Campfyre Stories

I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m a fat chick.  Not that I don’t intend/hope to change it at some point, but I’ve spent a lot of time and effort really looking at my habits and my lifestyle and my history and I pretty much know what it will take to change it.  It’s not something that’s entirely within my control.

This is not an excuse!  This is simply a recognition of how my body works (and how/when it doesn’t work).  I’m really focused on getting myself "fixed" and to a healthier place than I am now, but I am already quite healthy indeed, thank you very much, especially for a fat smoker.  So don’t think I’m making excuses for myself and saying "Oh well, I’ll be fat forever, it’s just how I am."

Believe me, I know exactly how I got here and why I’m still here and most of what it’s going to take to change it.  Again, though, some of those changes are not choices I can actively make.  I’m not getting into that, though, since I’m already starting to drift from my intended purpose of this post.

Being a fat chick is difficult.  People who don’t know you at all feel perfectly free to make derogatory comments and snap judgements based on your weight.  Fat isn’t even relative in these cases.  If you’re *at all* overweight, then you are fair game for people complaining about all kinds of stereotypical things that, with fat people, often don’t have a basis in reality.  Especially women.  While fat men are often thought of as jolly (thanks, Santa), fat women are generally thought of as bitter and bitchy.  In my case, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.  I’m one of those annoyingly perky, optimistic people with just enough spicing of jaded and skeptical to keep me from being actually a Merry Sunshine.

Woe be to you if you are fat and eating, or out of breath, or sweating or anything that allows someone to assume that you are lazy or smell bad or eat way too much and only things that are unhealthy.

But what fascinates me is how people who only know me a little behave.  Women, especially, who know me a little, seek to convince me that I’m not actually fat.  My close friends don’t do this.  Part of that may be that almost all of them either are or have been overweight.  This sentiment only comes from people I know tangentally or are just getting to know.  I’m not entirely sure where it comes from.  I’m not looking for any kind of argument and I don’t say it in a fishing way.  The "You’re not fat" statement ALWAYS comes out of nowhere.

And the bottom line is that I am fat.  I’m not disgustingly obese, I don’t take up two seats, I don’t have a problem getting through doors or breaking things I stand on, but I am 5’7 and I wear a size 20.  That’s fat.  When you *have* to shop in the plus size department or in specialty plus size stores, you are fat.  End of story.

I just don’t get it.  These women seem absolutely horrified that I would say something about being "a fat chick" in so flippant a manner.  They seem to think that it’s a bad thing that I’ve come to terms with my size and don’t make a big deal of it. 

Men don’t do this.  Men let the comment go by, only ever remarking if it’s something along the lines of "Well, some guys like that, Fyre."  Otherwise, no big deal is made of it.

I would understand if I were thin.  If I wore a clothing size in the single digits, then it would be DANGEROUS to allow me to think that I was fat.  If I even wore a size 12 or 14, I could accept it as a concern of anorexia or bulemia or something, but at a size 20?  It’s probably as dangerous to convince a girl my size that she isn’t fat as it is to convince a size 10 girl that she IS.

I wonder about the motivations of something like this.  I’m sure it comes from a good place, but it doesn’t make sense to me.  I know that I’m cute and fun and likeable, but I don’t know why I can’t be those things and also be "a fat chick".  It almost seems that for these well-intentioned women, you can’t be all of those things.  Maybe it’s just the stigma of the word "fat" that causes the problem.  I could (and have!) said "heavy" or "padded" or even "insulated" without getting the defensive reply from them.

Is it because I don’t fit the stereotype?  Or because the word itself carries baggage?  I’d appreciate insight from people who have done this or have seen it done or had it happen to them.  I don’t see the problem with coming to terms with my own body, however it’s shaped, but I’m kind of tired of people telling me things when all evidence points to my having gotten it right in the first place.

I’m not a sappy, sentimental person most of the time.  I rarely cry at movies, I don’t think I’ve ever cried over a book.  I’m outwardly pretty emotionally cold most of the time.  I remember when I was 9 and my grandmother died, I played the same sad song over and over and over again until it moved me to tears.  It wasn’t that I was unaffected, it was just that I didn’t have that outward emotional reaction.

