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friendship
Posts

  • Oh, That’s Just My Open Wound

    On the average day, I feel a LOT of feelings. I usually wake up with a deep dread, wishing I were still asleep because in that reality I don’t feel like a failure – oh and there was also that velvet couch I was eating covered in frosting. I then do a meditation and perhaps feel a moment of calm inspiration only to be punctuated by stress the second I open my eyes. I drive The Munch to school looking at her sweet face in the review mirror and feel like, “aww look at all that hope in her eyes that has yet to be crushed by the knowledge that Trump has raped her of a future.” This then transmutes into the drive back home where I start to wish the day were already over, only to sit at my computer with a mixture of creative energy and crippling self doubt… and its not even 9:30 am.

    By the time I’ve gone to bed at midnight I’ve gone through maybe 14 cycles of “life is okay,” and then “holy shit what is all this for besides facing the eternal misery of my futility playing the stings of my heart with the violin of delusions I call an existence.”

    Everyone goes through this right? (Insert nervous laughter)

    Yet if you were hanging out with me I don’t think you would say, “That Toni is one moody mother fucker,” because I keep most my emotional ebbs and flow buried deep inside, much like a dog with their bone. But instead of the fleshless carcass of an animal to chew on, I instead gnaw on the skeletons in my closet that I’ve come so accustomed to dressing up.

    That’s normal right? (Insert anxious hand wringing)

    The reason I try not to let myself get too carried away in my emotional self is because I know that feelings are ethereal wisps of wind that blow in and out of your consciousness like dandelion seeds. You can feel one way for one moment, and then the complete opposite the next. Although feelings are important and crucial aspects of the human experience, they are also somewhat absurd because of how unpredictable and illogical they are. As such, my internal world is much different then how I project myself to others. In the outside world, I come off as very unemotional. I don’t cry very often, I’m not quick to anger, I’m patient, I don’t overreact, and many think I’m easy to talk to. I keep a safe distance from my feelings because I don’t want to take them out on others. Of course all my close friends know my shadow side – I’m manic, compulsive, bossy, particular, controlling, excessive, and overwhelming… but because I mostly keep myself in check their overall impression is that, “Toni’s chill, and a good friend.”

    There is this dichotomy between how I feel and how I act because I ultimately want to be an emotionally mature human. It’s not that often that my feelings overtake my behavior, so when it happens, no one really knows what to do with me. I’m not really used to relying on others emotionally, so when the darkness comes, the black depths of my being is confusing to others. I’m not approachable when I’m upset, and therefor not that easy to comfort. Mostly I just want to be left alone to drown in my melancholy.

    I know we all have primal sores of our childhood, and there are plenty I have as well. Yet I feel like I’ve come to terms with most of them. Sure there are moments when I can access the sadness of my socialization, but I don’t feel ruled by it. I’ve tried to face my conditioning, forgive what hurt me, have empathy for the adults that disappointed me, and let go. I’m SURE there are aspects that still influence me greatly, but I don’t feel controlled by my past pains.

    Except for my open wound.

    When my best friend Bitty died, a piece of me died with her. Last Sunday, June 11th, was the 17th year anniversary of her death.

    17 years is a long time to have passed. They say time heals all wounds, but in truth time just means you get used to the pain. It doesn’t go away, but rather becomes a part of you. Like roots of a vine growing around your soul, the pain of loss entwines your spirit and tangles into your psyche.

    The tragedy of Bitty’s death affected everyone who loved her. It bonded us in a web of mourning. An entanglement that can’t be escaped because holding onto the pain is also holding onto her. I can think of Bitty and remember the happiness of our relationship and feel a certain sense of peace for her spirit, yet that doesn’t take away the core loss. There is a bottomless yearning that I feel because I can no longer look into her eyes, see her smile, or watch the way her lip curled when she was angry. I’m still her friend and our love is just as real as ever, but I miss her physical presence in my life and nothing can change that.

    I miss her.

    I miss her so much.

    The day of Bitty’s funeral, I couldn’t leave the graveyard. Everyone slowly made their way to the lunch, but I stayed. I stared at where her body was buried, still in total disbelief that this was really happening. I felt so helpless that I couldn’t turn back time and have stopped this from happening.

