It’s mostly illusion, an idea of what could have been; like some unfulfilled promise of destiny that was thwarted before it had a chance to grow, conjured up in the overactive imagination of a spurned or deserted man in the throes of the fairy dust infatuation period where nothing or no one can tell them any differently. (the misuse of punctuation in that sentence actually blinded me temporarily)

How do I come up with theories like this?

Through repeated late night viewings of Showtimes “The Tudors”,  that’s where.

We taught her more about human nature and the monarchy than 12 years of school!

 I am now absolutely certain that if Anne Boleyn had died in childbirth giving Henry his male heir (like her successor Jane Seymour) instead of being revealed as the manipulative, backstabbing, nagging attention whore she really was, she would have been remembered as his “favorite wife”.

Let that be a lesson to you ladies  – spit out boys and die young because that is what they like.

You know how it is. You meet someone who blows you back on your heels and he feels equally smitten.

There are the hours of doe eyed looks and powerful feelings and then one day life begins to intrude on the dream and everyday wear and tear begins to chip away at the rose-colored facade.

 You look up years later and you think to yourself that five days alone at a spa sounds positively resplendent, whereas during your volcanic courtship the only way to express your extreme displeasure at having been parted for so long would have been to cut out your own heart with a jagged knife and mail it in an organ donor box to your beloved.

 You would’ve signed it in blood of course.

Anyway, usually this endorphin soaked obsession is replaced by feelings that are considered more meaningful and long-lasting ; maybe even true love.

On the other hand, sometimes it’s just shoved aside in favor of bitter resentment,unfulfilled dreams and raging disappointment.

I’m sure there are days my husband looks up at me running around in my flannel pajamas and wonders why I seemed so good in theory but turned out not to be very practical for every day use.

We all have thoughts like that occasionally, but now thanks to Showtime’s retelling of Henry the VIII’s long and volatile love life and we all have a better understanding of why.

While it would be impractical to destroy, exile or behead those of whom we have grown tired, it still makes us root for the long-suffering underdog (I’m looking at YOU Catherine of Aragon!) and gives you hope that the long haulers have way more to show for their efforts than the fast and furious short-lived exploits of the long gone.

What would I do without cable shows?

For a take on The Tudors from someone with a far better grasp on history go here.

I liked his picture the best.

And it’s not that pseudo enthusiasm for a fresh start that so often starts out volcanic but then sputters out after a day or two of manic high episodes and good cheer , ending with you rolling around in a shallow pool of bottomed out depressive juices.

No.

This is genuine, real and powerful.

Nevermind that you’ll all be over here fishing me out of the pity swamp of quickly spent positive force in a day or so when I have my final flash bang and then collapse!

Listen to me now! While I’ve still got a hold of the prize!

Today I made some amazing discoveries about the year to come during a long commute when I normally turn off four of my basic senses and keep the ability to see running at a low rumble to ward off fatal accidents and to make key turns enabling me to get to my destination.

Normally I’d just pass shit like this right on by, maybe making a subconscious mental note to myself that turkey vultures ripping apart a carcass on the side of the road remind me of dark extinguished phoenixes dispatched from hell to eat the entrails of the dead or that the rolled up mattress on the median looks suspiciously like the final resting place of a serial killers victim – BUT NOT TODAY!

Through the lenses of my “this could change everything” spectacles I saw things anew and my eyes remained wide open taking in EVERYTHING. Even things that don’t even matter or are completely uninteresting to other members of the human race.

Still, I felt compelled to share them with you. You are welcome.

Making a right onto 16th Street I was stunned to see a tall, bold looking man in a trench coat singlehandedly bringing back the wool fedora while striding with purpose toward some important place.

How do I know it was important?

 Because no one who can channel Indiana Jones, the entire cast of The Godfather and to a lesser degree Duran Duran’s John Taylor, would be doing anything less. He was on a mission to make me understand that there was no good reason for this trend to have EVER gone out of style.  Men in hats.

You WILL wear a hat. Ripped sleeve & angry eyes optional.

 The school where I drop my youngest off in the morning is in a distant land right smack in the middle of horse country. They gallop freely around their paddocks while their owners toil in fields and mow their expansive lawns with tractors that dwarf my minivan. Today as I rolled out of the long winding path to the main road I caught sight of a girl, no more than seven or eight, with her mother feeding a gorgeous chocolate-brown foal out of a bucket. They both sported what looked like the worlds most comfortable overalls.

