Karan-a-go-go

What to write about...

Let me ask you this, reader… how naked is too naked?  And what does “naked” really mean, anyway.  If someone were to ask me that question twenty years ago, I’d have slurred said, “there’s no such thing as too naked” as I sipped my long neck Bud Light in the hot tub.  But, nowadays, I’m likely to take a shower with my clothes on if someone else is even in the same house .  (I know, I know… lucky guy, right?) 

I just can’t get naked like I used to, damn it.

Still, I repeatedly find myself exposed in other ways. I can bare it all on my blog and- God help me- on Facebook.  I forge connections with people quickly at bars and parties (or on Capitol Street, on my lunch hour, in passing) and then, invariably, end up confiding wholly inappropriate things to them within the space of very little time. I exhaust my old friends with repetitive stories about my life, my problems, my relationships.  I just have this intense desire to be known, I think.  Known and, more importantly, accepted.  (For who I really am, ya’ know?)  Which I prefer over the also-quite-possibly-true alternative: that I am intensely self-absorbed.

My friend, Davis, and I spend a lot of time talking about my complete lack of caution when it comes to self-publishing. He is concerned that one day I’m going to go out of my mind and start blogging a detailed account of the first time I shaved my legs.  (Actually, he probably just read that sentence and felt relieved that it ended in the word “legs”.)  I can almost see him wiping his brow… He worries about me.

 Davis used to read my former blog, which was really just an anonymous version of this journal-y type thing I’m doing now, but with more consistent posts. He’s always the first one to suggest reverting back to anonymity as an option when I start to talk about writing something really personal.And, maybe there is something to writing anonymously.  Maybe, I was able to post more consistently because I didn’t have to worry about ‘WHAT PEOPLE WILL THINK’  back then.  But, what is personal, really?  I mean, I get that there are things that are private.  And that some people are private.  But, isn’t most of what’s personal to me, probably personal to you, too? Isn’t it nice to have someone out themselves once in a while, so we can all sit back and have a nice laugh?  Or, a nice cry?

So, I think… for now… there’s no going back to Mallory Bennett or Cap City Kitty (or any of my other noms de plume for that matter).  (And listen, if you’re still laughing at Cap City Kitty, maybe this real life blogging isn’t for you!  We all make craptastic mistakes like Cap City Kitty.  It’s a username I wear with pride, damn it.) 

 *It should be noted, for all that I am for blogging under my own name, I still worry about what people think.  For instance, I am super pissed fully relieved to learn that my boyfriend doesn’t even read my blog. And my mom’s computer is really, really slow, so anything I write now she won’t see until she’s- ya’ know- in the home.

What I Want

I want to trust and to believe.  I want to love with my whole heart. I want to tell the truth.

I want to be trusted.  I want to be accepted as I am, but encouraged when I try to change for the better.  I want to be special to someone who is special to me.  I want to be loved, and then loved some more.

“I want you to want me.”

I want to be part of a close family.  I want a de facto husband.  I want what Kurt and Goldie have!  I want the “step” in step-parent not to matter so much. I want my kids to love and be loved, and learn coping skills that I could never teach them.  I want them to see “calm in action”, which we’ve not seen before.  I want us all to be open.  I want to learn that “quiet” and “private” are ok, too.  I want kisses on my forehead and spooning.  I want to soothe you when you’re worried, make you laugh, and do all of your laundry.

I want some land. I want room to breathe and plant tomatoes.  I want a horse.  I want to stay snuggled in when it snows and stay out all day when it’s sunny.  I want a porch swing. 

I want to get my boobs done.  I want to not want this, but I want it anyway.  I want you to say you’re against me having unnecessary surgery even though I know you’d like the results.

I want to travel some.  I want to take trips with my family and trips with the love of my life, and maybe some trips alone.  I want to visit: Taos, Austin, Nashville, New York, New Orleans, San Francisco, and maybe someplace in Maine.  I want to go back to Italy, and stay longer.  I want to see France, England, and Ireland.  I want to make friends everywhere I go and invite them all to West Virginia some day.

Always, I want to come home.  Be home.  I want a home that feels safe and warm. I want to fill it with books and art and, eventually, gangly teenagers. I want to write and cook and drink wine with my best friend (especially in ten years, when we turn 50 and will need all the wine).  I want to tell the damn dog to get off the couch.  I want my cat to find a place of his own, in this house, where he doesn’t need (or knead) me so much.  I want to break up brother/sister arguments.  I want to catch them covering for one another when they’re in trouble. I want their grubby little friends here, too. I want to run a pitcher of  iced tea out to the studio and then linger over the new paintings for a while.  I want to cook-out and have fires and listen to someone play the guitar.  I want to just be. Home.

