I’m At That Age

July 8, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’m at that age…

-where I don’t have time for unpleasant people. You’re a raging asshole with bigoted tendencies. I do not wish to associate with you or your kind. Same goes for the drama mongers, the politically ignorant, the sports jerks that take the fun out of the game, and most adults that post cryptic messages on Facebook.

-where I’m intolerant. I prefer to live and let live, but when you come at me with your “how can you be tolerant of my intolerance” bullshit, then darling, I have no trouble showing you exactly how intolerant I can be. Yes, dear, I am intolerant of you and your trollish, asshole behavior and I’ll say so. So tolerate THAT.

-where I’m unapologetic. Not going to apologize for being fat, being a woman, being bisexual, being a Cubs fan, listening to any and all kinds of music, not watching movies, not being religious, not believing in your God, being intolerant to your bullshit, not putting up with your ignorant ass, caring about what I care about, being a writer, etc.

-where I will sing and dance in the grocery store if one of my jams from “the nineteens” (as my nieces would say) comes on.

-where I’ll wear whatever the hell I want to you and you all just need to cope as best you can.

-where I don’t know who most of these new bands and singers are and I have to ask my nieces.

-where I’m tired of hearing about what you eat, how often you exercise, how great your husband/wife/kids are, etc. because you act like if you don’t mention it five times a day I won’t know how much better you are than me.

-where I don’t give a shit if you’re better than me. There’s no prize for being the loudest braying jackass.

-where I’m still going to dress up for Halloween and silently wish I could still go trick-or-treating while I pass out candy.

-where I’m not going to settle.

-where I’m going to point when “new” things have really been around for a while.

-where I’m going to refer to people as “young folk”.

-where I’m going to keep dreaming, reaching, striving, and hoping for something better.

Because, you see, I’m at that age where I’m realizing that the years are piling up behind me, leaving fewer in front of me. The less time I spend messing with the petty and shoveling the bullshit, the more time I can spend enjoying my days.

Sorry if that ruins yours.

The Reality of “Let’s Be Brave”

July 1, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Last year I posted about a dream I had in which a young Michael Nesmith came to me and said, “Let’s be brave”. And I decided that it was a great idea and these were words I should live by.

I declared it my new motto.

Almost a year later I can safely say that I haven’t been too good about living up to those words.

In some ways, I have. Little ways. I bit the bullet when it came to my sewing, pushing aside the idea of making a mistake and wasting a shirt or a pair of jean or a handkerchief and turning those things into bags and skirts and dresses.

I’ve self-published a couple of novellas in that time and I’ve been less shy about being a writer, though I’m still pretty restrained when it comes to bugging people to read what I’ve published.

I’ve given fewer fucks about what people think about me and I’m embracing who and what I am and I’m less afraid about being that person in front of everyone more and more.

But in a lot of important ways, I’m still a coward.

My life has advanced very little. My need for security keeps me petrified. My ability to make money being tied to my self-esteem, my inability to be more creative about making money, the constant berating that goes on in my head about not having a “real” job and how everyone judges me as a failure for it, those things I haven’t been brave enough to even face, let alone conquer or let go.

I still can’t ask for help; my ego won’t allow it. I’m not brave enough to admit that it’s okay to ask for help and that, maybe, people would be willing to help me. I’m not a failure for asking for help, even if I feel like I am and like I don’t deserve it.

I’m still ashamed of so many aspects of my life. The bravery that I feel when facing them falters when I have to admit them to other people. I still have too many fucks to give in that department.

And don’t even get me started on the downright terror that complete paralyzes me when it comes to matters of the heart.

Who would have thought that turning brave from chicken wouldn’t happen overnight? Or even in a year?

I acknowledge the progress that I’ve made and I hope to keep making more, but I can’t help but be disappointed that I haven’t gone farther in a year.

I’ll never be able to stitch “Let Be Brave” on a sampler if I don’t live up to those words.

“Are You Really Writing Books?”

June 24, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

A friend of mine posted that on a link to my Amazon Author’s Page that I posted on Facebook, my meager attempt to try to drum up a little business.

People who frequent my blog on Wednesdays or happen to catch the appropriate Tweet on my Twitter feed might think this is a stupid question. But, actually, it’s valid.