    I wept at her grave that day as the tears that over took me. The anguish was consuming. Possessed by regret that I had spent any time away from her. If I had only known all I had was 20 years with her, I never would have left her side. I would have sewn myself to her so as not miss even one moment. I would have given anything to see her again.

    There was this senselessness to her death that I couldn’t wrap my head around. Why? Why did this have to happen? The mystery of misfortune was plaguing me. There are so many disastrous things that happen every day, and those that live through them are just left with the question of why. Our brains want to solve puzzles, yet death is one that we can never decipher. Yet all I wanted was something to ground this horrible event.

    I made a promise to Bitty that day. I swore to her that I would live for the both of us, and that I would make my life meaningful to some how make her death make sense. I opened up myself to her, and invited her into my body. I didn’t want to lose her. I wanted her with me, and I needed her to know that I was still there for her, even if I couldn’t stop her from dying. I blasted open my being so she could find a home in me. I knew her soul had traveled on, but there was still the human energy of her, I could feel it. I embraced it.

    I’ve tried to maintain inspiration from Bitty’s death because that’s the only way I know how to honor her life. Because of Bitty, I believe in magic. She is the guiding energy of my life. Every moment of coincidence, synchronicity, positivity, I see as Bitty. I feel her talking to me, looking out for me, guiding me. I attribute all the beauty in my life to her, because she changed me. Growing up I was never artistic. Bitty was the artist. Everything she did was creative. She drew, she made clothes, she made jewelry – her room was an explosion of her unique aesthetic. Yet since Bitty’s death, the artist in me was born. I don’t see that as random, and I am so deeply appreciative of that.

    Bitty’s death destroyed me, but it also awoken me. It connected me to the spirit world, and everything mystical. Without Bitty’s death I wouldn’t be who I am to today, and I’m so grateful to her. She’s been such a good friend even if she’s no longer on this earth to share time with me.

    But I miss her.

    I’m starting to forget our memories. I don’t have her to go through them with me anymore. As I grow older, my brain gets filled with new memories, making the ones with her harder to hold onto. I would trade any memory I have had of the past 17 years without her for one more moment of our time together. My memories of her are everything because they’re all I have.

    This is my open wound. One that is not always so raw, but when it is, it’s like my skin has been peeled off and all that is left of me is vulnerable organs unable to defend themselves against the elements. There are times when I can talk about Bitty and I feel almost nothing, because I can’t let myself. Yet there are moments when just the thought of her makes my soul scream so loud it’s deafening. My head filled with echoes of my heart crying in despair.

    This Sunday was a hard one for me, and I couldn’t escape it.

    But it’s okay. It’s okay that I go through this, and I always go back to the one and only therapy session that I’ve had in life. It was about 2 years after Bitty died, and I was still crying daily. Waking up thinking about her, going to bed thinking about her. People were worried. I was consumed with grief. The therapist asked me one question, and it was all I needed to hear.

    “How do you think Bitty would feel about the way you’re reacting to her death.”

    I thought about it, and I know everyone was telling me, “she wouldn’t want me to suffer,” but they didn’t know Bitty.

    She would be happy I was this upset!! She was my best friend! If I just moved on easily or wasn’t tormented Bitty would be like, “What the fuck Toni!!!”

    That realization gave me permission to feel, and I keep that with me. The universal spirit of Bitty that is all one with the cosmos of course wants the best for me, but the human Bitty that I knew also thinks it’s totally reasonable I’m this broken up about her death. I loved her. Of course I care this much. That’s just what happens when you lose someone you love. You never let go, you never get over it, and you always miss them.

    June 14, 2017 • emotions, Musings, Old School Stories, Relationships • Views: 1153

  • Unleashing Your Inner Teen Girl

    I have a very mutable personality. It’s like my identity waxes and wanes depending on my audience. I can be the serious intellectual type, the conspiracy theorist nut job, the hard working artist, the responsible business owner, the esoteric psychic explorer, or that chick that makes a lot of pussy jokes. I wake up every morning wondering, “who the fuck am I going to be today?”

