The Abuse

I've gravitated to for a long time now.  Hours spent in wait for it.  Always leaving me wanting more.

The abuse.

I left me broken.  Into sharp shattered pieces.  Making me feel curiously alive. 

 The bruises were the souvenirs I scrupulously shrouded. 

  Until now.

Forgive my grainy self-taken photos taken to document the journey.  

The physical  pain dwarfed by the mental agony can't be captured in pixels.    

After a year of suffering, I finally realized this is all my fault.

 I'm utterly to blame.  

I've done this to myself.

Over and over again.

My abuser will stop anytime I want to.

But I beg and plead for it to continue. 

Because after countless hours of torment,

I can do this!  And so, so much more!  

(My recital with new pole routine is just two weeks, a set of screaming shoulders, abs on the verge of a hernia, calloused palms and too many bruises to count, away.)

Gettin' Dirty

When I last left you, I was feeling a bit down.  But, don't worry, that's all turned around.  Not because I got a literary agent mind you.  Because I didn't.   But, because of you, my faithful readers, who wrote sent me kind messages of support. And no matter if I get an agent, a publisher or not, I will publish my book my damn self if I have to.  Eventually.

 I'm playin' dirty now!  No more Ms. Half-Canadian Nicegirl. Which means, I'm totally whoring it up with photos, especially on Twitter!  Ok, not totally slutty.  Semi-whoring, that's befitting of a 43 year old wife and a mother of four with the goal of promoting my writing.  So, sexy-funny-with a purpose, yes.  Sexy-gratuitous-stupid with a floater in the toilet in the background, no.

Please notice, there is no floater in my toilet!

So last week I  wasted countless hours trying to accumulate my Twitter following.  But increasing my following three-fold isn't all I accomplished last week.  No, I've stepped up my pole dance game.  And have mastered two new moves I couldn't do last week.  Ok, "mastered" might not be the word.  But I can do them half-assed with a really pained wince on my face, so of course, I've added them to my routine. For my recital in just two weeks time.  I have the bruises all over my legs and feet as proof of my extra practice hours.  But, courtesy of that stupid Canadian mail order pharmacy, I also have a blister that resembles a vagina!

See!  You know it does!

And let me just confirm that whacking your toe-gina on a pole is painful, but getting your vagina is excruciating.  I contemplated popping it.  The toe-gina, for clarification.  But, I new that sucker was going to pop on it's own.  When we did the Dirty Dash.  Another fantastic photo op to whore it up on Twitter.  But, unfortunately, though I was completely covered in mud, I'm so pale, it just made me look tan.  With that perfect olive skin tone I've always wanted.

Damn it, I got out dirtied!

So, I had to crop Craig out of the Twitter picture, because he totally looks dirtier than me and my caption "I'm a very dirty girl" just didn't work with him in it either.

But, by far, the dirtiest thing that happened this week didn't have anything to do with any of this.  And this is where it turns sinister.

It happened to Sky, who in his first week of high school, witnessed his first drug deal right in front of his locker. In the form of a big white brick.  It seems Heroin may be the school song.   But my theme song is Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap. Let this be a warning to all the drug dealers,  don't fuck with my kids cause I haven't even begun to get dirty yet!  

Debbie Downer

I don't like to burden you with my insecurities. So, I usually make it a point not to. Not today though. You see, a few weeks ago I sent out queries to literary agents.  Like a hunderd of them.  Seeking an agent, who could get me one step closer to being a published author a la the traditional route.  Which is a huge fucking pain in the ass and a huge fucking blow to my already low self esteem.

So, now, while my work is being considered by potential agents, more likely, sitting at the bottom of a huge toppling pile of manuscripts, I am sitting in wait.  Agents have the job of not only determining that your potential book is worth reading.  They also have to consider if the market is saturated with that genre of books.  Which of course the memoir market is.  Not only that, agents are also gauging the future writing and earning potential of your second book and beyond. Of course, they get a cut of all of this, so they're taking a gamble on whomever they take on as a client, but especially for first time authors.  You simply need to be the whole package.  A solid writer, personable, engaging, social media savvy and have impeccable timing with the market.  It doesn't hurt if you know someone either.

What you should know about me is I am shitty at sitting in wait. Horrible. Abomidable. Near tragic. Because silence makes my head spin. And I over think things and get a bit Debbie Downer. Especially now that my kids are back to school this week. Providing even more uninterupted silence. A blessing and a curse at the same time.