Some would say this is unhealthy.

Sometimes it is.  Sometimes when things get really a bad, a good cry can do a world of good, but the older I get, the harder it is to force it if it just won’t come on its own, so I do the best I can.

But, I think, it only really applies to sadness.  I share my joy and laugh freely (as almost anyone can attest).  When I’m angry, I stand up for myself and remedy the situation.  I love with abandon, but…  I’m not allowed to share that with everyone because of the societal rules that are put on it.

I can tell my girls that I love them.  I can tell my family I love them.  With the boys…  not so much, though.  There are a couple I can say "…and that’s why I love you," but it’s more likely to come out as "…and that’s why you’re my friend."  Love is a four-letter word and its use is restricted specifically to romance among non-relations.

*sigh*

But I do love freely.  And when I say "love" I don’t mean "marry me".  It makes me wish that there was a wholly different word that means "in love" or "romantic love" because love is so much more than the boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife thing.

It’s hard for me, because every now and again, I find myself leaning toward that "in love" with people who I really just love, but can’t tell.  I think it’s something that’s been a problem in a lot of my romantic relationships – that the taboo of feeling love means that the only way to say it and feel it and have it be acceptable is to be lovers.  That sucks.

When I was a teenager, I adored the freedom of cuddling with my friends.  Of feeling like I could sit in M’s lap or lean against him with his arm around my shoulders and have it just be what it was.  It wasn’t until much MUCH later that I found out that he…   all the hes…  wanted it to be more, but were ok with taking what they could get.  I would have lived a happier, if more naive, life not having known about the "wanting more".

I probably only have one male friend now who I can stand next to with my arm around his waist and his arm around my shoulder and not feel like we’re doing something wrong.  He knows that I’ve "adopted" him as my brother and there’s no weird tension.  We’re both touchy-feely people and it’s not awkward, but he’s rare in my life these days.

And the problem is that my outlet for this lack of outward, identified, pure love for the people who are important in my life is to write love songs.  Romantic love songs.  Unrequited love songs.

Not written to the men who I wish I could tell in simple terms that they are important to me, but to men who I have created a fantasy of romantic love around.  I’ve fallen so far into this idea that I’m not even really sure what "in love" means anymore.  Not because I haven’t felt it, but because I’m questioning my own definition and the line between what it’s acceptable to say and what might make people uncomfortable simply because I have different parts.

I’ve realized that this is really my genre.  When people ask "what kind of songs do you write?" the answer is love songs.  Sometimes it’s not about a boy, or it’s some kind of departure, but fundamentally, they’re all love songs.  I may very well be in love with the concept of love in all its forms.

With one primary exception, I fall in and out of infatuation with people pretty regularly.  I fall for someone long enough to write a song about the feelings I’m experiencing and then I move on.  Sometimes it’s a friend of mine, sometimes it’s someone I only know a little, sometimes it’s someone I have created in my head, but it’s generally pretty brief and I get over it and move on to the next crush.

When I don’t get over it, it’s a little scary.  When I get over it for a little while and it comes back, it’s more than a little scary.  When it’s there so strongly that writing a song doesn’t even mitigate the feelings, it’s downright terrifying.  Since I’ve been really writing songs (let’s call it the past 4-5 years), that has only happened once…  and hasn’t gone away.

And I’m not one to be weepy and sentimental and gushing.  I’m a lot more prone to assuming that He already knows and isn’t interested or he would have said something.  This is stupid, I am aware, but it’s less stupid than losing an important person from my life entirely.  So what did I do?  Well, I wrote a song.  Not about him, but about my own knowledge of the risks of saying something and the difficulty of not saying anything and being resigned to never actually acting on the feelings that simply won’t go away.

And it’s pretty.  It’s another unrequited, romantic love song.  But some part of me can’t help but wonder if I could branch out from this niche I’ve locked myself into and stop myself from falling in and out of infatuation, if only it were possible to tell more of the people I love platonically how much they mean to me, in the words that define it in my head, and in my heart.

I’ll admit it, I’m proud of myself.  I set some attainable goals and exceeded them.