    I believe in flexible identities, and think we all should try on a variety of masks daily. The more open minded we can be for ourselves, that will translate into how we feel about others. Ultimately life is all about acceptance, so why not practice accepting every single facet of who you are?

    Maybe that sounds nutty to you, but if you think about it on a macro and micro level, everyone would benefit if we accepted each other fully. Families would get along better, marriages would last longer, and maybe there would be less mass murder… I mean religious war.

    I recognize that I may approach the world in a way not everyone can relate to – BUT YOU CAN BLAME MY PARENTS FOR THAT OKAY!? The way I was raised was much different than today’s standards where a kid has to be monitored while farting because god forbid their flatulence has too much velocity and they are blown out into the highway by their anal airstream. When I was 6- years old my family moved into a Harvard dormitory because my parents were the “house masters,” and that was pretty much the end of my being parented. My mom and dad were like “You’re grown right? Well we’re going to be busy running shit so good luck to you! The oven is over there.”

    Having a lot of independence at such a young age meant that I had to learn how to navigate the social stratosphere of Harvard college life. A lot of the kids missed their family, and I figured out how to fit in as de-facto kid sister. I would hang out in the girl’s rooms and keep them company while they stressed out over their love lives or getting an A-. (The kiss of death at Harvard). I would go through their stuff, find their diaphragms, and try to blow them up like balloons. I would eat dinner with the football team and tell them shit jokes to make them laugh. My childhood may have been unconventional, but it did teach me what beer tasted like at 11.

    Trying to understand social nuances at such a young age shaped me deeply. I realized that different people bring out different parts of myself, and part of the fun of being around a variety of humans is exploring the variety within me. I like losing myself in people, and allowing my identity to meld into their perception of me. When I’m with someone, I unconsciously figure out who they want me to be, and then become that part of myself. I am not committed to a one size fits all version of myself, because like wine, I am an acquired taste. Not everybody likes what I am throwing down, and there are going to be a LOT of moments where I should self-censor so as to not alienate myself… yet making people uncomfortable is also thrilling – so fuck it.

    As a grown up, I am constantly expected to conform to social norms of acceptable and responsible conduct. I know some people thrive under the pressure of adulthood, and enjoy the convention laid out before them. You know these types right? They don’t have any interest in pushing boundaries, or testing the waters of inflammatory behavior. They take life and themselves very seriously. I respect these archetypes because they are crucial to society functioning properly, yet like a teen girl, I want to rebel completely from those expectations.

    And that’s it you guys… My spirit will forever be a teen girl!

    We all have an age of our spirit – don’t you feel that? Some people are 3-years old forever, and others are 67. It just is!

    Because I am perpetually 16, my favorite people to be around are those that bring out my psyche’s true essence. At my dance studio I teach teen girls hip hop. Spending my afternoons twerking with them, talking about boys, and then more twerking is seriously the highlight of my day. The energy, enthusiasm, and sass of a bunch of teen girls is probably the most powerful force on the planet. If we could figure out how to channel that shit, it would solve the world’s energy crisis.

    I also have friends who bring out my inner teen. When we get together a manic giddiness takes over, and all we want to do is cause trouble. I love when I get into this headspace with someone because there is a specific intimacy that happens when you both are on the same page of “if it’s inappropriate, let’s do it.” I was just on vacation with my one friend, and got my period early. You’re welcome. We were at the beach and wanted to go swimming, but I hadn’t used a tampon in over 15 years.

    My friend: That’s so crazy to me that you don’t use tampons – you’re so vagina centric.
    Toni: I just don’t like plugging up my poon.
    My friend: Understandable.
    Toni: I seriously don’t know if I can do this.
    My friend: I’ll come with you in the bathroom and talk you through it.

    So there were, in a public bathroom stall, my friend looking at me like this was the most normal thing in the world.

    Toni: So I just shove it in there?
    My friend: More like press.
    Toni: Uhhhh okay… like this??
    My friend: GO SLOWER!!!

    Who the hell needs a tampon coach but a teen girl!!!???

