Category Archives: self love

We’re talkin’ panties. No boys allowed…

unless you are a cross dresser, transvestite or drag queen.  Although, I would imagine the latter two would already know these tricks.  For some reason, drag queens know more about undergarments than the average biological woman does.

In that case, this article is for you, Frump a Dump.  We’re talking bras and panties here.  Sit back, take notes and then, go evaluate your lingerie drawer.  There will be a quiz at the end of this lecture, Bitches…so absorb!

Those of you who read regularly or know me “in real life” know I am a pretty fashionable chick.  I love fashion. I live for fashion.  I eat, breathe and sleep fashion. The only thing I don’t do is fuck fashion.  I save that kind of love for the Hotband exclusively.  Though, I do make sure to be fashionable WHILE fucking, if that accounts for any thing.  Bra and panties must not necessarily match…but they must be attractive.  Alluring.  Eye candy.

I am a big advocate that sexy starts from the inside out and that goes for clothes too.  If you start with a base of sexy lingerie, your “feel good” will shine through.  It’s always a sexy start to a great outfit.  When you throw on your basic frump a dump white sports bra and a pair of your big ol’ granny panties, you are starting with a canvas that just screams “I am going to feel shitty for the rest of the day.” If you start with a sweet lacy bra and a cute tanga panty or a flirty pair of boy short panties, you are going to have a sexy secret with you all day long.  Plus, you never know when your partner is going to grab hold of you for a “nooner” or a “quickie”.

Do you really wanna be caught out there in a pair of your oldest “Hanes Her Way”, with the tiny hole that lets two or three pubes escape?  The ones with the saggy, worn out elastic around the crotch?  Or, worse still…the ones that you wear during “that time of the month” that have the dark, shadowy remnants of all the times your pad didn’t do its job appropriately?

Don’t look at me like that. You know what I am talking about.  We all have a pair of those.

You should be ashamed of yourself.  Truly.

Once I had my hysterectomy, I threw out every single pair of underwear that qualified as “dust rags”.  Dumped them all.  Any thing that I purchased that came in a five pack?  Gone.  I figured, I am never going to destroy another pair of underwear ever again, ergo, I am going to invest in some of the prettiest panties I have ever owned.  I have tangas, boy shorts, T backs, bikini’s, high waist, french cut…some lacy, some in cotton, some patterned, some solid…but the one thing they all have in common?

They are all sexy.  All of them.  There will never be a time that I will be caught with my “pants down” (pun blatantly obvious) in the underwear department.  Same thing with the bras.  Girls, dump the bras that have twisted wires, an underwire poking through, the one that you pinned together because it’s your favorite.  Get rid of them.  All you need are two basic white bras, four basic nude bras and about four basic black bras.  Those are your staples.  After that, the rest of your bras should look like a circus threw up in your lingerie drawer.  Colors!  Lots and lots of colors!  Sure, with sheer blouses, these don’t work…but how often do you wear sheer blouses?  That’s where your basic colors come in.

And while we are on the subject of basics…here’s a tip for you, Sugar Tits.  White bras should only be worn under white blouses.  That’s it.  End of story.  Any other sheer blouses you own should have a NUDE bra underneath it.  You can even do a nude bra under a white blouse.  Same thing goes for your panties, doll faces.  Do not wear white panties under white pants.  It shows right through and draws a whole lot of attention to spots you don’t want attention drawn to.  Keep it nude.  Nude bras work under everything.  Don’t try to match your bras to your blouses.  For example…if you are wearing a sheer yellow blouse, don’t think you should wear a yellow bra beneath it.  It looks “udderly” ridiculous.  NUDE bras, girls.  Also, please…be mindful of your nipples.  If you have prominent nipples, do not wear a see through bra under your sheer blouses.  In the dim lighting of your bedroom as you dress in the morning, you won’t necessarily be seeing what all your co-workers will be seeing under the fluorescent lighting of your office.

