First, this blog is all over the place. You’ll see why by the end. I did try to tie the theme of “People Who are Gigantic Dicks” throughout it, though.
I’ve had this blog for a year. A year! As of November 18. I’m thinking about the events that led up to me leaving my old blog and coming here to start over. And I’m thinking about all of the stuff I’ve done, been through, seen, heard, felt, tasted, experienced since September 2015.
I go through swings (I don’t know if you can tell or not), and these swings (I’ve decided, since I know me better than anyone else) aren’t chemical in nature. There’s this meme floating around:
…and that’s really true (for me). I let a lot of assholes into my life. (I’m sure, if you talk to any one of these assholes, they will all tell you they are not assholes and that, in fact, Amy is the real asshole. And they may be right; I certainly do have the ability to be an asshole to people who are behaving like, well…you know. It’s a mutual kind of thing, and if this were a grammar lesson, I’d be having us all come up with collective noun terms we could use to define a group of a-holes.)
I am also finding that letting go of things and people not meant for me really helps. Letting go is really hard, especially when I deeply love and care about someone. And by “let go” in this sense, I don’t mean: bye, you asshole in the above paragraph. No, I just mean: I love big and hard and deep but with some people I get to a point where enough happens that I finally go: you know what? Clearly I’m way more emotionally invested in you than you are in me; you want easy and low-key, and I want effort and commitment. For those people, I say: I will always love you and I will always be around, and if you ever decide you want to make more effort and show more of a commitment to me, lemme know. Meanwhile, I’m going to release my grip on you waaay a lot and go find something/someone else to do.
I think you need to know the difference between leaves, branches, roots, and potential roots on your tree and respond accordingly. (I stole that from Madea, aka Tyler Perry, who I really love a lot.)
Some Like it HOT (not me) but I do like this song:
Miss M and I went to a Fall Festival today. If I had to sum it up in one word: HOT. Here are the weathers I don’t do: Freezing cold and HOT. Or dreary, all-day rain. I like nighttime rain. I like lying in bed on a lazy Sunday morning rain. But I don’t like freezing cold, dreary, all-day rain. And HOT just makes me MAD. Oh, y’all. Seriously. You’re far better off hanging out with me on a freezing cold, dreary, all-day rainy day (because we can find a movie on Netflix or prop our feet up on each other and read books while drinking hot toddies or something), than you are being with me on a day that’s HOT. Especially if we’re somewhere crowded and HOT.
Miss M, one day, will be old enough to gauge when I’ve had enough of crowded and HOT. Today was not that day. We enjoyed our four rides for $25 at the carnival and very nearly were bamboozled out of another $25 by a gamester carnie. But then we had to go foray for food at the Festival part. She was HOT and I was HOT and it was sweaty and there were people there who were bumping into me and then waving their arms around like lunatics all mad that I’d bumped into them and my crowd rage was just…it was seething. If I’m standing in one spot not moving, and you’re the one moving and you move into my space and ram into my body, it is your fault we physically connected, not mine. Don’t act all crazy because you don’t know how to manage your body. (These are the same people who cause gigantic traffic accidents and then try to sue all the other drivers in spite of the fact the police personally handed them expensive traffic tickets that say THIS WAS YOUR FAULT at the top.) Those are the kinds of things that bring my crowd rage out – not so much the high number of people; just the people who are literally dipwads, living dipwad existences, making innocent people just trying to stand around have to deal with the fact there are dipwads in the world. I don’t like it.
So we got some HOT dogs, some sodas ($20) and sat and listened to a band sing Billy Idol songs (I heart Billy Idol, and once I got to see him up close at a Who concert in Los Angeles and that was just magnificent….I couldn’t have cared less about the Who, sorry The Who fans) (am I doing that right? a Who, the Who, The Who? Who cares?)
