Smackdown: The Bitch vs. The Bliss

I realize I do a lot of bitching on this blog.  A lot of kvetching. I'm okay with this, firstly, because it's my damn blog and if I want to bitch about something, this is my space for that. I created this blog to express myself first and foremost and sometimes a form of that expression is the art of The Bitch.

And I'm quite an artist in this capacity, let me tell you. Very practiced. Accomplished even. One day I hope to be a leader in the field.

But that's not all I am. I used to write a lot about the little joys, the sweet things in life which I sought out and brought my heart joy. When I quit my cushy yet stressful job in order to move to Portland, one of the goals I set for myself was to seek my bliss as much as possible. I succeeded, too, for quite some time. Sought joy in the little pleasures, in food, in creativity, in people, in sex.

The sex was my favorite part. No, the food was. Okay, they were both awesome.

But with financial woes, a cat with cancer, psycho stalkers, and a tinge of homesickness (for the record, I miss my friends, and fam, and even the food, but I don't really miss California itself), I seem to have forgotten my bliss. Where has it gone? I'm not sure. I spend most of my days lately with migraines and my nights with nightmares.

I'm cranky more often than not. And while I am loathe to behave contrary to my emotions, while I believe wholeheartedly in giving myself space to feel how I feel, it's getting old. It's getting tired. I'm sick of being a bitch all the time.

I want to find my bliss again.

Baby steps on the bus.

I don't make much money. But what money I do make, I make by doing part-time writing and web content editing. I get to do it at home if I want and, let's be completely honest, working in my pajamas is pretty fucking awesome. But it gets old. And is not very joyful. And I start to go stir crazy cooped up in my house all the time.

So I've started venturing to my favorite coffee shop again. I get a huge mug of tea, find a table near a plug, turn on Pandora, pop in my earbuds, and get my work done. It's lovely really. It doesn't feel like working anymore. It's delicious.

That's where I sit now, as I type this but probably not as you're reading it. Music soothing my ears, tea soothing my cold bones, letting my fingers tap away while the world is warm and cozy.

The little joys.

Baby steps.

This Thursday, I get to cash in an airline credit and fly to Las Vegas see one of my best friends on the plant and her family. I'll get to see my little nephew, who is growing like some kind of chernobyl weed, before he reaches 6'5". And he's not even 3 years old yet. I've got the books I bought him all wrapped and a little toy dinosaur that I hope he destroys in 5 minutes flat.

I can't wait to hug my lovely friend and gossip with her and share our frustrations and joys again like we used to do for hours and hours when we were younger. I don't even care if we never leave the house. Except to get In n Out. Which is imperative.

Finding my bliss.

Next step: find a new lover. Someone flesh and blood who can make me remember what unbridled and uninhibited pleasure feels like.

Maybe he's not entirely right for me. But he's right for me right now. In my fantasy, he's fit but not obsessed. He's 36 and a fire captain (okay, like my dad was, I know! Daddy issues. shut the fuck up) and has excellent arm musculature. He has curls I can get tangled up in. His name is something old fashioned and safe, like Henry.

Or maybe it's not even a he! Maybe it's a she. I meet her out and about and can't help but be captivated. She's got shaggy hair, is androgynous, not too masculine nor feminine. She's utterly intriguing and plays sports but also knits. She's small but unbelievably strong. She's sweet and shy but is forward just with me. Her name isn't important because she has a nickname anyway. Nobody calls her by her real name.

Finding my bliss. The Bitch can stay. She serves her purpose. But The Bliss, she lives here too.

you don't even have kids

Last Sunday, for the 4th, Lynnette and I headed up to a large local park that sits above the city to eat dinner and watch fireworks. It's a place I love to go by myself and hike around and take photos.

Sunset over the valley

Anyway, I'm not super patriotic and I'm not about to derail this post with my political leanings except to say that they're my own so please don't stone me. But who doesn't love fireworks? I certainly do. Fireworks are totes awesome!

I mean they're all sparkly and explodey and firey. Who doesn't love that?

So anyway, we went up above the city to watch the fireworks show, mostly because we wanted to avoid crowds, paying to get into the city-sponsored stadium show, and traffic. And it was a brilliant idea. We found a lovely man-made lookout and settled into a spot on the concrete with our blanket and pizza. We could see fireworks shows not just in our town but all along the valley. It was fantastic!

We even made friends with the other families there and had a generally kickass time, except for the monster Chernobyl mosquito bites I got on my back and the concrete made my ass and ankles sore. Which sucked. And made me feel old. Because you know that shit doesn't bother you when you're a kid, right? Like, you're just happy to see fireworks and be up past 9!

But no, I was all whiney about my numb ass and mosquito bites.

So anyway, after the show ended, everyone was getting up and as I was stretching out my sore back (SEE? OLD. LADY.), I groaned.

The lady who had been sitting behind me (who looked about my age, aka 30ish) complained that her back was sore.

I laughed and said: Yeah,  I'm clearly getting old.

And she said: ugh you don't even have kids.

So I replied: I would have them if I could.

EXCUSE ME? Like, that pissed me off, yo. I was totally offended. 

I mean, I know what she meant to say was, You look young or something to that effect. But what she essentially said was that since I didn't appear to have children, I must, in fact, be young. 

But what the hell did she know about me? I could have lost a baby for all she knew. For all she knew, I couldn't have kids. Or I could have had a child who died. Or I could have kids at home. Hell, I could have a 12 year old at home. SHIT, technically, I could have a 16 year old at home (I can do the math). 

But beyond that, what does having kids have to do with anything? Yes, children wear you out. Yes, it's hard work. That's not what I'm saying here. I'm saying that I know plenty of childless people who live hard lives and age their bodies just as much as parents do. 

I want children immensely, so I want to make sure this post in no way implies that I think parenthood isn't an awesome life choice. BUT, parenthood isn't a badge of honor that you get to lord over others with smug condescension. Nopetty nope it is not. 

So now that this has turned into one spectacular rant, I should prob reel it back in. But you know? That shit pissed me the fuck off. I'd just like to see people think before they speak. Have a little compassion and tact before words just fly out of their mouths like flies did in that Mummy movie (that was tres gross right?). Or like word vomit a la Mean Girls. 

What could it hurt to consider that maybe, just maybe you're not the only bitch walking the planet and that other people have lives and experience and histories that have nothing to do with you? Maybe, just maybe you might offend someone. Or hurt someone. With a little flippant ass fucking comment. 

What would she have done if I'd replied, I did. Maybe I could have managed a small tear. Would she still have thought herself better than me? Or wiser or older or whatever it was she felt she had over me with her motherhood? 

Well what the fuck did she know? Nothing. 

As my brilliant friend Lynnette said, "People assume that just because their life is easy, everyone else's is too." 

People: is it too much to ask to think before you speak? Really?