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I’m back. I didn’t mean to be gone so long…I went to the beach time forgot and in the whole town, apparently there is one internet connection and all the damn kids were on it.
Notes.
I owned the sun, bitches. And then I got a cold and now the Universe owns me and I’m its bitch.
I am seriously sad about Farrah Fawcett’s passing. Her struggle reminds me of my aunt. I especially resent the tabloids for saying she wanted to die when she was undergoing painful treatment that only had a small chance of working. I resent the family member (another aunt) who said she would never put the family through what my deceased aunt put them through…meaning it’s not worth putting the family through a difficult time if you have only the smallest possibility to live. Fuck that. As I recall, my family didn’t allow themselves to be put out by her fight. They were no where to be found. Oh, anger, be gone.
I fell on a hard slab of concrete. My mother thought I had broken my arm and was traumatized. She made me bend it to show her it was not broken for THREE days. She’s a good mommy. She also has poofy hair.
Friends. I am from the American South. “I” is pronouced “ah,” God is pronounce “Gawd,” but I have to draw the line at “far” being pronounced “for” or “fore.” In this case, my daddy has become red-necked-ified (“it cain’t be too for”) and it drove me nuts.
I was minding my own business, wiping my nose with my hand, coughing into large groups of people, when a lady leaned over to my mother and said I probably had the swine flu.
I can’t be around smoke, okay? I have allergies. (bindo, for you, I will allow mourners to smoke at your eulogy slam as an act of good faith.)
You do not have “a piece” of a soda left over. You may have a swig, a swallow (“swaller”), or a little bit left but never “a piece.” My parents didn’t get the memo, and I figured I might have been being * a little* prissy/pissy, so I kept this tidbit to myself…until now. You need to know this.
My parents baby me when I’m sick and I appreciate them for it.
As soon as we left the airport parking garage, the sky opened up and spat out a m-f of a storm on top of me.
I give Bryan props for saving my ass again. I had to ask him to Fed-Ex my cell. I cannot live without it. He did read some inappropriate texts between me and an unnamed suitor.
The freckles. My God, the freckles.
OMG, I met a new man on one of my flights to the beach. He was very friendly and I think he’s my new boyfriend! It’s so exciting. He was going to Afghanistan for the next 9 months. I have decided in lieu of adopting a dog or an Asian baby, I am going to adopt a military man. Fuck Airmen. I’m into Army guys now. (Also, my mother and father were staring at my bf and me the whole time. Later my mother said she couldn’t help but notice he had extremely white teeth.)
I thought Michael Jackson was really strange and not in a flattering way, but I do feel for his family, friends, and fans. My mother says there is really no comparision to Elvis and she wishes they’d stop saying that there is. Rumors are just rumors. If narcotics were involved, I can understand the draw. Highly addictive and unfortunately satisfying.
And that poor Billy Mays.
Iraq is fucked up no matter who writes about it. Trying to gain perspective about the War on Terror. I read a memoir about a soldier’s experience in Iraq. He definitely does not agree with the war or why we went or how we’ve conducted ourselves. Or how the government has treated soldiers. Just so you know, the author isn’t necessarily right wing, but this is definitely not a love letter to George W. Bush or Donald Rumsfeld. Gives another perspective (and I do appreciate the message that NOT questioning the government is unpatriotic). Try Chasing Ghosts by Paul Rieckhoff. He has a website for veterans, if you’re interested (http://iava.org/index.php).
I missed you.
Your forever Medicated Lady
- Questions for the masses, specifically you, dear reader:
- Do you think it’s acceptable to have an irrational urge to have an Airman?
- Why do guys who are available make me uneasy?
- What are human pets?
- Can you motivate me to lose weight? I’m getting chunky. My mother said so.*
- Black is the best fair-weather non-color there is. I recommend it. However, even if it’s supremely cute, one might find it best to avoid wearing the black lace top when one has an itchy sunburn. Savvy?
