Boots, Boxes, and the Lovey Dovey


Earlier today, while going through boxes in the garage, I came across a boot-sized box, inscribed with the word “Ugg”. I opened the box.

“Ugh”, I said.

Sure enough, there were the fat fuzzy boots. But why were they in this box? This wasn’t a boot box, not anymore. Last year, I had taken them out of the box, and they had lived in the bottom of my old closet with all my other boots, sneakers, flip-flops, and pumps.

No, this was not a boot box. This was a treasure chest. If this relationship were any other relationship, this box would be the “Burn Box” for when we broke up. But no, this box is where you put all the things you don’t ever want to forget. This is where, again, if this were any other relationship, you would put the things you never want to remember, along with a well-tortured voodoo dreadlock havin’ rag-man-doll, before you do a full moon chant and torch that mofo with all his lame so-called-love tokens! This is serious business, this box.

This is not a boot box. But still, there they were. Right on top of our precious unforgettable treasures. There were cards, letters, love notes, napkins, wine corks, and gift wrap, ribbons and even the gift bags for all the presents my sweet, sweet Squeezy had given to me. This box was holding LOVE. And Uggs.

I chose this big fat boot box because it was the biggest little box I had at the time, and even though it was big enough for fat fuzzy winter boots, it still wouldn’t be big enough to hold all of the lovey dovey tokens yet to come, no way! This was box #1 of… who frikken knows? Me and my Squeezy have a long row to hoe before the sun sets on this story. That’s a lot of wine corks and love notes and… plowing. That’s a lot of boxes. And a lot of love.

And a whole lot of why are there boots in here too?

Why? Because, when I moved in with him, Squeezy volunteered to pack up my closet. He popped the lid off the Uggs box, saw there was still room, chucked the boots in and wallah(!) he’s helpful.

Go Squeezy…

Ladies, it just goes to show, there is no room for man’s “logic” where boxes of romance are concerned. Unlike Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, “you got your logic in my love box” will not turn into your favorite way to keep PMS at bay. It may only lead to confused blogging and dusting boot-prints off envelopes, love notes, and wine corks.

Say, what’s with all the wine corks?

Everybody knows there’s nothing like a little grape juice to grease the plow!

Are we there yet?


Mr. King said this intentionally, I’m sure. While I do know why he found adverbs so sinful, I find the absence of them, in my case, exceptionally worse. My own personal road to hell is not paved with them. In fact it’s not paved with adjectives, nouns, or prepositional phrases or in fact any words at all.

And that’s my problem. My life is hell because of the absence of words. I need to write. I want to write. But I avoid it like the plague. I will think I’m going to write. I will be convinced that I am. And then I don’t. My road to hell actually IS paved with good intentions!

So today, for the fourth time in a row (not the fourth consecutive time) I wrote in my journal (which doesn’t count) that I NEED to write, that I MUST write, that I WILL write. And then, I threw my journal down, made a coffee (yes, we’re back to that), marched up the stairs, all but tied myself to my desk chair, and am now writing. Don’t let’s get our hopes up, folks. But it’s a start!

Reformed Coffee Junky

So I started my Reboot last Monday, and this is eight days later. Here’s me, yesterday, feeling clean and spunky!

Day Seven

I’m sitting here with my watermelon juice (rind and all) which is supposed to give me incredible energy. I’ll let you know how that goes! My Reboot started with three days of eating only fruits and veggies and at least one green juice, followed by 10 days (I’m on day 5, halfway there) of strictly juicing. The “green” juice I drink is mainly Joe’s Mean Green Juice, find it on the website here. I’ll also include it below this post. Sometimes I add a little something different to it, like an orange, or more cucumber, or some pineapple, just to keep things different. It took awhile, but I’m finally feeling that boost of energy I’ve been reading about.

Just yesterday I decided to add a whey protein smoothie to my day as well, because with all my energy, I’m wanting to workout. My workout today was significantly different than any I’ve experienced in a looong time, due to the level of energy and just plain “want to” that I felt.

Another reason for adding the protein is that I’ve lost 8.5 pounds in just eight days. It’s the strangest/amazing feeling to look down at myself and know that it’s mostly water weight that I lost, maybe a little fat, hopefully no muscle… but just feeling inside and out like I was all puffy and swollen before, and now I look so different. My feet and ankles and legs and arms and face look quite a lot different, and it wasn’t even fat, it was just BLOAT. Yuck.

I saw in the movie and read on the website how lots of people start out with a 5, 10, or 15 day Reboot but end up extending it. I can see myself doing that, simply because I feel so good! I’m already considering what one mouthful of food I once craved will do to my body. I don’t want to get water-chubby and lethargic again!

And I keep forgetting that I haven’t had coffee in over a week. I was a coffee-a-holic, and I don’t miss it at all. Now I enjoy a different “Cup-a-Joe” :)

Here’s Joe’s Mean Green:


1 cucumber
4 celery stalks
2 apples
6-8 leaves kale (Australian tuscan cabbage)
1/2 lemon
1 tbsp ginger


Wash all produce well
Peel the lemon, optional
Pour over ice

Better Different

No, but tell me a story
I want to believe in you
I want to believe
that you’re not just like
normal regular room temperature
like yawned about forgettable adventureless

tell me something fantastic
that I don’t deserve
something crazy about you
that makes me
just because
I know

tell me a story
that never ends
something that will fascinate
me and everyone I know
something that makes our jaws
something that we’ve never heard before
something ridiculous and impossible
and not all the way

no, tell me a story
I need to believe
please, tell me a story
spare me the truth
I don’t want to know
that I’m just like

the Cemetery of Love Gone By


In the cemetery of love gone by
in the cemetery
of endings
in the cemetery of tombs
and stones and
cold hard lifeless
heavy things
in the cemetery of love gone by
I am the Living

