November 20th, 2008
I’ve been thinking. (Collective groans commence.) I’ve been thinking that I’ve been thinking too much. You know? I’m trying too hard. It’s messing me up. Not every post has to have a point. It doesn’t have to be witty or wise or even logical. I mean, random is my thing, babies. It’s what I’m known for ’round these parts. “These parts” being my bedroom and kitchen.
So I’m going to write what I want. I’m going to write it in bullets. Or half-sentences. Or nonsense. Or maybe not at all. It’s just that I’ve been paralyzed for some time now. A prisoner of my own mind. Scared of what people think. This past weekend, I froze up even more after I walked into a kid’s party and a dad called out to me, “Hey San Diego Momma!” Even though I knew I’d given him the link (I think) at some point (when?) possibly when drunk (probably), it threw me for a loop. Suddenly I thought I needed to be “San Diego Momma” (whoever the hell she is) and my mind wandered back to my poo posts and my mucous poems and that one time my tampon fell out at the beach. I’ve got friends and some family who read this blog and so I find myself always evaluating my “post of the day,” re-reading it once, twice or forever times, and wondering if they think I’m certifiably insane or just taking a long ride on the short bus.
So when tonight I revisited “my other blog that shall not be named,” the one no one ever read, I thought, “I was better when I didn’t care if I sucked.” And let it be known across the land: I DID suck. But somehow the sucking is more palatable when you’re the only one who knows you suck.
I have to admit that I kind of hate it when I read other bloggers like me who say Oh hi! I’m just going to write whatever! I don’t care anymore! Blah blee bloo blah. It reads so self-absorbed, and most of the time I think they should just get over themselves. But I never said I didn’t have to get over myself. It’s my life problem.
To sum up, a few minutes ago Toots was trying on my high heels and clunking all over the house with the weight of the shoes preceding her. Suddenly she stopped, looked at me and said, “I’m not bringing these shoes. These shoes are bringing me.”
And I thought, “Exactly.”
Meanwhile, here’s something I wrote on the other blog that shall not be named. It’s not eloquent. It’s not expressive. It’s not even prose. But I wrote it off the cuff and it says what I need it to. At the time, I thought if nobody reads it, nobody will think it sucks. And I found a measure of freedom in that. So I’m putting it here as a symbolic gesture. Go ahead and let it suck for you. Because I’m the new me! And I am now immune to people thinking I blow ass.
CLOSER I AM TO DORKDOM
So I love the Indigo Girls.
You should read their lyrics if you like to write. They are poets. They will inspire you and make you jealous.
I went to their concert last night and was determined to get back stage. Plan A failed, so I quickly improvised with Plan B: hang out at their tour bus until they board for their next gig.
There we meet Chris — a gay man who followed his lover to Alaska, then had enough cold put on his skin and in his heart, so moved to San Diego. He is from Philadelphia. He writes marketing copy.
We talk. We smoke. I have my pen ready for the inevitable autograph request I am planning in my head. I fish a piece of paper out of my purse that I received at a writer’s seminar. It has words on it designed to get your mind going and to stimulate creativity and get you writing. The words are “dark, mountains, shoes, something outrageous that happened and a taste.” I want the Indigo Girls to sign the back of it.
I have to go to the bathroom. I couldn’t sacrifice the valuable time to go looking for a bathroom should the Girls come to the bus before I return, so I pee between two cars by the bus. I come back and ask Chris for a leaf. He doesn’t have one.
So then, I can’t find my pen. I realize I must have lost it while peeing, so I quickly run back to the spot and see my pen lying in a pool of urine. Ah well, I think, it’s my urine and I won’t tell the Indigo Girls. No one’s the wiser. I pick it up and head back to the bus.
After one hour, I am tired and want to go to my car. My friend Michelle talks me into staying and good thing too because the Indigos just walked to the bus at the moment I almost went to my car.
We pop out in the dark behind a shrub and may have scared the living crap out of the entourage. At any rate, they recover, Chris says “Hi Girls!” and I say “Will you sign my writing prompts? Will you sign my writing prompts?”
Seriously, I thought they were going to bolt. And no one asked me what the hell a writing prompt was, which I thought was weird.
So Emily regains her game face, takes my paper and pen and asks my name. I tell her and she says, “So it’s spelled ‘Deb…” And I go, “Yeah!” over enthusiastically, but also lamely. And she is staring at me like…”OK, can you spell the rest stupid ass?” And I just keep nodding my head maniacally and she slowly starts adding add’l letters like “b” and “i” and “e” and I’m like “yeah! yeah!”
So then she passes the paper to Amy, who quickly signed and moved on to Chris. Then they’re like “How long have you been waiting?” And Chris says “Since 1989,” because he’s tried since then to get their autographs.
At that point, I’m trying to be witty because I think they’ll like me and want me on board their bus to crack them up and stuff or at least have pizza. And so while Amy is starting to sign Michelle’s paper, I say “You don’t even have to spell her name right! She won’t care!” (Meaning she loves you guys that much, just your signature thrills us and we don’t need you to actually write our names correctly.)
Amy says, “But I want to spell it right.” (In the key of “You just diminished your friend’s identity. We are all important. Every one of us, like a blade of grass.” Because she is very pro-humanity. Read her lyrics.)
I’m like, “I’m so lame.”
I do that. When I get overexcited (or over drunk), I get annoying like Reese Witherspoon in “Election.” I do it at book club a lot. Because I get overexcited about books. I also did it once in the sixth grade when I said that the students in Group C weren’t as smart as the kids in Group A (my group). Mrs. Segersten got really irritated with me. Now I don’t blame her, With all the “No Child Left Behind” stuff especially.
So then we tried to make conversation with the Indigirls, but it was forced and cliche and soon Emily goes “Thanks y’all!” and we slunked away.
I slept with the autographed writing prompt and hope it will be magical and make me write as good as the Indigo Girls.
Also, I am very much hung over today and just ate a whole pan of Cook ‘N Serve vanilla pudding and might heave.
So I can only write this story matter-of-factly and in sort of a list-like fashion.
Seriously, I’m going to puke now.
So please finish this story in your head. It ends in the toilet either way.
And to wrap up, I didn’t finish my first draft.
Wow, I feel better. Random really works for me.