Month: April 2022

Dirty Thoughts and Stories – My Mother’s Rebellion

I just want to start off here by saying that I seriously thought about doing this under a pseudonym on another webpage but then I thought: I’m a grown-ass middle-aged woman with nothing to lose. There will be bad language and talk of sex and other ‘dirty’ thoughts and ideas. Read at your own pleasure, or peril if you’ve got a stick jammed up your ass.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.” – “Let’s Go Crazy” by Prince and The Revolution

In 1984, Prince came out with ‘Purple Rain’, a brilliant and semi-autobiographical film about his life and music. It was a raging success and also a raging controversy for the song, “Darling Nikki”, which was cited as a horrible and corrupting song for its’ explicit lyrics by the Parent Music Resource Center, a group of Congressional wives, representatives, and senators from both sides of the aisle (yes there were Democrat members of this bitch-squad). My mother played this album for me, including ‘Darling Nikki’ and >gasp< we talked about the song and what it was about (it’s what I call a raunchy fuck-you that may be considered a bit tame by today’s standards). My mother felt like since she was the parent she was the one who would decide what I could listen to and talk about it with me and not let someone else do her parenting (an exact summary of what she told me back then).

In 1984, my mother was in the midst of what I call her ‘rebellious’ phase. I call it ‘rebellious’ because she was defying her extremely conservative Catholic upbringing by reading books that were ‘dirty’ (explicit, and a lot of books about gay people), watching R-rated movies, and yes, listening to rock ‘n’ roll brilliance like Prince and The Revolution. In fact, she went to see ‘Purple Rain’ on her own and I’ve wondered if anyone other than me knew she did that, or knew what she was reading/watching/listening to (I have a feeling she kept a lot of that to herself like I have until now). Personally, I was thrilled as hell my mom was so freaking cool and so willing to talk to me about sex and let me read, watch, and listen to whatever I wanted to.

Now I’m sure some of you reading this are thinking my mom was nuts and that I was thoroughly corrupted. No, I wasn’t. I was raised by her to be a free-thinking and confident young woman and I’m forever grateful for that. I miss our free-wheeling conversations about sex and other related issues like relationships, abortion, birth-control, and women rights. She didn’t want me to think of myself as ugly and stupid like she’d been raised to believe about herself. One time when I was about eight years old, she went nuclear on my grandmother when my grandmother started giving me shit about losing weight (my mom reduced my grandmother to tears by telling her, “You won’t do to my daughter what you did to me”). My mom always complimented me on my sense of style, my taste in music/movies/books, and loved talking with me because she said I was so open and a such a good listener.

And what I’m sure will blow some more minds here is around 1984, my mom showed me my first issue of ‘Playgirl’ magazine. This was a magazine for women that showed full-frontal male nudity, published articles about sex and politics, and a lot of good erotic fiction, too. My mom let me read her magazines whenever I wanted to and yes, we talked about what we read. Because of this, I was raised with a healthy attitude about sex in that it was natural and all about pleasure and consent. And the really great thing about my mom is her attitude never changed because although a lot of assholes in this world will say you get conservative as you get older, like my mom I not only stayed liberal but have embraced more than ever now.

So what’s the purpose of this piece here and this ongoing feature? It’s about me writing about stuff that is considered ‘forbidden’ and ‘dirty’. Because there is a vocal wave of assholes in this country who are hell-bent and determined to stamp out every bit of happiness, joy, pleasure, and the voices and freedoms of anyone who isn’t white, heterosexual, and Christian like they are. They are just as uptight and shitty as their predecessors but the problem is they have social media, Fox News, and state legislatures to amplify and put their plans into motion. This is my fight against that kind of shitty thinking and to tell anyone reading this there is nothing wrong about healthy, consensual sex and everyone should be free to live and love as they are without anyone making them feel shame and guilt for doing nothing wrong. The ‘love the sinner/hate the sin’ is shaming bullshit that I will stand up and call out every chance I get, starting here.

In addition to my weekly rants and reminiscences, I’m also going to be publishing erotic fiction as PDF files for viewing. I’m not going to police this site though I will post warnings that stuff may be explicit. So read at your own pleasure.

Uber Tales – Housing As Seen From the Road, Edition

As you can imagine, I see a lot of things from the road. And yesterday I was thinking about housing. I know that might sound boring but I don’t think it is. I just think tract housing with lookalike houses is boring.

