Kicking the Bluebird’s Ass (or The Ghandi of Maneaters, part 3)

Badass bird.

Quick! Kick his fluffy ass!

So, heigh ho the merry oh, all ninja we shall go…  The question though, is how to kick bird ass anologically?  First, let us define for ourselves what exactly we (me, Yoda, Cheshy, Ghandi, the Pirate, and you, if you’d like to lend a hand) will be putting asunder.

Upon initial investigation,the Bluebird represents the fear of permanent loss of the things I foolishly tossed out in exchange for a future with said allegedly flawed man (were it but one).  So, maybe in the broadest sense, the Bluebird represents the fear of loss.  The word “broadest” implies a large target, which would seem easy to aim at but might require more flying uchi ukis to finish the job, so I think we would do well to narrow dat ass.  Which brings us to Master Yoda’s first crushing blow.


“Named must your fear be, before banish it you can.” ~Yoda


And banish it we must, so name it we shall.  Fear!  Your name is…   hunger?  Upon landing in my Noodle, Yoda’s words became twisted and took on another meaning for me.  Initially, I had replaced the word “fear” with “hunger”, meaning that I must name my hunger Yodameisterbefore I could banish it.  I thought it was my hunger that was the cause of all the frolicking forays into the forest.  “Know thy Hunger!” was becoming my Bluebird throat whacking mantra. But then, Noodle churning, I realized that perhaps the wise old Forcey one was right(er than I was).  Maybe it was fear.  Maybe it was the fear of hunger.

We’ve all heard of emotional eaters.  They eat because they are afraid to feel.  But why they be so scurred?  What are they afraid to feel?  They are afraid to feel their hunger, their emotional needs, their spiritual emptiness, their soul’s desire.  They can eat all the food in the world (and some of them try), but they will never satisfy their hunger with food.  They have to face their fear, feel the hunger, let it guide them to what they truly need and then give it to themselves.  They have to get to know their own hunger and give it a name.

In light of all of this, it is apparent that I have been an emotional Maneater.  I didn’t know that when I put myself on the Man Diet.  I only knew that something was wrong, and being in a relationship just seemed to make things worse.  People were getting their feelings hurt and I was tired of convincing my friends that “this time it’s different, he’s special”.  Thanks to Yoda, and a few other gurus and cool cats, I’m getting down to business with myself.  And speaking of business and cats…

Here is where the Cheshire Cat delivers a debilitating strike to our fowl foe, and with the help of Captain Jack Sparrow, we are enlightened as to why this deceptive flighty minion must be obliterated without mercy.  Die, fluffy evil!  And now, the crippling whack:


Cheshire Cat“Would you tell me please, which way I ought to go from here?”

“That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,” said the Cat.

“I don’t much care where…” said Alice.

“Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,” said the Cat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~LEWIS CARROLL, Alice in Wonderland


Fear!  Your name is… nowhere?  We already established that the Bluebird represents the fear of loss, but it also represents the fear of being lost.  If I started out with no direction of my own, and no established plan on getting anywhere in particular, it’s easy to see how I could be so frivolously convinced to sally-forth with a shrug and a skip on some path to wherever with what’s his what, and upon emptying my basket of all things familiar and dear, suddenly come to realize I don’t know where I am or why I’m where I am, or how to get back to where I was and whether or not I even want to.  Whatever!  This befuddled waywardness is for the birds, I need a map.  Or better yet, a compass.

Guess who has a kick-ass compass?  That’s right, super-cool Captain Jack Sparrow.  The only problem is, if you don’t know what your heart’s desire is, it doesn’t work.  That’s heart’s desire, a.k.a. what you are hungry for.  I never understood why his compass didn’t just point to the rum.  Maybe that’s because he was an emotional drinker and the rum was just the man he ate to avoid the fear of his own hunger.  To set the needle in motion, you have to overcome the fear to get close enough to the hunger to feel it and know it and learn its name, unlocking the heart’s true desire. Savvy?

But what exactly is the needle pointing at?  Is it pointing at wants?  The heart’s desire sounds like a want to me.  But when you get past the stuff… the champagne Jaguar, the cruise around the world, the Jimmy Choos, the men, the food, the rum… when you get past all the first things that pop into your mind when someone asks you what you want… down there underneath it all, is the answer.  And you don’t just want it.  You need it.