I want my shoulders to relax.  I want my anxieties to slip away.  I want to feel more peaceful.  Serenity now!  I want to laugh more, cry more- fear less. 

I still want you.

Not that anyone cares… and actually only because I have to move my fingers:

• I haven’t watched this week’s True Blood yet and it’s killin’ me, man.
• I’m thinking of taking the kids on a Canaan Valley mini-vacation this weekend.
• 10:37 p.m. or later is too late to call or come over, no matter who you are.
• I like to put secret, but obviously pointed, messages in the middle of normal blog posts.
• I’m way overdue for therapy, which happens on Friday.  But- ugh- will I be driving to Canaan.  Shit.
• My kids have seemed happy for the past couple of days.  (Which doesn’t technically fall under the heading “Minutae”.)
• Only 100 days until I’m the big 4-0.

I found out today that I am divorced.  Again.  Initially, I felt like celebrating.  This divorce has been going on since November and has been contentious.  Having it behind me seemed like a positive thing.  As the day goes on, however, I’m experiencing some pangs of sorrow that surprise me, but I figure that’s a pretty natural reaction. At any rate, it looks to be an interesting day, emotionally-speaking.

On the one hand, the constant hurry-up and wait of family law has worn on me and I am glad to be done with it. Plus, quite plainly, I’m broke and have been waiting on my settlement so that I can afford to pay off some bills, get some furniture, and maybe buy a little house.  So, I was relieved when I called the Family Court office today and found out that the divorce had been finalized on July 1.  Time to move on and all that…

But, now? Eh.  I’m starting to feel pretty sad.  I mean, I’m sure that’s normal, right?  After all, young women don’t sit around dreaming about the day they finally get divorced, do they?  Of course not. Divorce is just hard, I guess.  Primarily, I’m sad for our children, who absolutely don’t want this to be happening.  I know, having experienced the divorce of my parents at a young age, how disconsolate and lonely they are feeling right now.  And I know how terrible it is to have no control over a situation that is so personal and affects you so profoundly.  I would do anything to take away their pain.  Except stay married to their father. 

Like millions of other divorces, the reasons for mine were myriad.  Too many harmful things were said and done, but never amended or forgiven.  The kids saw a lot of that.  So, even though I know they both have a new sadness to carry around, I have to believe that we made the better choice on their behalf. 

Ugh.  I was trying to make this coherent:  a thoughtfully prepared essay on my first day as an officially-single mom.  But, it’s hard to do be thoughtful and coherent through tears. 

Damn it, and on my first foray back into the blogosphere.  Oh, well. I’ll live to blog (and probably marry) again!  (Although, God help the poor bastard it happens to.)

Dear Kids,

Though words cannot adequately express how much I love you, there are a few things I wanted you to know as you develop into the fine young people I expect you will become.  Hopefully, you will remember these words and keep them in your heart long after I’m gone:

1. When you ignore my repeated exhortations to “GET UP and GET DRESSED” for 20-30 minutes and refuse to participate in any apparel or meal planning, chances are you’re going to be late for school.  When this happens, it’s dangerous for you to say things like, “Jeez, mom!  Why do I always have to wait for you to get ready?” or, “Why are you always the LAST one out the door?”
2. The night before an assignment is due is not the best time for you to introduce that assignment to your parent.  (Relatedly: This is not the best time to present a list of demands that includes items as varied as: Styrofoam balls, Peeps, corn starch, and “solar panels”.)
3. While we’re on the subject of random building materials, please understand that requiring you to find a reasonable space to contain your collection of empty toilet paper rolls, egg cartons and two-liter bottles is not an attempt by me to “quash your creativity”.
4. Calling me a “big jerk” is not (and will never be) the way to ensure that you’ll have a piñata at your birthday party.  Or, really, that you’ll even have a birthday party at your birthday party, if you know what I mean.  (It will, however, ensure that I call my best friend to ask, “What do you think she meant by ‘big’?”)
5. While I totally get how funny any kind of scatological reference is to you, I don’t think your near-constant use of the phrase “take a duke” is appropriate. (Although, kudos for using a phrase more original and hip than the traditional “take a dump”.  I can appreciate that you are, perhaps, something of a wordsmith.)
6. And, lastly, when plans change or a “maybe” solidifies into a “no”, I have not lied to you.  I have lied to many, many people over the years and have probably lied to you in ways that will leave you embittered as an adult (I mean, the odds are against you becoming a rock star/movie star/US President, no matter how hard you work in school).  Because I know when and how to prevaricate, I don’t need to waste my time “lying” to you about whether or not you can have your friend ride the bus home with you; maybe you will, maybe you won’t. 