Not only did I write a complete song in a week that is ready to play (probably), but I was going through my song book the other day and found a song I had never finished.  I always liked it, so I took some time and finished it up.  It wasn’t until after I had practiced it and walked away that I realized what it was about…  again, it’s not a love song, at least not a romantic love song.  It’s actually a song that I didn’t realize I was writing for my best friend.

Some time ago (I forget exactly when), I was in a pretty deep depression.  Nothing was going right, I felt like I had no real options that would work for me.  Girl kept saying "You’re too close to this, you’re looking to hard.  Step back and the answer will come."  I’m not a very patient person and "wait and see" is just about the worst possible situation for me to find myself in.  I got frustrated with this repeated advice and unwittingly wrote a song that was essentially me saying all those things to Girl and her giving me what felt like useless advice.

But on the other side of things, her advice was completely sound and, eventually, the answer did come.  That was the missing piece of the song that I couldn’t see while I was in the middle of all the internal melodrama.  I was able to wrap up the song with solutions and answers, and to some extent an acknowledgement of all the things she had said to me.

What I find interesting about the whole thing, though, is that Girl and I are in an opposite situation.  She’s now telling me that she feels lost and that she doesn’t have the options in front of her that she’d like to have.  I’m the one saying "Step back and let the answer come" and, heh, she’s not really feeling it.

And now I have a song that’s really about the relationship that we have, each of us taking one of the two sides, non-exclusively.

I fully intend to perform it tonight.  The only downside is that she won’t be there to hear it.  But at least I have it for her.  It’s a really good feeling to have done this.

Three little words that can mean so much.

I consider myself a caring person.  At the very least, I honestly care about the people who are a chosen part of my life and I want to know how they’re doing, especially when things turn bad.  I put the well-being of my friends and family at a high priority, sometimes even to my own detriment.

The people I care most about are the ones who are caring in return.  I called a friend last night because I was worried about her future.  A project that she has been highly invested in is ending and her career is in doubt.  Now, she’s the type of person who flies by the seat of her pants and always manages to land on her feet, but I still worry, especially when she’s about to take off in a new flight.

But when I talked to her to say "Are you okay?  Where do you go from here?" I was in a bad way.  I had found myself that morning too depressed to get out of bed (I guess they call that a "mental health day") and all wrapped up in my head.  Though I had called, specifically, to be there for her and to check in, she wound up taking care of me and, you know, I really needed it, despite my guilty feelings that it really wasn’t the time to hold the spotlight.

She’s the polar opposite of another of my friends who seems to not be aware of the world outside of her immediate perception.  Never does she start a conversation with "How are you?" or even ask whether or not it’s a good time to talk (even when it’s clearly not).  Everything is tragic or annoying or angering and, honestly, when I’m in a good headspace, I can totally commiserate and be sympathetic, but I’m not in a good headspace these days and haven’t been for a while.  It would be nice to have a few moments of empathy or sympathy that doesn’t turn into "look at me!  look at me!"

With the vast majority of my friends, there is an equal amount of give and take.  We make the effort to put our petty annoyances and grievances on hold when the other person has greater need.  We take turns complaining or crying or bitching or whining as needed.  We support *each other* and we make the point of checking in with the other even when whatever good or bad is overwhelming.

Sometimes we fail, as humans are prone to doing, but always we make the effort, and the times when we fail are few and far between and made up for by the times we succeed.  I don’t know that the failures are even really noted, since they happen so rarely.

Maybe I’m being petty about it, but it doesn’t seem like all that much to ask.  How are you?  How are things going?  Are you okay?  To me, it’s a given, but when it’s not actually given, ever, I find myself questioning whether or not it’s worth putting the effort into.

I mean, if you can’t count on someone when you need them, what’s the point of keeping them around?

This is not worth reading.  It’s not worth your time and the subject line is VERY accurate.  It’s a whole lot of me whining and I seriously considered password protecting it.  In the interest of having nothing to hide, I changed my mind on that front, but still, really, don’t bother.

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This entry was inspired by the coloring book "Girls are not Chicks".  Above is an image (used with permission) from the book that really spoke to me.  I encourage you to check out their site.

