i wanna soar,
fly across the ice like i used to
when my mother filled my thermos with cocoa
and my skates took me anywhere
i could fly back then,
skate circles around even you
although i was invisible
and no one noticed me twirl
not when my legs were coltish
and my eyes too big for my face,
but i could soar across the river when i wanted
a bubble around me to catch me if i crashed,
now my skates have rusted from lack of use,
though my feet have been itching to fly again,
slide and soar through the night
thankful for the invisible
making it easier
for you to catch me when i crash
And that was the first time I saw my Mother punch my boyfriend in the face.
Let’s put it in reverse and start from the beginning, shall we?
It started out innocently enough. Sometimes, Lori and Mark and Bobby and I did what passed for entertainment in Sayreville back in the day, we drove around town with a six-pack or two blasting really cool, mostly obscure music also known as Punk Rock and it’s roots. The New York Dolls, Alice Cooper, Silverhead, Mott The Hoople, The Stooges, The Sweet to name a few, as well as Ramones, Dead Boys, Buzzcocks, Sex Pistols, Heartbreakers, you know, all the good stuff.
There wasn’t much to do around town, the drinking age had just been raised (I was grandfathered in so I was able to drink at 18) but there wasn’t a rock scene to speak of much closer than New York City.
I have no idea who came up with the harebrained scheme but it wasn’t me. I think.
One minute Lori was dropping us off one at a time at our respective houses, next thing I know she and I were back in her little Volkswagen sneakily on our way to CBGB’s.
Without our boyfriends.
Well, it’s not like any of us were engaged or anything.
It was a Friday night, but there wasn’t anything big going on at CBGB’s that night band-wise. There weren’t a lot of people there but the ones who were there were the crème de la crème, at least in my big blue eyes.
I remember sauntering in, Merv in his yellow hardhat near the door giving us the nod that meant ‘walk right in and sit yourself down’ as Lori and I walked in, looking for an empty seat at the bar. I figured we should go say hi to Cosmo but it wasn’t to be.
That’s about the time I felt a leather-clad arm wrap around my waist and pull me in, planting a kiss on me while ruffling my hair.
It was him.
I mean THE Him, as in Steve, the man/boy I lost my virginity to.
Yeah, I know, everyone called him Stiv but his name was Steve and he was the lead singer for my favorite band, The Dead Boys.
*Sorry Mama, I can’t censure myself, and besides, it’s not like it’s a big secret! Besides also, remember, you went out with musicians before you got married too, so apples and trees.*
I guess it was Rock Star Night because Cheetah Chrome and some of the rest of the Dead Boys were there, as well as Joey Ramone, a bunch of roadies and other bands but the truth is all I knew was Stiv pulled me on his lap and talked me into sipping his Margareta (I hate tequila!) and my mind went blank. In my defense I was only 18 with a history of nearly zero boyfriends… yes I know, Bobby, but we were dating, we weren’t exclusive yet (um, I think).
I was young, innocent, inexperienced, infatuated, and my Rock Idol was asking me to come back to The Diplomat Hotel with him and a few of his friends for a bit.
Lori, in the meantime, had managed to hook up with Joey Ramone in her tiny little Volkswagen. I was on my own for awhile anyway so away we went.
One of the best parts was sitting in the back seat of Stiv’s friend’s car singing along to Staying Alive by the Bee Gees. Well that and his hand on my leg, but I digress.
We hung out for awhile as they all snorted coke and I said “no thank you” then went back to CB’s within in hour.
Lori was gone.
She left me in New York alone.
She left me in New York alone and we were on a sneaky mission!!!
I was so dead.
I guess I have to weigh the good against the bad, so the good outweighs the bad, at least in my memory.
Imagine, you’re 18 years old and the Rock Star you lost you virginity to a few months ago hails a cab and brings you back to his room at The Diplomat Hotel to sleep over and take a train home the next morning. Imagine lying next to him while he plays Iggy Pop’s Kill City over and over, you know, the one with the song “Johanna” (which my Mother really wanted to name me), imagine him saying all the right things, recognizing and acknowledging my innocence, talking and treating me gently and sweetly (at least that time and I really am going to Hell aren’t I?), as he continued to do for years. But again, I digress.