- I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?
*Bless her heart, my mother does not mean to be mean. She just says what’s on her mind and well…it’s not always the most tactful. Also, she resents having me as a daughter…she really wanted Bryan.
I wrote this some time ago about the heat of texting I sometimes feel. It’s a love/hate relationship I have with technology, though I can admit underneath it all, it has nothing to do with technology. (Note: I feel as though I might have posted this before but my glance-through revealed nothing…but I didn’t look that carefully. If this is a repeat, apologies.)
Anticipation gives way to relief gives way to wanting more gives way to frustration give way to anger gives way to giving away. I cannot become a slave to the man and technology ever again. I am not sure how to do that, but it’s a necessity. I can’t care. It becomes not about him but validation. It becomes about never getting my fill. If I for once got my fill, got my feel…
I’m three texts in with no response. He says he’s stressed. He says he is flying on Monday and the pressure is on. I believe him. I honestly do. It’s me that ruins it all. Constantly looking and waiting for my cell phone to give me tangible proof that he’s been thinking of me.
I want to hold onto this pleasant feeling. I don’t want it to slip away into the obscurity of insecurity. Does that make sense? Of course it does. If I doubt him, I doubt myself. I worry that I won’t see him again or touch him or kiss him. I won’t ever know the satisfaction of making him sigh or feel good or feel special, and I won’t have that from him. I want to be made to sigh. I want to be made to feel good. I want to be made to feel special. Wanted, care for, safe. It’s too much. Too much to ask.
I’ve told myself, you must wait until you leave work to even look at your cell phone. So that’s 66 minutes from now. On one hand, I’m trying to go for more discipline, to stop looking constantly at my cell. On the other hand, it just makes the disappointment of not receiving a message from him that much more acute. So what can I do? It seems I’m destined to lose….because I really can’t expect him to give me what I want, can I? And then the horribleness of getting a message, hoping/praying it’s from him and then finding it’s from someone else. I’m tired of roller coasters again.
For the record, Bryan was supposed to read his poetry at 3:15. I was in town by 2:45 when he texted me and was like, “well, it’s done and you’re a sorry excuse for a medicated lady,” which was a bit harsh but he was a diva at a gay pride event so I give him props. Fate promptly bitch-slapped me. Before and after, respectively.
I’m not sure anyone will necessarily think this is funny but it amused me. If you want a good time, go back to your old emails and read them. Share them.
To: MedicatedLady
From: Poeticgrin
Date: 2/21/05
MEMO: It has come to my attention that some members of this staff feel that it is professional to wear denim garments below their waists. This behavior must come to an abrupt stop. It is counterproductive and sends the wrong message to the childrens. If I catch any of you wearing these denim garments, I shall strip you then and there and let you feel my power.
To: MedicatedLady
From: Poeticgrin
Date: 8/18/04
On Tragedy (a Haiku)
Weed in a taco
Broken swings, asses, and dreams
Satan’s spawn inside
To: MedicatedLady
From: Poeticgrin
Date: 12/2/08
(Bryan’s poem to my/our then-boyfriend (who was in the Air Force but is not Air Force John, this guy was just a “Luke”), who later left the country without telling me/us)
Dearest Airman,
How I want to fly with you,
to say your name with a heavy “K” sound
resonating in my throat long after
I’m silent.
I am air sick
love sick
love struck
lightheaded
from this quick
change
in altitude.
*An email exchange between Bryan and me concerning the matter of a straight man.* Please note, we are usually completely off the mark about straight men but we have conversations like this all the time.
