{December 28, 2017}   Uncomfortably Numb

cant care

I’m not sure of the exact moment it happened but it hit me without leaving a mark this morning when I woke up.

I can’t care.

About anything.

It’s not that I don’t want to care, it’s that I can’t care. I’m numb. Uncomfortably numb because I don’t very much love this feeling, but I can’t seem to care enough to do anything about it. And therein lies the problem. It’s one of those circular chicken and egg things. You know, where did it start? What came first?

Apparently I can’t seem to care enough to figure it out.

Or can I?

That’s one of the reasons I’m here right now instead of say, going back to bed and pulling the covers over my head hoping to slip back into a deep sleep, perchance to live in a dream world where it doesn’t matter whether I care or not.

It’s pathetic.

Check this out, when I lift my head from my laptop I see an 8 foot tree blazing with colored lights and shiny decorations, each one either hand-picked by me or hand-made by my Mom. There are several huge piles of gifts, wonderful beautiful gifts we’ve all picked out for each other I mean Santa left under the tree on Christmas Eve, practical needed gifts as well as dream gifts, you know, the stuff you want but wouldn’t buy for yourself. Yet still, I can’t care.

I mean, there’s a Buffy The Vampire Slayer Board Game I’ve wanted since before it existed. I can be Buffy and slay the day away. I swear I even heard Spike call me out I mean call my name and I’m ignoring that lovely British accent because, well, the caring is gone. Again.

I tend to be a reactionary sponge. I soak up all the emotion around me and usually let it all take over, get in the driver’s seat, so to speak. Puppet-like, my strings get yanked to and fro but recently, an imaginary pair of scissors has cut nearly every damn string leaving me motionless, emotionless, just plain less. Still, knowing all of this, I can’t muster up even one drop of caring.

Listen, I’m not stupid, I’ve been through many years of therapy, I recognize that nobody can save me except me but, say it with me, I can’t care. There are a myriad of reasons, real, true, valid reasons for my non-caring. I get it. I understand that the last 5 or 6 years have blown up my world and changed the me I used to be.
I can visualize it in my mind like falling dominos; the hurricane crashing the house, my Mom dying the following year just 5 months after moving back home, my Dad dying the year after that, the house being sold and my brother dying the same week, basically my entire support system yanked away from me and me trying to not talk about it because nobody wants to hear it anymore, hell, don’t want to hear it anymore.

So what do I do? Being born under the sign of Cancer, I can cry my eyeballs out but I’m sick to death of tears. I can pull into my shell and I do, more than anyone knows because I pretend. I turned myself into an actress playing a part. Those smiles you see on my face? Fake. Those cute little sarcastic quips I throw out like I’m channeling my Mother? Fake. Those prescription RayBan sunglasses I wear whenever I leave the house? Not fake but useful because they hide my eyes, the windows to my battered soul. My damn eyes give me away every damn time, but only to those who care to look. And hell, if I don’t care, why should anyone else?

This is not a cry for help, a plea for understanding, a desperate attempt looking for attention. Those things would require me caring, but my capacity to really care somehow slipped away when I wasn’t paying attention.

And please don’t get me wrong, I care about other people I love, I just can’t care when it comes to myself. A therapist would probably say I just summed it up in that last bit of words, a therapist would probably say I have to love myself in order to care about myself. But a therapist isn’t walking around in this shell of a body, I am. I am the one in the driver’s seat and apparently I’ve stalled. I need a jump start, a new battery, something to bring me back to life and that is all on me. I get it logically, I can diagnose and fix anybody’s life, but when I look in the mirror and see the blank look in my baby blues, all I feel is colder.

So is that all there is? Am I to be forever stuck in neutral, idling and wasting gas as the world passes me by? Will I forever be in a constant state of nope, not even caring enough to take all my wonderful gifts sitting under the tree out of the boxes? Will I remain uncomfortably numb for the rest of my life?

Perhaps being uncomfortably numb isn’t the worst thing in the world. Uncomfortably numb implies I’m not comfortable with the numbness, I’m not a Pink Floyd song, I’m not comfortably numb, so maybe there’s hope for me after all.

Stay tuned, as we end this year and move on to another. Maybe I can resolve to shake off this numbness and start feeling something, anything even. At the least, I can hope.

Or, as someone much more proficient with words than I once said:

“Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come,
Whispering ‘it will be happier’…”
― Alfred Tennyson

Mistress on Her KneesMistress on Her Knees by Anastasia Vitsky

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Mistress on Her Knees is one of those books that live on in your mind long after you’ve read the last sentence.
I should know, I’ve read it four times already.
Once lovers, Mistress Graciela, a tough professional Domme and young Trinity, used to nothing more than an abusive painful home life, begin a life together. Submissive Trinity and her beloved Domme Graciela’s lives are turned upside down when betrayal steps in.