I think that the word "feminist" has gotten a bad rap.  It’s all too often believed to mean "women are better than men" as opposed to the more realistic "men and women should have the same rights and reap the same rewards for taking the same risks".  Part of that has to do with the stereotype of militant feminists at the beginning the feminist movement in the US.  There’s a measure of extremism that was necessary in order to get it off the ground, but also, extremists tend to be more vocal on any topic than moderates.

I consider myself a feminist.  Anything men can do, women can do.  Not better, not faster, just can do, also.  I believe that there are situations where men are better equipped to handle themselves and situations where women are better equipped to handle themselves.  I don’t believe that equality means lowering the standards of a job description in order to allow the opposite sex to participate, I believe that it means "if you meet the criteria, you should be a candidate."  I believe that whoever gets to the door first should hold it for the people who are in the immediate vicinity.  I believe that anyone who needs assistance should have the door held for them.  I hold doors open for men, women, children and I expect they will do the same for me if the alternative is me being hit by that door when/if they don’t.

I have a friend who is kind of the antithesis of a feminist.  It’s not that he disagrees with equality, he just thinks that men are often more oppressed than women and that women complain about things that men have worse, that one of the effects of feminism has been to both de-masculize men and to deride them if they behave in ways considered to be effeminate.  As I was composing a rough outline of the things I wanted to say, I realized that he’s not entirely wrong in some of that thinking.

The whole concept of the metrosexual movement is that men should embrace some of the major oppressors of women.  They are encouraged to follow the fashion industry, to spend additional money on beauty products, to rid themselves of unnecessary body hair, to create themselves in ways that will cause society to rank them among the "beautiful people" without regard to who they are/how they feel inside.  It’s less prevalent in men than in women, but it’s becoming more common.

And is this really the answer?  To have some semblance of equality do men have to become more like women and women become more like men?  It’s a common thought, regardless of the amount of truth in it.

Honestly, the whole male/female, masculine/feminine dichotomy is something I’ve battled with quite a lot in my life.  I’ve never been all that stereotypically feminine.  I don’t put crap in my hair, I don’t use makeup, I don’t buy clothes based on what’s in fashion at the moment, I’m not demure, I don’t need help, I know how to use tools and how to fix things around the house…  I don’t get all wrapped up in gender differences and, frankly, I find that I prefer the company of men to the company of women on a regular basis.

When I was younger this led to statements like "Oh, jeez, Fyre, sorry about [what I just said]. I forgot you were a girl."

Not "I forgot you were here", but "I forgot you were a girl."

The first couple of times, it’s kind of funny.  The next couple of times, it’s annoying.  When it happens regularly and turns out to happen in different social circles it becomes incredibly depressing.

So I turned it around and started using "being a girl" as a label for certain stereotypical things.  "I’m just being a girl about this.  I need to gain some perspective."  "Yeah, I went to this event and I actually dressed like a girl!  Makeup, crap in my hair, hose, heels, little black dress, the whole nine…"  I stopped thinking about why I was doing it or what it meant, really, because everyone, EVERYONE knew what I was talking about.

And then I was telling a story to a friend of mine who I can only refer to as a "gentleman"; who holds doors (opens car doors!) for women and even insists upon it sometimes, practices hat etiquette and generally treats women like they are "ladies" on a regular basis.  I said, "Yeah, man, I even looked like a girl that night." and he said, "Huh?  What are you talking about?  I mean, it’s not like you look masculine at other times."

AND HE WAS RIGHT.  This type of man who is generally regarded as the opposite of feminism, someone who values certain traditions of interaction between men and women had unwittingly called me out on behavior that I wasn’t even aware of.  I had decided, on some level, that because I wasn’t a part of some of the stereotypical cultural traditions of US women, that because my friends would "forget" that I was a girl, that I was less of a girl for it.  And I’m not.

I embrace pink in some situations.  I find it to be a pleasant color.  I like to look and feel pretty.  I like sparkly things.  I like having cleavage and I like showing it off.  The other day I bought a pair of shoes just because they were cute (which was a mistake because they’re not very comfortable :-/).  I read Glamour – I mock the makeup and fashion stuff, but I enjoy the articles and have subscribed in the past.  I have found that sometimes "shopping therapy" really does make things better.

