From a Chip on My Shoulder to Chipped Bones

I can totally see, how someone from the outside looking in at my happy-go-lucky life, might consider me the epitome of a lazy sack of shit...a good-time-Charlie (Charlene?)...and a loser. I know for a fact that my ex-husband thinks me the very definition of a loser. I am the model he uses when emphasizing to our children, that for them going to college is not elective. Perish the thought they be unqualified to do anything other than shit jobs in this life, and become useless good-for-nothings...like their mother. The thing of it is though, that guy's opinion don't mean doodly to me. Any person born into a guaranteed, lucrative career, having never had a "regular" job - waiting tables or painting houses or working retail (like the rest of us) can come straight over here and kiss mama's ass. I don't wanna hear about how a lack of education locks a person in to a lifetime of hardship and a pointless existence, especially from someone who's had everything handed to him and has never experienced financial strife. Furthermore, I am not lazy. I actually stay ridiculously busy and am generally very "productive". It's just that at the moment, I don't happen to generate large quantities of money (well...any money, really) doing what it is that I do, that's all...

I liken my current status to the proverbial "starving artist" scenario, since I am irrevocably driven to follow my creative urges to the willful neglect of monetary stability...despite being fully cognizant of the fact that my chances of realizing any sort of "greatness" are about as likely as getting struck by lightening...or winning the lottery...or playing on an NBA team.

It is a bit frustrating though, because even as a half-assed visual artist producing drawings and paintings, at least I did end up with a tangible good to peddle. But it's a little more tricky to make money off your craft when your passion is blogging, and you've no real ware to try and sell...And in further contrasting "painting" to "writing"...why is it that the starving visual artist is perceived to be somehow more admirable or romantic or legit - than the starving blogger who happens to be just as devoted and sometimes even more so - to their particular chosen field...food for thought...

I've always suspected that it was likely, that any number of my closest friends might find me and my unorthodox lifestyle, equally as lame and self-indulgent as my ex does. But it wasn't until just the other week that one of my gf's finally got up in my face about it...and Oh Golly! Quel Surprise!

My lower lip trembled and my chin quivered a bit, as I drove away from the bank. I'd just discovered that my checking account balance was a little more than $1800 in the hole (like, who besides me even does that shit?)...I went next door to the post office, hoping I might've received notice that I'd won a million dollar sweepstakes or something...(and whaddya know. I did not) and that's when I ran into my good girlfriend, who was also there checking her mail. The instant I opened my mouth to speak to her, the flood gates were breached and I suffered a complete emotional meltdown over this recent dismal turn of events...right there in front of my friend and everyone else at the post office. The shocker was, that instead of giving me a comforting hug and lying to me that it would all be OK (as any good friend should do) my dear friend fairly well read me the riot act. Raising her voice, she firmly urged me to hang up the dating and the writing and all that. She insisted that none of any of that was ever gonna help to improve my gloomy financial picture and that what I needed was to get a "real" job (the heck you say, woman?!) Which I guess in theory is all well and good except for the fact that it's Summer now...and during the summertime - my kids and sometimes some of my friends' kids - are here at home with me, during every weekday except one. Being available to work only one day a week, does not exactly make me desirably hirable...

Airing her obvious pent-up resentment of me, she continued her tongue-lashing, by citing - writing should be my hobby, that's it! Not the all-consuming addiction it has become. She saw my undying desire to become a successful, well-known blogger - as a pathetic and delusional pipe-dream, "I hate to break it to you, but you're never gonna go far with your writing...it just doesn't happen that way for people very often. You need to get over it and move the hell on" She then proceeded to contradict herself by pulling the whole "Why don't you go back to doing your dog portraits..."-card, which to this day still has me stymied. She knows as well as I do, that I never made much money when I was drawing and painting for a "living". Plus, money and success aside, I do feel that there's value in the fact that I absolutely LOVE to write...as much and as often as I can. Back when I was painting, I never felt even a shred of the same compulsion that now draws me to my studio to write...

After riding out my friend's diatribe, I was seriously like, "Calm the freak down!" (only I didn't have the nerve to actually say it) I mean her rancor towards my "life of leisure" was palpable, and quite honestly I drove away from her tirade feeling far more pissed off than distraught (the good news was, I'd stopped bawling at least) All I could think was, "Oh, yeah? Well, just watch me honey. I'm still gonna date and write and I'll prove it to ya'...I'm not doing all of this in vain"

I don't know if people realize that this shit that I do - farting around on dating sites trying to line up whatever next date, and the actual dating itself...along with the excessive amount of time that I spend writing about everything that happens - takes a veritable coon's age, thank you very much. On top of all that I've now added to the line-up - taking my weekly Twitter #HNT pictures. It can take anywhere from 2 - 4 hours, staging and snapping sometimes upwards of 200 photos, and on top of that then spending many more hours downloading and editing the pics...I would venture to say that I devote as much or more time - researching, writing and promoting my blog, than most people do at their normal jobs. I've had days where I've written for 17 hours straight, with only a few spoonfuls of peanut butter to help keep me nourished. But since I make no money (so far) doing all of this stuff, it means to many that what I'm doing - is worthless...I beg to differ.

I honestly believe that blogging about my experiences with men, is the thing that I'm supposed to be doing. Additionally, I am perfectly situated to advertise my Big Ugly Blog, by posting racy pics. in its honor on the internet, while simultaneously pushing my Twitter and FB to their absolute limits...why? Because it's not like I'm some kid who's online indiscretions will impact whether or not I get into the college of my choice. And I will never have a high profile career where my boss might end up slapping me on the wrist (or worse) for my questionable antics on the web. That being said, I always keep my kids in the forefront of my mind, whenever deciding which nakey pics. to upload. I always ask myself before I click "post" "How would the kids feel if they saw this one day?" And so far I've not put one single photo on the internet, that I wouldn't willingly show them right now............eh, on second thought - scratch that last part...