Yesterday I was all over the place as I drove through three counties way out in the sticks and then into the city. I know people need housing and places to live but these suburban developments with all these houses, a lot of crammed in together don’t hold any appeal for me. Why?

The houses are for the most part thrown up pretty quickly so in about ten years the foundations will shift and crack (they’re mostly slab foundations and since the soil here in South Texas is really loamy and goopy, they will shift eventually). Also, most of these developments are governed by HOA’s (Homeowners Associations) and these organizations can be flat-out nuts at times. Ostensibly they’re to maintain the community amenities like playgrounds and pools along with the streets and stuff. In reality a lot of them turn into nit-picky heaven and enforce all kinds of bullshit deed restrictions (no pink houses or pink flamingo in the yard for example).

I had a passenger who I picked up a few times on my early morning runs who managed a nightclub for two guys who according to him were morons and he also had staffing issues that would give anyone a lot of gray hair. But what he bitched to me about the most was having to go home to a tract-housing development and get dirty looks from his old-fart neighbors for not mowing the grass every week like these heart-attacks-just-waiting-to-happen did. He told me his wife wanted to live in this suburban nightmare but I don’t think he did.

The conformity of cookie-cutter subdivisions amuses me because I still can’t figure out the appeal of living in something so conformist. I grew up in subdivisions as a kid but that was back in the 80’s when you could ride your bike around the place and go outside and listen to music. When I drive through these cookie-cutterville’s I don’t see kids out and about very much. It’s rare for me to see kids on bicycles or hanging out on front driveways or anything like that. I know it’s a different time and all that but I also have to wonder: are a good number of parents class-A ninnies who don’t want their little darlings to scrape a knee and get bitten by a bug? Granted, my generation, Generation X, could walk out injuries that would send anyone else to the hospital but I just don’t see a lot of kids out and about these days.

I still look for them when I’m driving and yes in some neighborhoods I see kids out and about. In 2020, I saw a lot of families out walking in the afternoons during lockdown and I thought that was great. I know it was probably just a case of cabin-fever for a lot of people but jeez, the great outdoors aren’t so bad.

Another thing I’ve thought about is how my job enables me to see so much. Most people just go to work, run errands, and maybe venture out of their little bubbles from time to time to go to an event or something. I love the fact my job has taken me over every inch of San Antonio, Bexar County (the county San Antonio is in that is pronounced by us locals as ‘Bear’ county and not its’ proper Spanish pronunciation of ‘bey har’) and the surrounding counties.

For example, yesterday was one of those days where I was all over the place. I was in three counties, drove by the state jail on the far west side of Bexar County, and got to take a passenger on the scenic route through some pretty undeveloped land north of the city. As I drove by all that undeveloped land all I could think of was that I kind of hoped they put the tract-housing crap-villes somewhere else. I like driving by farms and seeing cows, horses, goats, and two young burros like I did yesterday. I like driving on two-lane country roads through a canopy of big green trees and houses tucked back from the road. I know that kind of life in the sticks isn’t for everyone but the tract-housing ideal sold to Americans since the end of World War II can’t be the ideal either.

Old neighborhoods built before suburbia are colorful because no two houses are exactly alike. Before zoning laws and crap like that people just bought a piece of land and built what they wanted. Now I know old houses are money pits but newer ones are, too. I like old neighborhoods that are a mix of huge mansions then the cottage next door where the poorer folk lived. And I like seeing houses painted blue, purple, or pink. In the past, some uptight-asshole types used to freak out over those colors and I wondered why. I mean, those aren’t ugly colors and here in South Texas the sun will bleach them out in about five years or so.

In the end, I’m not one for settling down as I don’t think it would have worked out for me. I like being on the road too much and I like the thought of living in a house-on-wheels and seeing the world. And also not having to pay HOA dues and dealing with dirty looks from the neighbors about lawn-mowing.

The Written Road – My Writing Doorway

A couple of days ago I wrote that my writing is a window into who I am. But now it’s a doorway, an open doorway to who I am. I used to be scared shit-less of this because I always thought if I opened the door and invited people in, they’d either slam the door shut in my face and lock me inside myself. Or they would come in and trash the place all to hell and leave a huge mess for me to clean up.