Yes, I am writing books. I’m also writing short stories and novellas and blog posts and journal entries and non-fiction blobs and episode summaries of a TV show that doesn’t exist. Some of these will be published by a real publisher, some will be self-published, and some will never see the light of day. It’s a thing that’s happening whether I talk about it or not. Like my exercise routine or specific food intake. Even if I don’t feel compelled to tell people about it, it’s still happening.

Now, I talk a bit about my writing on the Internet, specifically on Wednesdays. I mention it on occasion on my Twitter. I post about my stories getting accepted and rejected and my self-publishing ventures in between. But I don’t talk about these things much off the ‘net.

Why?

Well, because.

Because I don’t want to answer all of the questions that inevitably come up after I mention that I’m a writer. “What do you write?” is always the lead-off and then it goes from there, down the rabbit hole of awkwardness because, see, I don’t make a living off of my writing (yet) and I’m not at all a best-seller (yet) and I’m definitely not famous (I’m cool with that). You’re not going to find my stuff on the shelves (yet). And the conversation sort of fizzles and dies because, well, how can I possibly be a REAL writer if I’m not making a living off of it?

The lead-off question has another pitfall. I answer that question honestly by saying, “Horror fiction mostly”, which leads people to say, “Oh, like Stephen King?”

I adore Stephen King. We all know that. But the answer is no, not like Stephen King. Stephen King is an educated, literate, well-read man who can craft eloquent sentences and amazing imagery despite his sometimes gruesome subject matter.

I, on the other hand, am a three-time college dropout, who doesn’t read anything she’s supposed to and definitely not as much as she’s supposed to, and only by virtue of chance can string together a few words to form coherent sentences that sometimes illustrate her bizarre and sometimes horrific imagination.

I am nothing like Stephen King and neither is what I write. Our genre is the only thing that connects us.

The other reason I don’t talk about my writing is simply because I get the feeling no one is interested. It’s not like a regular job. It’s hard for other people to relate to what I do. And since I don’t like to talk much about works-in-progress, the conversation is pretty short if steered in that direction. As for talking about the works I’ve done, well, horror isn’t everybody’s bag. It isn’t most people’s bag. And if they don’t like to read it, then they don’t like to talk about it.

I guess I’ve become accustomed to not discussing my writing life outside of the Internet. Which is a problem when it comes to me trying to get people to read my work, but the funny thing is, I don’t look past the Internet for readers either. In fact, when it comes to my writing life, it only seems to exist online.

Maybe I should consider branching out.

I Was That Weird Kid: Food Edition

June 17, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Even though I don’t get summer vacation anymore, summer still makes me think of being a kid. And when I think of being a kid, I think of how weird I was as a kid.

All kids are weird by nature because society has yet to really enforce all the rules of “normal” on them, but even for a kid I was weird because I didn’t like normal kid things, food in particular. Not a big deal, really, but my mother ran a daycare while I was growing up. Feeding eight kids was simple for her: you ate what you got and if you didn’t eat it, I’m terribly sorry for your misfortune. Wait it out until snack time. The thing is, while Mom aimed to feed us all healthy lunches, she did feed us the typical kid foods. And the trouble with that was I didn’t like a lot of them.

I hit my limit on hot dogs really young. I remember eating them as a kid, but I was still early on in grade school when I could no longer stomach them (to this day I can only eat a hot dog if it’s a corn dog for some weird reason). Same thing happened with bologna.

The kid’s drink staple of summer is Kool-Aid. I didn’t like Kool-Aid. There was only one flavor that I’d drink (it was called Rainbow Punch and just saying the name conjures up memories of the taste of it) and when they discontinued it that was the end of my Kool-Aid run. My mother could never find another flavor that I’d drink.

I think we’ve chronicled my hatred of Jell-O enough, but I’ll say it once again. I hated Jell-O as a kid just as I hate it now.

How about Lucky Charms? Kids love colored marshmallows in their cereal! I don’t like marshmallows. My mother likes to remind me that when I was three, she found me picking all of the marshmallows out of my bowl so I could eat the cereal without accidentally ingesting one.

Push-pops? No. Ice pops? No. Cream pops? No.

I realize this makes me sound like a picky eater, but in fact, I was one of the easiest kids to feed. I liked most things and I ate a lot of things that most kids wouldn’t eat, like spinach, brussel sprouts, cooked carrots, and such. And I did like a lot of kid foods like Spaghetti-O’s, fish sticks, chicken nuggets, and macaroni and cheese.

