I’m trying not to get that frustrated “shakes fist at God” feeling going… again. I’m restless. I’m not satisfied and I’m certainly not happy. I have no zing. There’s no zip anywhere and I’m tired of feeling caught up in limbo. It’s like my passion has eluded me completely and I keep thinking there’s just got to be more than just THIS…

Well I never lived the dreams of the prom kings
And the drama queens
I’d like to think the best of me
Is still hiding
Up my sleeve

I’m itching to be creative. Do something… something that’s going to give me that creative thrill and give me the feeling that my life has some sort of purpose beyond wiping noses, asses, and frustrating phonics lessons.

I feel like there is something “out there” waving at me but I just can’t see it. I also feel like it’s RIGHT THERE and I’m just overlooking it. Something so obvious like when you think you’ve lost your sunglasses but they are perched on your head the entire time.

It feels like that.

What the hell happened to me? You know, I used to be funny. Not like “I could do stand up” funny but I was funny. At a party I could throw out a zinger or two that had people laughing pretty hard. I could come up with one-liners and find humor in situations that would make a tweet or a FB status shine.

If happiness is a choice than certainly comedy is a choice too. I’ve laughed at some of the darker moments in my life. I’ve cracked jokes when I really wanted to fall apart. I’m not sure where my sense of humor has gone but it has definitely headed in the direction of “observer” rather than “wisecracker of the funnies” and that bugs me a bit. At least today it bugs me, tomorrow something new will bug me.

That’s the thing, I don’t want to fall into that “smartass curmudgeon” category either. This isn’t about “why am I not funny?” it’s deeper than that. It’s the worry of, “wow, do you no longer see the humor that you have to have someone else point it out to you rather than recognizing it on your own?”

The other night was Deirdre’s 15th birthday. She, S.O., and I sat outside on the patio listening to music, staring at the lava lamp and talking. Inside the lava lamp a heavy piece of “lava” stuck to the top in a bulbous clump. After a long time of watching the lava go up and down, up and down Deirdre and I started to get annoyed with the clump that refused to budge.

“I just want to pick it up and give it a jiggle.” Deirdre said while giggling.

“Me too!” I agreed.

S.O. just shook his head, “You two shouldn’t have lava lamps. You’re both too controlling.”

We all laughed pretty hard because like most funny things, it was exaggerated with just a hint of truth to it. I don’t like to think of myself as controlling but it doesn’t mean I don’t have a hint of it in my personality. Of course, that doesn’t mean it’s not more than a hint.

Which makes me think that maybe, like most things in life, funny, sad and all the other emotions come in waves ebbing and flowing. It’s not that I want to be funny or have this need to pander to an audience. It’s that I used to find things very funny and I’d write about them because it pleased me to do so. I’d re-read it later and laugh again as if someone else had written it.

It’s just been a long time since that’s happened.

One foot in front of the other. Wash, rinse, repeat.

It’s funny because I always said I used this space as a place to vent. To clear out the cobwebs or the negative feelings and just purge. I didn’t realize how true that was until last week.

This site went down. I didn’t realize it was down until I clicked over here in need of a vent session. I was beyond frustrated and feeling pretty lost and… no blog. A few months ago I went in for a pre-therapy session (remember? I wasn’t nutty enough to qualify and that is what HMO gets you these days, folks.) and when the “therapist” asked if I had a blog and found out that I did, she was elated.

I thought she was strange. Apparently, they have a tough time getting people to realize the value of a journal. I thought she was an ass because she seemed overly impressed with the fact that I was a “blogger” and let’s face it, any jackass can open up a blog. I know, I’m one of them.

The site was down and I was without vent space. I sort of just imploded and shut down. Then I started to clean in a very disjointed way. A drawer upstairs, my bath tub, half the kitchen counters scrubbing the grout meticulously with a toothbrush, then a drawer in my desk. Sure, it was a good thing and certainly overdue but it also felt like I was punishing myself for something or maybe just rushing around frantically to force myself into a complete collapse… in short, punishing.

Then someone sent an email and asked if I was okay. It sort of stopped me in my tracks and I was really upset. Still no blog. Double upset and no blog. That’s about the time I realized that I needed this space. That while things have gotten better I’m not out of the dark yet and this space is a lifeline.

S.O. and I were working. Only instead of the tense, bitching, bickering that used to go on there was a lot of giggling, teasing and me making us a cup of tea, him making us a salad… kind of how we always dreamed it would be, working together.

