All posts by Ro

Losing My Religion

Slightly better than a functional alcoholic, I’m a stoner yogi. Turns out old hippies are thin because eating isn’t as important once you’re enlightened. Or at least lightened. There’s an IPA on tap here called Bodhizafa. Some guy told me that’s a word for monks who achieve enlightenment but then choose to come back and share their wisdom with the rest of us. My immediate response, “Lazy bastards.” Moderately surprised, the guy asks for an explanation. And I tell him the secret, “Achieving enlightenment isn’t the hard part. Staying there is the trick. I’ve experienced zen at least half a dozen times in my short life. Keeping your mind there is the hard part. Those guys are full of shit – they who cannot do, teach.” Continue reading Losing My Religion

9th Grade

Midtown seemed so far away then. I was only 13. The University area 10 miles away only felt close because my school was near there. Did they send me across town so I wouldn’t embarrass my sister at her school? Now that I think about it, that makes more sense. I wasn’t trustworthy enough for public school so they sent me to a different version of the same all-girls prep school. I don’t think they considered the Midtown element until it was a little too late. I always tended blue, that part of town sealed the deal. Often, I think they’d be happier if I was a lesbian but stayed Republican. Continue reading 9th Grade

Jazz Hands

I’m going with the flow so swimmingly I’m not sure which way is up. The job I’m working requires a type of stress management only a crazy person could love. Fortunately, I’m that kind of crazy. My accumulated experiences in the workforce has taught me many valuable lessons. Namely, don’t take work home with you. In a bar that applies to the clientele as well, to my dismay. I know for a fact that hooking up with people at your bar is a rookie mistake. I’ve got them all convinced I’m not a rookie. Ispo facto – no nookie with the nerds. I’ve adopted a imperious attitude with regulars as an attempt to distance myself from all of their pretty faces. My mantras revolve around the idea no one would want me anyway. The effect on my self esteem is damaging.
Continue reading Jazz Hands

Censorship

I talk about death and dying a lot. It’s part of my nature. If I don’t occasionally voice my thoughts on the subject the thoughts gum up the works in my brain. I meander through my day with a dull pulsing in my temple. “I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.” I silently watch other people going about their own lives, always wondering if any of them feel the oppressive weight of self-loathing I live with. I marvel that they can still breathe through the palpable pain I’m emanating. I envy them, at least on some level. An intimate observer of the many layers of shit in this world, I wonder if it’s warm underneath a mound of dung. Continue reading Censorship

Support Groups

I’m surrounded by the life I knew in Memphis. Bars, insecurity, aspiration, despair and hope. All of the things you witness in a group of people from different places. I didn’t find some cross-sectional utopia where we can all attest to our different challenges in life. This is anywhere people meet to hang out because they are lonely. A dive bar. A coffee shop. A book club. A meetup.com. Any of these places are where you find people from radically different backgrounds coming together because they experienced the same thing.

In my married life things were slightly more organized. My husband and I dedicated personal time to people that knew him before he was married. I wish it wasn’t so true but I didn’t have any friends and his group was accustomed to absorbing new members. The problem is I don’t absorb. I can’t ignore some thing and when it comes to female social structure, I’m sort of a lone wolf. I don’t dislike others. I’m grounded in what I truly believe. Until I’ve known you long enough to establish a certain baseline of moral being it’s incredibly hard to believe you’re a real thing.

Best example. When I got to Seattle I encountered a person going through a divorce somewhat similar to mine. A person experiencing a shadow of my reality that described it with eerie accuracy. My courage being weak, I didn’t talk to him about these very personal ideas because somehow I knew it wouldn’t be welcomed. The Seattle Freeze isn’t an intentional exclusion. It’s more like a skepticism – an inability to believe someone else can empathize. The Pacific Northwest is insanely sensitive. I’m sensitive and insane, yet it’s not exactly the same thing. I’m happy to be questioned – my insanity isn’t conventional.

I recently got a chance to talk to a happily married couple looking for some fun on the side. In the conversation I tried to discover the source of their deviance. I have no moral issue with a couple seeking outside entertainment. My issue is with the reasons behind it. Having only spoken to the man in the couple I agreed to meet them together on a Friday night in Capitol Hill, Seattle. Once we met my suspicions are confirmed – an awkward boy looking for something different while his wife merely came along for the ride. Kudos to him for not being a cheater. I addressed my advice directly to her, “You need to figure out what you want.”

My meaning isn’t to imply a guilt complex. Merely the fact that she is clearly in control of this relationship, so it’s on her to make a decision about what she wants. If it’s an open marriage, she needs to participate more actively. If they want totally different things, perhaps a separation. Or just separate ventures. It’s not up to me, I can only imagine some of the practical solutions. I try hard to only have strong opinions on what I truly have input on. Otherwise I’m just side-seat driving someone’s life.

The truth in my life – I’m looking for someone I can trust. Someone just as willing to sleep next to me as go bar hopping. I want someone less interested in sex and more interested in time spent together. The relationships I have are mostly predictable and I’m grateful for that. If I don’t find a genuine source of affection in the next few months I might have to resort back to one-night stands. By then, I should be numb enough to not mind much. Condoms have never been more important to me than they are now.

Why Are You Crying?

Oh look, a butterfly. Continue reading Why Are You Crying?

I’m Glad Hillary Didn’t Win

Contrarian by nature, this sentiment probably doesn’t surprise my friends. Just keep in mind, I was against Hillary running back in 2008. I wasn’t swayed by Bernie fever or decide to rally against Trump. I don’t think Hillary Clinton is a good choice for president of the United States. Just as much a criminal as our current president when it comes to shady financial dealings, she got a chance to meddle on the national level back in the 90s and has been stalking the presidency like a ticking crocodile ever since. That’s just the first reason I’m glad she didn’t win, chronologically speaking.
Continue reading I’m Glad Hillary Didn’t Win

Pity, Dreadful.

As a working stiff it’s vital that I have at least one mindless television show to escape into after a long, hard day. Someone mentions Penny Dreadful and so I give it a try. It’s a Showtime creation and labeled as British-American, whatever that means. I watched more HBO as a kid and remember only tuning into SHO after 11pm when things like The Red Shoe Diaries aired. Even then, I liked Real Sex more. The violence and sex of today’s Showtime seems less seedy, almost antiseptic, compared to the things I saw in the 90s.As if the prudes said, “Well if you’re going to show it, at least make it clean.” Continue reading Pity, Dreadful.

How To Leave Home

The key to my sanity is not using Facebook for anything substantial. I didn’t have one until 2014 and only created it for professional purposes. After leaving Memphis, I discovered the network’s draw in a whole new way. A deep connection to Facebook blurs reality and interpreting anything through the lens of etiquette established on the internet is risky at best. Facebook especially seems to have an elaborate set of rules about communication and privacy to the degree my own mother’s feelings are hurt when I don’t accept her friend request. Apparently sharing a blood supply isn’t a reassuring enough relationship. Continue reading How To Leave Home