I don’t know why I didn’t think of it, but I should have known.
After sitting with Stiv making phone calls (no cell phones back then kiddies) to make sure someone could pick me up at the bus station I hopped in a cab, got on a bus where I proceeded to tell a complete stranger my entire night and finally, there was my friend and savior, JB (RIP), waiting to pick me up.
He dropped me off in front of my house and like a scene from an Afternoon School Special about abusive boyfriends, Bobby’s car came flying down the street and I mean flying. He slammed on his brakes and sprang out of his car, hand around my upper arm pulling me into his car, screaming at me incoherently.
That’s when it happened.
My Mother, the one I’d lied to by telling her I was sleeping over a girlfriend’s house, flew out of the house, grabbed my other arm yanking me away from Bobby and then she let loose with an Irish Temper fueled punch right to his face.
I’m not talking ethics or morals or who was right or wrong, but let me tell you, it’s kinda awesome to see your Mom punch somebody in the face on your behalf when they deserve it. And Bobby deserved it, as you’ll find out…to be continued…
AUTHORS NOTE: I wrote this bit for the daily prompt, but in all honesty, I’ve got a WIP going on offline, non-fiction, because you know me, it’s all about me, me, me! Right? (be careful how you answer that) Point is, I guess this is kinda a first draft of something I have up my sleeve because after all, they say write what you know and what do I know better than my past? Especially since it really was pretty awesome!
Sometimes, we act on impulse: it could be something as small as ordering that special dessert on the menu, maybe asking out that cute boy or girl, or as large quitting your job and selling everything you own to become a shepherd in New Zealand. What’s the most crazy, outrageously impulsive thing you’ve ever done? If you’ve never succumbed to temptation, dream a little. If you gave yourself permission to go a little crazy, what would you do?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us IMPULSE.
The Victorian is THE best place in Cape May as well as the entire world, my home away from home but most importantly, my sanity, and my endgame <3
Originally posted on CookeCapeMay:
To qualify for a Certificate of Excellence, businesses must maintain an overall rating of four or higher, out of a possible five, as reviewed by travelers on TripAdvisor, and must have been listed on TripAdvisor for at least 12 months. Additional criteria include the volume of reviews received within the last 12 months.
She’s gone again.
It wouldn’t be so bad, I mean, I’m used to her leaving me, but this time she didn’t me leave alone. No, wait, I said that wrong.
I mean she left me alone, as in taking everyone with her.
She took them all.
Every single one of my creations are gone. My babies, my pains-in-the-ass, acting-out-on-their-own, never-listen-to-me-anyway wonderful shards of my own warped self have left me high and dry because my Muse is pissed off at me and decided to treat everyone to a tropical vacation in some undisclosed location.
Well, everyone but me.
Look, I get it, winter has been eleventy thousand days of ice and snow and all the fuckery that comes with it but c’mon Muse-O-Mine, just because you’re holed up in some fancy resort with Lizzie and James and Catt and Alison and Ian and Djinn, I mean really! I get why Persephone isn’t here right now but you have Djinn and I’m freezing and have writers block because you’re a flat-leaver!!!
It’s my fault she took off, she hates the cold when she feels like it and apparently she feels like it now. And because she’s my Muse everything she does is my fault.
Well that’s what she told me at least.
I have a theory, I think there’s a Mysterious Muse Retreat somewhere that controls this block associated with writers.
See, we think it’s our fault, we have writers block therefore we are sometimes unable to write, right?
So check it out, maybe our Muses all get together and go on the Super Secret Mysterious Muse Getaway and fuck with us from wherever the hell they are.
Oh, there’s nothing we can do about it. It just is.
Let’s look at it this way, next week we change the clocks, Spring begins, the Sun will shine a little longer each day and we can stop wearing 17 layers of clothes and by the way, we all know how attractive that looks.
The Point: It’s almost here my lovelies, we shall all become immersed in inspiration and type our fingers down to the bone.