    I get that it’s not legal or logical for everyone to hang out with teen girls for inspiration, but I highly suggest you finding your own inner teen girl. I’m talking about that part of you that doesn’t give a fuck about the future because you just KNOW everything is going to be amazing. That piece of you that is willing and unashamed to talk about everything and anything – whispering long into the night about nothing. The side of you that is bold and courageous because no one has told you to be otherwise. It is in there… I know it… and she will surprise you in the best way if you get in touch with her – BUT ONLY IF SHE IS 18!

    Then of course there is the depressed, moody, self-conscious, PMSy side of the teen girl that may not be as fun, but she also needs to be unleashed out into the world to show people what’s up.

    I don’t know what the hell is going on in this picture… but I do know that it’s so right.

    toni teenage bizba

    August 24, 2016 • Birth • Views: 1163

  • Getting High On Weed and Processing Death Is Maybe Not The Best Idea

    I started smoking weed when I was 14 years old. It was a fateful Thursday evening. My older brother was hanging out with two girls, and they figured that if I was ever going to get high, the first time should be in a safe environment. I got off the phone, took a few hits, then went back upstairs and got back on the phone. I talked a on the phone a LOT in the 8th grade.

    Looking back on it, I am really grateful to my brother and these two vixens for giving me this life experience. As a young girl, you want to be careful about who are with when partaking in mind-altering substances. Let’s face it; I was the kind of teenager that was going to get into that stuff. This way I knew what was going on, what to expect, and would less likely lose my shit with the wrong people in the wrong situation.

    My best friend Bitty and I had previously made an oath that we would NEVER smoke pot EVER. Probably because we were 13 at the time, and had both suffered through D.A.R.E lectures at school. Can I just say that “daring” kids to not do drugs is probably the least effective psychological strategy of all time.

    When I finally saw Bitty, I admitted what happened.

    Toni: Bitty… I smoked pot with my brother.
    Bitty: So did I. Do you know where we can get some?

    That summer Bitty and I smoked a lot of weed together. In the years to come, I smoked a lot of weed. A Lot. So much weed I can’t remember how much – which is par for the course I guess.

    When Bitty died in 2000 I had to take a break from smoking pot. This loss was so intense, that I was unable to add another texture to it. I knew pot would not help numb my reaction, but actually intensify it. It would be like putting a magnifying glass up to my broken heart, and burning it with the sun. It was all my mind could think about. I was too afraid of being high, and having to face all the pain. I couldn’t make sense of her death. The irreversible and final nature of it was killing me. I felt so helpless that I couldn’t go back in time and stop it from happening.

    After a few months, I eventually started “partying” again. I was 20, in college, and being totally sober was just as alienating as my constant crying. I had to shut off the part of me that was so deeply connected to the sadness in order to relate to other people. No one knew how to be around me when everything would make me weep.

    Mourning is a life long process. You never truly get over the death of a loved one – but you live with it in a new way. You learn to obsess less, and eventually disconnect from being able to access your feelings about it – at least some of the time. I always knew I was miserable she was no longer with me, but I couldn’t always feel just how distraught I was. There was so long that I mourned Bitty, that when I started to mourn her less, I missed the mourning just as much as I missed the person. The lamenting kept me connected to her.

    Now that 15 years have passed, it’s almost like I have gotten used to her being gone. I of course wish this wasn’t true, but the acceptance has settled in. I live ½ a mile from Bitty’s grave, and visit her weekly. Yet even though there are these rituals where I am reminded of her death, I usually don’t attach to it. It just is this thing that is.

    Last Friday was her birthday, and I wanted to visit her grave, and smoke a joint with her. Now let me add here, that I stopped smoking in 2008 and didn’t get high at all until a few months ago. I am obviously not the pothead of my past, so the few times I do smoke, I have been very carefully to only be very sparing. One hit, and that’s it.

    Yet at this point, I was feeling like my brain had gotten used to weed, and there wasn’t any real threat to my bugging out or losing my mind. So I took maybe 3 hits with Bitty, and then had a plan to celebrate her birthday by going out to dinner and seeing some live music.

