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.**

Sew, Whatcha Doing?

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

My grandma attempted to teach me how to use a sewing machine when I was a kid. It was a fruitless endeavor. Between not being very interested at the time and being one of those people that gets easily frustrated when I’m not instantly adept at something, it was a learnin’ that I did not get. My sister, on the other hand, picked up the sewing machine and learned how to crochet and has always been able to cook. She can also bust a forty bottle just right in order to cut a bitch. I’ve always been jealous of my sister’s innate abilities.

Anyway, though I never learned how to work a sewing machine (I have intentions to teach myself or have my great-aunt learn me up), I did teach myself how to sew by hand. As such, I’ve actually made quite a few things. I’ve made several pillows over the years as gifts; I created a DragonCon costume; I’ve made a few stuffed animals; and I repair a lot of my clothes. I’m pretty good with hand sewing combat skills.

My latest project is turning a t-shirt into a bag. I don’t remember what gave me the idea. I’ve got a bunch of old t-shirts that I don’t wear, but I don’t want to get rid of because I think they’re neat and I just can’t bear to part with them. I don’t like waste and right now they’re just sitting in a bin under my bed. At some point, in my sifting through multiple ideas over the past few years, I came up with turning a t-shirt into a bag.

This idea has been months in the making, I’ll have you know. I picked a t-shirt that I was okay with destroying, looked at it. And then I put it away in one of my craft drawers. A few months later, I pulled it out again and looked at it. Then I put it away again. I couldn’t figure out how I wanted to make this transition and if I could make it work.

A couple of weekends ago, I finally said, “screw it”, and committed to the project. I cut off the bottom of the t-shirt, sewed that bit up and lo, the bottom of the bag was born. Since then, a bit at a time, I’ve turned the sleeves into pockets, turned strips of the excess material into a strap, and decided where to attach the strap. This past weekend I bit the bullet and attached the strap and refined the pockets and the bag is now done (aside from testing it to see how well the stitching holds up). So yeah, this project that I didn’t think I’d ever do is now done.

Sometimes, I forget that I’m capable of doing stuff like that. In addition to being one of those people that thinks they should be instantly adept at new things, I also have it in my head that stuff should be done all in one go. And some things should be. But other things don’t have to be and in fact, it’s a better approach to do a little bit at a time. The overall result is better and the process isn’t as overwhelming.

If only I could apply this sewing project approach to my life.

My Favorite Scar

April 15, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I’ve got lots of scars. That’s the fun of having pale skin and not healing very well and doing stupid things.

Of all of my many scars, though, I think the one I got from a ceramic hummingbird is my favorite. First of all, it’s right across the bridge of my nose. Second of all, when I say I got it from a ceramic hummingbird, people automatically want to know the story because, dude, how do you get a scar on your nose from a ceramic hummingbird? There is no mundane way something like that happens.

So, here’s the story.

When I worked in the jewelry department at the local Wal-Mart, we had a gift wall that featured ceramic figurines, jewelry boxes, snow globes, and the like. Mother’s Day and Christmas were two of the holidays that those gifts were supposed to focus on. The trouble was that nobody wanted to be a ceramic mother figure for their mother and as a result, the gift wall looked like someone with a hoarding problem trying to be neat instead of a display.

Overstock was supposed to go on the riser above the wall. On the day in question, I was on the ladder rearranging the riser shelf to make room for yet more boxes of these ceramic nightmares, trying to figure out how to stack all of this stuff without breaking safety codes.

As I was moving some of the boxes of ceramic humming birds, I noticed too late that one side of the shelf had come out of its slot. Before I could fix it, that side of the shelf fell, sending a row of ceramic humming birds right at my face. I was unprepared for the aviary onslaught and one of the boxes hit me in the face, the corner of it busting open the bridge of my nose. I don’t know if you’ve handled much in the way of ceramics, but they can be quite weighty. Those humming birds were a lot heavier than their living counterparts. I got rocked pretty good.

Bleeding, seeing a couple of stars, I climbed down off of the ladder, applied a Kleenex and some pressure to the wound…and then helped a customer because apparently he really needed to see a pair of earrings and my need for a Band-Aid could wait.