I had Jack Johnson playing on iTunes and over his shoulder S.O. said, “See this is the kind of place I always picture us retiring to.” He was researching on the local MLS (Multiple Listing Service – where Realtors list properties for sale) and was looking at a picture of an adorable cottage built in the 1930′s. It had a big porch, large back yard with a Peter Rabbit looking garden in the back and a long driveway in the front. The entry to the driveway was framed by two big cherry trees. It looked like something you’d see in one of the old MGM movies.

And it was adorable.

It was one of those spontaneous romantic moments that you just can’t plan or even wish for because in reality it’s better than anything you could dream.

Last night was strange. Lots of laughter, great food, birthday cake, candles… we celebrated Scarlet’s 18th birthday. Strange in the sense that we had tremendous winds blowing through and when the winds quieted we had a freaking downpour.

I had a martini or two… and fell asleep watching “Black Sheep” with Chris Farley and David Spade. Not a typical movie I would watch but it felt good to go to sleep giggling.

Around 2am I woke up and sat straight up in bed. Wide awake. Rowan had fallen asleep in our room and was curled up on a blanket at the foot of the bed. Snores came from under a mounded quilt in the middle of the room and occasionally a voice mumbled and muttered something in between the snores. S.O. slept restlessly beside me, tossing, turning, and groaning.

And so it went. Until around 3am when Julien jumped up from his mound in the floor and made his way (far too quickly to be conscious) back to his bedroom. I waited a few minutes and then went to check on him. He was awake and had no recollection whatsoever of coming to my bedroom.

He used to sleepwalk when he was younger. I thought he had grown out of it but over the last few weeks some odd things have happened that have made it very clear that Julien is sleepwalking again. He’s shown up in our bedroom, the hall upstairs, held conversations and for the most part it’s funny.

But, after Julien returned to his room last night I couldn’t go back to sleep. So I watched Law and Order and actually sat through an entire episode of “Angel”, something I’ve never done before. This episode titled, “Fade To Black” was fast paced and had lots of dark humor. I’m not a Buffy/Angel freak, but I do love David Boreanaz. So I got really wrapped up in the episode and when it faded to black I had to know what happened.

I later found out that that was the last episode. “Of the season?” I asked hopefully… but it was not to be, it was the last episode period and it was one hell of a cliffhanger.

Long, very long, story short… it’s Monday and I started out watching the very last episode of “Angel.” I don’t know what that means. But, given the weather (cold, cloudy, rainy) and that it’s Monday… I’m not going to hold my breath for a big lottery win.

Do you ever have posts that roll around in your head for a long time? I have one of those now but I don’t know what to do with it and I’m pretty sure it will never see the light of day. It bugs me though. Something about it itches. Like there is something in it that I’m supposed to realize.

Everything has a lesson. I have to believe that because if I don’t… well then a lot of the shit I’ve experienced is just fucked and I can’t believe that that’s the final scorecard. That all of this… existence is built around the randomness of just rounding a corner and getting fucked.

Love is the answer,
At least for most of the questions in my heart
Like why are we here? And where do we go?
And how come it’s so hard?
It’s not always easy and
Sometimes life can be deceiving
I’ll tell you one thing it’s always better when we’re together

- Jack Johnson, Better Together

I love it when you hear lyrics that make you want to be a better person. It’s even better when you hear the lyrics on a day that made you want to crawl back into bed around noon.

Today was one of those days. And for the first time in a very long time I had a couple of people notice and reach and out ask if I was okay.

I have a hard time with people asking me if I’m okay. Most of the time I’ll start to choke up and then I’ll strangle it back. Then I try to brush aside all the feelings of inadequacies, the “why would anyone care” questions and I’ll try to find out why that pangs so hard.

The same thoughts always occur to me, but today they crystallized in a sense. My grandmother would sometimes manage to call as if she knew something were wrong. Later on my mother would swear I had taught myself to dial a phone and had found my grandmother’s number somewhere. I had… but not always on those nights.

Some nights the punishment didn’t quite fit the crime. And sometimes, on those nights Nana would call out of the blue and ask to talk to me. She’d ask if I was okay and I’d start to cry.

About a year before my grandmother died I started to have nightmares. I would dream that she died. I would rush into the kitchen and sometimes… my mother would be talking to my grandmother on the phone. This would have been around 9pm at night… but it happened more than once and she’d put grandma on the phone. Nana would tell me that she was okay. Everything was fine and I had just had a bad dream.

Some nights my mom wouldn’t be on the phone and I’d beg her to call grandma anyway, just to make sure. I don’t think she ever did. I think I was reminded that I was being dramatic and manipulative again.

I don’t know what any of this means. Other than I’m getting lost in thoughts that serve no real purpose.