The nude rule under sheer does not apply to black sheer blouses.  One would think this is common sense, but alas, it is not.  Black sheer needs a black bra.  Let me explain why.  We are living in a digital age, girls.  People are snapping photos all the time.  There is a horrible phenomenon called “headlights” and it is no longer the catchphrase for a pair of hardened nipples.  When a camera flash flashes…suddenly, whatever you are wearing beneath the sheer is going to become blatantly apparent.  Worse than your titties showing through your blouse is your bra being too light for the blouse you are wearing.  It makes these two “round disks” of light where your breasts should be.  This will end up on your friends and co-workers Facebook pages with all sorts of ridicule ranging from “nice high beams” to “look into the liiiiiight, Carolann…walk into the light!”

It is important to pay attention to your skin tone when dressing.  And while I am not normally one to endorse products I have not personally used, THIS website, called “My Skins”, offers you the opportunity to either download (not recommended) their color chart or order one by snail mail.  The reason I don’t suggest downloading the skin color chart is because if your computer does not have the right ink or the correct color settings, you are going to get skewed colors.  This chart will help you find the right color undergarment that best matches your skin tone.  If you choose to buy from this site, I will say, they ARE reasonably priced undergarments.  Their panties run to about a 44 inch hip (the XL is too small for me, but might fit some of you chicks with less endowed asses than mine).  Their bras run to a 38D…again, too small for me, but perfect for all of you who can shop Victoria’s Secret.  (You know what her secret is?  She has nothing in my size, that’s her secret.  Bitch.)  But, even if you don’t shop there…you can still use the color chart (free) to be able to match it to undergarments where you do shop.  I personally wear “Cappucino”…which is perfect for my olive skin tone.  Your skin color may vary. 

However, I have truly digressed.

The staples are the staples.  Every girl should have a base undergarment wardrobe that consists of neutrals that always work under the spring and summer lighter colors.  Where the colors come in are under things like tank tops, summer dresses with spaghetti or narrow straps or loose, flowing tunic tops.  There is nothing tackier than your bra straps hanging out from under any of the aforementioned things.  However, the way to go from tasteless to tactful is by using color.  If you are wearing a tank top with narrow straps and you are not a member of the itty bitty titty committee and can’t get away with a tiny bra, no bra or a strapless bra…you want to put on a bra with color in it!  Fun colors!  Wearing an orange tank?  Throw on a yellow bra so that if the shoulder slides away, you are looking at a pretty pop of color, not a dingy white bra strap.  If you make it look like you MEANT to make that sexy little fashion faux pas, it will be interpreted that way.

And, as everyone knows, perception IS reality.

PS:  The “pop of color” undergarment rule applies to casual wear. If you are wearing a chic little black dress or a formal white dress, keep your black undergarments with the LBD and a nude/white undergarment with the white dressy wear.  Do I need to explain this?  From the looks of what I see out there in the world, apparently, I do.

Wearing a black tank top?  Sure, you can grab your basic black bra.  But, if it slides to one side, everyone now sees that your tank doesn’t fit and you are not fooling any one with the black bra on.  Instead, have a hot pink bra on!  Pop of color!  Fun! Flirty!  A hint of color is sexy.  Trying to conceal a tank that is too big on you or doesn’t fit you correctly with a bra of the same color looks exactly that way.  If you have a tank that isn’t fitting you correctly, the correct remedy is…BUY THE RIGHT SIZE, Dumbass.  But, if you insist on wearing an ill fitting ANY thing…let me let you in on a little secret.

Camisoles.  And no, we ain’t talkin’ about your granmama’s camisole.  Not some lacy, slinky thing from the 40’s.  We’re talking a basic, cotton, thin strapped camisole.  Yes, it means layering your bra, your cami and then your tank…but at least you look appropriately dressed and not like you are trying to fit into something that you bought when you were 20 pounds lighter. Use them.  Have them in every color of the rainbow.  They cost barely more than $10 at Old Navy in all size from size 0 all the way up to a size 28. No excuses, girls.  Get them.  Use them.  Please.

