Thinking Of You, Molly Mae

There was a time in life when I wanted nothing more than to be punk.

Pink hair, black eyes, piercings, wristbands, star shaped accessories.  Punk rock in what I perceived to be all it's glory around the year 2000 or so.

Problem was that I had (in my mind) an overbearing father who obstinately refused to let me dye my hair and pierce my face. I told myself that I just didn't dare defy him. But let's be honest, if given consent, I'm still not sure I would've pulled the trigger.

I've also never looked good in eyeliner which means that the heavily lined eyes I yearned for made me look like a six year old dressed up like a raccoon; and one can't possibly leave the house looking like that.

My lion's mane of hair refused to stay stick straight like Avril Lavigne's and an hour of straightening time just wasn't worth the fifteen minutes of good looks I got out of it.

And that's if there was absolutely zero humidity.

Baggy pants and skater shoes just never looked right on me.

But then again, do they ever really look right on anyone?

I'll admit that this particular phase was relatively short lived.  But the desire to look more exciting than I really do most certainly was not.

I used to resent my so called "classic style". Aka, I don't go out on a limb because I'm always afraid I'll look ridiculous. Which is a good thing because when I go out on a limb I usually do. Now I can appreciate that when I look back at pictures of myself in earlier times I've never gone too far in any direction. I tried a few things here and there, and there is for sure an Emily Look, but I never went totally punk. Or totally homeless as I longed to do in my Phish following days.

But there's something about youth that makes us want to dress up.

Maybe it was the insecurity. Not really knowing who I was or where I fit in that caused a desire to look like someone else. But no matter how long I acted, I never felt like the character I played. I just felt like me acting and no one can live that way for any length of time. I admire those that can fully become the character they've developed. They have dedication that I will never know.

Oh the weight of age.

We get older and learn that while the world is still a stage, there should be no spotlight on you as you hurry through Target to pick up some pads.

There's nothing wrong with standing out in a crowd, in fact it's great when applying for a job. But there's something not right about spending that much time on yourself.

I look at people now who, at one time, would have been an idol of mine if only for their dedication to a certain style, but now I can only think of how unfulfilled their lives must be. Have they really no social or professional obligations that require naturally colored hair?  Ever?  How do they find the time to try that hard to look like they didn't try at all? I'm not fooled. You didn't just wake up in those layers of tattered skirts over worn leggings and wool socks with boots.  I know how much those boots cost and you really aren't as poor as you make yourself look. Which is just fine.

But why are you trying so hard?  Doesn't that get exhausting?

I'm not saying that everyone needs to be so consumed with their daily life that they never take the time to consider what they look like. Some personal vanity is necessary, but there's a time and a place for everything. But at a certain point life does become consuming, and things like complicated clothing and accessory combinations just fall by the wayside.

Moderation in all things...

Damn that Louise for having grown up during The Depression and preaching her scorn for all that's wasted in life.

Wasted time preening in the bathroom. Wasted money on clothes you'll hate in six months. Wasted energy consumed by self absorption.

As for me I choose to save my energy for the things that really matter. Things like peeling the glow in the dark silly putty off the lamp in the living room when I mistakenly said "sounds great!" to Lou as she yelled something incoherent as I tried to pee amidst the chaos of my house with a radio that had somehow been turned up way too loud in the mere moments I had been disposed in the bathroom.

Point is that I need all the energy I can gather. So I no longer want to look punk. Or homeless. Or really anything other than moderately put together.

Style is fine, just keep mine simple.

November Snowstorm

Have we truly no blankets warmer than these?

Is this really the day that  I'm destined to freeze?

My nose is running, I'm ready to sneeze.

But can't get a kleenex from the bathroom I can't see.


For all is dark and black today.

With the storm all our power was carried away.

It's been rather dark and it's been getting colder.

Each night, with sleeping on the bed, Gidget gets bolder.


She snuggles between us, a thing never done.

Usually, the slightest move puts her on the run.

But tonight it is cold so we all snuggle in

And pray that soon the power comes in.


But until that glorious day, I'm left here to say:

Are these really all the blankets we own here today?