I just didn’t like THOSE foods.

Weird kid.

I Don’t Owe You An Explanation for Being Fat

June 10, 2013September 28, 2021 ~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

I’m fat. This is apparent. Laws knows that I’m not trying to hide it and I don’t think I could if I wanted to as that sort of cover-up would no doubt make me look larger.

But I don’t have to explain my fatness to you. I don’t have to defend it. I don’t have to justify it. I don’t have to apologize for it. It is what it is and if you have a problem with my appearance, then YOU HAVE THE PROBLEM.

I don’t have to assure you that I’m doing healthy things with my life despite my weight. I don’t have to apologize for leaving the house not weighing 120 pounds. I don’t have to argue that I have just as much right to exist as you do because my pants size is bigger than yours.

Let me say it again.

YOU HAVE THE PROBLEM.

My fat is my own. I’m the one that deals with it on a daily basis. I dress it. I touch it. I move it. I wash it. And you know what? I don’t have nearly as big of a problem with it as you do.

Because you think I should be ashamed. You think I should be apologetic. You think I should change.

Don’t tell me I should lose weight for my health because we both know you don’t really think that. You don’t give one shit about my health. You want to me to lose weight so I’ll fit into the socially acceptable appearance box. You want me to lose weight so you’ll be more comfortable in my presence, sitting next to me, talking to me, walking past me, walking around me.

Me losing weight in this context has nothing to do with me and everything to do with YOU.

So when I don’t lose weight, when I insist on existing in my fat state, it offends YOU. Because you’ve made MY weight about YOU.

YOU HAVE THE PROBLEM.

I don’t.

So please understand when I exist against your wishes, without apology or justification.

Because this is your hang-up, scooter, not mine.

Sew, For My Next Trick…

June 3, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I turned a pair of jeans into a skirt.

I got the idea from an episode of Emergency! because the 70’s call to me like that. One of the actresses was wearing a jean skirt like that and I thought, “Hey! What a great idea!”

And then I didn’t do anything about it for a while because I wasn’t sure I was capable of turning a pair of jeans into a skirt with my self-taught hand-sewing skills. When I get ideas for projects, be they sewing or writing, I have to meditate on them a while to see if I can get them to work out. Boosted by my work on turning t-shirts into bags (I’ve got five of them now), I thought with a little research it might be possible.

I did some Googling on the subject of turning a pair of jeans into a skirt, looking to the wisdom of those that had walked this path before me and got the general idea of what I needed to do to make this work.

Then I talked myself into committing to this project.

It’s not like turning the t-shirts I was never going to wear again into bags; I only have so many pairs of jeans and really can’t afford to waste a pair, even if I hate them. Society demands that I keep my ass covered. So I had to be sure that I could make this work.

I’m happy I talked myself into it.

I used a pair of my fat-girl jeans (they’ve got a bit of spandex in them) that lost their shape after wearing them a few times. The legs were too big and rather unflattering. But, that excess material proved to be perfect for the skirt transformation. I used one kerchief for the front panel, cutting it and sewing it together so it would fit just right. I thought that would be the hardest part, but it turned out to be pretty easy.

In most of the skirts I’ve seen, there’s also a back panel, usually smaller, but since the legs of these jeans were so big, I didn’t need to put one in. Just sewed it up the back and added some slits to the side to show a little leg.

It took me several hours over four days to get the whole thing done.

It’s another ego boost to my sewing skills. And another lesson that I am quite capable of getting shit done if I put some time, effort, and patience into the pot.

In Dreams

May 27, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I have weird dreams.

Everyone does, I know, but mine are made of the stuff that people fear. One person’s nightmare is my typical night. I rarely have what I would call bad dreams because my unconscious mind has set the bar that high. It might only happen a couple of times a year that I have a dream that disturbs me enough to prevent me from falling back to sleep.

For example, in the past two weeks, I’ve dreamed of being shot, stabbed (while being Joseph Gordon Levitt no less), and set on fire. In other dreams over the years, I’ve been in plunging elevators, fallen from ridiculous heights, and been crushed. I’ve been chased, stalked, bitten, drowned, and strangled. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve died in my dreams. You know that saying that if you die in your dreams, then you die in waking life? Not true. I’m living proof of that, so to speak.

