Posts Tagged ‘Shameless’

Frank Sinatra

December 25, 2017

Christmas carols.

Laying in your arms in the glow of the blue lights on the tree.

My heart beat syncopated with yours.

Warm, soft tears slide down my face.

I hope you do not notice.

Content and wrapped in your embrace a softening shelter I did not know I needed.

I think about you.

Love.

And.

Our.

Love.

So many kinds.

Blue love.

Joyful love.

Peanut butter and chocolate chip cookie love.

Christmas carol love.

Hanging filigree ornament love.

Pink bunny love.

Walks on the beach at twilight love.

Butterflies in the garden love.

Flowers wrapped in gunny sacks and tied with twine love.

Candlelight love.

Untold love.

1,000 kisses love.

Tears on my pillow love.

Crows passing red berries in the snow, beak to beak, love.

Love letters love.

Poetry love.

Shameless love.

Not sorry love.

Not safe love.

Hands entwined love.

Squish love.

Passionate love.

Chemistry love.

Alchemical love.

Magic love.

Moonlight love.

Star shine love.

Dressing up in my prettiest dress for you love.

Pink glitter lip gloss love.

Baby girl love.

Dearest, sweetest, tenderest love.

Vulnerable love.

Smash love.

Precious love.

Spectacular love.

Cannot wait to see you love.

Miss you all the time love.

Dreamy love.

All the love I have for you, love.

Christmas Eve love.

Wishing you all the joy love.

All the blessings of love.

All the happiest happiness of love.

For you.

My love.

Wishing you it all.

Merry Christmas baby.

I love you.

 

 

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Making Head Way

October 10, 2016

And taking care of myself.

And changing my mind, even when it was uncomfortable to do so.

I got up this morning with an agenda.

Get as much of it the fuck done as I could.

Did I get it all the fuck done?

No.

But.

I made some serious headway and read myself cross-eyed and shoulder slumped.

Seriously.

I need a back rub.

I did self-care.

I cleaned the house like a woman on fire.

Fortunately.

The house is small and it doesn’t take much cleaning.

I pulled the sheets of the bed, did some laundry, put fresh sheets on, fluffed the pillows, took out the trash and compost and recycling, swept, swiffere’d, vacuumed, I hung my new Mike Doughty Living Room Tour 2016 signed poster.

It looks pretty fucking hot.

I picked it up yesterday and got it hung before my back to back ladies and book reading appointments showed up to drink tea and talk about acceptance and spiritual solutions.

Ah.

Thank you God.

Always on the menu for a good day.

I had a friend text me about going to a BBQ in the neighborhood and I made a rash decision, yes, I can, I can make a brief appearance, eat lunch with friends and fellows and then bash out some more reading.

But.

When I showed up the BBQ hadn’t even been lit and it was already “late” for me to eat and I did something that I am rather proud of, I bailed.

In a nice way, in a self-care sort of way.

I just expressed that I needed to eat and that as the bbq was just getting fired up and there was a need to go to Safeway and get more charcoal and other things for the picnic, that maybe, definitely it would be a better idea for me to duck out, feed myself and read like as much as I possibly could until I wanted to vomit.

Ok.

Maybe not vomit, but I mean get a lot read.

The amount of reading for this semester surpasses anything that I have done so far.

I think that I’m on top of it and then I realize, fuck, fuck, fuck, I have so much to go.

But I am making progress and getting myself out of the social engagement with some kindness and gratitude to my friend for helping me get home right after I had been picked up was huge for me.

It felt like a little tiny victory.

I came home.

Fed myself well and hit the books.

I read for about two hours.

Straight, no chaser.

Then I took a break.

And read some more.

Then I took another break and made dinner and food for the week.

I roasted a chicken yesterday so today I pulled a bunch of the meat off it for various meals and then I stuck it in the stock pot and starting the process of making stock for chicken soup.

While that was working I made my version of pork fried rice–brown rice tossed with ginger, turmeric, garlic, onions, some cut up pork loin, a 1/2 rasher of uncured bacon, green peas, organic diced carrots, sliced brussels sprouts, brown mushrooms, and Bragg’s Amino’s.

So good.

Seriously.

And the nice thing.

I stuck a few containers of it up in the freezer.

