One more thing...

Here it is:

The Quest For Moxie

Goodbye

OK, I'm not going to delete this blog because there are a handful of good things in it. A few funny ones here and there. I'll keep 'em. But HelloSilly is closed for business now.

I started this blog, if you read the first posts, out of boredom because I got banned from my favorite sports forum at the time. Or maybe I lost a bet and had  to endure a self-imposed ban. I forget now. But over time I used it to vent out some occasional frustrations or toss out ideas or just drop some bullshit. That's fine. But it lacks direction.

Now I'm on the verge of new things, big things and scary things. I need to get some direction, find my path and forge ahead. The days of living randomly and allowing life to happen and others to dictate my existence are done. As is this blog.

Fear not! I'm starting a new one.

Violent Spitball of Truth

So I hear the Torpedo of Truth bombed in Detroit last night. (Cue rimshot.) Charlie Sheen can never be accused of having a mere 15 minutes of fame, but he may be learning quickly that his "battle-tested bayonets" aren't as sharp as he thought. Just like anything else in pop culture, his recent antics that have delighted so many and sold countless t-shirts may already be growing weary on a public that is always ready to move on to the next big thing.

But is there still anything to learn from Charlie? He does seem to lob little spitballs of truth in his interviews and Tweets, and even people who are sickened by his drug abuse over the years are somehow drawn to his warrior philosophy. He puts out the idea that you can't live your life to please others, and some of us, who have always tried to be pleasers to our own detriment, find that kind of idea to be stimulating. There is some truth to the idea that a life dictated by others is not truly your own life. And maybe what we learn from Charlie's disaster in Detroit is that you take a shot and things, and if they don't work out, you still keep plugging away.

But I remain curious as to the attraction so many have to a guy who seems bent on destroying his life. Yes, he may be clean now. He's certainly willing to piss in a cup at the drop of a hat to prove it. But this philosophy of his was born from a lifestyle of pushing the limits, defying the law, alienating people who love him, and most recently, getting himself (and a lot of innocent people) put out of a job. That is nothing to admire. Yet, somehow, people do. And it's not just Sheen. I know I can't possibly be the only person who has ever written words for a living who imagined that if we could just get our hands on some absinthe and opium we could turn into Oscar Wilde. The drug addicts who thrive present an odd temptation. Who doesn't want Tiger Blood?

But there is a big truth in all this that can't be overlooked: we aren't Charlie Sheen. We don't have tiger blood. And neither does he. What he has is fame and money, and enough of both to keep an army of handlers and helpers around him, looking out for him, protecting him, saving him, and covering for him. That's how he's been able to thrive. If he was Joe Shmoe, he'd probably be dead or in prison, not on a stage in Detroit. And that's the truth.

Alone

Being alone is not so bad as it seems. There are a lot of times when being alone is just what you need. It's quiet alone. You are free to do as you please, for the most part. Sometimes being alone is a life-expanding experience and very good for you. Taking a trip alone or living alone, completely unreliant on anyone, is probably something from which anyone could benefit. Tests your bravery and your wit and the stamina of your character.

But it's those alone times that aren't so good with which we most associate the word. Alone means isolation or abandonment. Loss. You feel much more scared than brave. Your stamina flags. Your wits escape you.

There are times when I have been alone, sometimes by my own doing and sometimes by the doing of others. I have, at times, withdrawn from friends and family. Depression will do that to you. And there have been times when friends have left me alone. Some personal conflict left unsettled, or even just simple circumstances like a move or the demands of a job. But even in those times there are lessons to be learned which allow you to get something positive out of it. Unless the lesson you get out of it is worse than even the being alone part.

For example, I have recently been left with my ass hanging out in the wind. A decision was made concerning a friend. The friend wouldn't like it, but it was agreed that it was the best and only decision to be made. The plan was executed. Then when the wrath came down, the rats abandoned ship and left me holding the bag. "Oh, it was all her idea. I had nothing to do with it." I know it sucks to have someone you love and care about angry with you, but come on. It was either the best decision or it wasn't. If it wasn't, then you can always apologize and make amends. But in this case, it was the best decision and I will stand by it. Alone, it seems.

