Random Personal Proverb for 2.26.2014

Productivity can be measured just as effectively in healthy choices as tasks accomplished.


Spaz and the Spider

A Recital Piece – at this time, please picture me in a lacy white cotillion gown, combat boots, and afro.


Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet
Eating her curds and whey
Along came a spider who sat down beside her
And she spazzed out in traffic trying to kill that mother fucker
Because she was driving
And he was IN HER CAR!


The end. Thank you.

{Curtesy} At this time, please throw flowers.

Spaz the Domestic

I have never been adept at housecleaning. I think it relates to my inclination toward hoarding. Clutter feels safer; parting with things I might need – my unborn children might need, unborn children on another continent might need – is painful and frightening. Since childhood, whenever I am faced with the generic assignment to tidy a room I grow over-focused and overwhelmed; eventually spinning myself into a frenzied circular pattern of picking up and putting down, opening and closing, getting nothing done.

I have a houseguest for the week. I spent Friday morning cleaning like a mad woman (no pun intended) to create a space in my apartment hospitable for another human lifeform. A switch flipped, and with the motivation of impending company I think I did quite well – constant stream of music, positive self-talk, switching rooms every hour, eating at regular intervals. The place wasn’t perfect, but there were huge improvements and I worked around previous hang-ups to accomplish my goals.

By the time of my guest’s arrival Saturday evening, the only room not passable was the kitchen. I was okay with that; I figured my guest could occupy herself in a less hostile area long enough for me suit up and de-escalate the kitchen from defcon HAZMAT. The truly magical part is, with just the added element of another person there, I conquered dishes I’ve been avoiding for…ahem, well, let’s just say there are multiple reasons Spaz wears gloves to do the dishes. I faced them with no fear or anxiety; my attack was systematic and completely devoid of dread.

This entire experience gives me insight on how to take care of myself with regards to home maintenance in the future. Perhaps instead of waiting for that moment of bright and shiny to throw a shindig, I’ll set a date and use that as momentum. Perhaps I also could stand to be a teeeeeeny bit more transparent and ask for someone to sit and chat with me whilst I do the dishes.

Spaz in the Water

A small but growing part of me is convinced that I am secretly meant to be alone and, God hasn’t had the heart to tell me yet. That I’m just a little too…or a little not enough…or the wrong kind of crazy to have a life compatible with anyone else’s.

I’m proud of my life. But it’s taken me so long to get to a place of function, and now that I’m here it takes all of my effort not to slide back into oblivion. I’m not moving forward. In the ocean of life, my epic odyssey is a doggie paddle to keep head above water.



I can’t help but be envious of the team rowers and the synchronized swimmers who don’t seem fazed by wind or wave. That’s right, in this analogy we’re all in the ocean. And I’m the one who is not-drowning.

You know that kid, right? That one who is swimming ok until she unexpectedly splashes water into her own face and assumes she is drowning. She will flail against her own flailing until she realizes she has never been in danger, and announces more to herself than the unconcerned crowd that she is ok. She’ll scan the horizon for one expression of relief to connect with – one SOUL who cares that she is alive – one SOUL to be her MATE – because she believes that is EXACTLY what a spark of eye contact on the damp surface of her unstable existence would indicate. She’ll find the horizon empty every time.


That’s me.

Spaz in the water.


Spaz in the Grass

I’m kind of in a funk today. Been under a cloud for days. It scares me a little. I keep checking the grass. That was always my litmus test, the grass. When it loses its green, when the roadside flowers fade, when all of God’s colors turn to grey like ash after even the hard heat of fire dies…then I’m in trouble. I fight back tears in public and superfluous sleep at home, but the reds and the blues and – God bless them – the greens maintain their integrity.

And so I tell myself it’s just a funk, and I make plans to clean my apartment when I know that planning is just postponing.

I make lists of the things I hate to remind myself that I can hate; and lists of the people who love to hear from me; and lists of the things and activities that keep my life running smoothly so I will continue to do some of them some of the time until the funk passes. 

I need to keep caring. I NEED to hold onto that spark of give-a-damn. It’s slipping. And I know, next goes the grass.

My Traumatic Day of Work (before Christmas)

 The little tickle I felt on my ankle in the workroom as I made my last copies turned out to be the Critter That Shall Not Be Named. I screamed, but tried to muffle it down to that scream you make at the movie theater when you don’t want everyone to think you’re a punk, or at a ladies’ luncheon when someone unveils an ugly baby. I definitely danced, though, and stomped with a Holy Ghost fervor all the other imaginary Critters out of my pants legs.


And in true Spaz fashion, I’ve been under the mistaken impression that I published this one a week ago.