And one last thought before I quit venting - I'm sure that many of you out there, get paid by someone else to work on a computer all day, am I right? Does the fact that I'm working possibly just as hard, but without generating income - make my deal that much less honorable? Cuz honestly, my unwavering enthusiasm for the entire Big Ugly project, I would guess might make me more efficient and productive than lots of peeps working a desk job that they could give a flyin' flip about...so there's that. I bet not many of you clock in for the man, genuinely happy to get crackin' at 6:30 in the a.m.. And I bet fewer still, don't get up to go home til as late as 12:30 or 1:00 at night...but I do that, quite often in fact - and I don't get paid overtime, or time and a half or even paid at all, for that matter.

I'm not tryin' to bust on people for the jobs that they do or their level of devotion to their careers, I just want folks to understand that the effort I put into my Big Ugly Blog, isn't (hopefully?) as frivolous as they might think...

(Woah...when did I get this big honkin' chip on my shoulder?)

So anyway, as my last childless weekend swiftly approached, I had no plans to play with any of my old stand-by's...the Marine has been scarce, the hot lawyer from the big city was a no-show (again) and all I really wanted was for the online guy who lives 6 hrs away and who wore me out having text sex (or...sext...) all week long, to come here and fuck me for real - like he promised! But just like he's done each time before, he went mysteriously missing at the very last minute. SO! I committed to hunkering down in my studio to spend the bulk of the next three days - writing...even though Willow and MC Ginger had asked if they could crash at my place for the weekend...I mean, I knew that we'd enjoy a few cocktails together, but I was hellbent on skipping the weekend long party that Pierre (my friend up the road) would be hosting and that Willow and MC Ginger planned on attending.

That Thursday night before Pierre's 3 day-long bacchanalia, I invited him over to help bake some naughty confections that I might contribute to the spread in my stead. While Pierre and I toiled in my kitchen, baking chocolate penis and vanilla boob cakes to just die for, we spent most of our time together talking shop about men (my dear friend is gay, thus the boy-heavy convo) I was delighted but not surprised when Pierre took all that I said and concluded that I would make the perfect gay guy. But what did startle me was to hear it come out of my mouth, that I wasn't bothered a bit, to have no dates lined up...at all. Normally by the Thursday before a childless weekend, I'm on a mad frantic rampage to schedule men into every open slot, but for whatever reason, this particular Thursday, I'd resigned myself to just laying low. Pierre agreed that forgetting about men for a bit, might not necessarily be a bad thing...but rather than turn into some crazy recluse inextricably attached to my computer, he suggested that I indulge in some lighthearted funtime with friends. He asserted that carefree merrymaking with a bunch of good buds, might offer a completely different slant to my blog...which would be tantamount to my goal of keeping my blog ever fresh (he's a damned good salesman, that one!)

By the time opening night of Pierre's weekend-long "Adult Summer Camp" arrived - I relented, and tagged along with Willow and MC Ginger to the party...the anatomically correct boob and dick cakes in my hands.

It had been one of this summer's most sweltering days, so by the time that we'd all had a ridiculously large quantity of alcohol, we decided that we needed to get our hot little bodies into some water somewhere...and fast! We drove to the pool that was the obvious choice, hopped the fence and a few of us shimmied out of our clothes. I found it odd that so few in the group went swimming, and that even fewer decided to skinny dip. There was me (the oldest "camper" by far - at almost twice the age of the other participants, ugh) along with Willow, Pierre and Pierre's ADORABLE friend...mmmm...lllllet's just call him Adonis.

Right, so the whole scene - frolicking with abandon, naked and surrounded by so many young people, harkened back to my own days of wild youth - doing exactly the same silly shit...*sigh* Needless to say, I quickly became wrapped up in the moment and after one brave soul did a flip off of the lifeguard stand, it took no coaxing for me to try it too. I climbed up the ladder and perched for a second and then did a perfect (best I remember) flip into the pool...and as soon as I hit the water...I knew that I'd totally fucked up. My foot hit the bottom of the pool with such force that I felt a sharp pain in my heel and my knee. I swam to the side and struggled to climb out and fighting tears, asked Willow and MC Ginger if we could go home...

The whole way home, I cried like a baby, not so much from the pain but more from the thought of a potential new string of medical expenses. Jesus Christ - had I not just finished paying off my broken thumb? And now this?! Willow tenderly tucked me into bed. She gave me water and Advil, and placed a bag of frozen peas under my foot as well as a bag of frozen corn on my knee. It was funny to me that my 25 year old friend, effortlessly assumed the mature, motherly role...while I played the incorrigible child...brilliantly...

When I woke in the morning I was hopeful that I actually might be a-ok. My leg didn't hurt at all at first, but when I stepped out of bed, the pain was so severe that I fell to the floor with a thud. I hobbled through the house and out to my car and drove myself to the E.R. at 6:30 a.m.. When I finally left the hospital (4 hours later...grrr...) I had a brace and crutches (no cast, thank god) and two broken bones in my leg...sheesh...

I swear...out of all those times that I've intentionally hurled myself down loooong flights of stairs, the worst injury I ever suffered was a little rug burn. But try to do one harmless flip into the pool and the next thing I know, I'm a gimp.

So, you may be wondering...did I learn anything after spending a Friday night with friends, instead of tangled up with a date or tete a tete with my trusty ole Mac? Why yes...yes indeedy, I most certainly did...

I learned that although I love them all madly, it doesn't matter to me what my friends think. Agreed, it may not be the most practical, advantageous or profitable pastime, but evidently online dating and writing (it seems) - for me is undeniably the safest...so there!