Although I am not in school next weekend, I am going to be running it down to the wire on some papers I need to write.

I decided to not do any writing this weekend and get caught up with and on par with all my reading for classes.

I caught up completely and have made deep inroads in Family Therapy.

I should have all the reading done for the class by tomorrow, give or take a fat baby nap in the afternoon.

Then I’ll be focusing on my Psychopathology class and getting that reading caught up to date and reading for the next weekend.

Child Therapy has the least amount of labor intensive reading, although there is a lot of it, a stupid amount if you ask me, but hey, grad school, right?

I think the decision to do the reading is going to be the clincher for me.

I always feel so much better prepared if I’m read for the classes that are happening the weekend that they are happening.

Just like I’m in a better place if I have food prepped and ready to go for the work week and the school weekend.

I actually have enough set aside in my freezer to get me through the next school weekend without having to do extra prep next weekend, which was sort of the plan.

I’ll be maintaining my current work schedule, with the exception of working a little more this week then I normally do for my main family, there’s a holiday and the boys will be out of school on Tuesday and I’ll be going in and doing a morning start when I usually do an afternoon start.

Speaking of nannying.

I sent my formal last day request in to my current family right before I started writing this blog.

That was my other big thing to do.

Really look at my schedule and see what made the best sense to me.

I decided to ask for Friday, December 23rd as my last day.

That gives me nine days, with the holiday weekends, before my next gig.

There was also some miscommunication and misunderstanding with my family in regards to my last days with the other family–December 14th–where in they made the connection that I wanted my last day to be that week.

Not necessarily true, don’t want to lose two weeks of paid work, I can afford one though, that’s for sure.

But.

I owned up to the miscommunication and said if they needed my last day to be the 16th of December I would make that accommodation to my schedule.

I realized that if I decided I needed extra cash it really wouldn’t be too hard to grab a couple of nanny or baby sitting gigs–it’s the holidays, everybody needs extra help.

So.

Yeah.

That’s done.

So relieved.

Relieved that I made it through the weekend with a clean house, lots read, good food, some recovery oriented interactions and a little bit of sunshine.

All in all.

A good weekend was had.

And I will probably sneak in an episode of Shameless before I call it a night.

A girl needs a break once in a while.

Yes.

Yes.

Yes.

She does.

 

You’re The Carmen Cat

April 7, 2015

He whispered to me and cuddled into a little ball in the corner of his bed.

“Don’t eat my toes!”  He admonished me as I reached to stroke the tender little balls of his feet.

“Not even one nibble?” I asked.

“No!” He giggled and burrowed under his blanket.

I hate waking up a sleeping bunny, but the nap was going really long and I knew I would get what for if I didn’t get him up and out and on the move, but fresh-baked boy is so delicious, especially when he is drowsy and warm and sweet, his deep brown eyes battened with eyelashes blinking slow at me.

He sleeps with his cat–Meow Meow–a little grey thing that is actually white in the original.

He has another stuffed cat, black and with white socks, that he calls, I kid you not, “The Other Meow Meow.”

Today he asked me to juggle for him.

I sing the theme song from the Ringling Brothers Circus and toss balls high into the air.

He sings along with me and moves his hands like he’s juggling.

Most of the time the balls get flung around the room and he laughs hysterically.

“Juggle Carmen!  Juggle!”

I taught myself how to juggle when I was 18, had just dropped out of college was living with my pregnant sister, her boyfriend and her best friend in the trailer of said best friends mom and dad, who were on vacation in Mexico for a month.  The trailer was in Stoughton.

It was cold.

We were broke.

Except when I was writing bad checks at the supermarket to buy food and smokes for the entire household.

My sister’s boyfriend, baby daddy, and general sleazy older guy preying on young stupid women who were blind to being used for having already been raised by their usury parents, had us all convinced that he was in love with each one of us, but betrothed to my sister.

God bless him.

He had it worked out.

He was 29 or 30?

We were, from oldest to youngest, 18, 17, and 16.5 years of age.

We all smoked, did his bidding, fetched him food, bevvies, wrote bad checks, and generally ran amok in the wilds of Madison and the local environs.