I also don’t really like babies, so don’t ask me to coo over their pictures.  I believe that marriage is a stupid concept, so I won’t fawn all over an engagement ring.  I don’t ask for help I don’t need.  I don’t think that every problem is best solved by talking it out.  I don’t expect "him" to pay for dinner.  I don’t want or need preferential treatment, but in exchange, I don’t want to be punished for having tits, either.

I have a problem with labels, but I don’t have a problem with words.  I have no issues with the word "bitch" or with some women embracing it, but I don’t like it being directed at me because I"m not one.  I like the word "girl" because I do have many child-like qualities to my personality.  I also like the word "chick" because, to me, it has a certain synonimity with "hip".  I can understand the women who prefer to not be called "girls" or anything other than "women", but I don’t fall into that category.  You have to pick your battles, I guess, and that’s just not one of mine.

I want girls to be able to play with trucks and not be questioned.  I want boys to be able to wear whatever they want without being thought of as "gay".  I want for people to be treated in ways that are based on who they are, not the level of conformity to social "norms" that they exhibit.  I want for women to not be assumptively assigned to take notes or get coffee or do the filing because of their gender.  I want men to not be encouraged to be stoic and emotionally distant simply because there’s something dangling between their legs.  I want people to be treated equally and I want them to not have to fight for respect that is given to those who already fit the prescribed mold.  I want stay-at-home moms given the same respect for working moms given the same respect as women who are childless by choice, because it was supposed to be abou
t having all the choices available to us and not about invalidating traditional choices.

And for all that, I still consider myself a feminist.  Not a militant one, not an extremist one, just a woman looking for equality in the new millenium.

…on so many levels!  Thank goodness most of my friends are as well.

Yesterday was a real treat for me.  My little brother’s school was having a fundraiser for the Senior class and they decided to hold a Spa Night.  For $20 I got a clay face mask, a facial steam, aromatherapy, herbal tea and a chair massage.  Though I invited several of my girls, none could make it this time around.  If they had come with, they would better understand why and how I am a dirty old lady.

First off, let me say that this was exactly what I needed.  It was incredibly relaxing and nice to be pampered (for only $20!).  They say that they may be doing this again and periodically.  Sign me up for it monthly.

Ok, so here’s the thing.  My brother’s school is part of a very tightly-knit community.  It is affiliated with the alternative elementary school in my area and most everyone knows everyone else.  Not me so much, simply because I’ve removed myself from it, but 20+ years ago it was true for me as well.

There were a lot of babies born when I was attending The Free School and, in a school that tops out somewhere between 50-70 kids total for all the grades, you pretty much know everyone and the older kids (girls) are usually the ones hired to babysit the little ones.  I still see some of the kids who I’ve known since (before) they were born.

My justification is that when you go to get a massage from a guy who is a little over 6′, amazingly well toned, GORGEOUS (it’s completely accurate to call him a hottie) and has a very deep sexy voice, unless he is actually related to you, how can you not feel at least *some* pull of attraction?  But it’s not even really a problem until after his strong hands have worked their magic and he utters the handful of what really should be innocuous statements like "Do you mind if I use some lotion?" and, at the end, "Thank you."  Because those two moments were what caused me to have some seriously indecent thoughts about this boy who is Far Too Young for me, who I have known his entire life!

Yes, I feel dirty.

Even worse, I feel very strongly that if this Spa Night doesn’t become a regular thing, I may have to pay the Boy (who is a licensed masseur) to rub me down from time to time.  Shut up!  Not like THAT.

But wait, there’s more!

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Who would you lie for?  Who would you die for?  Who would you visit in the hospital?  How many people outside of your family would you dare to tell that you love them?  What are your boundaries and what are your definitions?

I have a friend, a very good friend who listed me as her beneficiary for her life insurance policy.  She considers me her best friend and I feel the same way about her.  When she told me about the life insurance thing I was touched, when she told me again several years later (since I had completely forgotten), she brought me to tears.  I don’t really want to think about death much at all, but knowing that she trusts me with that kind of responsibility is, to me, what that real deep friendship is.