Yes, I know I abused my GAP overalls and used them in lieu of real clothes for the better part of seven years. They went from fun, to sensible ,to maternity wear, to post baby chub cover ups, to easy to unbutton for breastfeeding, to I just give up on fashion and good taste. I understand that they had to be burned, but could I just get one more pair so I can saunter out in the morning light with my bucket and feed someones elses horse?

In my mind, this is how I THINK I look in my overalls. Reality paints a different picture.

 A sign heralding the demise of Kim Jong Il.

People put some crazy shit out in front of their houses these days but this banner really peaked my interest and got me thinking.

You know what?

No.

No , communist hating, hand crafted sign painters.

Yes , my  favorite pint-sized beloved leader has died, but don’t you see?

The world NEEDS most excellent, hand clasping, over the top villans! What fun is a world with no unhinged crazy people in positions of power? Where is the evil we need to band together to vanquish?

Without evil doers we’d all get weary and aimless and start hitting and biting each other like bored siblings in the back of  a minivan with no air conditioning and limited access to the built-in entertainment system. *(seriously, two screens, headphones, surround sound and remote controls).

It’s like Batman minus his Joker, Spiderman with no Green Goblin and Godzilla with no Tokyo Bay. Why would you want that? It’s like you want to kick the balance of the natural world in the teeth.

21 Gun Salute! March In Formation! I'm dead but I'm still crazy!

What if they are so unindustrious  that everyone else alive today can seemingly take a common theme and work it so masterfully that it resounds with others but even with a shiny spin and some skillful smoke and mirrors moves you STILL can’t get it to develop properly?

Notice that initially the mystery person in question here could have been anyone and now suddenly it’s mutated into me?

Yeah, I’m out of steam. So what?

It happens every single year at the same time just like clockwork. There’s the inevitable whining about how busy my life is and how difficult it’s become to type out a couple hundred measly words that don’t even have to conform to any sort of well written standard.

Or maybe I give you the sob story of a difficult year, with difficult kids.

Then I get a huge God complex where I INSIST that the rules of grammar and nature don’t even apply to me because I’m trying to bear my soul to you goddamnit and you will NOT entwine me in your meaningless minutiae!

Whah whah.

ANYWAY….

Last month my buddy at 20 Prospect crafted a post about the Invisible Sun, (which gives its heat to everyone, RIGHT STING?) and I found myself scratching my matted head, dumbfounded because I too had a post titled “Invisible Sun” in my draft section.

What are the odds?

 Realistically, the odds for me are slightly higher due to the deeply felt love and adoration I harbor for the three divinely talented and  impossibly adorable members of the STILL defunct POLICE.

sigh....

But I digress.

Ahem.

So here is the original post that I kinda stole from Gordon Sumner and sorta pilfered from Tom and I don’t really fucking care because there are people starving somewhere. Or so my mom says.

Did you ever happen upon one of those people who has heat radiating out from every pore, warming everyone they come in contact with during the day? Like a compact version of your own personal invisible sun? You can almost see the little joy explosions erupting from their surface and the little baby magma splatters hit your arm and become instantly infectious rendering you powerless to stop their migration straight to your cold, hard, jaded innards.

There is nothing not to love about these guys. In a world overrun with life vampires who try to suck the wind out of your sails and the happy from your soul these sparkling gems of humanity are a rare and delightful find. Like the caramel milk chocolate prize in the fruity gel filled crapfest that is the Whitman Sampler.

When I find one of these people, I just marvel at their goodness and then I latch on to them and try to ride the well-tailored hem of their coattails for as long as humanly possible in the hopes that some of it rubs off on me.

Who wouldn’t want to be attached to someone who will fill your world with YES and can simultaneously override the inborn Moro reflex that tries to prevent you from taking the inevitable fall you will have when you let go of this fast-moving dynamo?

There are days I feel that only a truly industrial sized steel wool pad could scour the rot from my soul but then the invisible sun comes along and scorches it to ash with the blinding heat of positive thinking and the intensity of twin stars going super nova.

You gotta love a bitch who burns with such brutal ferocity and the conviction of righteousness! I should knit her a cape.

Control is a funny thing.

We seek it out constantly in our daily lives and pride ourselves on having attained it.

Control your temper, your emotions, your kids, your dog, your career. Get a death grip on your whole existence or it will slip away and then return later under cover of darkness to beat you about the head and face area.