I don't mind. Another day, another life lesson. From this experience I have learned (or re-learned) a few things. First is that you can't rely on anyone to stand with you when the going gets rough. Most people will leave you. Only the truest of true friends will weather that storm at your side. Second is that you can't be too willing to trust people. They will throw you under the bus to save their own ass. Third is that, even if those things happen, it's still OK. You'll be fine. A little lonely for a time, perhaps, but in the long run you'll make it. Knowing you did the right thing helps a lot in handling that situation.

Dream Big

A few days ago I had the chance to talk to a woman who is being treated for cancer. The good news is that they found it early, her treatments are going well, and she is expected to fully recover. But even so, you can't help thinking about death when you talk to someone like that. The idea that your life will end one day, whether slowly or suddenly, and that will be all she wrote. There are no do-overs.

Marcus Aurelius said that a man should not fear death. Rather he should fear never having lived. And Mark Twain said that it isn't the things you've done that you will regret most at your life's end. It's the things you didn't do. What do they mean? They mean you should get off your ass and do something.

I'm 41. If I were dying right now, I could look back on my life and think that, overall, it was a decent life. I have a wonderful, loving son, and that's enough to call it a decent life in spite of anything else. But apart from him, I don't have much to show for it. I've spent a lifetime not living or following my dreams. And I can blame no one but myself.

I have figured out that, no matter what your dreams are and no matter how small they may seem, somebody is going to dissuade you. Somebody is going to say that it's stupid or can't be done, or that you'd be better off doing this other thing than what you really want. And if I could give my son one parting piece of advice on my deathbed, it would be to ignore that bullshit and do what you want. Anyone who really cares about you will help you reach your dreams, not stand in your way. Get rid of the people who do. Make your plan and follow through. If you find out for yourself that it can't be done, so be it. But don't take someone else's word for it. Just create a new plan and go to work on that one.

And don't wait until you are 41 to do it.

Throw Me A Rope

It's bad to wake up one day and realize you are a fuck-up. It's worse when you wake up to this feeling often and still can't break the cycle.

Yeah, yeah. I've had Depression. Yes, it's bad. If you've never experienced it, I'll try to describe it. Imagine a normally functioning human being with friends, hobbies, interests. This person has good personality traits and bad personality traits, like everyone else in the world. They have goals and dreams. They care about things. They have some passion. They have successes to celebrate and disappointments to overcome. They are just like anyone else.

When you add Depression you get...a normally (barely) functioning human being with friends, hobbies, interests. This person has good personality traits and bad personality traits, like everyone else in the world. They have goals and dreams. They care about (no) things. They have some (no) passion. They have successes to celebrate and disappointments to overcome. They are just like anyone else (who sucks at life).

So, yeah. I'll cut myself some slack for dealing with that. But what now? Once it seems you are almost out of the black hole you recognize that you have a dearth of social skills. You don't know how to deal with real people anymore. You've lost whatever social talents you may have once had. You no longer have good work habits. Your ability to plan and strategize is gone. All those social muscles have atrophied. This makes you feel somewhat helpless, quite frightened of the world, and kinda worthless. It's pretty easy to slip back down in the black hole unless you can find a rope.

But in short, you're a fuck-up. Even if you do find a rope. It's going to take some work to stop being like that. Where to start? I'm just throwing myself into the fire, going to school. The black hole is telling me that it's a huge mistake and that I will only screw it up. The tiny little voice of hope in my head is saying otherwise, but it's hard to hear that voice some days when all you can see around you is everything you screw up.

I mean, look at this blog post. Writing is the only talent I ever had, and this effort is a piece of shit.

I Got Your Paradigm Shift Right Here

More than a year ago I wrote about those annoying buzzwords and cool phrases in this very blog. Time to revisit the subject.

I was chatting with a pal recently:

"...and it's like a total paradigm shift..." he said.
"Wait, did you just say--"
"I know..."
"Did you just say 'paradigm shift,' because if you did we can't be friends now."
"I know. I'm sorry, you just pick up these corporate buzzwords at work and they get ingrained."

To his credit, he swears he never used the phrase "thinking outside the box," so I'll just put this incident behind us.