I was talking to my friend Suzanne on the phone the other day, one of my closest and dearest friends and also one of the biggest supporters of my writing. Confessing to her that I wanted to make some changes, albeit small ones, to my manuscript, which is already out there sitting in that massive pile on someone's desk.  Or  trash can. I'm naturally an antsy person who doesn't do nothing well.  Plus, as a writer, you can't write anything that can't be improved upon. Someway. Somehow. "Don't do it!", she warned. And she's right. I know she is. "Start writing something else", she advised. Again, I know she's right. But, I'm just not ready for that quite yet. I feel I need to be out there fighting the fight for my baby,  Rock the Kasbah:  A Memoir of Misadventure, the book, in some capacity.  Although, I don't know exactly what to do at this point.

That's when I turned to Twitter. I admit it, I'm an awkward social media misfit.  But one of the things agents look at in clients is social media prowess.   They want someone who brings something to the party.  Namely, facebook friends and twitter followers.  AKA:  potential book buyers. And I've been so engrossed in writing, that I've neglected to whore myself out adequately.  Now,  that I have more time to flush down the toilet, I'm wasting it on Twitter trying not to be a wallflower.  Playing the social media game to try to attract more followers.  Although I will not play Candy Crush. Or have every tweet consist of the word fuck.   I have my principles people.  I'm doing this on my own terms.   In the hopes that this results in more exposure for my writing.  Not gratuitous cleavage shots.  Wait.  Hmmmm.

What I've discovered is Twitter is like a big orgy with a fully stocked bar and a drug dealer.  And once again, I just don't seem to fit in. It's like high school all over again. I fucking hated high school. And once again, I feel like the introverted, awkward basket case from the Breakfast Club. Which is what I truly am.  Don't get me wrong, it's not like I want to fit in.  I'm finally at peace with my complete dorkdom.  Fuck it! I am who I am.  You either get me or you don't.   Love me or hate me.  (Also, as an aside, the popular girls seem to get knocked up.  Or get crabs.  And I don't want either of those.)

It's just that I always believed in the end that substance would prevail over the big fucking popularity contest.  But I'm starting to question that now.  After all, I've read some pretty crappy books that I can't believe were published by big name publishing companies.  Well, mind you, I didn't waste my time reading them all the way through.  And I've read some self published authors who are fucking fantastic and should have been published and promoted by the big wigs, but weren't.  Their loss I guess.

Don't get me wrong, it's not like I'm saying I'm the next Tolstoy, Mitchner or Solzhenitzyn.  (By the way, I fucking love Aleksandr Solzhenitzyn!  However, I'm fairly sure there is no Solzhenitzyn twitter  hashtag.) What I am is the underdog.  A tenacious chihuahua.  Ok, I'm nothing like a little yappy fucking spazy dog. I'm more like a bull dog.  With an enormous drool loogey hanging from my mouth. I'm real.  Warts and all.  And seriously, I do have some warts right now.  Not genital warts, mind you.  And this shit I ordered from the Canadian pharmacy doesn't seem to be doing shit for me.

So if you'll excuse me, I need to go be the Janeane Garofalo-esque girl standing in the corner at the Twitter orgy now.  You can follow me there at Rock the Kasbah@Marie Loerzel.  We can start our own Solzhenitzyn hashtag or Debbie Downer one.  Whatever.  Oh, don't forget to like my Rock the Kasbah facebook page.

2nd Annual Happy Dance

It's that time of year when I do my annual happy dance. The first day of school. It's been an extremely long and busy summer. During which I had no time to belly dance. But, now I do because I don't have any kids in my house right now! NONE! So here goes nothin'...

You can see last year's happy dance here:

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go get some shit done sans kids!

Mission Impossible

We'd made it to Utah with one mission. 

Meeting our friends the Greens from Morocco there was vital.

We climbed to the tops of mountains using chains so we wouldn't plunge to our deaths.

And took in the view from the top of Zion National park.

We waded through the waters of the narrows.

Hiked through Bryce Canyon, which we learned wasn't even a canyon at all.  So I felt kinda gyped.

We endured bad local food when all we wanted was a panguitch.  I mean sandwich.  Panguitch was the town and it rhymes with sandwich.  So confusing...

Some of us got stuck in the brambles along the way.  Although, I won't say who.

Others got well, detained.

Or violated by a photo op looking directly into the sun.

We had to step over this dead guy.

And avoided the come-ons of this mangy stray cat.

We considered branding each other with "IZ" like a blood brother kinda thing.  And people would be like what "IZ" that?  Dude, that "IZ" so cool!

I desperately wanted to steal this mug of the owners of the house we rented.   Yes, The Grinch and Paula Dean (well....back in her younger, slimmer, happier days that is....)