My most frequent nemesis is Michael Myers. That guy has stalked my dreams since I was seven years old, since long before I watched even one Halloween film. Funny, isn’t it? It’s my favorite movie even though the Shape terrifies me in my sleep. I guess that’s the trade off. I love his work and he kills me in my dreams. I remember the time he stabbed me with a pitchfork. That was novel.

I’m not sure why brain works this way. It might have something to do with my love of horror films and horror fiction, the steady diet of horrific things that I’ve consumed since I was young. It makes some sense. Someone who enjoys the terrible while I awake would be entertained by it when asleep.

But not all of my dreams are bad. Some of them are just plain weird. Most people can make that claim. I don’t know why Vin Scully was blind and hanging out with Keith Moreland and Aretha Franklin in a Wal-Mart softlines section while I dressed mannequins, but that’s what happened. That’s what my brain conjured up to pass the sleeping hours.

Because weird and/or bad are the norm, certain medications tend to dial that up to eleven. I avoid taking Tylenol PM unless I absolutely have to because the dreams that have resulted from its consumption are too bizarre to even put into words. The sleep I get is hardly restful because I can’t wake myself up enough to reset my brain so I can get out of the dream hell I’m in. Darvocet has the same affect on me.

I admit to turning some of my dreams into short stories. Check out “Reality Unknown”. The three stories that are told are based on three dreams I had all in the same night. I’d wake up after each one. When I woke up for good in the morning, I wrote them down because I knew there was fodder for some bizarre story there. As much as I tried, I don’t think I did them justice. I just don’t have the skill to capture the true horror and WTFness of what went on in my brain that night.

Now I don’t want you to think that my dreams are all terrible, twisted things. Some of them are fun; some are downright hilarious. Of course, I’ve been known to have a sick sense of humor.

Let’s just say that they work for me and for the most part, I enjoy them.

Sweet dreams.

7 More Things About Me

May 20, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

That’s right. Couldn’t think of anything else to blog about today.

1. I name cats after TV characters. Tuvok, Peter Marie, Stella, Spot, and McGee. You could count Maude, but I didn’t name her and she wasn’t intentionally named after a character.

2. I’ve got a scar on my knee from getting run over by a kid on a bike. He was a real jerk of a neighbor boy and rode up on the grass to hit me on purpose. Nobody was happy with that, least of all me.

3. I have trouble with light sensitivity. Some people with light colored eyes have this problem and I am unfortunately one of them. I’m that weirdo wearing sunglasses while driving in the rain. Even with overcast skies, the light can still bother me, particularly while driving.

4. I have a tendency to eat my food in a particular order during a meal and I usually eat one thing at a time. At least my food can touch now. Except bread. I don’t want my bread touching anything because I don’t like soggy bread.

5. My 5th grade teacher was a health nut. She’d make us go for really long walks, including on along side a business route, and do Gilad workout videos in the classroom. It was a bit excessive and I had no hope of being the teacher’s pet because I couldn’t walk around the park fast enough.

6. I won’t drink anything that are certain shades of green or blue. It’s unnatural.

7. I grew up playing with goats. My grandparents’ neighbors had them. Goats are quite silly, very playful, can scream like humans, and have this bizarre fascination with getting up onto things. They’ll stand on a coffee can if they think it’ll give them some height. That’s why I don’t get this sudden discovery of goats. I already knew all of this stuff.

I Was Pretty Then

May 13, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ 1 Comment

A couple of weekends ago, I drove myself crazy looking for a few of pictures of me as a kid. They’re my favorites: one of me at about three, wearing my favorite pants; one of me at about 6 or 7 months old, drinking my first beer (I was the first grandchild, so they had a lot of fun with me); and one of my R2-D2 birthday cake when I was three or four.

I finally found them, but in the process, I found a couple of other pictures of me and I was struck by them.

One was of me when I was about 17. A friend of my dad’s was a photographer and agreed to do a photo shoot of my dad, my sister, and me for free so she could build up her portfolio. Dad, who isn’t big on pictures and usually looks like he’s about thirty seconds away from a homicidal rampage in them because he doesn’t smile, agreed because it meant he could give copies to Grandma and get her off his back about new pictures of us.