The point is, if you start with a sexy base, you will feel good in what you wear all day long.  There is a lot of truth to the adage that beauty comes from the inside.  That applies to your clothing as well.  If you have a sweet little secret under your clothes, you will have a sly smile on your face all day long.  You will have this gorgeous air of confidence and radiance that will make you look tremendously better the whole day through.  When you feel better about what you are wearing, you will walk with an air of confidence that is immediately apparent to others.

You’ll know you’re doing it right if men ask you for your phone number and bitches talk about you behind your back.  And for those of you who are already happily paired off…if your significant other decides to treat you to a little “afternoon delight”, you will already have the right gear for hittin’ the rear, ya know what I’m sayin’? Hm?

Remember, the right ‘tude will put you in the right mood.

And, remember what you’re mama always told you…you want to have on clean underwear if you are ever in an accident…or want to snag yourself a hot paramedic.  Either one works for me.

Stay sexy, bitches.

CP.

30 Days of Truth…and BOOBS!!!

I saw a few people doing this meme. I don’t usually jump in the meme thing, but I thought this one would provoke me to start blogging again a bit more consistently. I have a beautiful new template layout all ready to go and still haven’t hung it up here yet because I haven’t been blogging very much. But, I figured this might be a good foray into getting that jump start that I need. So, 30 days of truth…one post a day, 30 days worth. I was going to start it a few days ago, but my crazy OCD won’t allow for me to start on a random numbered day. I waited for October 1st. The meme includes the following questions:

Day 01 → Something you hate about yourself.
Day 02 → Something you love about yourself.
Day 03 → Something you have to forgive yourself for.
Day 04 → Something you have to forgive someone for.
Day 05 → Something you hope to do in your life.
Day 06 → Something you hope you never have to do.
Day 07 → Someone who has made your life worth living for.
Day 08 → Someone who made your life hell, or treated you like shit.
Day 09 → Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted.
Day 10 → Someone you need to let go, or wish you didn’t know.
Day 11 → Something people seem to compliment you the most on.
Day 12 → Something you never get compliments on.
Day 13 → A band or artist that has gotten you through some tough ass days. (write a letter.)
Day 14 → A hero that has let you down. (letter)
Day 15 → Something or someone you couldn’t live without, because you’ve tried living without it.
Day 16 → Someone or something you definitely could live without.
Day 17 → A book you’ve read that changed your views on something.
Day 18 → Your views on gay marriage.
Day 19 → What do you think of religion? Or what do you think of politics?
Day 20 → Your views on drugs and alcohol.
Day 21 → (scenario) Your best friend is in a car accident and you two got into a fight an hour before. What do you do?
Day 22 → Something you wish you hadn’t done in your life.
Day 23 → Something you wish you had done in your life.
Day 24 → Make a playlist to someone, and explain why you chose all the songs. (Just post the titles and artists and letter)
Day 25 → The reason you believe you’re still alive today.
Day 26 → Have you ever thought about giving up on life? If so, when and why?
Day 27 → What’s the best thing going for you right now?
Day 28 → What if you were pregnant or got someone pregnant, what would you do?
Day 29 → Something you hope to change about yourself. And why.
Day 30 → A letter to yourself, tell yourself EVERYTHING you love about yourself.