I have been on this path of discovery, which is interesting because I’m on the path alone.  I needed to be alone, so that I could face the fear and find my heart’s desire.  I have found it, at least to some degree.  I found that I have this little broken jigsaw puzzle inside of me.  Whenever a piece falls out of place, I feel broken, less than, imperfect.  I’ve been trying to fix it by finding things to fill the empty spaces. I didn’t know that the pieces don’t fall out of me, they just fall out of place, and nothing I find “out there” will ever fit.  I have managed to find one piece, and I’m putting it back, but it’s a process.  Once I get my little puzzle back together, it’s going to take some work, some wise choices, some maintenance to keep it together.

I guess, as I was skipping down the path with my lederhosen lads, tossing things out of my basket, making all of those “sacrifices”, I thought I was tossing out puzzle pieces… things that might fit and make me whole again.  And when I realized that this man wasn’t fitting into my puzzle like I thought he would, I was resentful about losing all of those things that I thought might have actually been a perfect fit.  Before I knew that no one and no thing outside of myself would ever fit, I thought it was important to find out what had been in the basket, what the tweety little twit had consumed.  But now I have been spared the horror of a Bluebird autopsy by acknowledging that whatever was in the basket was worthless to me anyways. The piece I seek (the peace I seek?) resides within me still.  Besides, the Bluebird’s not dead, so no slicey dicey.  He just has a bruised tush.

And speaking of the Bird, I noticed that this destructive character I chose for my analogy was a cute little Bluebird from a happy song that I enjoyed in my childhood.  I took note of how demure and approachable he is in contrast to the comparable character I would have depicted if I were to write the same analogy for my 14 year marriage.  The sweet little birdy would have morphed into a Ringwraith or a Death Eater. Now, I was expecting Frodo to try getting into my blog, but Harry Pottah?  Popped over for some tea, have we?

Muggle tea, if you please.

And now, though I have left some dangling analogies that I will most likely write to the finish some other time, I leave you with a parting quote from Saint Augustine.

“Fasting cleanses the soul, raises the mind, subjects one’s flesh to the spirit, renders the heart contrite and humble, scatters the clouds of concupiscence, quenches the fire of lust, and kindles the true light of chastity. Enter again into yourself.”

Aw, Auggie, how’d you know?

Mount the Donkey (or The Ghandi of Maneaters, part 2)

As it turns out, the bluebird has a tiny ass, which is difficult to kick what with all the flitting.  We could either tie the little bastard down, or try to fix the problem he represents in my casserole of analogies.

And speaking of casseroles, I need to address some things that I threw into the pot before the oven door creaked open…

a. The pre-diet man snacking:  I wouldn’t say that I started out embodying the traditional definition (or even the urban definition) of a maneater.  I never set out on a hunt for some gullible guy to flay and/or consume.  I don’t have a carcass cave like those scary lions in that one movie where people walk around in tall grass in the middle of the night with their pheromones whispering waftily, “Here kitty, kitty!”  BUT, (and step away from your high horse if you don’t mind) in HINDsight… while in the pursuit of taking full responsibility for my life as is and for every decision I make, I have discovered that though they were willing and warned (I always warned them about “how I am”), for my part, I was most definitely using them.  Much like one uses a handy Snickers bar to stave off hunger.

Oh nutty goodness!

It’s so hard to say “No” to a big ol’ hunk of candy that’s following you around telling you how pretty you are and how good you smell and when that mouth watering snack is a very attractive, oh and by the way professional, athlete and there is over six feet of hot young muscle breathing fire down your neck, well… it’s just so hard.

b.  Which brings me to the part where I cheated on the Diet.  But only thrice (say it quick and it sounds like twice) in a year.   The first one was the aforementioned naughty nut bar, then some guy singing Run DMC at a karaoke bar.  And the last one was my childhood sweetheart (which is a blog post for another time).  And to be clear and yet super fuzzy, the definition of “cheat” ranges from meaningful glances all the way to the now-nuked nooky, and everything in between to include contemplating a walk in the woods and crumbled life parts, etc.  You know, just to be clear, but still fuzzy enough to keep you from mounting up on that high horse.  Mount a donkey, it’s a shorter fall.

c.  And speaking of donkeys, and the mounting thereupon, I’m reminded of yet another fairy tale.  Each time the lightening struck, all the shortcomings I had been making Brementown Musiciansexceptions for began to stack up right in front of me, like the Bremen Town Musicians.  You plant a crowing cock on a mewling puss on a howling bitch on a braying ass and you’ve got a tall order of Nevermind with a little What the Hell Was I Thinking on the side.  Yet, despite what had become their unavoidable menagerie of flaws, I never blamed the men or their flaws for the “failed” relationships.