He was tall, dark, handsome, had thighs I wanted to just look at all night, they were so long and plied with muscle and a way of looking at you from behind a shank of oily dark hair, that had you smitten into doing his bidding, that you, and only you, were the only thing he was looking at in the world–the only thing that mattered at all, ever.

For whatever reason he had us all believing that we needed a street skill.

Some sort of trick or song and dance or number that each of us could fall back on in case we needed to beg or busk on the streets.

He played guitar.

I don’t know what my sister’s skill was.

Looking pretty, I suppose.

I’m not sure what her friend’s was.

Being annoying, I suspected.

I had no skills.

Aside from allowing myself to be talked into letting a middle age man kiss, really, just slobber over them, ugh, my poor feet, when the “family unit” whatever we were calling ourselves, the self-styled coven of idiots we were, was broke.

At, of course, the suggestion of my sister’s boyfriend.

I have never done porn.

I suspect it would be like what I sat through, the slurping of the toes, it was one of the most humiliating things I have ever done for money, and by far the most ghastly.

I stripped once, that’s another story, in a long line of weirdo things I did to help sustain the family, that might have actually been easier than the foot fetish dude.

Aside.

Ever watch Shameless?

The American version.

Yeah.

Well, sometimes it hits a little too close to home.

Enough said.

So Damien, that was the name he went by.

Note to self, really?

I fell for someone who went by Damien.

It was either that or Wolf, but I think he was dating my sister’s best friend.

I slept with him, none the less.

Are you wondering yet how I went from cuddling with a little boy and juggling to this line of thought?

I bet you are.

Damien, assumed name, not his real name, decided that we were going to learn how to juggle.

My sister was bored to death with it in five minutes and went back to painting her long nails.

Her friend tried for perhaps ten minutes, then too, joined my sister on the couch (leatherette bands with the high wood curved corners and that stale brown/mustard/black/cream plaid that all couches seemed to be at the time) and began filing her nails.

I, however, was down for the challenge.

It took longer than I thought it should, hours, I think, but in the end, I had mastered the art of three ball juggling and could even do a trick or two.

I never did it for money though.

Until I nannied.

Then, well, it’s like you’re the Pied Piper of nannies, or Mary Fucking Poppins with tattoos, they come running.

“Juggle Meow Meow! Carmen Cat!  Juggle Meow Meow and The Other Meow Meow and Kitty Kitty.”

He rolled over in the bed, “please, oh please.”

I laughed.

Of course, my little kitten, I will juggle for you.

Juggling stuffed cats is easier than juggling live cats, not that I have tried, but it’s still a lot harder than juggling balls.

I tossed the grey cat, the black and white cat and the all black cat up in the air, I sang my little song, he clambered out of bed and tried to catch the cats then threw them all over the room.

“Let’s play Meow Meow Ball,” he said and whipped the stuffed grey cat across the room.

The kid’s got an arm.

He might be throwing more than a cat curve ball one of these days.

“Honey, let’s take Meow Meow downstairs and have a kitty cat snack,” I scooped him up and the stuffed cats and we went down for a cracker with sun butter on it and some milk before heading out into the wild world.

“I didn’t know you juggled,” the mom said laughing, “I thought you meant it metaphorically, like herding cats, you were referring to the boys, juggling them like cats.”

I laughed.

I told her about one winter in Wisconsin, it was cold, school was cancelled and I taught myself how to juggle.

I left out the part about dropping out of school, running away from home, bouncing checks all over Madison and beyond, chain-smoking cigarettes, doing prescription speed out of the medicine cabinets of my sister’s friends parents in their trailer in Stoughton and running amok on State Street with the other gutter punks, playing pinball at Challenges, and older men with dark eyes and salacious agendas.

I mean, my back ground check came back clear.

Why go louse it up?

It did, however, sink home, once again, how far I have come and how grateful I am to be where I am today.

Just another Carmen Cat doing the soft shoe shuffle for another two and a half-year old boy, juggling cats and singing.

This Old Cat, he plays one, he plays knick knack on your thumb, with a knick knack paddy whack, give a cat a ball, this old Cat goes rolling home.

“Meow Meow loves you.”

I love you too.

Sweet boy.

I love you too.

And

I hope I always get to be.

Your Carmen Cat.


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