I remember that day because I felt stupid getting my picture taken in a bunch of different spots at Weldon Springs and I got reamed by my boss at Taco Bell because for an establishment that served questionable food products, they had pretty strict dress code rules and I got busted because I forgot to take all of my earrings out before I showed up for my shift (I have my ears done three times, but I was only allowed to wear one pair of earrings because that shit matters, man).

The second picture I found was taken when I was 21. I was at a hotel in Chicago with my boyfriend at the time. I was sitting on the bed in just a t-shirt, putting on my make-up. My hair was a pink mess and I was suffering from a serious lack of sleep. My ex had grabbed my camera and snapped a picture of me before I could protest.

I remember that day pretty well, too. I was getting ready that morning to drive him to the airport so he could go home. It was the end of long a trip for him, the longest the two of us had ever spent in each other’s physical presence during our entire long-distance relationship.

Looking at those pictures, I wasn’t just struck by the memories. I was also taken with just how pretty I was.

I never thought that at the time. How could I? Back then when I looked in the mirror I saw what everyone else saw: a fat girl with massive breasts and too-wide hips and too-broad shoulders. I was the opposite of what pretty was. Or what I was constantly being told pretty was.

Looking at those pictures and seeing it with the perfect vision of hindsight, I’m amazed that I remained oblivious that whole time. And I’m amazed that everyone else did, too. How many boys and girls missed out because my pants size was in the double digits? Holy hell! Look at that face! How did anyone manage to resist me? Well, I admit it. I helped them out a lot in that department. A little more confidence would have gone a long way back then.

I look at those pictures and I’m struck by the missed opportunity to enjoy being pretty. I’m not pretty now, mostly because of the stuff I did when I was the ages I was in those pictures. It takes too much work to be pretty now. But back then, I did it without a second thought and didn’t realize it.

Because I wasn’t pretty like everyone else, like I was supposed to be, like society wanted me to be.

Such a waste.

**I feel like I should add a disclaimer to this post. I’m NOT fishing for compliments. I’m just saying that I was too stupid back in the day to realize I was pretty then and marveling over the fact that some distance in the form of time has finally let me see that. I hated those pictures for years because I didn’t think I was pretty. I’m finally old enough to change my mind about that.**

Shut Up, Brain

April 29, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’m one of those people that has trouble with ruminations. Ruminating, if you don’t know, is going over and over and over (and over) something in your head. I tend to replay stupid things I’ve done or said in mind, sometimes for hours. It keeps me from falling asleep. It keeps me from concentrating on other things that I need to be doing. It ratchets up the anxiety to the point that I think my head is going to pop off.

For example, last week I had some text message confusion with some people I work with at the clothing store. Long story short, my phone doesn’t like group messaging, reply all is a fucking crime, and I should have put that phone list in my phone when I got it. When I finally figured out what was going on and why, I felt like a total idiot.

And so, my brain set to work not only replaying that whole fiasco out, but also trying to come up with a way to explain myself should it come up in conversation during the next floorset about how I’m a moron without looking like a huge moron.

For two hours, I tortured myself with this garbage that everyone else involved likely laughed off and probably won’t even remember the next time I see them. But I don’t like being an idiot or looking like one, so I must be punished, I guess.

Finally, after driving myself crazy, I decided to try a little meditation. I do yoga daily and though I don’t usually do the meditation portion at the end of my workouts, I will do it on occasion when I’m feeling stressed or anxious, or in this case, dumb. And it worked! I did a quick meditation and immediately felt better, the anxiety and burden of stupid lifted off of my mind.

So what did my brain do?

Marvel at the fact that I was no longer thinking about it by trying to think about it again. Like someone with a sore tooth realizing the tooth is no longer sore and then poking around to see if they find any trace of that soreness left, thereby making the tooth sore again.

Yes, I’m that kind of dingbat. Or at least my brain is.

So, of course, I started thinking about it again. And then I meditated again. And then I poked around again until I started thinking about it again. And so I deleted the evidence from my phone. And I meditated again.

And then I said, “You know what? I need a blog post for Monday. Here. Let me just write about how stupid my brain can be and how stupid I can be. THAT will fix it.”

So there. Maybe now my brain will shut up about it for good.

Well…maybe a little more meditation.