That’s not going to happen because no one can slam the door on yourself. They can walk right back out that door or not walk inside at all. I respect anyone’s decision when it comes to dealing with me but I will not allow anyone to try and shut me up in silence. And I will not allow anyone to come inside and trash me all to hell because no one has the right to come in and wreck me simply because they can.

Over the last couple of weeks, I’ve been dealing with the big thought that my writing is a barrier for people, a barrier that has kept people from getting to know me or even wanting to try. That’s not the case. I’m just a major social klutz who can do small-talk and conversations on a car ride but hasn’t had a lot of opportunity to do otherwise. So in reality my social skills are just severely limited through my own fears that people will knock me across the chops if I fuck up in some way though I’m human and will eventually do that at some time. It’s never my intention to fuck up and I know I don’t have a mean bone in my body because the thought of cruelty physically hurts me.

But in my writing, especially of late, I’ve let it rip. I’m beginning to put into words things that took me years just to hear inside my own head. And yes, I’ve been afraid of the reactions, and of my own simmering urge to get into a rip-roaring argument. I don’t want to argue because I don’t feel the need to. In the past, when someone started an argument with me they were relentless in coming at me until I gave in. I gave in way too damn many times and there was no reason for me to do so. It was like arguing with a brick wall that my head was being bashed against.

So now this is why if that ever starts up, I’m going to end with one thing:

“Ask yourself why you think and feel the way you do and keep asking until you find all the answers that you can. But I will warn you, you might like the answers that you find. And sooner or later, you will have to deal with them.”

In the past, saying something like this would get a reply of, “Well then I can’t talk to you about anything.”, or I would be accused of being too sensitive.

Neither one of those things is true. You can talk to me about anything but no one has the right to hammer someone into a puddle of tear-filled shit simply because they’re so convinced of their moral superiority that in reality is probably immoral at best, and cruel at worst. What I’m learning now is how to hold my ground and take a stand at the same time. And I’m doing that by saying out loud here my writing is an open doorway into who I am, good, bad, ugly, and everything in between. I’m a sloppy klutzy mess most of the time but that’s because I’m trying to put myself back together in a way that’s best for me.

My writing is something I love even when it drives me nuts and makes me hurt like hell. Because using writing as therapy is not easy. At times it feels seriously fucked-up and has had me thinking I’m nuts in trying to put into words shit that has been buried for so long. But my shit isn’t a corpse that’s supposed to stay buried. And my writing is not shit. And most of all, I’m not a human piece of shit because I write and over-think crap and come off as too damn sensitive.

When I conceived of my non-fiction writing projects six years ago, I had no idea what they would do to me. But as I’m fond of saying to myself and out loud here, neither did anyone else if they had known. I don’t regret for one moment starting these projects and all the crap they put me through. This is why I say writing isn’t easy for me and it never will be. It’s also why this project, ‘The Written Road’ may be the hardest of the non-fiction triumvirate as I call them (‘Breaking Radio Silence’ and ‘Stand or Fall’ being the other two here). I’m trying to put into words what comes to me quite naturally. I put my hands on a keyboard and once I find that first word I’m off to the races.

Stand or Fall – Not Ready to Make Nice

I’m starting Part One of my book, ‘Stand or Fall’ in 2003 when Natalie Maines, the lead singer of The Chicks (formerly known as The Dixie Chicks) said this in 2003 onstage at a concert in London, England just weeks before the start of the war in Iraq: “We don’t want this war, this violence, and we’re ashamed that the president of the United States is from Texas.”

To say that the shit hit the fan with this quote is putting it mildly. The backlash was outrageous and frightening at the time. They got death threats, banned from country-music radio (a ban that still holds to this day), and lost endorsements. And all because they chose to speak out against a war that was being started on a pack of lies. I knew it then and so did a lot of other people but the powers-that-be, from the White House to the Pentagon to corporate America were all hell-bent and determined to start a war and make a shit-ton of money in the process. What happened instead was a shit-ton of money was made while thousands of American soldiers and hundred of thousands Iraqi’s died and the country of Iraq plunged into a bloody civil war which they still haven’t recovered from. The truth was canceled here, not the lies.