Once I did get the Band-Aid applied, I then had the fortune of telling every one of my co-workers why I had a Band-Aid on my nose. They all thought it was hilarious. Except for one. When she pointed out how easily I could have been killed (if the bird had hit me a little bit harder, it would have knocked me out and I would have been in bad shape going unconscious at the top of a ladder), it wasn’t quite as funny anymore.

Now, though, with the scar so faded most people don’t notice it, the humor has returned.

With a story like that, though, my favorite scar still manages to get some attention.

About Kids…I’m Good, Thanks

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

When I was younger, in my early 20’s, I thought that I’d end up having kids like all of my friends. It was kind of an expected thing. I figured eventually I’d get the hang of the relationship thing and then there’d be kids.

Of course, that didn’t happen.

As I got older, I moved more and more towards the fence that divides the “I want kids” and the “I don’t want kids” yards. For the last couple of years, I’ve been firmly sitting on that fence. But in a gap between the posts because I like to be comfortable.

And recently, I finally took my first steps into the “I don’t want kids” yard.

So now I have to explain myself because there’s nothing that brings out the villagers with their torches and pitchforks with the intent of burning someone at the stake like a woman that doesn’t want to have children.

First and foremost, I like kids. I like babies. I like toddlers. I like teenagers when I have the option of smacking them upside the head. My saying that I don’t want kids isn’t a declaration of war against them or parents. I like kids. I also like koalas and tigers, but that doesn’t mean I want one of my very own. I must admit, being an aunt is great. I can have the kids and then I can give them back. Like going to the zoo.

Like I said, a lot of my friends have kids. My Facebook friends and Twitter followers have kids. I grew up in a daycare. I am more than aware how great kids can be. I’m also very aware that they’re a lot of work. And I admit, I’m not sure that it’s work I want to do. I could do it, I know that. But I’m not sure I want to.

Facebook has been particularly helpful with this. I see the people on my list bitching about the schools and the doctors and the hospitals and other kids and other parents and I think to myself, “Bullet dodged, Matrix style”. I don’t think I have the patience or the energy to go dealing with that crap and I certainly don’t want to be the person that bitches about it. It sounds like a real drag.

Now, here’s the thing.

Just because I’m in this yard doesn’t mean I’ll stay here.

I don’t like to rule things out. It makes me nervous not to have choices.

It’s entirely possible that I could meet someone that would like to have kids with me. And I would be open to that idea. If I had a partner that was willing to do the work with me, being a parent would look a little more appealing. And since I’m not one of those women insistent on having the kid myself (I’m squimish about pregnancy anyway; Alien made a great impact on my life), acquiring a kid by other avenues means that my fertility (or my partner’s) isn’t an issue.

What I’m saying is that it’s entirely possible that I might one day jump the fence again.

But for now, about the kids, no thanks.

“You Should Lose Weight Because…”

March 11, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Not-fat people have this interesting delusion that for some strange reason it’s never occurred to fat people to lose weight. And they indulge in this delusion by telling fat people reasons they should lose weight because clearly the fat people just need some good arguments for it.

Okay, I’m being a little harsh. After all, the not-fat people are well-meaning. They’re just trying to be helpful. Their hearts are in the right places, but their logic is off drinking a kale smoothie.

So, let me help you non-fat people out a little bit. Here are two things that you shouldn’t say to a fat person in an effort to convince them to lose weight (actually, it would serve you very well to just NOT try to convince a fat person to lose weight in the first place; you do you, okay?). These are the two I’ve heard the most and therefore, they’re the ones I despise the most.

You’d be prettier if you lost weight.

No, scooter, I wouldn’t. I’d be THINNER if I lost weight. Unfortunately, my physical defects, scars, stretchmarks, crooked nose, crooked teeth, bad skin, etc., would not be affected in any way by a weight loss. In fact, my defects could be increased if I lost weight too fast because then I’d have loose skin to go with it.

Also, the general look of my face wouldn’t change much as I tend to not carry much weight in my face to begin with. This questionably attractive mug would remain questionably attractive.

So, no, I would not be prettier if I lost weight, just thinner. And thinner ain’t necessarily prettier.

You’d be so much healthier if you lost weight.

This statement operates under two false premises. One, that thinness somehow equates to health. It doesn’t. Halle Berry is thin, but she has diabetes. Ditto Mary Tyler Moore. Valerie Harper is thin and she’s got brain cancer. Maura Tierney had breast cancer. Teri Garr has multiple sclerosis. My mother is thin and her cholesterol has always been sky high.