    As I was leaving, I started to wonder if she felt it when people visited her grave. Did her soul, or spirit-body get an extra zap? Was there a specific comfort to knowing that someone was paying physical tribute to the place her ashes were buried?

    I got in the passenger seat of the car, and as soon as we starting driving I realized, “holy fuck… I am way too high.”

    I was suddenly transported into a Twilight Zone of distortion. It was one of those moments when the reality I knew, and the reality I was experiencing, were so distinctly different that my brain almost busted a fuse. Nothing was making sense. It was a really dark foggy night, and looking out the window, nothing felt familiar. The outside world was totally foreign, and my inside world was completely melting.

    I was also having a forceful physical reaction where I felt like my body could not contain all the feelings I was feeling. It was this profound buzzing that almost felt like an anxiety attack, but not as painful. It was as if I was channeling too much emotion for one skin sack to hold in.

    I kept trying to return to my breath. During those long inhales I was okay, but as as soon as I let it go, I would lose it again.

    Toni: Uhhhh there is no way I can be in public right now, and I’m pretty sure I have to go home now.

    The drive home we listened to Jimmy Hendrix, and I tried desperately to bring myself back to a place that I could control. All I could say was “I’m just feeling too many feelings.” Yet the second we pulled into my driveway, it was over, and I spent the next 2 hours eating.

    Okay there are a few possibilities about what happened that night. The first, and most obvious, was that I got too high.

    Yet I think something else was going on. Weed opens you up in a specific and unique way. I think because I was at Bitty’s grave, I was hypertensive to the energies at play. One being my own feelings about her death, and the emotions I have learned to enclose in order to survive. The bodily sensations I experienced were like I was releasing all I hold onto in order to function.

    The other energy I felt was tapping into the human part of Bitty. Not her higher-self that exists through infinite space and time while floating through the quantum muiltiverse on a bed of vibrating strings, but the human part of her that actually still exists underneath the earth – and still has feelings about her own death.

    Ultimately the whole night felt like a gift even though it was intense. There is something freeing about losing your mind, heart, and spirit and then having to find it again.

    (Here we are, 14 and fearless…)
    bitty-blog-(i)

    April 15, 2015 • Adventures, Musings, Old School Stories • Views: 1359

  • Take My Advice and Take My Advice

    When someone asks for my advice it makes me feel good about me, Toni. That means they value my opinions on their life. I don’t have to talk about how much time I spend screaming at my reflection in the mirror, because I give off the impression that I give good advice – which I do! Instead of obsessing about my problems, I can distract myself by contemplating yours! Oh… and I want to help people because I always think about others first.

    Giving advice can feel emotionally satisfying for the advice-giver because other people’s issues are so much easier to solve than your own. When you have an objective perspective, the answer seems so obvious. Of course you should quit your job, confront your mother, and speak openly to your committed partner about wanting an “open relationship” – but only with polyamerous vegans who are in a David Bowie cover band (not that you have anyone specific in mind or anything). When you are not the one dealing with the repercussions of your amazing advice – the path is so glaringly apparent. Yet just because something is the right thing to do, doesn’t make it any easier.

    It is orgasmic when someone follows my advice, and it was genuinely helpful. This knowing entwines my energetic juices with theirs. We then both can feel the deep, throbbing, penetrating satisfaction of my efforts going all the way to completion. Yet I do get metaphoric blue balls when I give someone advice that they don’t take. Especially when they come back to me with the same problem – and talk about it obsessively.

    At first I try to be patient, and suggest that they could always take the advice I had already suggested… but I do it in a non-condescending way. But when they keep blowing off my suggestions, it can get annoying. Not only is my ego bruised, but I also have to witness them brutalize themselves with a toxic situation. Even though I know not to take it personally, it still feels personal because as their friend, I am still swirling in the tornado of torture with them. They know they are upset. They are looking to change. Yet they can’t participate in any action that would actually make things different.