I always knew, in the moments of clarity after the lightening strike, that I wasn’t dragged down that path.  I had walked right along with them, and all the way I was throwing away what I could never ultimately live without and blindly accepting what I could never ultimately live with.  I could see it all perfectly, in hindsight.  This Man Diet is a way for me to take the time I need, to step back and really assess, so I can stop repeating history and learn from it instead.

Well, apparently we still have a Bluebird’s ass to kick.  It’s difficult to do in 500 words or less, especially when you get stuck in the dreaded Casserole of Analogies.  So me, Yoda, and the Cheshire Cat (and to some extent Ghandi and Captain Jack Sparrow) have our work cut out for us.  Onward!  To the kicking of the fowl ars!

But for now…

That’ll do, donkey.

Tune in for Part 3 here…  where Frodo wants to know why Yoda gets to be in my blog and accuses me of being a “hobbiphobe”. 


Disgruntled Hobbit

The Ghandi of Maneaters (Part 1)


So, I have been on a self-prescribed “Man Diet” for a year now.  This is not a diet in which I indulge like a man… it is quite the opposite, unless we’re talking skinny men with restraint.  You know, like those guys that eat 500 calories a day so they can live until they’re 130. They carefully weigh berries and apple peels for breakfast.  And for all of their dedication and deprivation, when they die they get to go to the Cheesecake Factory, where the virgin waitstaff wonders why I’m off-topic so early in the post.

Before you were distracted by the virgins, I was trying to establish that the Man Diet is not a diet in which I eat corndogs, nachos, and chocolate covered bacon, which is to say it is not a diet in which I indulge like a man.  It is instead a diet in which I indulge in a man in much the same manner that Ghandi indulged in cow meat.  As in, not at all.  No kissing, no touching, no hand holding, no supposed meaningful eye contact, no lingering phone calls, nothing sappy and no oh oh nooky.  Not, nothing, zilch, negatron, nix on the nookiness.  None.  Nada.  This is me nuking nooky:


The decision to adhere to all of this nixing and zilching had absolutely nothing to do with feeling guilty or bad about love or passion or sex.  My intention was to clear my head, to somehow extract myself from the pattern of behavior that kept me walking down that wrong path again, with that wrong boy again.  I just kept fooling myself into getting lost, over and over.  Then I would wake up right before the last bread crumb fell, thinking, “Holy gingerbread house!  Scary Candyland again!”  And before you know it, I can hear the witch sliding that knife against the stone and as the oven door creaks open, all I can see is the Cheesecake Factory and those dang virgins running toward the light at the end of the tunnel.   Then like a lightening strike, I would snap back to reality, ditch the witch, send Hansel packing, and get the heck up outta the CL, where you want to lick everything right before it eats you alive.

Beware the spiffy lederhosen.

So in mostly non-analogous terms, the pattern I’m trying to break free of is the one where I mysteriously end up in a relationship with some miscellaneous man du jour (nice lad, spiffy lederhosen, one or two decent qualities) whom I would readily start off on a path with. And here’s where it starts getting patterny… I began giving up parts of myself to keep the relationship going. You know, important parts like time with my kids, or my personal projects and plans, my life map with goals and places I wanted to go and things I want to be or become. I gave up big sentimental chunks of my bucket list, my freaking life compass, my gosh darn witch-whacker, my friggin’ brain, and then, braids a frickin’ swinging to and freaking fro, I’d be skipping down that primrose path in my maryfrigginjanes and lacy ankle socks, singing Zippity fucking Do Dah to the bluebird that was NOT sittin’ on my shoulder, but was instead gorging himself on all the crumbled parts of my life that had fallen out along the unbelievably stupid way.

And then, I would wake up and check out of the relationship. Thank you for flying with us, buh bye.  Disembark at the nearest exit, you have reached your destination, buh bye.  It’s not you it’s me.  Take your luggage and your flotation device and float the fuck off.  Do not leave any belongings on the plane.  Take your baggage with you.  I’ve got my own, buh bye.  Don’t call me.  I won’t call you.  Buh bye.  We reserve the right to refuse.  And we refuse.  Buh bye.  Bye bye.  Bye.

I did this every time.  And every time, up until I checked out, I was convinced that it wouldn’t happen.  The problem, I have come to understand, lies in part in the part where I was convinced.  Turns out it was an action, and not a state of being.

Tune in next time when Yoda and the Cheshire Cat team up to kick the bluebird’s ass.

Click here for Part 2~