In the meantime, Muse O’Mine, could you please get your hot ass back here so I can stir up some mayhem? At the very least, Lizzie and James really need some way overdue sexy time.
Besides, I heard the Muse Rules may be changing and, well, you see, there’s this cute little piece of dynamite going by the name of Blue* who’s been looking for some excitement, not that I want to replace my Muse but you know how it is, one should always have a backup plan.
I learned that from my Muse.
*Blue, as you should know, is from TRG’s Fiction Relay http://thereclininggentleman.wordpress.com/2012/10/23/fiction-relay-homepage/
There’s been a mini-hiatus but fear not dear readers, we’re about to wrap it up and start a new one. Now would be a perfect time to catch up on the story so far, don’tcha think?
I am woman hear me roar.
Not that it does me any good to roar, I am still always cast in the role of Cinderella.
You remember her: “Cinderella, Cinderella, all I hear is Cinderella, from the moment that I get up, there isn’t any let up”*
Yeah, that’s me.
From the moment that my feet hit the floor I know what I’m in for: a big fat mess waiting for somebody to clean it up.
Would you like to play a game and guess who that somebody is? You get three guesses and the first two don’t count so that leaves me.
See, I don’t have a job. You know, a real job that requires me to leave this house and do something that results in a paycheck.
Nope, no paycheck for me because housework doesn’t count when you have two children and five animals to clean up after. Oh wait, they’re not children, they are adults, the hubs and his older sister.
And guess what? They are worse than an overcrowded kindergarten class.
“I’ll clean this up later” is a favorite, it turns into a Mexican standoff (hey, that’s a real phrase, if you’re looking for politically correct you’re in the wrong place) as to who can hold out longer, the slobs or me. And as usual, I fold first because I can’t abide living in filth and disarray.
Just take a look around, see what I mean?
For those of you without x-ray vision allow me to describe my immediate surroundings:
Chinese takeout for dinner last night (which by the way, I didn’t eat one bite because I was upstairs writing) is still sitting on the counter, smack dab in front of my tea kettle. Half empty beer bottles and overflowing ashtrays are mixed amongst the left-out-all-night Chinese leftovers and we are now on bowl number five full of those little packets of duck sauce and all that stuff they fill the bags with. Allow me to add that they are never, and I mean never used.
There are empty cans of dog food sitting on the counter and may I add that the sink is full of dirty dishes? I guess it’s too much work to take that one step to the dishwasher and put them in, I mean after all, less than 12 inches away from the sink is much too strenuous for the average lazy person.
I’m going to Hell, aren’t I?
Ok so in the midst of writing my little tantrum, I had to stop and go to ShopRite to buy food because as usual, there’s another blizzard on the way and I had to make sure I had enough tea.
I lied, I did get tea but I also got an order for the week so it was a decent amount of time that I was gone.
Thinking I’d come back to at the very least, a cleaned off countertop, I was sadly disappointed and had to clean the counters so I could empty the bags so I could put the food away then pull out the makings for homemade lasagna (I’m a sucker and a chump)which also required me to run and unload the dishwasher in order to have room to- oh forget it, you get the idea.
I am Cinderella and Rapunzel with a dash of Snow White thrown in.
There’s also some Buffy The Vampire Slayer mixed in there but she only comes out when I’m sticking up for anyone who isn’t me. I’m beginning to realize that is about to change.
So yeah, I can roar with the best of them, and believe me, not only am I woman, but I am a hell of a woman; I just need to remind myself of that fact a little more often.
And maybe throw either A. a tantrum or B. everything that isn’t cleaned up either in the garbage, or in the person responsible for the mess’s bed.
Or possibly both.
Or I can go with my usual, What Would Buffy Do?
*Cinderella song from the Disney version.
I’ve been a bad, bad, very bad girl.
In more ways than one but for now lets just concentrate on one thing at a time, ok?
Me plus endless snow and constant company (aka zero privacy) equals me losing my mind.