Ten years later, Trinity is working at The Castle, an exclusive BSDM Club. As Nurse Trinity, no longer submissive, now a Domme herself, Trinity crosses a boundary with submissive Mira (from Mira’s Miracle) and knows the only person in the world who can help her fix it is her ex-lover and Domme, Graciela.
What happens when two headstrong women try to work together to right a wrong, and will they ever be able to re-ignite the flame that never really died? Should they?
The book goes back and forth through time, from when Trinity and Gracie first met to the present, which is something I love.

Anastasia Vitsky is a master at both character and world building. The dialogue is witty and beautifully descriptive, I sometimes forget I’m reading a book and feel like I know these characters.
One of the things I love is the way Ms. Vitsky has her characters from different books interact, she writes in a way that enables you to read a good many of them as stand-alones, but why would you want to? Her characters are rich, real, and makes me wish I had a Trinity and Graciela, a Mira and Hana in my life.
Anastasia Vitsky’s blog has some delightful stories continuing more adventures of her characters. Did I mention they’re free 😀 ?
This is an author to keep an eye on. She’s the first f/f author I ever read, she writes in a way that makes me wonder why there are so many categories of books. A great fiction writer is a great fiction writer.
Anastasia Vitsky is a great fiction writer.

hi lovelies, I’ve been in a super-secret bunker trying something called a 2nd draft…but that’s a lame excuse for not writing here, on my girl scout’s honor, I pledge to do my duty and all that, aka writing here and there, here, and there….ok, i’m sorry, because I isually am about something, and remember, support local artists/writers/musicians/local, I just discovered today that there’s websites out there stealing people’s books and selling them at a discount price and that’s bullshit (NSFA!) so knock it off stealers, and buyers, don’t do that, because it’s wrong!

View all my reviews

{January 1, 2015}   Another Year, Another Year

Buffy: I got nothing left to lose.” Whistler:”Wrong kid, you got one more thing.”
It’s always the same.
The buildup now begins before Halloween, by the time Christmas arrives we are exhausted.
Then we have New Years Eve.
For the most part, we women are not only expected to make sure everything, and I mean everything is done the way we’re expected to have everything done. Usually without direction, lists, suggestions, and , oh yeah, help. (Yes, dear husband, you do help me and no, I’m not talking about you. Ahem.)
Now where were we?
We all have them.
We really shouldn’t.
Until we can truly walk a mile (or a day) in someone else’s shoes, no matter how much we do or do not communicate, we will never live up to someone else’s expectations. Never.
We can turn ourselves inside out and it still won’t happen.
Because we are who we are.
And until people stop expecting others to be exactly what they think we should be, we will fail them every single time.
This year, I will do my best to stop expecting anything, from anybody.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful for the friends and family I have, but it’s been made painfully clear, especially in the last year or so, when it comes down to it, I really am all I have.
And in the interest of full disclosure, I do pretend I’m not all I have, but let’s just keep that between us, okay?

Angelus: No weapons, no friends, no hope. Take all that away, and what’s left?Buffy: Me.