    This predicament is challenging for two reasons. For one, it sucks when someone you love is in pain. And For two, people are really aggravating when they are going through a continuous cycle of misery and complain about it incessantly. I had a friend… a darling sweet friend… who was in love with the wrong person. It is not that he was a bad guy – it’s just that he lied about everything, secretly took Viagra, had a hard-core porn addiction, and cheated many times with prostitutes. But don’t worry; they were “sweet girls from the farmer’s market.”

    As hard as it was for my friend to live with the heartache, I would argue that it was almost equally as hard for me. If I added together all the hours we talked about his dude, it would probably be about three entire weeks with no bathroom breaks. I even had points over this five-year saga where I had to be like “hey, I need a vacation from discussing this… so maybe you just not for a while. Thanks.” Yet eventually he would creep back into the conversation, and I would get sucked back into the vortex that she was traversing.

    Then you know what happened? She finally took my advice!!!!!!!!! She stopped finally talking to him, and is normal friend again! It is a squirting relief (which I actually heard is just pee… but whatever). After half a decade of giving the same advice over and over and over again, it actually worked.

    Just one of 60,000 text I sent

    advice-blog-(i)

    January 28, 2015 • Musings, Relationships • Views: 1282

  • Can You Do Me A Favor And Not Ask For Any More Favors?

    If you are going to ask people to do favors for you, then be prepared to do favors for them. It is all part of the favor etiquette. You of course act like “I would do anything for you – because I love you,” but really you are saying “Yeah fine I will do this super annoying thing and act cool about it, but get ready because I am going to be asking you to do something for me real fucking soon.”

    Recently The Munch and I have been having a battle of the wills over the concept of favors. I can understand how this may be a slightly confusing concept considering there is a nuanced distinction between favors and the rest of our day where I am blatantly telling her what to do. With favors there is an element of will involved. You are not demanding something of someone, but asking… while hoping they comply out of the goodness of their hearts because you will be SUPER resentful if they don’t.

    For Munch, me asking her for a favor is no different than the 500 other insistences of the day – like my suggestion she doesn’t pee in the bath. But what she does not understand is that 99% of my ordering her around is for HER benefit not MINE. It is not like it matters to me if she has chocolate all over her face – but I have to recommend wiping it off so she doesn’t look demented. So when I ask for a favor it is one of the FEW requests where she does something for me. Munch will do it, but then she thinks of absurd favors for me to do in retaliation. Wait… I guess she totally gets the idea of favors after all.

    Toni: Hey Munch, will you pass me my shoes that are right next to you.
    Munch: Sure. Here you go.
    Toni: Thanks.
    Munch: Mamma, will you go upstairs and get my polkadot headband?
    Toni: Ummm, you are already wearing a headband.
    Munch: I know, but I need my polkadot one.
    Toni: Why don’t you get it yourself Munch. You are a big girl.
    Munch: But Mom, I am asking you to do me a favor!

    favors-blog-(i)

  • The Internal Battle Of Borrowing

    If you have a vagina, you have probably at one point in your life experienced the joy and drama of borrowing clothes from your friends. The amazing part of the lending process is when you are on the receiving end. The more challenging portion of the exchange is when you are on the giving end, because the second your friend puts on your clothes you immediately want them back.

    It is such a classic case of you don’t know what you got until it’s gone. Just the fact that someone is interested in something on the bottom of your closet floor makes it more appealing. Yet if you have already borrowed stuff from your friend, you can’t be a dick and say “Ummm actually no you can’t have that – because now I want it just because you wanted it so… sorry.” You have to suck it up and let them wear what you are now totally seduced by.

    Despite the internal chaos of the borrowing practice, it is part of the intimacy of female relationships. Now that The Munch is 4 and has a best friend, she has been initiated into this ritual. Munch and her best friend both really like princess dresses and princess gear. Hazel has very kindly let Munch borrow quite a few princess dresses, so in exchange Munch let Hazel borrow her coveted Cinderella glass slipper high heel shoes.

    Yet once Munch got home, the reality of not having her favorite shoes dawned on her. Suddenly the sorrow of loss overtook her tiny body, and she began to weep the tears of a broken doll. As much as I felt the anguish of her loss, she also had to learn that it is all part of the borrowing ceremony.