But no, none of this was what we were here for.  Our sole mission was to "pants" the Green family with lingerie pants we found in the dumpster in Zambia when we were on safari a year and a half ago together.

After covertly planting the pants in their luggage we sent them a picture (much less appropriate than this one...I so wish I could post, but I can't)  to claim our victory.  You have been violated!

MISSION ACCOMPLISHED!!!

Life is a Highway

It was a road trip.  A domestic one...

....to a completely foreign destination.

With the kids comfortably reclining and plugged in.  Yet, still grossly uncomfortable and whinny.

We stopped to marvel at the last payphone in existence anywhere.  We're told the last virgins in existence reside in these parts too...

...which might be this couple who travelled in their pajama pants.  After I mocked them for sporting their sleepwear publicly, later I regretted it.  Enlightened by their Eastern thinking.

Travel in ridiculous children's pajama pants without children are most comfortable travellers ~Japanese proverb

Unless they just got some of these located conveniently in the bathroom.

Even though 70% of the states population doesn't drink really crappy hot caffeine served up at rest stops in styrofoam cups that clog landfills, they are hospitable enough to serve it up to the heathens that pass through.  Thank god!

Because, it's possible we could be here for a while...

My Favorite Things

Dude, I know I'm not Oprah.  If I was I could afford to jack up my sinking house and get new windows that shut.  In fact, I could blow up my house and start from fresh, right after that extended trip to Thailand with nannies in tow to deal with the whining kids.  Anyway, this is a post of some of my favorite things.

My Chuck Taylors.  Love them even without any arch support they're still are my favorites.  Just not for trail running away from a bear or anything like that cause they don't have great traction.

While I hate lipstick, I love eyeliner.  This is Sonia Kashuk's olive suede pencil.  An unexpected and fun neutral of sorts for brown eyes.  You're welcome!

I got this sunscreen from my dermatologists office.  He says zinc oxide and titanium dioxide are the best sunscreen agents.  And while my doc is a bit creepy, he's totally right on this one.  It doesn't make me break out and has incredible coverage for your face.  I just don't want to be alone in a room with him again.

Bought this skin peel at Whole Foods.  It is gentle, yet effective.  Just don't do an apricot scrub first and a Retin-A application afterward, unless you want to look like an enormous flake.  Duh!

Sandalwood is one of my favorite scents.  Which is why I infrequently burn this candle.  Because I want to save it and savor the smell for just the right occasion.  Which hopefully isn't my funeral.

All purpose cleaner that smells like ginger.  I don't know how it cleans, I'm not big on cleaning.  But, I love the way it smells when someone accidentally hits the trigger whilst clamoring through the cleaning closet to get the rug cleaner because the dogs have diarrhea.  Again.  It's like aromatherapy.  If you can smell that shit over the smell of shit of course.

These are the funky napkins we get at World Market and use every dinner.  Well, some of us.  The kids don't because they prefer to use their hands or shirt sleeves.  Every freakin' dinner.

Frozen pomegranate seeds.  Because really?  Who's going to take the time to scrape all those seeds out and freeze them in a bag convenient to put in your yogurt or salads?  Not me.

Thai food.  I can't get enough Thai food.  So if I'm not at my neighborhood Thai place, Na Rai, getting the Thai basil eggplant with tofu, I'm making something similar-ish at home.  And no, the kids don't like eggplant, tofu or Thai food.

I've eliminated soda from my diet, but every once in a while (ok, every day) I want some bubbles and a little pick me up.  This is it.  Not the grapefruit one though, that one is gross.  Trust me, I tried it.

These are made out of recycled wood.  They're beautiful, light weight so you don't get a free ear stretching and they're good for the environment.  So you're not so much being vain, but single handily saving the world by wearing them.

I can barely stay awake during a movie, but this is one of my favorites that I've actually watched to the end.  Both funny and smart and for some reason, never made it big.  It's the underdog of movies.  Which makes me love it even more!

There are so many books I love, this is one in that long list.  Written by a first time Indy author.  There's nothing funny about this besides the fact that my mother-in-law hijacked my copy and is now holding it ransom in Florida.  Remember, buy your own damn copy people!

And last, one of the kids broke my veggie peeler.  Thank god, cause I got this new Giada one from Target and a love it!  The organic carrot from our local neighborhood community garden was awesome too!

Unfortunately, I didn't receive any compensation or kickbacks for endorsing any of these products.  Because then I would have mentioned how much I love Gap Body underwear.  But, I didn't.  So clearly, I'm still a struggling writer who's never gotten paid for anything.  Yet.