me and mom“Mothers hold their children’s hands for just a little while, and their hearts forever”~ Irish proverb ~
Someone much wiser than me recently told me my Mother flows through my veins, that every pump of my heart pushes part of her through my body and my mind, so she will always be with me. Always. It wasn’t until I was a few miles away from Cape May that I began to feel anxious the other day, uneasy almost, as if I’d left something behind when I packed my bags to head north. Which, of course, I had, when I stood alone on the slippery jetties and scattered my Mother’s ashes where she wanted them, in the Atlantic Ocean off Cape May beach.
In the last ten years or so, Mom and I started a new tradition, 2 to 3 visits a year to Cape May, just the two of us. The only rule we had was we had to stay at The Victorian and we had to stay no less than 5 days. We began to think of The Victorian as our home away from home, always warmly welcomed as Mom checked in because I couldn’t stop petting the cat all cozied up on a comfy chair purring away in tandem with the thumping of the dog’s tail. We didn’t even care if we left the room, although we did spend many hours wandering through the most beautiful town in the world. What mattered was the talking. Two best friends talking who just happened to be Mother and Daughter. Those are the times I cherish most.
Everything happens for a reason some say, and I’m still trying to figure out the reason Mother Nature decided Saint Patrick’s Day, the day I planned to bring Mom to her final resting place, was a good day to dump 7 inches of snow in Cape May while leaving the rest of NJ alone.
But I was on a mission.
After a longer than usual drive into howling wind, freezing temperatures, and snow nearly up to my knees in some drifts, I trudged my way, Mom in hand, down to the surf.
I don’t remember ever being so cold and I talked to Mom as we got closer to the waves crashing over the jetties.
My closest friend Shawn came with me so I wouldn’t have to be alone, but since she knows me so well, she understood my need to scatter Mom’s ashes by myself, but in true Best Friend Form, she walked with me to the beach, staying back just a bit so I could say my final goodbyes, just me and Mom, alone together for the last time.
Is there ever enough time to say everything you want to say to someone? Usually we put it off or hope they just know how we feel.
mom and me scottish festival
I am so Blessed to have a Mother who taught me to always say ‘I Love You’, so thankful that we never even ended a phone call without saying it to each other, and beyond grateful that the last words we said to each other were “I Love You”.
Is it possible to feel relief and dread at the same time? Relieved that my sweet beautiful Mother is in that good place now, yet dreading each day without her in my life. I will never say goodbye to Mom, I will say until we meet again, I will feel your presence with each breath I take, feel you watching over me as you did all my life.
And most of all, I will love you for the rest of my days, until I see you again.
unexpected mom
Rest In Peace, my beautiful Mother.
From Buffy The Vampire Slayer ~ The Body
Anya (crying): But I don’t understand! I don’t understand how this all happens. How we go through this. I mean, I knew her, and then she’s, there’s just a body, and I don’t understand why she just can’t get back in it and not be dead anymore! It’s stupid! It’s mortal and stupid! And, and Xander’s crying and not talking, and, and I was having fruit punch, and I thought, well Joyce will never have any more fruit punch, ever, and she’ll never have eggs, or yawn or brush her hair, not ever, and no one will explain to me why. (She puts her hand over her face, crying.)

anya from the body
My own version of the yellow brick road, where life is magical and anything is possible.
road to cape may

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.

“Here she goes again,” says practically everyone who knows me for any length of time.
I have been accused, repeatedly on occasion, of having an obsessive personality. If something peaks my interest I always sometimes tend to give it my all. I jump in head first and soak up every little detail, even the tiniest bit of information having to do with whatever my latest obsession hobby may be gets filed away somewhere in my big fat brain alongside all my previous obsessions interests.
I’m not fickle but depending on which way the wind is blowing I’m capable of slamming on the brakes and switching obsessions gears in a heartbeat if given the right bait circumstance.
Let’s go with a ‘for instance’ or four submitted for my humiliation your review:
The Underground Dance Scene in NYC:
1.Ok admittedly we have to go into the Wayback Machine for this one but I begrudgingly admit my way-underage self was shaking my booty (I did not just say that) at many of those private parties of the early Studio 54 kind with my gaggle of gays when I should have been paying attention to my studies sophomore year. There I was in all my 15 year old glory surrounded by all my gay friends keeping me safe and showing me off. I was their ‘project’, long before What Not To Wear was even a thought in Stacey and Clinton’s mind my self-appointed Fairy Godmothers plopped me down in a chair, waved their magic wands and Poof, I was strutting my stuff through the halls of Sayreville High School clad in the latest fashion and next years haircut.
Enter Punk Rock and:
2.Apparantly the handful of punk rockers in Sayreville saw the potential in the blooming wallflower I’d become and lets face it, in 1977 there weren’t too many girls in school who took to wearing red lipstick and sunglasses. Somehow the line was blurred between the gay contingent and the punk rockers, solidarity in our outcast status probably but for an almost 17 year old wide-eyed skinny girl who’d never been asked out on a date, there was a big difference  between hanging with the gay guys and hanging with the punk guys. Suddenly I was cool. I embraced the punk rock scene wholeheartedly and it wasn’t too long before this previously virginal wallflower was deflowered by one of the biggest punk rockers in the New York Rock Scene, a casual relationship that lasted for 3 years. The last time I saw him I was hanging with the band at the Diplomat Hotel and snuck away when he wasn’t looking (for no good reason); it wasn’t long after that I got the phone call telling me he was now a true dead boy after being hit by a car in Paris France. Punk rock flows through my veins to this day but my obsessive self took a left hand turn somewhere and found me entering Phase III.
The Rock Star Years:
3.It happened when I wasn’t paying attention. One day I’m doing my usual sitting at the studio watching my husband’s band rehearse with my girl friend singing. Only problem was, she couldn’t carry a tune to save her life. Oh she had great stage presence but stage presence doesn’t cut it when it’s time to record a cd. It took a lot of convincing but I finally agreed to sing some vocal tracks for the recording. That was it. There was no way in hell I had any intention of singing in front of anyone. I’d run out petrified auditioning for the school play, I was so terrified at the thought of singing in front of even my chorus teacher I ditched the audition and signed up for stage crew.
But I digress.
They begged me to please just sing backup vocals for one gig. Just one gig and they’d leave me alone. Since it was a Halloween gig I figured I’d dress up like a rock star and play pretend. That backfired on me to such an extent that before I knew it I was the lead singer for my own band, singing songs I wrote myself. 4 cd’s later (and one more in the studio waiting for me to finish my vocal tracks) I had to put my rock star days on hold when Hurricane Irene knocked down our house. Needless to say I jumped in, determined to get that house rebuilt for my Parents even though the insurance company refused to pay anything for the ‘natural disaster’. After numerous phone calls including a conversation with Governor Christie, a benefit organized by an angel named Angel including some local legendary musicians (thank you forever Snake Sabo, you are the real hometown boy who made good, unlike our old buddy  who declares himself the hometown boy while lining his own pockets and coming ‘home’ for a photo op, and no I am not bitter) and despite an unscrupulous club owner who pocketed the bulk of the money raised, we, with a lot of help from The Home Depot Foundation proved that you really can go home again.
Simultaneously, I discovered my current and forever obsession interest which leads us to:
Buffy The Vampire Slayer And/Or The Joss Whedon Years
4.Rehearsal nights were always on Tuesday. One night, rehearsal was cancelled and I was flipping through the channels only to land on what would become my favorite episode of Buffy, “Once More With Feeling” the Musical episode. It had everything I loved; vampires, singing, humor, and, since it was Season 6, a lot of depression and sex. What more could I ask for? Well I asked for nothing and in return became so obsessed intrigued with the mind of Joss Whedon I discovered Angel, Firefly, Dollhouse and anything that had the slightest connection to the genius that is Joss.
Now I have to admit, I do have a tendency to go overboard when I discover something I love. That sometimes to my dismay includes people. And I do tend to jump full force into whatever it is I’m jumping into.
But that’s not necessarily a bad thing.
Every little obsession that touches me leaves a trace of evidence behind, a wealth of experience combined to make me the exact me I am at this exact moment.

