding and hides a ferocious 'lil nutcracker in the back of my house.


Eesh, well at least..Tiger Woods, eat your heart out.

{mamma}Mila!

So to clear the cyber air, I have my own fair share of girl crushes. Mainly your typical angsty singer/songwriter types, torn and vulnerable in their music videos, portraying their seemlingly normal songwriting experience on the floor of their bedrooms with an open journal and an acoustic guitar. Don't get me wrong, I'm sure they started there at one point or other but let's be real, Studio A @ Capitol Records looks nothing like a 15 year old girl's bedroom set.

But apart from those little mind-diddys to ponder, my latest girl crave is for the ever-devilish little Mila Kunis. Be it her long, dark, completely unlike my own wheatgold hair, or her carefree, funloving outlook on life....she is fascinating. Opposite of some girls' envy-turned-lesbian crush phase goes, I don't want to be her. Jew isn't a good look for me. It's not in my color wheel.

I just find her extremely attractive.


At any rate, I'm glad she's famous. At least in this respect, it's deemed socially acceptable {and more effectually accessible} to stalk her.

Not in the climb-in-the-window-of-her-summer-home-in-the-Hamptons-and-wear-her-entire-collection-of-lingerie-while-sleeping-in-her-bed sort of way. More like, scoping out what she's wearing to the Awards shows these days...

It's a sad world when even stalker humor grazes terrorist lingo....ah, but all is well.


Life is grand. I found a fabulous new nail polish, gave myself a mani/pedi, and relaxed over hot green tea and a psychologial thriller.


If it got any simpler, I'd be a veggie.

call me Bob.

Today was a collage of random thoughts, jotted down in excerpts from my carefree, mustang spirit imagination.

At first I was thinking about Austen, go figure, and I wondered if she had any living relatives alive. Can you imagine being in some way connected to one of the greatest literary minds ranked with Dickens, Twain, and Frost? Talk about having steep pressures for your first elementary school book report..

I think I would like to be related. Well, frankly, I would more than likely stroke out on the spot if it became known that I was related to Austen. Albeit a bit odd since she's been such a fascination of mine these many years together. To know that all along I've been obsessing over "Auntie Jane"....might throw a kink in the mix.

But to dream.


My second thought was that, were I to write a novel, my main character would be strikingly resemblant of Taylor Swift. Picturesque, carefree, and modest. Nothing like her Disney Channel counterpart, you know who you are, Miley. Tsk tsk.

So then it went on to my third, and final thought: I think I should very much like to write that novel.

Bring on the cliches...I've read many a manuscript as an English major as favors for self-proclaimed 'authors' and they've been horrid. Absolutely grotesque. Which is precisely why I want to finally get these stories down on paper. I've got so many floating around in my brain as it is, why not do some spring cleaning and clear some space?

I wrote once that in my mind, there are these ecclectic little characters living out their own little lives, all entertwined but all diverse. The Regency woman has tea with the Indian Chief while the young soldier reads stories to the 5 year old blonde boy with leukemia. All entertwined, all seperate.


After all these years, I think it's time I build them their own homes.