Getting back to the Chicks and me: Natalie Maines and I were born in the same year but in 2003 I wasn’t anywhere near as brilliant as she was, and still is. In 2003, I was exhausted, grieving over the death of my mother, and trying to go out on my own for the first time in my life. I had also been entrusted then by my father to take car of him in the event he couldn’t take care of himself. But despite my grieving exhaustion and shaky steps to independence, I was still pissed off as hell that a war was being sold to the American people under false pretenses.

I stayed quiet back then because I feared if I spoke out in any way hell would rain down on me like it did the Chicks. I was afraid my relationship with my father could be sabotaged and severed. I was afraid of being sent into permanent exile and alienated from every single person on the planet. I was afraid of sabotaging myself before I had a chance to get a foothold in the world. And looking back, I think the possibility existed because as long as I was silent and nice, people left me alone for most of the time.

Now I realize they didn’t give two shits about me and my life, and that I think my dad would have seen through any bullshit spouted against me like he and my mom had when they were both alive. Because in the years after this, he and I came to the agreement that the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were abject failures. He said to me that the United States needed to stop acting the world’s policeman, something I honestly thought I’d never hear from him in my lifetime.

I know it sounds ridiculous to some that politics and ideology could be so divisive but since 2016 it’s proven to be true. But to me, it’s not about policy and procedure, but about ideas and beliefs. I’m against war and especially war-for-profit, which is all the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were. Over five-thousand US soldiers died in both wars and thousands more have wounds they will never fully-recover from. Both countries are wrecked beyond belief and no real recovery is on the horizon. And right now, Ukraine is fighting to survive and paying a terrible price. Luckily, people who have spoken out against the Russian invasion of Ukraine, such as myself, haven’t faced cancelation and backlash like the Chicks and others did in 2003.

I’m just one voice but it’s all I’ve got left. Because every time I feel a frisson of fear I tell myself I’m a grown-ass middle-aged woman with nothing left to lose. My mother has been dead for twenty years this year and my dad has been dead for eleven years so the two people in the world who I would go silent for are not here to be used against me. And as for being isolated and alone, that’s my life now. I have my work, my goals and dreams, and a dog and cat so I’m good.

In the end, what I realize is this: it doesn’t pay to be nice and like The Chicks later sang, I’m not ready to make nice either, I did that for way too many years and just have a shit-ton of scars to show for it. And any attempt to cancel me for the truth will be met by my calling out bullies for doing this. Because that’s all people who try to silence the truth are: bullies. And when you stand up to a bully and are prepared to take the hits, you’ll survive and thrive because you won’t live on hate and fear like they do. Bullies aren’t remembered well by history or the people they leave behind. Heroes and good people are remembered well and their love and light lives on.

The truth can’t be canceled no matter how hard anyone tries. It’s just taken me damn near twenty years to realize that. But better late than never.

Breaking Radio Silence: Where Did My Words Go?

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I know last week’s blog entry promised more content but words and other things got in the way. Or better put: just because I have the words doesn’t mean I can write them down.

Being a writer means you’re a bit crazy in the head. Writers have running monologues about all kinds of stuff, stories and characters running around in their heads in search of a story to be put into, and then there’s all the other practical stuff in life that has to be taken care of at the same time.

The day before I wrote that blog entry I’d had a pretty intense weekend trying to put into words something that’s been eating at me for a long time. Once I found the words for this I felt better even as I’ve dancing around the thought of whether or not to talk about it publicly. I’ve decided to start talking about it because it’s definitely not a one-shot, one-post kind of thought.

The thought is this: what if my writing is a barrier that keeps people away from me?

Now why would I think that, you ask.

Looking back over my life as much I have over the last six years has made me see where I think my pursuit of writing created problems for me. Even though I have worked my ass off since I was ten years old not to be in anyone’s face about my writing like my late father was, that wasn’t good enough for some people in my life at times.

In my twenties, when I was living at home helping to take care of my mom as she was dying of cancer, my parents came right out and told me not to say anything to anyone who was giving them shit for letting me live at home rent-free and write. In those years, my parents paid my writing group dues and conference and workshop fees in addition to making sure I had time to write. I think the issue back then was if I was off doing something writing-related or God-forbid writing instead of being at everyone else’s beck-and-call, then I was a freeloading stuck-up bitch. I wasn’t doing anything else in my free time like going out and partying or dating. Back then, I thought I could keep my writing on the down-low but I knew it wasn’t popular with some people (and no, I’m not going to name-and-shame because this isn’t about anyone else here but me).