 We are so terrified of controls cruel stepsister chaos that we would do ANYTHING to avoid her. Imagine the explosive primordial goo we’d have to scrub off of everything if wild anarchy were allowed to grow full and bloated until it drenched everything in its rank expulsions. Looting in the streets! Cats and dogs living together! Legions of id driven savages missing appointments with their shrinks and (gasp) not even calling to reschedule!

When I hear large groups of clucking gossipmongers toasting their latest victim I notice the target of their vitriol is usually some poor schmuck who’s lost a handle on something. Mr. Shamalamadingdong sure used to have it together but did you see him come unhinged? Poor bastard. That was some undignified display!

Why does passion so often get mistaken for insanity and what is the dividing line? If I’m steaming mad about something, I’d like to be able to holler at the source of my pain, not worry about how I’ll be perceived as a loose screw by the blandly calm and beige crew.

Every once in a while I take off my Matrix glasses and remember that it’s all an illusion I carefully construct to make myself feel better. The fifty personal safety classes I insisted on taking make me no less immune to that car accident or grave mistake that’s written in the future annals of things to come but I like to kid myself that it does.  Having no control sucks.

This mirage that blocks out the sharp edges of uncertainty makes us feel like we’ve got it by the horns. We are powerful and the fates dare not take away what is ours. It’s impossible to live through a lifetime and not run up against the sad truth and then succumb to it.

If I could get Jumpy to stay still long enough I'd knit him a cap to wear. Just like my ceramic mouse.

I’m having yet another anthropomorphic episode with the onslaught of  new mouse tenants who think my house is a great place to shack up for the cold season.

Unlike a lot of people I remain mostly unperturbed by a variety of animals that don’t usually live with humans.

Why, in the house where I grew up I dealt with raccoons, skunks, field mice, foxes and even the occasional mole who used the hollow walls and shoddy screen doors to enter our house on a regular basis. Our completely useless dog would head for the hills and we’d have to shoo these woodland creatures back to their natural habitat with alarming frequency.

Now that I live in the city, I find I have zero tolerance for the two animals who, like the plague, remain a thorn in the side of urban dwellers everywhere – the rat and the cockroach.

That is why when I get batch of baby mice, I almost sigh with nostalgia.

I first saw Jumpy and his kin flying out of my laundry pile with wild abandon a few weeks ago and I was immediately smitten. So here is where I appeal to Jumpy’s practical nature and ask him a favor….

Dear Jumpy,
It’s been great getting to know you and your teardrop shaped siblings. You’ve been a welcome addition to our family and we’ve enjoyed watching you guys engage in hilarious mouse hijinks. I’d even venture as far as to say that you return those warm feelings, but here’s the thing.

This is poor judgement.

We are a wretched, savage species with a long history of wiping out anything we see as unsavory or burdensome. And while I think your large brown trusting eyes and heartwarming nightly hop through my kitchen, blissfully unaware of the danger, is delightfully sweet – soon a time will come where we must become enemies.

For you see, society dictates that you – the vermin- and me- the king of the world- must face off.

I know this seems barbaric and unfair as I have opposable thumbs, glue traps, the ability to drive and enormous size and strength while you only have the disarming power of a-fucking-dorable.

Let’s be frank.

Eventually you’ll lose the doe eyed innocence and naiveté that allows you to walk straight up to me without fear. Your enthusiasm for floor crumbs will wane and you’ll begin to chew up things that you ought not to and eventually you’ll cause some sort of damage that will warrant a home improvement project and cost me money.

The poops won’t look like tiny chocolate sprinkles anymore.

The honeymoon will end.

I’ll move from hostess to predator seemingly with the flip of a switch, hunting you with a stealth and prowess you didn’t think I had. The time for humane traps will be long past and one day you’ll come across a deceptively delicious glob of peanut butter in the middle of a seemingly innocuous sheet of shiny white paper.

“A peace-offering” you’ll think to yourself and you’ll take one tiny mouse step forward, sealing your fate.

A large tear will spill out of your left rodent eye as you feel the full weight of my betrayal.

The only witnesses to your sad end? The watchful eyes of my crated dog and the glue trap set by a cruel mistress.

So Jumpy?

Run!

Get the fuck out and enjoy this beautiful fall day in the sunshine before this possible future destroys us all!!

Where shall I even begin?