As a sports fan, there are a ton of words and phrases that get under my skin after a while. For example, even though I'm a Browns fan and love the kid, I'm sick of hearing Josh Cribbs described as "a beast." Every time a player in the NFL makes a good play, somebody calls him a beast. It doesn't matter what the play was or how big the guy is or what position he plays, he's a beast. Let's look at the word for a moment. A beast is simply an animal. As humans we are all, indeed, beasts. It's a generic term. A bull elephant is a beast, but so is a field mouse. Now, Shaun Rogers, at 6'4" and 350 may indeed be a "beast" the way ESPN likes to use the word. The comparison makes some sense, particularly given the fact that his position as nose tackle requires him to pound people into the ground. Cribbs is 6'1" and 215, which, believe it or not, puts him at the smaller end of the scale in terms of NFL players. His job on the field requires him to be elusive, graceful, fast. He's not the same kind of "beast" Rogers is. So why insist on the word, ad nauseam? In terms of beasts, it would be much more evocative to call Rogers a rhino and call Cribbs a cheetah.

Another thing that goes straight up my ass these days is "on so many levels." Usually something is described as being "wrong" on so many levels, much like the repeated use of this phrase. What levels are these, exactly? And how many levels could there possibly be? Using the word "levels" suggests a hierarchy of wrongness. It's wrong on level one, but maybe not wrong on level five. Or perhaps it suggests categories of wrongness. Why not just wrong in many ways or for many reasons? Or how about just flat-out wrong, and be done with it?

It is lazy thinking, writing and speaking that causes people to latch onto these words and phrases. The English language is full of words, some simple and some more complex. They are all good and useful for describing anything. The goal of communication is understanding. You use the phrase "paradigm shift" to sound smarter and more elite. Simply adopting a new way of thinking, which is the same thing, doesn't quite have the same snap, does it?  You call a guy a beast because you're too lazy to reach into your bag of adjectives and really find a way to describe his play. Not to mention that it's really cool. And why are you wrong on so many levels? I suppose so you can sound like a teenage twit.

OK, I'm done being a hardass. I know we can't help it. Once popular culture becomes saturated with one of these annoying and largely nondescriptive descriptors, we find them popping up in our writing and speech without even thinking about it. I just ask us to rebel against it.

The Most Perfect Bra In The World

It's a rare thing for me to use my  blog as a product endorsement, but since nobody reads it anyway, here goes. I have found the most perfect bra in the world.

If you have big boobs, finding a bra that fits is nearly impossible. I have tried every brand in every price range. Many of them will work, but they don't fit. There is a certain way bras are suppose to fit you. For example, the wires are supposed to fit flat against your breastbone. I have never had a bra fit that way, ever. Until now. And not only that, but it's an underwire bra I can wear all day and it doesn't poke. Sometimes I even forget I have it on. I own two and I am about to own two more. But I was lucky. When I went back to order again, my size was sold out.  In fact, most of the sizes were sold out. I searched for an hour until I found a website that had them in stock. I'm not the only busty girl who has discovered this miracle of an undergarment.

It is made by Goddess and is the Keira Banded Satin Underwire, No. 6090. It comes in three colors: Fawn, Chocolate and Violet. Good luck finding one. When you do, you will praise my name.

At The Dentist's Office

10 a.m. this morning. It's cold. I've been given four shots on the upper right, and it feels like my eyeball is numb. I'm sleepy and my mouth is full of something plastic that is gouging into my lower jaw which has not been numbed, cotton balls and an enormous clamp of some kind. And hands.