So here we go. Something I hate about myself. This is pretty easy. The thing I hate most about myself is probably one of the things I also like about myself if that makes any sense. The thing I hate the most is my “I don’t give a shit what other people think of me” attitude. This attitude has it’s good points. For example, it allows me to speak freely at any time, any place in any situation. However, it has also gotten me into a fair amount of trouble with people that I do care about. And, it is because I care about certain people that I really should care what they think of me. Sometimes, I am not very tactful. I have been working on this for the past few months. I am trying to put the ol’ brain in gear before letting the mouth (or, in this case, fingertips) go into overdrive. I find that people who say they don’t give a shit about what other people think use it more as a defense mechanism for bad behavior. That’s the truth of it. When someone removes me from due to something that I have a strong opinion about, I tend to say “Fuck it. I don’t give a shit.” But, sometimes, I do. And it bothers me. Then I start to dwell on it. Eventually, it starts to eat at me a little bit. Usually not enough for me to apologize for my actions even when I feel that an apology may be justified. I never usually intend to hurt people. It doesn’t start out that way, but 9 times out of 10, it ends up that way. I know I have hurt a few people I used to be good friends with because I also can be judgmental and I have a passion for getting caught up in drama. Again, I am working on both of those things. It’s hard to undo something you have done for 44 years of your life overnight. However, the last time I did something that was pretty rotten, I did apologize to the parties involved. Not because I cared so much what they thought about me, but more because I care what “I” think of me. And, that particular situation made me feel bad about myself. Do I regret the things I say? Sure, sometimes. Then again, sometimes, I feel they are things that need to be said and I am unapologetic about it. There needs to be a happy medium there. You can say the things that need to be said…only, I think it’s best to say it to someone directly as opposed to passively saying things to others, hoping that the intended target “accidentally” gets wind of it. I’m normally not a passive/aggressive person so I really want to kind of edge that out of my life. I have always been the kind of person to say something to someone’s face (or Facebook, if you will). This “I don’t care” attitude has not served me well in the past and I don’t foresee that this will change for me in the future. I am working on improving myself just a little, every day. But, you know, Rome wasn’t built in a fucking day. Neither was I. I’m not quite where I want to be just yet, but I know I am heading in a better direction.

But yeah, I don’t like that part of me very much. I would rather use my powers for good than evil. One day at a time, I suppose.

It’s really all any of us can do.

Now, all that happy horseshit aside, Ladies…this month is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. It is time once more to pay attention to your fun bags, your sweater cows, your tata’s, your boobies or whatever the hell you call them. Along with the 30 days of truth, I will be talking about taking care of the tits of doom, how to give a self breast exam, what you need to look for/feel for and how you can invite your partner to help you! So, make sure to put on your PINK all month long in support of the titty brigade.

If you have the chance, stop by FeelYourBoobies.com to sign up and join the awareness group. You can send reminders to all your female friends and relatives about the importance of breast exams. Let’s help keep the boobies bouncing along healthfully and happily!

Defining the Girl…or Facing Facebook.

I was trying to define my blog to someone today. Tried to explain what it was about without saying something mundane like “Oh, it’s all about my ever so exciting life.” Truth of the matter is, my life is pretty exciting. Not in a “travel-all-over-the-world-make-love-to-diplomats-spend-too-much-cash” kind of way, but in a “hey, I accidentally shit myself while bending over to pick up a dust bunny” way. How fun is that?

The person I was talking to happily accepted that definition and then asked me another question that I truly could not answer.

“So, why don’t you put your blogposts up on Facebook? You’re friends must think you’re hilarious!”

*blink*

Truth be known, my “friends” do think I am hilarious. I am one of those chicks that goes straight from the heart to the mouth without a pit-stop at the brain in between. I tend to say whatever I am feeling in my heart at any given moment before my frontal lobe has a chance to say, “Er, CP? That MAY not be appropriate right now.” No. More poor brain is usually the organ that has to do damage control after my heart causes my tongue to flap.

But, yes indeed. WHY don’t I post my blog links on Facebook? Fair enough question.

I think there are a few reasons. First and foremost is privacy. Not MY privacy, mind you, but rather, my husband and children’s privacy. In the five years I have been blogging, I have never mentioned my husbands name. That is not to say that some of you don’t know the mans name. Some of you have met him in “real time”. And, some of you have known me longer than I have known him, so naturally, you would know who he is. Then, there are the select few (read: 3) who read my blog who know me in real life on a day to day basis. Most of my blog readers don’t even know MY name. And, when I meet a blogger in real life, they tend to call me “CP” anyway, because that’s how you know me. But, for the hotband, I have to maintain a modicum of privacy. He has a pretty high profile job and there is a certain decorum that comes with his job.

And then, I look at HIS Facebook page, and he puts up all sorts of horny looking fruit, inappropriate Jesus pics and makes homosexual references with all MY guy friends. So, WHY the hell am I holding back on my blog?