I have walked here
amongst the memories
swiss cheese specter holed
drilled through and bitter
wormy with questions
and shadows and doubt

if you bite into the unanswered past
bitter answers may fill your mouth
and you can never spit and spit and
spit it out enough

like traps
questions hang in living rooms
an impatient noose
waits for the stumbling
fool to wander in
and wonder enough
to ask

then slippery sling goes the knot
answers are clutched like
currency that can be
tendered for time
more time
lungs clench as oxygen
abandons the relationship
everybody knows truth will rot away
when it’s held in the dark for too long
and that ugly truth
will show its face
and scare
to death

I was in the dark
for too long
Truth was right in front of me
but I refused my eyes
it’s not so ugly
when you peel away
your own
it’s really just something
it’s really just something to
it’s only just an
an exhale
a blink of the eye
and now I am at peace
with the ugliness of Truth
I have acquired a taste
for the freedom it brings

and now I walk
amongst the cold hard
that one didn’t love me
I never loved him
at all

I do not come here for comfort
I do not come here for compliments
I do not come here for companionship
those bones
those sockets
those empty shoes
that life
that fire
all ashes and dirt
bones bring no comfort
gnarled hands do not hold
buried feet do not accompany
there is no warmth here for me
there is only Truth

these cold hard facts
these skeletal tales
their rigid backs lie
subservient in dirt
faceless remainders
grey reminders
unceremonious headstoned markers
tick tock taken away
RIP or don’t
happily ever neverminded me here
in the cold hard
where love comes
and where love goes

these cold hard
these cold hard
these cold hard
turn to stepping stones
a path for me
a path for me
in the cemetery of endings
the Living walk through
upon the cold hard

Compared to hindsight, retrospect seems rounder…

Ahem. I’m clearing my literary throat. I’m cracking my neuron knuckles (those magical ones that make my blind fingers whack just the right key). I’m preparing myself to do some cold turkey blogging. I’m just gonna blurt. I think it’s going to be about the whole ball of man diet wax, and how it waned so… poetically, to an end. I think I’m going to blather on about the end of that, and about this tall pinnacle or precipice I am standing on now, catching my breath, ready to dive in to this next chapter, this next year, this leap, this unknown but confident sparkling future that lies before me now…

I have told my beautiful young daughter, and also my old-soul son, that we are responsible for our own hearts. You can never hold someone else responsible for breaking your heart. No one has the ability to reach into you, inside of you, and hurt your heart. Your heart only becomes vulnerable when you put it out there, and that takes such bravery. When we are young, maybe it takes more ignorance (naivete)… but I think we are only ignorant about how brave we are being when we barge around with our hearts held out. But we have to be very very wise and very cautious with our hearts. We are responsible for continuing to offer it to a person that lies to us, and says or does things that hurt us. Continuing to take your own heart out and give it again and again to a person that is hurting you… you alone must take the responsibility for that. Of course there is risk and pain in all relationships, it can be like a dance, the love and the fear and the pain and forgiveness, but both hearts must dance together. Love is not a solo show and it’s not a game with only one player. Your heart is not a football. In a healthy relationship, every heart is a team, love is the ball, and the field is round… so when anyone carries the love over the goal line, everybody wins. When it’s sucky, you foolishly give your heart away, and some guy uses it as a plaything, a football, kicking it and throwing it around to score for himself. And all you get out of that is an empty feeling and a bashed up heart that takes years to heal. The guy or girl that plays football with your heart is not going to be around to pick up your broken pieces and to coddle your poor bruised and battered heart… you get to do that. And it sucks. And it’s not easy. And it takes a very long time.

We use our hearts every day, all day, to feel things, to navigate around our daily lives, and to show people close to us that we love them. When it is bruised and battered, everything hurts, everything is distorted, life changes for us. Giving your heart to someone is a very risky business. The consequences can be devastating. Be careful with your heart. Be wise, but be brave, you are responsible for it, so guard it and give your love wisely and know how valuable it is when you do!

My broken heart and blame is what led me to the Man Diet. I needed to get to the taking of responsibility, to the finding the missing pieces to my puzzle, and realizing they never fell out of me… they were inside of me the whole time. That’s just it… our hearts break inside of us, they only feel like they are outside of us because I think sometimes we wish it were that easy. If we could really give our heart to a person, that would be it, all they could ever ask for, we wouldn’t have to do anything else, we could just get on with the unchecked rest of our “list”. Then we could make them responsible for every little bump in the relationship… because they’re holding the heart. They did it. Them, them, them.

That’s kinda where I find myself right now. Realizing that I’m in a healthy (on his part, at least) relationship for the very first time in my life. My honey (honey, honey!) is so sweet, so impossibly patient (it’s ridiculous, truly), but I am finding myself once again to be quite surprisingly covert in my operations. I keep being surprised at the sneaky ways I am trying to sabotage my own happiness, and his. I want to just say, “Right, here’s my heart, don’t fuck it up, buddy!”. But I know better than that. I know that it doesn’t work that way. Because now I’m owning it, I’m taking responsibility for my heart. I get to leave my heart in my chest this time. It’s better there. I’m keeping my heart, and giving my love. I will give my love freely and bravely and with as much wisdom as I can stand.

In retrospect, maybe the roundness of my hind blocks my view in hindsight. Do girls with narrow asses have this problem?