Heath the Dentist: "You ready?"
Me: "Uh huh."
(drilling commences, sound of suction hose. "Fat Bottom Girls" starts playing on the radio station)
Dental assistant Bonita: "Oh, I hate this song. It's just awful. There's no need of it."
Heath: "What is it?"
Bonita: "'Fat Bottom Girls.' I know my bottom is fat. I don't need somebody to sing about it. It's not nice."
Heath: "Fat Bottom...is that what he's saying?"
Bonita: "Yes!"
Heath: "Sounds to me like he likes it." (grinding) "You OK?"
Me: "Uh huh."
Bonita: "Like he likes it? Then why would he call it fat?"
Heath: "How do I know? But that's what he said. Fat Bottom Girls make the rocket world go round."
Me: "Wockin."
Heath: "Rockin world. He likes 'em big-boned, Bonita. There's you a man."
Bonita: "I don't need a man. You saw Tiger Woods' wife is beating him with a golf club for runnin' around."
Heath: "You don't know that. He had a car wreck and that's that."
Bonita: "Right. She oughta beat him."
Heath: "What if it was her doing it? Should he beat her?"
Bonita: "....No. Nobody should beat anybody, but I don't blame her."
Me: "Unghh.."
Heath: "You feel that?"
Me: "Mmhmm."
Heath: "Dang, I done gave you four shots!" (injects more novocaine) "I guess you'll learn to floss better, right?"
Me: "Uh huh."
Heath: "You don't know what happened until he says what happened, and you're just gossiping. You don't even know."
Bonita: "It's not gossip if it's true."
Heath: "Yes it is! If it ain't any of your business and it tears somebody down, it's gossip. Don't matter if it's true or not."
Bonita: "Where does it say that in the Bible?"
Heath: "You have to read it in the Bible to know it's true? You ain't ever had people talk about your family?"
Bonita: "My family is talked about enough."
Heath: "Do you like it?"
Bonita: "No."
Heath: "Well too bad I guess. It ain't in the Bible, so you just have to suffer. I need some suction and some composite."
(suction)
Bonita: "Tell him. Everybody knows what he was doing. It's not gossip if everybody knows."
Me: "Uh-uh. Lee ee ow uh ih."
Heath: "Hear that? Leave her out of it. Some of us don't gossip like you, Aunt B."
Bonita: "I hate when you call me Aunt B. She only said that because your hands are in her mouth. Maybe they have one of those open marriage."
Heath: "Like that swinger's club in Texas. I saw that on TV. If I made 37 million I'd just say, 'Honey, this is how it is and if you don't like it you can leave,' right, Dawn?"
Me: "Hmm. Duh see gehda had a oywhen den too?"
Heath: "I reckon if she wants one."
Me: {shrugs} "Oh ay den."
Bonita: "I saw that on TV too! There was this show, and this couple and they had another girl living with them in the house. Just as happy. I hollered for David to come in and see it. I said, 'Would you look at this trash.'"
Heath: "Two women in the house? I can't stand one most of the time."
Bonita: "Oh he liked it, the husband did. She did too 'cause her door swung both ways."
Heath: "Oh she liked the girl too, huh? Well that's good then. I guess we oughta be glad they're happy. Bite down. That feel ok?"
Me: "Eh."
Bonita: "What? It's the same thing as...well, maybe it's not. I don't even know what you call that."
Me: (Thinking, "It's called polyamory, but there is not a chance in hell i can say that.")
Heath: "I call it none of my business. We're done. I want Chinese for lunch."

Living Purple

I bought purple sheets this week. Usually I go for the highest thread count cotton sheets I can afford, but this time I went unconventional. I found a sale on sheets made of stretch jersey knit. T-shirt material. There was heather gray, beige, brown, white, sage green...and purple. I found it hard to look at the other colors with the purple beckoning. It was an obvious  choice.

As fate would have it, someone pointed out a well-known poem to me that also has a purple theme.

Warning
by Jenny Joseph

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.

That is a great poem. Don't you love old people whose ties to convention break? You know that switch that says, "stop that," or that filter that says, "don't say that." When they've reached a certain age with certain life experience and just say, "Fuck it." You wish you could be like them and not care what the neighbors think. You wish you didn't have to create some acceptable facade for work or for church or for the PTA. But alas, you're tied to convention because you have to raise good kids and have a good job and be respectable and have some sort of status in your social group. The smart people disable that switch and throw out that filter before they get old. They already wear purple.They go to Paris with money they should invest in stock. The live freely and think freely.

I don't suggest that convention doesn't have its place. Manners are important. Following the rules is usually a good idea. Obeying the law ensures rights and safety. I just suggest that worrying over whether or not the neighbors will like your pink yard flamingos is less important than nearly anything. And let them gossip about why you weren't in church or why you don't sell the school fundraiser junk.

I talk big, but I'm afraid I actually still care a bit too much. Tonight though, on my purple sheets and with my bedside table adorned with roses I bought for myself, I will think about how I can let it go and get free. I'm almost 40. The time has come.