I hope these little tidbits (and their larger implications) will help us navigate the choppy waters of pre-adolescence.  At the very least, heeding these words will prevent you from losing time on your beloved DSi.

With all my love,
Mom

 
Julie Brown- “Cause I’m a Blond”

Mark | MySpace Video

I know, I know… the votes were overwhelmingly (well, there were only six of them) in favor of the light brown/blonde highlights.  But, I forgot to say that mens’ votes counted double.  (Gross, right?)  AND, my stylist advised against brown for summer. 

So… YAY!! I’m a blonde… b-l-o-n-d!

Okay, today is a landmark occasion for me.  For six long months, I’ve been half-assing my hair color with boxes of L’Oreal Les Blondissimes.  The color I’ve been using is the lightest, ashiest blonde you can buy (sans bleach, that is) but it’s been turning my hair more of a golden (read: orange-y) blonde.  Also, I’ve only been doing my new growth at the root and I’ve achieved a bit of a horizontal striped effect down the length of my hair.  Definitely not good.  (But, much, MUCH cheaper.)

So today, I’m going back to my old ways… spending too much money to buy way better hair.  The problem is: I don’t know for sure what I want to do.  And that’s where you come in (if there’s anyone out there).  I need YOUR help to decide which color I want to spend my summer in.  The choices are: dark brown; light brown; light brown w/ blonde highlights; dark blonde; or medium blonde w/ ultra light highlights.  Below are pictures to help you decide which way to vote.

This is pretty light blonde, although I’ve been blonder. I would go paler, less brassy than this.

Ew.  I hate this picture.  I’d been crying for most of the cab ride to the restaurant (long story) and all my make-up was gone.  Nevertheless, I would call this light brown/dark blonde.  It was easy to keep up.  But maybe not my fave. (Although, that could be because of the picture/memory.)

I liked this color a lot (except there is still some issue there near the roots, ugh).  It was easy to take care of and made me feel a little like I was trying to “go natural”.  (Which has never been a big priority for me; I’m fine with fake color.  Also: fake lashes, fake nails, fake breasts, fake whatever; I don’t judge.)  This might be my fave right now, but it’s hard for me to give up on blonde.

This is kind of reddish brown w/ highlights.  I’m mostly just throwing this out as an option; I don’t know if I love it.

And here’s the last choice, which I can tell you won’t be able to see without a magnifying glass.  It’s one of the only pics I have of me with dark hair.  (And also with a dark tan, right?) I actually really liked having dark hair.  Sometimes, I just feel more Veronica than Betty, you know?

Alright, so that’s it then.  If you could cast your vote in the comment section (making sure to throw in any and all unsolicited hair advice, as well), I’d appreciate it.  I know you’re busy, but this is really, really IMPORTANT!

I started to write a post about my divorce and what it’s like to “start over” at 39.  I started to write about the pressure on young women to be thin and pretty, and then,  about what happens when those same women become middle-aged and realize that ‘thin’ and ‘pretty’ are time-sensitive.  I started to write about how I’ve become estranged from my father and how I’m not sure really how it happened or where to go from here.  I started to write… and I got stuck.

So, I think I’m going to show you things, instead. Fun and happy things. Like this little beauty that I’m picking up after work today:

Jealous?  You will be, especially after I affix some sort of Dorothy Gale-esque wicker basket to the front of it and tool around town in my pedal pushers and Keds.  (Or, skirt and low-top Chucks?  Hard call…)

Or, how about this:

He’s the little guy that the kids and I are (possibly) bringing home soon.  (And by possibly, I mean probably.) I know, I know… I’ve heard it all before. Puppies are hard work.  Getting one is like having a new baby in the house.  They’ll chew your shoes and eat you out of house and home.  Ah, well… sometimes kids (and their moms) just need puppies.

And, sometimes, they need kitties, too.  Like this one:

The one the kids and I adopted just last weekend.  He’s something of a charmer in the way that one might find William Kennedy Smith or Ben Rothlisberger charming.  He knows precious little about boundaries or personal space.  But we like him. 

And, the final fun thing I want to share with you is this:

This is my friend, Vas, who won a whopping $180 on Super Saver in the 136th running of the Kentucky Derby.  I love the Derby and I love my friends.  Here’s hoping fortune smiles upon her Preakness and Belmont picks!

I think that’s all I’ve got right now; sorry that it’s a bit pedestrian.  But, I’m super happy that I didn’t go all dark and twisty on you.  I mean, a sad girl could never ride a bike that pink, right?