Because…if he wants to put himself out there, that’s his prerogative. I am still going to respect the boundaries, even though he never put any up for me.

Then, there is another aspect I have considered. My Facebook friends vs. My Blogger Friends. Some of you overlap into both categories. I think there are 14 of you, actually, who are “friended” on Facebook but started off knowing me via this blog. My Blog Friends are a much cooler breed. We understand that we can cross certain lines with one another. We know that one year in blog time is the equivalent of 5 years real time. Therefore, I know many of you longer in that sense than I do the people I have been friends with for 20 years or more. And, while my friends of 30 years care about me very much, I don’t think they want to know that I was a domestic violence survivor. I don’t think they care that I survived cancer. I don’t know that they would give a shit one way or another that I struggle with bipolar disorder on a daily basis. And, I believe that most of them would be entirely too judgmental with regard to my drug addiction and subsequent recovery.

So, it begs the question…are these “friends” on Facebook ACTUALLY my friends?

I think in some ways, yes, we are. We have history. We have memories of our childhood and our youth. That’s something that we as adults tend to cling to. My husband, as close as we are, will never understand how I grew up. He doesn’t know what it was like to be a little kid living in NYC no more than I can ever know about his experiences growing up in Israel. It’s nice to have those people in your life that you can reminisce with. It’s fun. But, does it provide a longevity to the relationship? Not really. When I reconnected with some old junior high friends on Facebook, it was a blast. We couldn’t stop talking about growing up in Queens and what it meant to each of us. How it shaped us into the adults we are today. We talked, shared, laughed…and then, burnt it out. While we still engage in some witty banter here and there, do I think any of these people would drop whatever they were doing to be at my side if something traumatic happened in my life?

*sighs* No. No I don’t. Even the person I was closest to growing up has turned her back on me in some aspects. She hides my feed because I am (insert adjective for vulgar, crass, classless, rude, explicit, etc.). And I get it. She’s got her kids on her Facebook. Can’t have me talking about the new lube and vibrators I bought on my status and have it show up on her wall, right? I do get it. That’s also why my son is NOT my Facebook friend…nor are my nephews and nieces. As far as I am concerned, Facebook is NO place for children, period. But, to each their own. My daughter is on my Facebook…but she’s 22, married and knows that her mother is a tad fucked in the head. My son is only first learning that. Why rush it? He’ll get it soon enough.

Which brings me back to the original question. Why don’t I post my blogposts on Facebook? The answer is…I don’t quite know. I suppose there might be a small part of me that is going to wonder what people will think of me, which is ironic because I am definitely one of those people who generally don’t give a fuck what others think of me. But, these are childhood friends who have a certain vision of me, a particular memory that I don’t want to taint. Then again, I suppose true friends would love you regardless and understand that the person you were at 14 is not necessarily the person you are at 40.

Then, there is the BIG reason I don’t post my blog posts on Facebook. My brother. He’s a great guy. He totally knows how screwed up I am. He is equally as fucked in the brain. We were raised by the same woman…and THAT, Dear Friends, is the ULTIMATE reason. The one that trumps all. I simply CANNOT have Esther reading my blog. I love my mother but, if you are a long time reader or know her in real life, you know what an absolute LOONEY TUNE she is. If she ever caught wind of the things that I write about her…she’d kill me. Not figuratively. Literally. Like, I have given instructions to my husband to form my blog into a book posthumously if she ever kills me so everyone knows what an absolute banshee she is/was. Don’t get me wrong. There is a certain beauty to being raised by a psychopath. It allows me to be quirky, strange and crazy. When I tell people I am bipolar, they nod. Then, they meet my mom…and suddenly, they nod emphatically…and it all just comes together for them.

The crazy thing is, I have met such interesting and amazing people on Facebook. People that I do NOT know from my past or that I blog with or know in real life. Simply people who I have met in passing either playing a game or stumbling onto their page. Really great people. I would love to share my blog posts with them…but still, I feel some hesitation and restraint.