My parents never, ever made any demand on me to stay and help them out. Just the opposite really- they thanked me for everything I did and made sure I took time for myself. If I had wanted to leave and strike out on my own they would have done everything they could to support me and told me they would handle things on their own. I have never forgotten that and I’m forever grateful for that. But as I look back I have come to realize one thing about the shit-talkers as I now refer to them: they honestly didn’t give a genuine shit about me or my own life and goals. They had no intention of following through on the fear I had that my relationship with my parents would be destroyed by people telling them I was only staying and helping out as much as I did just to be seen as a martyr. That was the farthest thing from the truth and I honestly tried not to come off that way but in some people’s eyes I failed spectacularly at that.

But if my writing is a barrier to people not wanting to have any kind of relationship with me that’s on them. It’s taken me a long time to realize I can’t do someone’s thinking or feeling for them, nor am I the person to pull their head out of their asses when they’re in the wrong. Most of all, if someone sees something I have devoted my life to because I love it as a problem, then that’s their problem and not mine.

I can’t turn off the words inside my head, or slow my brain down, or be anything other than my funky, weird-ass self and I don’t need to. Yes, I’m fucked up and different as all get-out. And I’m just as prone to making mistakes and screwing up as anyone else. But deep down I know I’m not a bad person because of that. And I certainly don’t deserve feeling like I would never be good enough or that I was damned if I do/damned if I didn’t no matter what I did.

My writing and my words are not a barrier I have put up to the world. Actually, I feel like they’re an opening into who I really am. If you want to get to know me, you can start by reading my writing. Because with my writing, and unlike in real-life, I don’t hold myself back.

So where are my words?

Right here for all the world to see. Do what you will with them as I’ll do what I will with them in return.

Breaking Radio Silence: Little By Little

If I had to tell anyone how anything gets written I would say little by little. This was something I needed to remind myself of yet again in my life as I got knocked off track by monster fatigue which in turn shot my concentration to pieces. This in turn ramped up my anxiety and that bitch loves to run her mouth and lie her ass off to me whenever she gets an opportunity.

The big thought I had to work through was feeling like I couldn’t write at all, that I had to be doing something else though exactly what that was wasn’t clearly defined to me at all. This is an old thought I’ve dealt with all my adult life and frankly I’m sick of it. Its’ origins are in my past when I was trying to find time to write in the midst of a shit-ton of responsibilities. Back then I felt like a huge thief whenever I sat down to write and I felt even worse whenever I went to my writers’ group meetings or conferences and workshops though not from my parents (who paid my writers’ group dues, conference and workshop fees so I go to those events).

But my parents have been dead and there are no demands on my time other than my need to earn money to keep a roof over my head and food in my belly along with taking care of my dog and my cat. So why do I still feel this way? I blame imprinting on my brain that I’m having to remove like a tattoo. And that’s not easy because the imprinting is pretty deep, but also because I also have to remove a thought that taking time for what I want to do makes me a selfish bitch.

No, it doesn’t though for me writing has seen as something that is selfish and self-serving. And the worst part of that is then being told how to write by people who don’t write to begin with. How people find the confidence to spout off on stuff they have absolutely no real knowledge of is a mystery I don’t want to solve because the people who do this will never admit they have a problem in the first place.

This isn’t about talking shit back to the assholes in life past and present. This is to people who are writing or pursuing something they want to do. It’s about telling yourself often enough to imprint this on your brain that things get done little by little. Nothing comes out fully-formed and perfect. It takes a lot of work to get something to come together and anyone who says otherwise is full of shit.

I have had days where I wrote thousands of words and days where I wrote none (or deleted them all). On a good day I can average a thousand or more. The thing is, each writing project presents its’ own challenges and you have to work through those challenges in order to get things written.

For example, one big challenge with ‘Breaking Radio Silence’ is how emotionally-charged it is for me. I tried working on it over the weekend and it was like walking through a minefield. Emotions were going off hard inside me and I had to really work through them to figure out the root cause. Once I did I felt better and today I got another chapter started and another piece written outside of that chapter. All in all a good writing day in addition to this.