Youngest Child Syndrome

I am the youngest of six kids.  I used to think all that birth order stuff was crap.  Because most of it didn't seem to apply to me. Even though I am the "baby" of the family, I'm neither out-going, nor dependent on everyone around me emotionally because I wasn't coddled as a child.  Sure there may have been some perks in being the youngest.  Mostly, my parents were broken-in already.

So they were a bit more relaxed with me.  So relaxed in fact I think they sometimes forgot that they had a 6th kid.  After all, there's only like 3 photos of my entire childhood.   Why did they need photos of me?  They had 5 other kids who looked exactly like me.  And black and white film was expensive in those days and then you had to get it developed.  They could just take a picture of my brother Tom and say it was me.  Who'd be the wiser?

But then there were the more important things they forgot,  like ever having the birds and bees conversation with me.  I mean I already knew about sex when I heard from my friends at school.  And since I was from a big Catholic family, even though it was all non-verbal, I knew for sure I wasn't supposed to have sex.  Until I was married and my husband and I wanted a baby.  But then I could only do it four times if I only wanted four kids.  And I knew damn well I wasn't supposed to enjoy it.  That'd be a sin and I'd go directly to hell.

But as the youngest child, I do have the rebelliousness, risk-taking and lack of self esteem also associated with last borns.  And now that I'm a mom of 4, I see the exact same thing with my youngest daughter Ember who's 8.

She tries so hard to keep up with her siblings and for the most part she can.  Which only kicks her already competitive nature into high gear.  Because of this she is extremely hard on herself especially when she doesn't know something.  Which she'll try to cover up with an untrue and curt "I know".   When she doesn't.  Which is exactly what I used to do when I was her age.

The other day, as I dived up the chores, she drew cleaning the tub in the bathroom from the hat.  So I sent her off with the scrub brush, cleaner and a rag.  The kids scattered, started their chores while I got distracted by something else.  Ten minutes later, I went up to the bathroom to check on her progress.  That's when I found Ember in the bathtub filled with water, cleaner and the rag, in her bathing suit.

"Whhhhaaaat are you doing?"  I said too harshly and too impulsively.  Then she started to sob.  And I felt like crap.  Because that's when she told me she didn't know how to clean the tub.  And I realized I  never showed her how to do it like I had when the other 3 kids were her age.  And I felt like the worst mother ever.  A feeling unfortunately I've had a million times over in my kids childhood when I know I've screwed up.

So, I vow right now to not forget to tell her about sex so her friends tell her first.  Unless she finds out much too early from her brothers, who heard it from friends at school and had to share the way her  older sister, the middle child, did...

Post Script:  Before you call CPS,  I only use natural non-bleach cleaner in my bathroom.  So no child was physically harmed.  All the scars are purely emotional.  And we have started a therapy fund.

Doggy Paddle

It was a rainy day with nothing to do.  We had to find something or the kids would resort to killing each other slowly.  And not with kindness either.  That's when we found it, in the paper.  Peak Performance: K9 Sports.  Because I just don't do enough carting kids around during what I call the chauffeur years. Which overlaps generously with the bake sale years. Dude, I'm just doggy paddling trying to keep my head above water over here.  But yes, I really think we should get our dogs Bonnie and Clyde involved in sports.  It will teach them self-esteem and perseverance.  Maybe that's only what it does for kids.   God, I just hope they don't shit in the pool.   

Bonnie was skeptical at first.  Peering off the dock into the empty pool.  She'd already been intimidated by Diamond.  Who's got a flashy expensive stripper name.  And she's a professional.  Not a stripper, a dock jumper.

Bonnie worked through all the self deprecating voices in her head. Then, focused on Jade's voice calling her from in the pool.  And she wanted that camouflage octopus toy like it was a hit of crack.  Turns out she has grace and poise in the water.  Especially the way her and Jade swam together in the water.  Hmmmm. I  imagine a bathing cap and nose plugs and intricately choreographed splashes and inversions.  Maybe I'll start my own dog synchronized swim team.  (It was my high school sport after all.)  If Clyde's on board...

Clyde must not realize he's a Labrador Retriever, which means he's a water dog.  Apparently he doesn't know that because he's got aqua phobia.  He didn't care who was in the water or what toy they had.  All he cared about were the snacks coaxing him near the water.

You see, Clyde isn't so much an athlete or an achiever.  He likes to have a good time and a good nap.
That's where the party's at for him.

Now maybe if they stuffed that octopus with some pot Clyde would go in the water to go get it.  Maybe.  But, he wouldn't go do it again for sure. Of course, snacks would be required.

Check out the article in the Gazette Monday, August 5th on Peak Performance featuring our family.