Let’s turn a spotlight on the many events that have taken place during the long span of time since we last held hands and jumped excitedly in the air together shall we?

Pixies

My unrivalled ability to plan a concert going trip during the full moon, when my kids will be at their wildest, is legendary. Unfortunately for Chuck, while I was having my face melted off by the Pixies in Asbury Park, NJ, he was rocking in a corner crying because of the outrageous exploits of our offspring. But because I’ve not yet finished talking about myself and it really is ALL about me we’ll push that nugget off to the sidelines for discussion at a later date.
The Pale Ale goes down and the Anger comes up and long ago somebody left with my cup.

 
Yes, go ahead and make a superior mental note to yourself that this borrows generously from Cake’s Going the Distance.

Do you feel smug now?

Good.

Anyway,after the Pixies concert I suffered an entire evening of post traumatic stress disorder from the angry bartender at a local Asbury Park haunt who kept screaming for me to “show her my stamp” in order to procure a pale ale. Surly is not a character trait I appreciate in my daily life and I like it even less when I’m at the mercy of some power hungry mean and small woman with shredded jeans who stands defiantly between me and  my drink. I suffered the indignity of using my arthritic fingers to dig my ancient drivers license out of my wallet to prove I was “of age” and then bit my tongue when a sniveling hipster branded me with black ink across the back of my left hand only to be forced to DISPLAY this mark of mature wisdom to quench my thirst.
Thank goodness these wounds to my psyche healed so well.

Superior driving trumps poor road conditions

Somehow after this whirlwind night of loud music and revelry I awoke and was catapulted directly into the most dismal and terrifying return trip home as I was forced to brave Snowtober, or whatever the fuck you people were calling it. I called it sure-fire way to die in a whiteout nightmare.

All Hallows eve for the misguided

Halloween fell soon afterward with my older son becoming apathetic enough to don a Cookie Monster hat and a blue parka daring to call it a costume. The twelve-year-old helped set my jaw in permanent “disapprove” position when she skipped down the lane dressed as Nicki Minaj. Thankfully, the baby went as Ironman and I now have a years supply of Snickers and Twix to ward off the strangling hands of depression.

A succession of near misses.

 
Hey did you hear?

An asteroid the size of an aircraft carrier is making its way straight for the earth and in a strange turn of events I spent three hours of my day watching Lars Von Trier’s Melancholia on pay per view.

 Nevermind that this hasn’t even been released in theatres yet so I kept wondering if I’d traveled unknowingly to the future to see Kirsten Dunst look really depressed at the longest wedding ever committed to film. I defy you to sit through the nuptials and reception without taking a bathroom break.
I’ve been quoted as saying that any movie that Charlotte Gainsbourg is in is worth watching for her alone and this one was no exception. That woman is poetry in motion pictures.

And so there you have it. A disjointed rambling onslaught about a slice of time that I’ve no idea how it got away from me….
And now it’s here, preserved in words so that when it all leaves my memory banks and is washed down the river for good you can refer to this and know exactly what I did with these 31 days.

It took a tenth of a second but then I was suddenly transported back to the rust colored shag carpet and dark paneled walls of my aunts living room where I heard the opening notes of that song for the first time.

I remember looking at my same aged cousin and having a pint sized epiphany.

Electric boots?

A mohair suit?

What the fuck kind of spectacularly dressed lunatic was this Benny? And better yet where could we get an outfit just like it.

This was the era of the LP on the turntable and hulking cars ridden with the convertible tops down. And while my older cousins were starting to build their album collections us little kids were still getting over the awesome cover photo on Kiss’s Dressed To Kill record.

Black suits, white clogs, face paint. What is not to love here?

To be fair and to give my Dad his due I was actually getting a good dose of musical education at home. We had The Beatles and Bob Dylan on heavy rotation and super cool Johnny Cash seemed to sneak in there at least once a day but here’s where I admit that Dylan’s Lay Lady Lay used to sound an AWFUL lot like LADY ELAINE to my small untrained ears. Anyone who knows me understands exactly how much I hate that trolley to the Land of Make Believe riding puppet madwoman so you can sort of sympathize with the tears and sobbing every time that one came on.

Man? Woman? Drunk? Puppet overlord? What the fuck am I?