Over the last decade or so, unbeknownst to me, there was a new obsession building, only this one was coming from inside me for a change. It started out so small I only really noticed it in retrospect.
I was, and am, obsessed with words.
Sure I always loved to devour books, reading anything I could get my hands on anywhere I went.
But I didn’t know I liked to write.
I didn’t even know I could write.
Like everything else, it was something I fell into with the songwriting stuff until I realized I was pretty much writing really short stories in song form, and then I remembered this psychic astrologer I went to years before, after winning a reading in some newspaper contest.
He did my chart and spent well over an hour explaining that I was born to write and it was something I would be successful doing.
I just hmmm’d him through the session with an occasional “really?” thrown in and went on my merry way.
I’d never written anything other than a letter so I certainly didn’t imagine myself checking off the ‘Writer’ box on any kind of survey.
I think my imagination has expanded quite a bit in the last decade or so.
Although I’m still in the initial phases of this latest obsession interest of mine I have a feeling this one’s going to stick around for possibly ever.
I’ve become obsessed with writing.
It’s like I need it to get through the day.
Like if I don’t write for even one day something feels off, something is missing.

I’ve just realized, my dearest  ones, that I have rambled on so long this may indeed be my longest post so far.
Admittedly it did take me all day to write since I was waylaid by my Father’s insistence that I drive 20 miles to move my (sob) ex-car (a sad post for another day) from the driveway to the street now followed by an unplanned trip to ShopRite who, by the way, does not have the answers.
Something else I just realized is if I continue to babble like this I better learn to become obsessed with the art of editing.
always be urself


I guess it should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that the book I’m currently reading is the book when it comes to all things Buffy. Written by Nancy Holder, who has also written a slew of books, both fiction and non-fiction about, among other things, the genius that comes from the squishy frontal lobe of The Man Himself, Joss Whedon.
Chock full of goodies, this hardcover collectors edition brings you deep into the BuffyVerse, offering insight into the characters and mythology of the SlayerVerse as well as following the evolution of Buffy and her Scooby Gang throughout the Seasons. Included inside is a black envelope stuffed with extras entitled Slayer Lore:Texts and Magicks for the Battle, a must for any hardcore Buffy fan such as myself. Copies of Spells, Prophecies, and a map of Sunnydale are among some of the goodies as well as my own personal favorite, a shadow caster used in Season 7 Episode 15 ‘Get It Done’. To say anymore would be doing a disservice to the author and the reader; there are a lot of Buffy books out there, but this is the best of the lot, including a Forward written by Amber Benson, the actress who played Tara on the show.
inside buffy bookbuffygilesbook

inside buffy book stuffGRRR ARGH!!!

et cetera