I think that most people have few true friends in their lives.  Sure, you have friends that last lifetimes and maybe even people you love so much that you might as well consider them family, but there’s a certain bond that comes about only a couple of times and even then, only if you’re lucky.  It’s something that doesn’t come anywhere near romance, but allows you to still say "I love you" and, as importantly, to hear it.  I think that for men it’s probably a little different, without the physical affection and, probably, without the words, but I’ve been lucky enough to see that bond between some men as well as some women.

I think there are people who don’t know who their best friend is.  If you asked them, they would give you one answer, but if you asked those around them, they would know who it really was.  I also think that there are some people who just don’t have one and whenever I see that, it makes me sad. 

You have to understand, I spent a significant portion of my life not having a best friend.  Much of that was simply because I hadn’t yet learned how to trust people, but also it was because we had moved so many times that I just couldn’t open myself up to the loss.  When I finally met my best friend it was years and years later, when neither one of us was looking.  It took her saying for me to even realize that I finally had that, for real.

This is the person who knows more of my secrets that anyone else, except possibly my brother, but she probably knows more than he does.  She can tell when something’s wrong before she picks up the phone, she can call me and break down and I’ll understand every word she says.  She’s the one I run to when things get to be too much and I do the same for her. 

I always wished I had a sister, but this is even better, since we don’t have to be rivals for our parents’ affection, but the irony in that is that we love each other’s parents as much as we can, and we understand all the drama that ties in with family life.

When I sat down to write, I didn’t have a theme or subject or intention, but I wasn’t really expecting this.  I expected it, as I started, to be something a little more general.  Now that I’ve written it I can’t help but wonder whether or not people know who their best friend is, or even if they have one.  Married couples usually think that their spouse is their best friend, but I think that most of them are wrong, because your best friend is the one who stands by you during your fights with your spouse, h/she’s the one who is the shoulder you cry on during breakups and that is never your girlfriend or boyfriend or husband or wife or any other kind of partner.  Your best friend transcends all of those other things and is just there for you.

So I challenge you, all of you who made it to the end of this entry.  Think about who your best friend is, and then ask around, your significant other, your friends, and see if it’s really who you think it is.

Mine’s the one who lets me cry on her shoulder, calls me her voice of reason and tells me she loves me.  Interestingly enough, she’s one of the few who are really close to me and don’t actually read my blog.  So she never knows when I say nice thing about her.

And I almost think that that’s the way it should be.

Ahh, Mother’s Day.  I’m meh on the topic as a whole, but the Tulip Fest really makes the holiday for me.  i appreciate my mother every day of the year and don’t feel like I need a designated day to appreciate her with the rest of the world.  Not that I don’t celebrate Mother’s Day, I do, but I don’t really need it.  So I didn’t write a tribute to my mother in my blog.  I’m sure she understands.

Girl got into town late Friday night, which meant that we were up til the wee hours of Saturday morning catching up and having girl talk.  it was Saturday, though, that she was really here for.  We got down there just before OK Go (who Girl was unfamiliar with) started playing, giving us some time to run into a couple people we knew and to find a decent place to start.

I say start because I am, and have been for most of my life, a seasoned concert goer – especially for outdoor concerts.  Outdoors or general admission, it is my abject purpose to get as close to the stage as possible, and I am GOOD at this.  I see every available opening and pretty much keep moving until I’m satisfied.  I’ve been doing this for as long as I’ve been going to concerts unchaperoned and can only assume that my parents taught me this, so I turned to Girl and said, "Have you ever been to an outdoor concert with me?"  She said no, to which i responded, "This is how I do.  Keep up and I’ll get us up close.  If I lose you, meet after this is over at the EQX tent."  She kept up.  I got us close.

And, my gods, do they give good show.  Well dressed with stage presence and really good…  shoot, really good EVERYTHING.  Vocals, backing vocals, insturmentation, lyrics, you name it.  They have a very "British Invasion" feel to them, but it doesn’t distract from what they give out.  Damian jumped down into the audience and basked in the love of the teenage girls and, of course, at the end of their set, we were treated to a live performance of their music video "A Million Ways."