From MedicatedLady to Bryan: What a crybaby Air Force John is. Seriously. If he’s blowing me off, he is doing it in the strangest of ways. I am honestly perplexed. It’s probably just coming down to I’m not giving him the nookie. He’s friendly enough and kept the conversation going for hours (texting of course). He invited me to cuddle. I considered it. I said, really? He said yes. He says, I’m going to bed (he said this before as a way to get me to hurry up and come over). So I say, So are you saying I’ve missed you or to get trucking? And then he says, no, you can come cuddle w/ me. And I paused for a moment and said okay. Then I brushed my hair for him. And then I text, will see you in a few minutes. And then he says, can we reschedule? And I say, ouch, but okay. He says he’s been up since 5 and is tipsy. I say, okay. 10 minutes later. He says, I don’t want to offend you. I say, it’s all good. 20 minutes later. He says, I’m afraid I will make a move. I say, moves aren’t necessarily bad things but it just depends if you can be swatted away when it’s time to cool it. So he says, Nope (smiley face) and I say, well then there you go. 10 minutes later. He says, I’m in my underwear. I say, Um…good? He says, yeah. I say, well, underneath my pjs I’m wearing underwear too. End conversation.
Bryan’s response/translation: I think he was horny, and then he wanted sex, and he invited you over, and then he felt guilty, and then he was horny again, and then he just masturbated.
Of late, it’s been all gloomy skies and admittedly even gloomier than I care for. I am looking forward to the weekend. Last week was rough on every front. This week has been an exercise in survival (I’ve been running a week-long program for a group of high school students), but I am patting myself on the back because I’ve made it. And anyway, life is good when you have a Coke Zero and a chocolate Poptart.
Tonight, I am going to my friend’s house to eat fattening food and watching God-awful horror movies.
What amuses me is that Sunday, I will be going to church with my rather stuffy, evangelical brother and sister-in-law and then I am going to support Bryan at a gay pride pic-a-nic. So, while my brother tries to tell me that his version of Christianity is the right one and all, I will be laughing at the inside joke.
And then, next week, I will be going on vacation next Thursday. If I can find internet, I’m bound to post because unlike Bryan, I have no qualms posting while on vacation because I want to vacate my life, not my blog. Fridays and Coke Zero inspire run-on sentences.
I’ve started to make the rounds to blogs again. You have been the many friends I have neglected the last several months, and I am glad to see you again. Bryan would tell you, as he tells everyone else, to not mind my absence, I’m in my Dark Place. You, dearest ones, have been supportive of me since I’ve been blogging and especially of late and I want to say a pitiful but heartfelt “Thank you” to you.
So as I navigate unfamiliar waters in the Lighter-than-my-Dark-Place Place, I bid you a good day and weekend.
I swallow a deep sob because some things are best swallowed. That’s not dirty, swallowing. Take it down, your medicine.
Kind words make me sad because I can feel the hard edges of them. I can feel the tenderness of my own soul, and I wish I was just a hair harder. Which makes no sense because hair breaks very easily but there is nothing that can be done to make it stronger. It’s already dead.
My aunt died. She’s dead, not dying. I wasn’t around much when she was just living.
What I remember most is how her blue eyes welled with tears when she was in pain and lonely. At the funeral, did they cry for her or did they cry for me? I didn’t go to the visitation. I didn’t want to see her dead. I’d seen her plenty when she was dying. They said she looked as though she were smiling. What I remember are tears that they didn’t see her shed. And then at the funeral, I saw their tears, too, and realized I am maybe only witness to her dying and her death. Her collapse and theirs.
This isn’t a poem, only a thought. This isn’t broken, this is breaking.
At the funeral
it was brief
the service
the prayer
my unmuffled sobs
They were all doing fine
not a sound
and then at the end
my shoulders shook
until everyone’s shoulders shook
At the funeral
they had their suffering too
and then at the end
unmuffled sobs
and shoulders that shook
bored
not hurting anybody
scrolling through the numbers in my phone
I saw the name
had forgotten the name
already
was surprised it was there
in my phone
when she no longer is here
on earth
I pressed delete before I could think
too much
time spent thinking
how long will it be before I recover my breath
Ramblings of a Medicated Lady: Words of Woe by Loria Taylor 
Your Sympathies: