#USA #WorldCup #IBelieve

I’ve tried SO hard not to get too excited. I really, really did. But … man, I can’t help it anymore. After Sunday’s game, I can’t help it. After all the attention the GREATEST GAME IN THE WORLD is finally getting in this country (#USA), I just can’t help it anymore. I can’t contain the excitement, the emotions regarding the US team in the World Cup.

See, I’m first generation born American (Chicago, IL). That means that both my mom and dad were born and raised in other countries: my mom hails from Austria, my dad from Italy. You don’t get more soccer than that.

Their love of the game was instilled in us very early on. Then the Chicago Sting formed just a few years after I was born so I absolutely grew up with soccer, soccer, soccer.

And it was amazing. It IS amazing.

For years I struggled with being a soccer fan in the US. It’s just not a popular sport here. Yes, it’s getting more and more popular– especially with kids– but it just doesn’t really get a lot of respect. I mean, even with the US team in the World Cup on the brink of possibly advancing to the next stage, there are still people talking about how boring the game is, etc.

I don’t get it. I’ve tried, I’ve really tried to see where they’re coming from. How they can think a sport with a ridiculous amount of time outs is more exciting than the pace of soccer. How they can think hitting a ball and catching it and running around bases is more exciting than soccer where they are in constant movement.

But I stopped. Long ago I stopped trying to defend soccer. I know it’s the greatest game in the world. I know most other sports derive from soccer. I know it’s bullshit that American Football stole soccer’s real name. I know.

And now… now?? Even if you hate the game, even if you find it as boring as watching the hair on your toes grow, even if you have no interest in the game whatsoever, you still hear about it.

And that it why I’m so emotional. That is why I can’t contain my excitement.

Because for the first time in my 40-plus years, people in this country are truly becoming excited about soccer.

 

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writing while sleeping

I wrote this earlier today while I was trying not to fall asleep at work. I knew I was falling asleep but I was hoping maybe I wouldn’t if I started writing… and, also, I thought it might be interesting to see what I would do if I did fall asleep. Pretty interesting results–if you can read through all the horrid typos. Maybe tomorrow, when I have more time, I’ll translate this. Or maybe not. 🙂

 

It’s hard not falling asleep at work some times. I never used to be like this. Notreally. But lately I’ve just been so tired. Actually I think it started when I got pregnant and had to nap nearly dail. At tleast I had a reason then. Now I’m not pregnant, just fat. So what’s my excuse? I mean, how bloody rude is it that I fall asleep. WHILE I’M SUPSE D TO BE WORKING. Almost put married because I’m pretty much writing this with my eyes closed. Because I’m SO tired. It’s not normal to be this tired I don’t think. Is it? Maybe it’s the drugs. The Prozac, th elebaalol. I dnno.

ZPoor gilr afcross from me has to  answer all the dmb calls now. Better here than me that’s for dang sure. I hate answering th ephon, I hate cleaning up after.

I hate wearing stockings or socks

I just like my feet to be nakeed whenever time allows.

Which isn’t often.

I’m literally flaaing asleep right now. Wow. I tired typing in the hopes that it would wake me up, but it doesn’t seem to marry. I keep typing . I keep trying to wak but my eyes are SO heavy. Like garage doors that have afallen off its hinges. BAM!! They (my eyelids) just scrash into the ground.

 

Soon I’m gonna snoring. I already dis so once – that I caught- and then I played it off, of course, like it was just a blech or something.

They have to know. THEY HAVE to know I sleep wile I’m re

the duck pond

It used to be that I would sit in my car overlooking the duck pond and cry. Really, that’s what I would do. I’d watch the big ducks and the little ones. I’d watch them fish for food or peck at the ground. I’d watch them waddle around, sometimes fight. And I’d cry. I’d look at the clouds in the sky. I’d watch the trees sway in the breeze against the blue sky. I’d look at the big apartment building opposite me and wonder if anyone was looking at me just then. I’d wonder if anyone else was looking out on to the pond and crying.

It used to be that I was pretty miserable. I was very unhappy. I felt like I wasn’t living life. I felt like I was just waiting for everything to happen to me. And instead of doing something – really doing something – I’d park myself somewhere and cry. And sometimes I’d write. And sometimes most of the time, that would make me cry even more.

Everyone around me was living life; I felt stuck for some reason. Trapped. I knew I wanted more, but I was afraid.

And that made me cry, too.

I guess I was a big fat crier.

Today I went back to that duck pond and parked my car. I watched the ducks waddle and search for food. I even noticed one with a bad limp, the poor thing. I looked at the grey skies, the green trees, the murky water. I looked at the huge apartment complex and wished I could just erase it from my view.

I didn’t cry today. I think I almost did at one point when I thought back on how often I used to go to this pond and do just that. Cry.

I was pretty sad then.

Am I happy now?

Kinda, yeah. For the most part; but more than that, I think I’m just un-sad. Know what I mean? Like, of course life could certainly be more interesting but it’s okay.

I’m okay.

Sometimes, it’s okay to be okay.

Memoir or Revenge

love memoir reading and writing!!

Live to Write - Write to Live

Memoir is among my favorite work to read and write. Apples_01
No matter how ordinary, there is something quite wonderful about a life well lived, well loved and well told. That’s a great thing about memoir; interesting stories are not the exclusive domain of the powerful, rich or famous.

Writing memoir makes you vulnerable. Like all writers, you put yourself out there as an artist, for people read and critique. When you write memoir, you also put your life out there. You invite people to read about the choices you made, your mistakes and your successes. Telling your tale opens the door to admiration, condemnation and everything that lies between.

But what about the people you met along the way? While you choose to tell your story, your family, friends, colleagues and enemies didn’t. They didn’t ask you to bare their souls or share their wins and warts. So … should…

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everyone has a story

He taught me how to read people’s eyes.

When I was 8, Scotty took me to the bars with him. I watched him load up on booze and cigarettes. I watched him laugh and lean into all the women. Any of them. I watched him place his hand on their thighs. I watched him back away if they moved his hand. I watched him lean in more when they allowed his hand to remain. I watched him remembering I was sitting at one of the tables with a bag of chips and glass of Coke. I watched him throw his head back and toss the gold liquid from a small glass to the back of his throat before slamming the glass onto the table and standing up.

“Lessgo!” he’d bark.

Sometimes he’d slap the woman’s ass on our way out. Sometimes he’d tilt her head back and kiss her for a moment or two. Always he’d stumble out of the bar while I followed like an obedient little puppy.

We’d go back home where my mother would be passed out in her bedroom. Scotty would go in anyway. Always I’d hear the click of the door lock. Sometimes I’d hear a knocking sound. Sometimes I’d hear my mother yelling. Always he’d end up leaving at some point in the night, only to repeat the same game within a day or two.

He never really did much talking and he made even less eye contact. I don’t know what my mother saw in him. He was always drunk, always coming over at the oddest times.

When I was 12, Scotty showed up one night when my mother wasn’t home.

“Where the fuck is she?”

“I dunno.”

“Well what the fuck, man.”

“I dunno.”

He barged into the house anyway, headed straight for the fridge.

“Where the fuck is the beer!?”

When I didn’t answer right away, he came toward me like lightening. Before he knocked me unconscious, I realized his eyes were almost black and he was looking at me with such rage. Like I had taken all the beer and hidden it. Like I had told my mother to not be home at that time.

I’m not sure how he didn’t kill me that night.

***

Everyone has a story. Mine involves Scotty. Mine involves a shit of a woman I was lucky enough to have as my very own mother. Mine involves learning that people look at you, really look at you and study you. Mine involves learning how to attack without them even knowing I’m going to do so.

Why Scotty didn’t learn to attack like this, I don’t know. I don’t care. What I do know is that it’s so much more satisfying when they have no fucking idea what’s coming. And then bam!, completely blindside them with the unraveling of all your rage.

***

 

untitled for now. contains adult content.

I climbed on top of him and nestled my face into his neck. He smelled like cigarettes and baby powder, oddly enough. I could’ve laid on top of him like that forever–smelling him. But I needed more so I started to softly blow on his neck. He started to stir a bit and I started to suck on his neck, and soon, I couldn’t control myself anymore.

It didn’t take much sucking, kissing, nuzzling his neck before he fully woke.

I stopped and lifted my head up so that I could look at him and was met with his blue eyes. My god those eyes. He always looked like he was about to fall asleep, yet he also looked like he could hold the deepest of secrets in those eyes. Those beautiful sky blue eyes that widened when he saw me.

He was absolutely surprised. I really hoped he wouldn’t be pissed.

I tried smiling to let him know I knew what I was doing and what I wanted, and that it was okay by me to keep going. He looked at me for a good minute. His hands were on my hips. He wasn’t trying to move me off of him, they were just naturally there and I never wanted them to move.

I felt as if I could cry at that moment. I had never done anything like this. I had never gone for what I wanted in any aspect of my life. I always was the one to just let things happen to me. But there was something about Jeremy, and I couldn’t risk him not knowing how I felt. So I climbed on top of him that night with his little brother in the bunk right above. I climbed on top of him with a long tshirt on and nothing else. Absolutely nothing else. I climbed on top of him with the intentions and hopes that he would, at the very least, lift me onto his hard cock. I really wanted him to rip off my shirt. I wanted him to take control and roll me onto my back, lift my legs up into the air, and fuck me. Hard.

I just needed him inside.

I felt him get harder and harder. He still didn’t say anything, didn’t push me off of him, didn’t try to kiss me. Maybe he thought he was dreaming. Maybe he was afraid his little brother would wake. I wanted to assure him that it wasn’t a dream, it was real and I hoped he was happy about that. I leaned back down and burrowed into his neck again. I inhaled like I’d never inhaled before, and felt so high I could float to the ceiling.

His hands shuffled from my hips and back again and, in an instant, he slipped inside.

My back arched up, my neck snapped back.

It was amazing. Just amazing. We remained still for a moment–he deep inside of me. I didn’t want the moment to end. I wanted to die right then and there with him inside of me.

Tears streamed from my eyes.

He moved his hands from my hips to my back and pushed me toward him. We hugged, him still deep inside. Our mouths met; our tongues, of course, danced. He took off my shirt and rolled me over, taking off his shirt and shorts. He lifted my legs, just like I’d hoped he would.

I couldn’t stop the tears he tried to gently wipe away.

After he came, he did a push up off of me and rolled over so that he was scrunched against the wall.

It would be morning soon and his little brother would be waking. I found Jeremy’s mouth with mine one last time before groping for my tshirt and slithering out of his bed and room and back into his sister’s room.

 

The next morning was complete chaos. Emma was barking orders to the rest of the kids, including Jeremy.

Jeremy never looked at me and I tried not staring at him. He did remember, right? He knew it was real, right? Oh god, what if he didn’t remember? What if he hated me now? What if he thought I was too fat or too old?

I helped Emma get bowls of cereal on the table for the little kids when suddenly there was a sharp pain in my side. The pain started to burn. I moved my hands to my side and could feel warmth slip into my hands. It was blood. I’d been stabbed. By whom? By what?

The kids were all running around screaming. They ran in circles from the kitchen into the living room down the hall toward the bathroom back into the kitchen. Over and over again. I tried catching up with them as the blood gushed from my side. I didn’t quite know what the fuck was happening, but there was lots of it happening.

I saw a stack of CD’s on a shelf. They were mine. My favorite band—U2. They were Jeremy’s favorites too. Would he grab them for me? Should I grab them for him? I couldn’t. Then everyone would know what I did last night and I couldn’t risk losing Emma’s friendship because I slept with her little brother. Emma and her entire family had pretty much become my own family after all.

And besides that, I had to hold my side to hopefully prevent the blood from gushing out while I chased the kids. Around and around we went through the house. And finally one of the little ones fell to the floor and then the others piled on top of him. Everyone was gasping for air. I still held the blood from my side.

We had to now clean the house before child services came. I wanted to put everything in trash bags; Emma insisted that we throw nothing out. “Everything has a purpose,” she said combining two plastic hangers into one to make a hook to hang something from it.

Jeremy still avoided me.

I found something that I knew was his but acted as if I didn’t. “How ’bout this?” I asked Emma. “Can I toss it?”

It was an empty box that once held a bottle of Jeremy’s favorite cologne.

“No that’s Jer’s,” Emma said.

“Right,” I commented as I searched to give him his empty box.

Jeremy finally looked at me. I smiled. It’s okay, I wanted to say. It’s more than okay.

“Here,” I said handing him the box.

He took the box and grabbed my hand while never leaving my eyes. “Thanks,” he said.

At that moment, my legs gave out and I collapsed to the floor.

“Jesus, what the fuck happened?” Jeremy asked.

“I have no idea,” I whimpered, grasping at my side.

***

 

possibly to be continued. dunno.