(1 + ::: + OOOOO  = o_O)
Now it may not seem like a big deal to the normal person but, well, I am far from the normal person as anyone who knows me can attest. Actually, now that I think about it, even if you don’t really know me, it’s not too hard to pick up on the crazy that lives inside me nearly every moment of every day.
Hey, it’s not easy being me you know.
Ok, maybe it could be easier being me if it wasn’t smack dab in the middle of the worst winter we’ve had here in New Jersey in I don’t know how long. They say that every 20 years or so we have some kind of really horrible very bad blizzard/snowstorm/opening up of the Heavens/Mother Nature’s Fury, whatever you want to call it.
Frankly, I call it bullshit.
Because enough is enough.
The other day I realized my life has been basically one fuck-off after another for the last two years. And yeah I said fuck-off.
Actually, it’s probably longer than two years but we’ll stick with that number because it’s slightly less pathetic.
Wait. I said that wrong, it’s really been one long-non-stop-run-on-sentence-fuck-off.
And it all boils down to one thing: a stupid fucking hurricane.
Seriously, that’s the root of it all. Hurricane Irene.
Don’t worry, nobody else does either because Hurricane Sandy came along the following year and made Irene look like one lit match compared to a Towering Inferno.
Irene didn’t cause anywhere close to the damage Sandy did on the surface, but we were one of the unlucky ones when our house collapsed and it was all my fault.
The day Irene hit I had to open my big mouth and say something about how we always hear about people losing everything in natural disasters but thank God we never knew anyone personally who had to live through something like that.
We all know how that turned out, one collapsed house and a lifetime of memories gone in a snap.
Sorry dear diary of mine, I seem to have veered off topic, but lets face it, veering off topic is pretty much a given where I’m concerned. So in keeping with tradition, I’m about to veer.
Guess what diary? I’m going to Cape May!
I was afraid I’d never be able to go there again since it’s been my Mother/Daughter tradition forever.
How can I do it without her?
I’ll tell you how; me and my bestest friend Shawn are leaving it all behind and taking a mini-break, Thelma and Louise style, only without flying cars.
I just booked the room, coincidently the room my Mom and I usually stayed in, and even though it’s only for two nights, I figure it’s like getting my toes wet.
Another coincidence? We are going exactly one year to the day my Mom and I spent our last Cape May trip together.
I’m thinking dear diary, that perhaps this will give me some sort of closure. I’ll be bringing a bit of my Mom with me, to fulfill a promise I made to her once upon a time.
Legal or not, I will be spreading some of her ashes where she asked me to, in the Atlantic Ocean near Sunset Beach.
She said she’d haunt me forever if I don’t follow her wishes.
And since every time I’ve been to Cape May I’ve had some sort of ghostly experience, I’m not taking any chances.
It wouldn’t surprise me if I do see my Mom, or at the very least, feel her presence. In fact I hope for it.
After all, somebody pulled some strings up there to enable me to be in Cape May a year to the day since Mom and I spent our last week together. (Shut up, if I wanna believe it then I will, so there non-believers! And cut me some slack, I’m still all kinds of delicate and emotional and stuff.)
Knowing my feisty red-headed Irish Mom, she’s the string-puller; so thank you my dear Mother, you will be with me always in my heart, but it’s nice to know you’ll be coming with me one more time to our favorite place in the world.
Leaving a piece of you there in our own personal Heaven on Earth will be a comfort to me, knowing that you will be there always, just like you wanted. Oh and no worries, I’ll be joining you some day but in the meantime, don’t be a stranger.
Ok diary, signing off for now, I really should be writing other stuff. And Muse o’mine? Don’t be so hard on me, I promise I’ll make it up to you.
There’s a burst of inspiration on my horizon. Cape May always has that affect on me, and today I booked my favorite room at my favorite place in the world, The Victorian, just a stone’s throw from the beach. Truth is, it feels like home there, the owners make you feel like Family, it has the best view you could wish for, and, well, it’s magical.
I may have been MIA for awhile my dearest diary, but baby, I am (almost) back.
For the first time in a long time, I feel something I thought was gone forever; hope.