*raises brows*

Hesitation? Restraint? Foreign concepts to me that I am STILL getting used to.

So, for right now, I am simply using the website “Networked Blogs” on Facebook as my tiny baby step, my little foray into taking my blog out of hiding. (There’s a link to it on my sidebar. No, lower. Lower. Yeah. Right there. Click it if you’re on Facebook.) I think, in reality, my blog will exist long after my old friendships fall away. This is home for me. This is where I feel best and can relax and be myself.

And, if you can’t be yourself…why be at all?

It’s all in the attitude, Baby.

It took me time to understand. Admittedly, at times, I still don’t.

He worships this body of mine, this body of breadth and depth. Certainly, he has a selection of waif-like goddesses, all dying to be a part of his harem, and yet, it is at my alter that he genuflects, night after satiated night. While I might get into bed feeling like the Michelin Man on some nights, I leave there a as a Playboy pictorial.

Attitude, baby. It’s all in the attitude.

I was prone to breaking out my old pictures from my former “thin” days. The days before the babies wore down my breasts in their battle to defy gravity. The days when my stomach was a “tummy” and I wore the word “voluptuous” like a crown. I would show him that, once upon a decade ago, I was slender and sleek. In showing ‘him’ these pictures, I was saying, “Look, I was once what every man desires.”

He dismisses my memories and dives for my mammaries.

It’s amazing how easily distracted I can be. I obsess over this body. I see every bump and bang along the way, appraising it like a recently wrecked Mercedes. When he touches me, I am the star of the showroom. I have no mileage and there are no dings or dents. I am an accidental goddess, and I blame him. When the touch is just right, my stomach, normally my nemesis, reacts like a third breast. It stiffens. It hardens. It wants to be kissed.

I have stretch marks from my bouts of birthing babies.

“Roadmaps. Reminders of where you have been in your life”, he states as his tongue maneuvers the dangerous curves of my highways and bi-ways. He drives onward; upward from the deepest valleys to my purple peaked mountains majesty. There are no stop signs on this road. There are no detours to drive him away. No reason to yield and everything is slippery when wet.

If I close my eyes, I am the autobahn, riding him, rather than the other way around.

I have learned to be on top and allow my landscape to be lingered upon. The sweet liberation in the realization that he is not assessing what is right and what is wrong. He is listening to my breathing in response to his. He is godlike, holding the whole world in his hands, being able to see all of me, from heaven to earth. He is not thinking that I weigh more than he, but how I glide so stealthily, so weightlessly upon him.

Moreover, he is filled with pride, while filling me.

He created this misfit, this accidental goddess by allowing me to remember I am more than a body. I am a mind that wanders. I am a soul that fulfills. I am a breath of fresh air and a heart of gold. I am the eyes of the compassionate and the laughter of a child. Astride him, I am patience being pushed to the limit and poetry in motion. When release is achieved, he never releases his hold. I smile. I smirk. I remind myself that I am beautiful in the dark and the light. I remind myself that he is panting helplessly beneath me and I was the cause. I was the cure. I put away my old photographs permanently. I never want to be her again, as he does not desire “that girl”, only this woman.

Attitude baby, it’s all in the attitude.

Things you didn’t know about me…

and probably don’t give a shit about. But, I want to let some stuff out, and…it is my blog, so here goes:

– I won a spelling bee when I was 11 years old. I beat out all the “smart kids” because I could spell the word “onomatopoeia”. I even knew what it meant. That was the crowning achievment of 5th grade for me.

– I lost my virginity when I was 12 years old. I don’t know why I did it. I was just interested. It wasn’t a good experience at all. He was older than me and I thought I was in love with him. All these years later, I still have a crush on the memory, despite the situation not being ideal.

– I fell in love at 14 years old and haven’t found that kind of love in my life since…until I met the hotband in 1999.

– I was raped outside of a nightclub that I worked at when I was 19 years old. Two men held me down and the other sodomized me with a beer bottle. He cut me from the anus to the vaginal opening. I needed 27 stitches to close the wound. I went back to work the next night. Never felt like a victim about it. Still don’t.

