It’s funny… today I realized that I was just born in the wrong place…. Probably at the wrong time, too. My mother took a bus to Texas when she was very pregnant with me to join my father. She rode a bus with four kids and a hamster in her bra for three days. Now that’s tenacious. Heaven only knows what took him to Texas…. That man was born with a gypsy soul. I am too old to be angry anymore, so now I thank him for the gypsy in me, just like I thank my mother for that thrice cursed tenacity. Both have often served me well.
I wasn’t kidding when I said I was born in the wagon of a traveling show. Anyway, I’ve been at this crossroads for a hot minute. What I really want to do is throw caution to the winds and seek out some wide open spaces. It’s not as if I don’t have a decent life… I totally do. I have meaningful work I enjoy, fantabulous kids, a nice home, my boyfriend is great when he isn’t telling me I’m crazy. Why do people persist in that line of thought, hmm? Undoubtedly, that’s a continuing theme in my world. If it walks like a duck, and it quacks like a duck, hell, maybe it’s a duck.
I got my preacher brother’s panties all in a bunch yesterday because we were talking politics and I referenced the Madonna-Whore dichotomy. Freud first discussed it and it exists today. Often referred to as slut shaming and double standards. It’s the difference between the women men respect and women they desire. They are almost never one and the same. I got a lot of my early dating advice from my brother, which explains so many things…. He taught me basic self-defense (grab, twist pull and I don’t care how big they are, if you break his knee, he’ll go down crying like a baby.) One of the things he used to tell me is that you must wait thirty days before letting a guy get to home base in order to have a chance at a relationship. There’s that dichotomy, rearing its ugly head. If he’d had a little brother, do you suppose the advice would have been the same?
My refrigerator sounds like it’s peeing, which can’t be good. Meanwhile, I’ve realized that I don’t mind my blurred lines. What I have been minding is the feeling that I’m stuck. There are really only so many pallet projects I can engage in before it stops distracting me. I do have a spool to play with. It occurs to me that I’m not crazy at all. My world just doesn’t look like your world. I’ve seen things and done things and even been things that don’t look like the average bear’s life. There is magic all around us, if I do say so myself. I have known this much longer than I’ve known you.
OK… for your entertainment… Good Time Charlie likes to call me a wolverine. He isn’t wrong. Since your image of wolverines probably comes from the X-Men, I’m going to edgamakate you about the cute little fellows. They look like a miniature brown bear, but they are actually members of the weasel family. So are minks, people. They are tenacious, ferocious little buggers who exhibit strength far exceeding their size. In a fight, you will see a bear run from a wolverine. Sounds about right. They are damned near extinct, because their fur is beautiful, much like Miss Shannon’s hair, thanks to Kerri at the Village Edge salon.
Here’s what I know… I’m crazy like a fox.