Are there health problems related to being fat? There can be. But many of those health problems can also be related to being sedentary and eating like shit, which thin people are also guilty of doing.

My point is that you can’t typically tell by looking at someone’s size whether or not they’re healthy.

Which brings me false premise number two. You have no idea what my health is. Unless you’re my doctor (and you’re not because I’m currently between doctors at the moment), you’ve got no clue what my blood pressure, blood sugar, pulse, cholesterol, or any of that is. You have no idea what my diet is or how much I exercise or what illnesses, disorders, or syndromes I might have.

So when you tell someone to lose weight for “their health” you’re making an awfully big assumption about that person’s health.

And you know what happens when you make assumptions, don’t you?

Here’s the thing. When you (uninvited, as it usually happens) argue for someone to lose weight to “be healthier” or “be prettier”, you might mean well, but in reality, all I’m hearing is that you want that person to lose weight because you’re uncomfortable with the way that person looks. You’re speaking in a code programmed by society.

So, the next time you non-fat people try to be helpful, help yourself.

Shut up.

Inventing With Squiggy

March 4, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Upon reading David L. Lander’s book Fall Down Laughing, there were a couple of sentences in one of the final chapters of the book that really struck a cord with me.

“When I was asked as a kid what I wanted to do for a living when I grew up, I remember answering the question by saying that there was a great job for me out there, it just hadn’t been invented yet.”

He goes on to say that the jobs he’d had, The Credibility Gap and Laverne and Shirley, didn’t exist until he walked in and invented them.

“All my life I had traveled the path of invention, making it up as I went along.”

I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone else explain the way I look at my life so accurately. I didn’t think anyone else did it like me. That’s not a brag; just an admission of loneliness and isolation.

I’m surrounded by people that did things by the book. I can’t even find the book, let alone read it. There’s really no one to relate to when it comes to discussing my world. To them, I’m a slacker, a failure, an idiot. I should have gone to college and gotten a real job and gotten married and had kids and all of that stuff that I was supposed to do, that normal people do.

But in my head, I knew that wasn’t going to be my bag. I knew there was a job out there for me, but it hadn’t been invented yet. I just didn’t put that thought into those words. And I didn’t know what that job was.

I still don’t know what it is.

I haven’t invented it yet.

Okay, yes, I am a writer and I do work several day jobs to support myself, but that all isn’t the same thing. Mr. Lander was a writer and an actor and worked day jobs, but his job hadn’t been invented yet. Do you see what I mean? My job hasn’t been invented yet.

I’m working on it.

I’m writing. I’m learning. I’m trying. It’s not easy. I mean there are some things I’m just not good at, things that make inventing a job even harder. Mr. Lander definitely possesses some skills that I don’t.

But that doesn’t mean that it’s not going to happen. I’m going to fail a lot, but I’m going to get it right eventually. I’m going to invent that gig that’s meant for me. It’ll probably end up looking like Frankenstein’s monster, but I’ll love it just the same.

Pass me that beaker, please.

Lazzzzy

February 25, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

My mother used to tell me all the time how lazy I was. It rated right up there with selfish and stealing as an unforgivable sin. I hated it when she called me lazy. There are so many implications in that word, all of them negative, and none of them that I wanted to apply to me.

But now that I’m older, I admit it. I suffer from extreme bouts of laziness at times.

There are some days when I’m absolutely unstoppable. I start early and check off my To Do list in short order, no matter how difficult. I get everything done before noon and then celebrate with reruns and Internet porn all afternoon.

And then there are days when I am so filled with don’t-want-to that I’m still working at nine o’clock at night because I refuse to leave a To Do list unfinished. The effort that it takes just to get started is more than I want to expend, even though I know that once I get going, I’ll get it all done in no time.

It is laziness, I know. Don’t-want-to laziness that I’ve carried with me all of my life. In my head, all of the projects seem bigger and harder than they really are. I think about how much I don’t feel like doing something and so I put it off until I can’t put it off any more. And then when I finally get around to doing whatever it is, I get it done in less time and usually with less difficulty than I imagined and I kick myself in the ass for not getting it done and over with sooner.