All my life people have told me what to do saying they know what’s best for me and that I don’t know what’s good for me. I think it was because they saw how overprotective my father was of me and also because I am a complete and utter klutz. But just because I’m a klutz doesn’t mean I’m an idiot or a weak-ass wimp. Because when the shit came down with my parents, I was the last one left standing shouldering all the responsibility. Once I realized this about myself I also realized I’m not an idiot and that my years of experience count. That experience counts more than someone’s dumb-ass bullshit to me.

I’ve never attempted or written a full-length book of non-fiction before but that doesn’t mean I can’t now. It’s not going to be easy but trust me, I know writing isn’t easy. And I don’t need anyone to sugar-coat that for me or get all over-protective and shit about it either. Most of all, I don’t need anyone storming off in a huff saying I’m rejecting their help. Unless you’ve got professional editing skills I can use later, I don’t need your help writing this.

One last thought I had over the weekend was this: I am a grown-ass middle-aged woman with nothing to lose and no need to hide any shit from the world. You’ll see this on Friday with a new blog feature I’m working on.

I know this won’t go over well with some people but my purpose in life is not to be quiet and please people with my silence. Read my words at your own peril and know this: my silence is broken.

Breaking Radio Silence – The Writing Begins

Today I officially started writing Part One of this book, ‘Breaking Radio Silence’. I’ve got a rough draft of the introduction and an outline but to get into the actual book is an accomplishment for me. Why?

First, it’s not going to be an easy book to write. The past six years were hard because of the initial work and the fact I didn’t know what I was getting into. This is why all previous attempts to write this book didn’t pan out. I had to do that work first in order to get to the stage I’m at now. But it’s not easy. It’s not easy because every time I open up this file, a lot of stuff comes up all at once.

So the lesson I’m learning here as I write this is how to navigate that massive up-flow of stuff. In the past it would almost overwhelm me and I would spend a lot of time trying to get it under control. Now that I see it for what it is I can work to get it under control and write what I need to.

And whoever said writing was easy has never written anything in their lives, or at least anything substantial or lengthy. I have never been able to figure out why someone would say writing is easy unless they’re a complete idiot, or an asshole looking to tear someone done. I think people who say writing fall into one of those two categories.

Another thing that makes writing this book hard for me is preparing to deal with the inevitable voices telling me to just get over my shit and get on with my life, no one gives a shit about my feelings in general, and that I’m looking for sympathy.

First, you don’t just get over shit. The old ways of just bottling crap up inside you and just ‘coping’ with it are ending. I tried that and it didn’t get me jack-shit in this world. Bottling my crap up just warped me worse than a galaxy being warped by the fabric of space-time itself. No one has to listen to me or read my writing. But in turn no one gets to tell me not to write or speak out.

Second, I give a shit about my own feelings. If someone else does that’s great but if I’m all alone in feeling this way I’ll survive. Personally, I think there are people that truly do care about my feelings and I’ve kept them from really showing that. That’s something I’m working through now and hope to one day be able to do with people (let them in).

Third, as my late father used to say: you can find ‘sympathy’ in the dictionary between ‘shit’ and ‘syphilis’. I’m not looking to be seen as a martyr like I’ve been accused of in the past. I’m not looking to have some absolve me of my shame and guilt because that’s no one’s responsibility.

I’m not just doing this for myself. And I’m not doing this an act of revenge. I’m doing it to try and reach people who have thought and felt like I have, and who have been through things like I have and may be trying to work through the damage and find a measure of healing. But this is my story and no one else’s.

I was out driving this weekend when I realized those old voices telling me no one cares about my feelings or wants to hear my bullshit have no impact on me anymore because of one simple response: I’ve heard all that shit before and I’m still here. Those words didn’t destroy me and they never will. They were uttered by people who honestly didn’t care about me, and I’m through wasting feelings on them. I don’t hate anyone and I never will. But I’m not going to give power to people who never knew they had it to begin with, and who never deserved it.

Please know not all of ‘Breaking Radio Silence’ will be depressing and hard to read. There will be a lot of moments in the book where I learned things that helped me heal, and lifted huge weights of shame and guilt off my shoulders that should never have been there in the first place. It’s those moments of healing that I know will ease the pain of the updraft of emotion that will probably come every time I sit down to write this book.

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