– I had my first baby at 20 years old with a guy that I was casually dating. He didn’t want me to keep the baby. I got rid of HIM instead. That baby is now 23 years old, the light of my life and she’s on her second child. I never regretted my decision.

– My father left us when I was seven years old. I practically packed his bags for him. I hated him. I was thrilled when he left because I knew that my family would be better off without him. I spent the rest of my life looking for a “daddy” figure in every man that walked in or out of my life.

– I married my first husband because he accepted the fact that I was a single mom. And, he was really good looking. There really wasn’t much more to it.

– I was arrested four times in my life. Two were for assault and battery. One was for welfare fraud. The last time was over a clerical error. I am a convicted felon and I have no problem with letting people know that.

– My children know that I stabbed my ex-boyfriend in self-defense. I don’t believe in hiding things from them. They know their mother is a little fucked in the head. I’m okay with that too.

– I dislike my mother. I love her, because she is my mother, but if we weren’t related, I wouldn’t choose to be her friend.

– People think I am a real bitch. I don’t even have to say a word. It’s just something that my face conveys. I do very little to change anyones perception of me. However, when you get to know me, I am actually very warm and loving. I don’t give that side of me to a lot of people.

– I don’t think I want to be a nurse anymore. I believe the passion has disappeared from my life when it comes to taking care of others.

– I watched a woman fall from 15 stories when I was 9 years old. She was raped and thrown off the roof of the building I lived in back in Queens, NY. The image of her head hitting the ground and the sound it made has stayed with me all these years. If I think about it long enough, I will cry. I never found out her name. I wish I knew her name.

– A babysitter of mine was murdered by an infamous serial killer back in the 1970’s. It stole a big chunk of my innocence and made me feel afraid for a long time.

– I am hysterically afraid of roaches. I know they can’t do anything to me, but they absolutely terrify me to the point where I cry. I do have a reason for this. I think I will make a post about it at another time.

– I have been in love with more than one person at one time. Sometimes up to three people at one time. No one person has ever fulfilled me completely. I feel empty inside about this most of the time.

– I cry in the shower sometimes for no reason.

– I am a cancer survivor. 8 years in remission.

– I have a secret that I will never share with anyone, even my husband.

– I had a two year relationship with a woman. It was probably the most spiritual thing I ever engaged in. She really understood me. I was never able to commit to her because I enjoyed the company of men too much. I hurt her terribly. I chalk it up to confusion…and college.

– I know certain family members have “discovered” my blog and think that I do not know they are reading it. I prefer to act like I am oblivious to that so it doesn’t interfere with my ability to write here openly and honestly. Just want them to know that I am aware…and really don’t give a shit.

– Most of the time, even when I am in a crowded room, I feel extremely alone.

– I was a self-mutilator for a long time. I never regretted doing it. I actually enjoyed the pain.

– I have a very deep love and admiration for my husband. I don’t think he realizes how much I admire him. Sometimes, I wish I could be more like him. It makes me jealous sometimes.

– I am not a very good listener. I am usually preoccupied with my own thoughts. I sometimes feign great interest in what someone is saying, while in my mind, I am not listening to them at all.

– I give great hugs.

– I yearn to break free sometimes. Just pack my bags and run off somewhere to be alone. I love my husband, my children and my grandchild…but sometimes, I just want to go explore places on my own. The perfect gift for me would be a weekend away, alone. I am still waiting for someone to be selfless enough to give that to me.

– I have no respect for authority but try desperately to instill the opposite in my children.

– The best sex I ever had in my life was with the person who battered me and beat me within an inch of my life. It was intense, frightening and overwhelming. I sometimes think there is something desperately wrong with me for feeling that way.

– I have spent 40 years of my life trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I still have no clue…and time is running out.

– I love being bipolar. I feel it makes me more interesting. I don’t like taking the pills that I take to make the symptoms subside. I feel they deaden the real me.

– I don’t think I would know “normal” if I tripped over it.

– On more than one occassion, my blog has saved my life.