For example, I need to do my taxes. But I don’t feeeeeel like it. I know it’s not difficult. I know it’d probably only take me 20-30 minutes to get it all done. My taxes have never been that complicated. I might as well just get it done and over with.

But, like I said. I don’t feeeeeel like it.

That feeling rules me sometimes. That kind of laziness. I don’t feel like it so I don’t. Sometimes I make myself. Sometimes I don’t have a choice. But, if I have a choice, then I’ll make the choice to put it off.

So, yeah, my mother was right. I am lazy. I’ll probably always be lazy.

But so long as I have those excellent productive days, I’ll keep breaking even.

Even when I don’t feeeeeel like it.

Writing–Writing, Like Parenting

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

No, I don’t have kids. But I know enough parents that I think that I’m qualified to make this comparison. Other writers have. Why should I be left out just because I don’t have any kids?

Oh, but I do.

My stories are like my children in a way.

I gave birth to them. I nurtured them, sometimes getting up in the odd hours to make notes or jot something down, not going out with friends to stay home with the story, and worrying about it when I’m working on something else.

I do my best to raise them right, try to bring out the best in them, encourage their strengths and try to improve their weaknesses.

I get annoyed by them, aggravated by their unceasing demands for attention when all I want to do is take a five minute break. I get frustrated when they won’t do what I want them do and sometimes, I just don’t like them very much.

But, in the end, I love them. And there comes a time when I have to hope that all of my hard work will be rewarded when I send them out into the world. I have to hope that others will read them and know them and love them as I have. I have to hope that the world will be kind and they will be accepted.

And then I thank my lucky stars that they’re only stories. They don’t have feelings, so they can’t be beaten down by rejection because they’re likely to get rejected a lot. That’s the way of the writing world.

However, they also don’t ask for money. If it all works out right, they make me money. And it’s legal.

Sorry, parents.

That Personal Line

February 4, 2013January 22, 2016 ~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

I mentioned in my last Megalomania post that I’ve got an imaginary line drawn in some imaginary sand in regards to what I will and will not share on the blog. And I will be the first to admit that it’s a confusing, variable line. More like a squiggle, really.

I have no trouble letting the world know that there are a lot of bad words that apply to me, but I shy away from really getting into the extent to which they apply. For example, I’m paranoid and I know it, but I hesitate to get into how paranoid I can be and what things I can be paranoid about. I want you to take my word for it, I suppose. To go into any more detail is just too revealing. It opens up the thick skin I’ve developed just a little too much.

There are things that other people would consider personal that I have no trouble talking about. My boobs for instance. I’ve done several blog posts about my boobs and my reduction surgery. Ask me any question about my titties and more than likely, I’ll have an unembarrassed answer ready for you. While some women (most women, dare I say) would consider their bosoms to be off-topic, mine have been sliced and stitched and pierced and seen and drawn on, so there’s really no secrets left for them to have. I might as well talk about them.

But ask me about what I’m writing right now and I’ll probably be pretty vague in my answer (once I get over the shock of someone asking me what I’m writing because that doesn’t happen very often). It’s partially a jinx thing. I’m afraid I’ll jinx myself by talking about a project that’s not ready to be talked about. It’s also a personal thing. To talk about what I’m writing is to open myself up for judgment and I think I get judged enough as it is.

Hell, it’s only been recently that I’ve started to really come clean and willingly offer up that I am a writer. Period. Everything else I do is to support that career goal. It’s made for some interesting job interviews.

I’ll talk all about being single and bisexual and that sort of thing, but don’t ask me who I’m attracted to or who I have a crush on now because you’re not going to get that from me. I even shy away from admitting to celebrity lusts. That sort of thing, I think, shows too much of my heart and I’d really rather not have it broken. Or even bruised. Give me a writing rejection over a personal rejection any day.

I imagine it’s confusing for people reading this blog. She’ll talk about this, but not that. Hey, I thought she was supposed to be honest. Why won’t she say this, this, and this?

I can only say so much, you know? And I don’t want to talk about what makes me uncomfortable. Because that gets transmitted in the post and I don’t want to make any of the few folks reading this blog uncomfortable, too.

I’m awkward enough in my life. I need one place where I’m not. Let that place be here.

Hopefully, you guys don’t feel awkward here, too.