Eventually my father lost the music war and my cousins collections swelled to include what appeared to be every album ever recorded but to this day I am ashamed to tell you that I am unable to stop singing any song from Fleetwood Mac’s Rumors until it’s run its course and I can quote any line off of the Eagles first release as if a higher power is compelling me to do so.

If you are ever at a party with me make sure to include Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song on the playlist so you can see my Nordic battle cry tear the place to shreds and then I can follow up with  a heartwarming rendition of Gold Dust Woman. It’s a vision to behold.

It’s the ’70s  man. They get their teeth in you and just keep shaking.

Yes, it's time to revoke her vaginal privledges. She has no idea what to do with it.

 And by “assignment” I mean there was an email sent to a bunch of people who were sitting around in their pajamas, not a call from the editor of the Washington Post.

 I pretended that I had it all under control nodding my head and using my self-assured fake voice that I reserve for just such occasions.

Truth be told this type of challenge befuddles and upsets me on so many different levels it’s almost too hard to explain.

 I instantly go that place where all the Riot Grrrls from college are out stomping on my throat with their combat boots because I only came to the party for the kick ass grain alcohol they mixed in a trash can and served with a massive soup ladle. Apparently I  didn’t care enough about the plight of women wearing thick charcoal eyeliner chanting slogans I couldn’t really hear because  grain alcohol makes you equally guilty as the men who keep us down and partially deaf in one ear.

It also may have made one partygoer temporarily blind.

 Who knew?

Anyway, I’ve never been able to get on board the slow-moving train of the extremist cause with any sort of sincerity or regularity.

Feminism, intellectualism, socialism, elitism. I’ve tried  all the ism’s and I never had enough enthusiasm or follow through to stick around.

In my defense I will say that socialism sounded great when Billy Bragg spoke about it in that folk hero way while brandishing his guitar but then I thought about someone taking away my Visa card and making me dress in a grey sack mumu and I ran back to capitalism with open arms and legs.

So, it is with great sadness that I send this writing assignment off into the sunset where it will be scooped up by someone with far more impressive  qualifications than just “has a vagina and two hands to type”.

It requires effort and skill to come skidding in under the breakfast menu cutoff time after a two-hour roundtrip school drop off but the culinary nirvana reached after taking that first bite makes it all worthwhile.

Eggs, cheese, ham, all cooked in a perfect little circle to slide beautifully inside the english muffin capsule can make or break my day.

It was during a mad dash to acquire one (ok two) of these life affirming gems that I found myself face to face with the most overwhelmingly enthusiastic McDonald’s employee I’ve ever seen.

I was temporarily stunned as he leaned out of this little drive through window to make sure I had a firm grip on my prized bag of food while looking deep into my eyes and said, “You make sure to have a very good day” with the kind of depth, sincerity and overt sexuality that only rock stars and very good actors possess.

My smooth ways and good looks are for disarming customers

 It was right then and there I realized that some people miss their calling.

Suddenly I pictured Antonio Banderes stuck behind the counter of Z Burger calling out order numbers and submerging another vat of fries into the boiling oil while daydreaming about what could have been.

I wanted to shake this mesmerizing employee by his manly shoulders and scream “get out of here, run away to Hollywood, don’t give up, you have what it takes!” but then the heavenly aroma of my food temporarily stunned me into silence and all I could think about was inhaling the eggy goodness in record time.

So Don Juan, another time I will summon the energy and courage it takes to get out of the car in my pajamas and I’m going to march right in there and INSIST you don’t let that god given talent go to waste.

Get up and LIVE!!!

Do you know what this photo represents people?

The death of hope and goodness, that’s what.

 Look at it lying there face down like a drunk whore, mocking me.

It’s life blew away like a weak fart in a gale force wind leaving me bereft and teary eyed.

For many years I have tried to bring one of these floral behemoths to fruition with failed results every single time. And before you start in with the “well I see a pattern here” or “isn’t this the same one who kills her sea monkeys and blames the murder on tank conditions out of her control” I’ll have you know that you would be partly right.

I have a knack for expecting great things from everyone and everything and then walking away with crushed hopes when it all falls woefully short of my sick little dreams, but I don’t think I was asking too much from this flower.

I gently cultivated and loved it from infancy smacking my kids out of the way when they threatened to stomp it with their careless clomping through my yard, watering it, and even going so far as to brain a squirrel who had the fucking audacity to try to dig up the seeds planted so carefully.

In this case I was so assured of the possibility for triumph that I dared not stop to consider that defeat was right around the corner.