    Here we are talking about the tragedy of wanting to borrow stuff, but regretting lending the things you love.

    borrowing-blog-1 borrowing-blog-2 borrowing-blog-3borrowing-blog-4

  • I Am Committed To Not Being Committed To you

    What I have to do in my life is more important than what you have to do in your life.  But if I need you to do something in my life than that is more important than what is going on in your life.  Got that?

    Everyone is busy, and it is easy to think that what you are doing is the most important thing in the world.  And it is – to you.  But what if someone needs you to do something in their life?  Do you ever flake out on them? Probably you do sometimes.  But does that make you any less infuriated when someone flakes on you? Hell no it doesn’t.

    Being reliable is hard.  When you make a commitment to someone, you don’t always want to follow through when the actual time of the commitment creeps up, then feel overwhelmed and want to prioritize other things.  It is easy to say yes to something before you actually have to do it, but then feeling like no the day of.  The desire to flake is as strong as the smell of your armpits.

    In my 20’s I would sometimes be reliable and other times flakey as fuck. I was unreliable about being unreliable because sometimes I was really reliable.  I am not sure what that was about??? Maybe because I smoked an insane amount of pot those days – but I seriously doubt it.

    After enough people reminded me how lame it was to be so lame I made a promise to myself.  Every thing that I said “yes” to I would do… no matter what.  And maybe that would teach me to say “no” to more things in the beginning and only commit to things I knew I would follow through with.

    This life experience taught me a lot. Mainly that bachelorette parties get pretty messy pretty early on in the night.

    In order for things to be a priority in your life, you have to make them a priority.  If that is a project you are doing with another person, you both have to care about it equally and feel invested in the creation. And if someone asks for your help and you said “yes” because you want them to at least think you are a “good” friend, you have to care about their needs as much as your own.  Even if you are just pretending.

    “Ummm are any you guys going to help me out of here? Or are you doing your own thing?”

    commitment-blog-(i)

    June 5, 2013 • 2 years old, Behavior, Mommy Body, Musings, Relationships • Views: 846

  • What’s That Smell? Oh, Its You

    I am going to tell you something about me.  I am relatively indifferent when it comes to taking showers and wearing deodorant.  I mean, of course I get in the shower – it’s just not this crazy priority of mine. I do it when it’s convenient.  Like twice a week.  And I have nothing against deodorant.  It’s not like it once beat up my mother or stole money from me.  I just don’t think about it.  Kind of like that time I punched your mom in the face and that $100 I owe you.

    I also move my body around quite a bit – dancing, practicing yoga, running away from The Munch.  So it is safe to say that it is common I have a slight funk.  As a consequence most people who are close to me, are familiar with my stench.  I wouldn’t say it was vomitus, but it has a distinct musk to it.

    So my friend Gita is visiting and was coming to dance class with me.  She asked to borrow a shirt and I gave her one I assumed was clean because it was on my clean laundry pile.  I knew I had worn it over the weekend, but I was Monday… so it had to be clean right?

    We were sitting in the car driving to dance class and Gita looked uncomfortable.  She kept making weird faces, looking around confused, and opening the window.

    Gita: “Oh my god.”

    Toni: “What? What’s the problem?”

    Gita: “Oh my GOD!”

    Toni: “Gita what is it? What’s wrong?”

    Gita: “I kept smelling something.  And wondering what it was.  Because it was so unmistakably the smell of your armpits – yet it seemed impossible that I could smell you all the way from here.”

    Toni: “Hey! I took a shower yesterday! And put on deodorant!”

    Gita: “Well, its not you.  But it is you.  It’s your shirt! I just smelled the armpit of your shirt!! And it reeks of you!”

    I guess it wasn’t a clean shirt after all. Then all during dance class Gita kept saying how the stench of Toni wafted into her face every time she lifted her arms.

    Gita: “I feel the need to announce to the class that that smell is coming from me, but it isn’t me.  It is actually the scent of Toni that has been imprinted on to this shirt.”

    what-smells-blog-(i)

    May 10, 2013 • 2 years old, Adventures, Mommy Body, Musings • Views: 2049