This morning, M slipped in the bathroom and landed on her wrist. She’s okay but it got bruised and she’s a drama queen. So she didn’t want to sit on the grass in the shade, she needed a chair. Because her wrist, you see. And so she tried to pull over a chair on the lawn that looked empty but just as her hand touched it, a lady next to it started waving her arms all crazy going, “NO! You can’t have it! They’re in the bathroom!!” I was HOT. I was tired. I’d just dealt with an insane person who didn’t understand the concept of how personal space works, and now I gotta deal with an angry lady who doesn’t understand that children are still learning social skills? I only wanted to sit on the grass, in the shade, and eat my HOT dog, drink my high sugar soda, listen to a real estate agent by day/guitar god by night guy pretend to be Billy Idol, and enjoy the Fall Festival. But now I have to go teach my daughter and one old lady festival goer social skills. So I turned around and said, “We’re sorry. She didn’t know – it was an empty chair and not close to you, so I’m sure she just thought it was okay to sit in.” and then she and I got up and moved away from those dumb people so I could say, “That lady was ridiculous. But next time, sweet girl, you have to ask first.” When really, you know what I wanted to do? Take my mustard-y hot dog and mash it all over that woman’s face.
After about 3 songs, M was done sitting on grass. I needed air conditioning. Y’all, this is life in Georgia: it is almost October 1 and my car thermometer read 95 degrees Fahrenheit today. What the poop, Mother Nature? Figure it out. And that festival needs to be called Fall (just joking, it’s still hotter than Hades!) Festival.
So we found a restaurant and ordered iced tea and had cupcakes. So we could borrow their air conditioning. And their bathroom. And not assault any other festival goers. Our waitress’ name was Vicki, a pretty Southern blonde lady in her 50s who’d been on her feet for 12 hours the day before. She said her feet were numb but she could still walk, so she was working. And the reason she had to come in to work was because three teenagers had quit on them the day before, one because he had a panic attack. He literally couldn’t breathe and ended up sitting on the floor of the kitchen refusing to get up and go back out there into the fray. He was 16, and Life had already mangled his soul. I’m not sure what he’ll do for a living now, but I suspect it won’t be anywhere in the Hospitality industry. (Dear 16 year old waiter who had a panic attack: Avoid teaching young children, too. They will eat you alive.)
We finished up our HOT Sunday adventure with music by Melissa, who is my Melissa’s singing teacher. Miss M loves the following things: singing, dancing, acting, selfies, and attention. She will say to you: “I LOOOOOVE attention!!” Because seriously, she loves attention. She loves to know people think she’s funny and cute and a good singer or whatever it is she’s doing. In fact, I just signed her Friday behavior report, upon which the teacher has written “We need to work on Melissa’s need for attention.” Because apparently this drive to be center stage is making it hard for her teacher to, you know, teach. (I love M’s teacher by the way – she’s a fun, laid back woman who’s got tattoos and loves kids but won’t put up with their crap, but in a really hipster kind of way. When I saw her at a school carnival recently, it was the first time we’d spoken but she gave me a big hug, looked me deep in the eyes and went, “How are you doing?” And I just smiled and said, “Well…I’m here.” And she nodded and went, “I know. Me, too.” This is how teachers talk to one another…in Edward Snowden-like coded phrases.)
Where was I? Oh, right…we listened to Melissa the singing teacher sing with her band – 2 men on guitars, one in a Hawaiian shirt and one in a leather kilt. I was most intrigued by the man in the leather kilt, because kilts just intrigue me. There were two girls drinking beer and someone had showered in patchouli. THESE ARE MY PEOPLE, I thought. Plus, everything was for geared for people my age. Melissa the singing teacher sang “Give Me One Reason” by Tracy Chapman and Melissa let me know last Monday at her lesson she’d told her she was going to perform at the festival and “Mommy, do you know what? Melissa told me you would know this song because it’s for old people. Do you know this song? Because Melissa just sings songs that only old people know.” And that Tracy Chapman song was from 1995, not 1895. Melissa the singing teacher and I are going to have a Talk tomorrow.
I’m writing all of this all over the place stuff (I think I started out with something about moving on and a-holes then ended up at a Fall Festival, but there were a-holes there, so I’m going to say it all ties together) because I just want to note: today was okay. It was too HOT, and there were too many a-holes in the vicinity. But there was music and stories and songs and patchouli and if I hadn’t had a kid with me there’d have been a beer in my hand…today was a good day. I’d do today all over again, but maybe start earlier.