Then it was off to the line.  The line to meet the band, get autographs, etc.  We two, at 30, were the oldest people in that line who were not designated camera-holding parents.  Of course, we were also not giddy in that fourteen year old EEEEEEEEEEE!  I’M MEETING THE BAND!!!!!  SIGN MY BOOBIES!!!!! kind of way…  we enjoyed them, Girl enjoying her first exposure, me enjoying my first live concert of theirs and we chatted a bit.  Damian suggested I check out a guy called MC Paul Barman, who was his roommate in college.  He’s pretty decent, check him out.  It felt good to chat with them, but the line made me feel rushed.  However, I intend to get another chance… that comes later.

TMBG played after OK Go.  i was less than impressed.  It wasn’t them, it was the sound, which was pretty insanely bad, and a shame, because I do like TMBG.  *sigh*  Oh well, it gave us a chance to wander about the Tulip Fest for a while before we decided it was just too chilly and headed on home to beat the rain.  Girl took off for a while and the Spawn and I had our time together, which was unexpected and very nice.  After Spawn went to bed and Girl had come back we again stayed up until the wee hours, just hanging out.  I think it was therapeutic for both of us, just having a chance to catch up and relax.

Sunday, Mother’s Day, Spawn gave me a t-shirt he made that says "Chocobo Power!", which has become an in-joke between the two of us after finding a Chocobo powered ship in Final Fantasy X, which i finally beat after some 50 hours of play.  He was very proud of it and I adore it

Anyway, Girl left early on Sunday, leaving Spawn and I to enjoy Mother’s Day and to take the Child of Chaos for long enough for my little brother, RC2 to take mom out to a movie.  All in all it was a wonderful weekend, and the upcoming week should prove to continue this trend.

I am currently  working on finding a way to see OK Go play at Northern Lights tomorrow night.  I know that most of you out there are not rockstars, but if anyone wants to come with me, let me know and we’ll figure it out.  However, be forewarned, I am on a mission.  That’s all I’m saying about it right now, we’ll see how things go at the actual show.

But no more writing for today, I can’t sit here any longer.

By the time I got on the train, I had let everything go.  No obligations, no necessaries, no worries, no cares, I was just off – taking a break from everything in my real life.  One of the promises I made myself is that I wouldn’t feel obligated to blog.  And it’s not out of obligation that I write now, but because of the way my thoughts organized themselves as I walked up the street on my way to have lunch with Girl.

It’s finally really spring.  There is something very satisfying about packing optimistically to find that you packed exactly right for the weather.  Spring is, by far, my favorite season, when I can again comfortably wear the plunging necklines, when my favorite flower is in bloom.  It’s about rebirth and renewal, but also about waking up and coming out of hibernation.  I feel like I’m really in an ideal setting for that.

Girl’s new digs is located in an area that is simply teeming with daffodils in bloom.  Just walking up Broadway, I couldn’t even begin to count the plots of daffodils, which lifted my already-high spirits.  I wore one of my favorite springy outfits today, letting my cleavage get a little sun and a little air.  I wouldn’t display them if I didn’t want people to look, but while I wore my sunglasses, I was amused to notice  the notion of "I can’t see her eyes, therefore, she can’t see mine" give all kinds of passersby the comfort level to REALLY look.  Not that I mind at all…  in fact, I kind of get a kick out of it.

But it really is spring, it’s warm and sunny and gorgeous, so what I really don’t understand is the confusion most women seem to have right now in terms of what to wear.  I lost count of the number of heavy jackets or bulky sweaters and scarves, winter scarves that people were still wearing.  I mean, sure, you don’t trust the forecast or it was cold this morning, but at lunchtime when it’s up around 70 degrees, you NO LONGER NEED TO WEAR YOUR WOOL SCARF.  In fact, you look more the fool for doing so.  But, that’s ok, with the severe lack of plunging necklines, I was happy to bask in that particular spotlight.  Leg men had plenty to look at, boob guys had to search a little more

I am so happy to be free of the (mostly) self-imposed shackles of my daily life.  I’m not sure what kind of perspective I’m going to take away from this, but I am already starting to see myself making very minor changes and Girl has noticed too.  Will it last?  I have no idea.  Will I tell anyone what I’ve changed?  I don’t think so, but I bet at least a couple people will notice…