This site is the cat’s pajamas

Month: May, 2012


I had a bad dream. You died…everything I knew vanished. I looked down, and the copper colored weights in my hand suddenly disappeared. The ones I brought up from the basement to work out with at Grandmom’s house. Chuck got rid of everything. Just like the letters under her bed she had kept…everything disappeared. Gone.

Except that it’s not really a dream. It’s happening. You’re dying and this will soon enough be my reality…the one I halfway pretend won’t be happening.

I can’t call you when I feel like crying. Because I don’t want to upset you. You’re already scared. And the cancer in your lung is growing larger every week. Causing more pain. Now you’re going from percoset to morphine. But I am crying.

When I walk into your room to wake you, it scares me. You’ve lost so much weight, your skin is stretched loosely over your skeleton. With your mouth gaping open in slumber, you already look dead when you’re asleep.  I’m so scared you won’t wake up. I dread that day.

I don’t want to be alone. You’re all I have left. For all your faults. Your Aspergers. For all your issues…you have ALWAYS taken care of me. Done the best you can. This, I know. I have seen it. You STILL take care of me, even when it’s you who needs taking care of.

I will be an orphan. They say ‘you can always go home’…but you can’t. Not if it doesn’t exist any longer. Not if someone else is living in it. And you’re in the only stable home I’ve ever known…which will be sold by the other family members the minute you pass away. The blue carpets. The overstuffed furniture. My bedroom I’ve taken refuge in since I can remember. The damp basement full of treasures and books. The huge glass window with it’s peaceful view of the green woods.

This will all be gone. My birthday will come around and no one will care. There will be no funny card with a cute animal on it in coming in the mail.

I hate the chemotherapy for stealing all that is you. You aren’t YOU anymore because of it. I am grateful to the chemotherapy for giving me a little more time with you to repair our complicated relationship.

I feel sorry for me. I feel sorry for you. I just feel so damn sorry.

I love you.  I need you. You’re my mom, and all I have.

I told you not to smoke. Goddamn it. Why didn’t you listen?


Candles Don’t Work

I went to yoga class today – Memorial Day – and the instructor decided to make a big show of lighting candles.

“I’m going to light these two candles. This one is for all of the troops who don’t make it home. And this one is for all the those who died in service….firemen, police officers…” She trailed off as she lit the second candle.

And it took all I had not to scream at her, “Candles don’t mean SHIT. It does not change a fucking thing.”

Because, it doesn’t. You’re sitting there, front and center, on a hard folding chair listening to Taps on the trumpet. The cloudless sky is an amazing blue and it’s as if God himself created the perfect day for this event. Then, he walks up to you. He bends over, and hands you a flag, folded into a triangle. He is wearing gloves. Your eyes tear, and you focus on the shiny brass buttons. Everyone is looking at you and you’re trying to be strong, but you’re starting to get it… you’re NEVER going to see him, ever again. He is dead. He’s NEVER coming back. All you have left that wasn’t incinerated in the explosion are the memories in your head and a few Kodak photos. And the greeting message on his cell phone that you keep calling over and over and over again, just to hear his voice. That’s what you have.

You will never have his advice. His laughter. Him yelling at you when you do something really stupid.  His kindness.  You will, for the rest of your life, say this: “I really wish Dad were here right now. ”

And lighting some fucking candles do not make a goddamn bit of difference.


Suicide. I get it. Sometimes.

I have an acquaintance on suicide alert right now who is in the same business as I am. His father was very successful at what we do and he feels he can’t live up to the name or hype. He also can’t get hired with a bigger, better company. And this is why he is upset, ready to give up. Taking pills. Wanting to die. Possibly. It’s fucking stupid. Especially since he’s quite talented at least one other thing.

I think there are two kinds of suicides. Those who are selfish and petty…they don’t see the big picture. These are the first group of suicides. The wastes of life or talent. Or maybe they are just a waste of space.

They’ve lost their job or partner or home and can’t see that life DOES go on. There will be more opportunities. We create our futures. But these short-sighted individuals would rather inflict the pain of self death on their family because of some small failure in their own lives without realizing what they’re doing to others.

Then there are the alcoholics, smokers and obese, who are committing suicide in front of us every day. Slowly and expensively. And usually, in denial.

Then, there’s the right kind of suicide. This person has fought to go on and make sense of it all…and just can’t. They are usually sick without a cure in some way, shape or form. They opt out to selflessly to SPARE their family and friends the pain or expense of having them around.

I just get so sick of hearing opinionated idiots out there eschewing suicide with their parroted words from the safety of their armchairs.

You sheep disgust me.

You Christians disgust me, with your narrow minds and fear-mongering.  If there’s a God, he gave us free will, correct? So he would  allow us the choice of life or death if needed? Christians also conveniently “forget” the horribly bloody past that their religion truly holds. This is alarming, since they slaughtered many who wouldn’t convert…all in the name of their god. But suicide…”Well, you’re going to HELL for that shit!”

Walk a mile, my friend. Walk a mile in a person’s shoes who has been through Chemotherapy three times and just can’t do it any longer. Or the person who as early onset dementia and no close living family or no finances to take care of them. Or perhaps even the manic-depressive, who can’t seem to get through life without hurting all the people he loves best, the worst.

My grandmother, sick of being sick, sick of being in pain… begged me to kill her. She fucking BEGGED me, in a totally sane voice, with her eyes full of tears. It was gut wrenching to see her in so much pain that she’d rather die. And, I would have done it too, if I could have. To help her.  Because she meant it. She REALLY meant it. And if you can’t exit this life when it no longer has ANY enjoyment left in it, what’s the fucking point? All you’re doing is taking up space. Existing.

Walk that mile first, before you label it as “selfish”…because it just might be the most SELFLESS thing someone could do. Giving up one’s life is no easy choice…and it’s certainly not always right for us to judge.

“Some people don’t cry because they’re weak. They cry because they have been strong for too long.”

-The Muse

In The Beginning…

The Birth of My Adult Web Site.

There is a reason and a story for EVERYTHING. Where did that chair come from? How did you get your cat? How did his parents meet? I love stories.

Well, this one is about an adult web site. I didn’t create it because I’m a typical lazy, pretty girl and don’t want to work. It wasn’t because I was in debt and needed to pay something off. It wasn’t to put myself through school…although I did exercise THAT cliche’ on my second go-round with college, working doubles and triples at the strip club Friday’s & Saturday’s, then doubling up on courses Tues and Thursday. But that’s another story, saved for later.

I created an adult website to get off the road.

I was traveling full time as a burlesque feature dancer, and had been for 7 years, living in an RV. It was a fun time, but I’d had enough. Driving 20 miles out to the middle of nowhere, only to pull into RV parks at three a.m. that hadn’t been listed as closed for the season. Back-to-back weeks in Oregon, North Dakota, Nebraska and then Christmas week in West Virginia, without seeing anything other than the venues and the local gyms. I missed birthdays, holidays, weddings…even a funeral. My agent didn’t allow me to say no and I was a pretty decent act, so the offers kept coming. It was literally why I had to live out of a bus.

The money was really good, but the expenses were horrendous. I made significantly less on my site, but I also wasn’t fueling an RV, tipping out everyone in a club, spending $1200 on Swarovski crystaled theme costumes, buying stacks of posters in bulk to give away and paying $20 a day to go to a gym on the road. If you read my tour diaries…then you already know some of the crazy shit that used to happen on the road, too. I traveled with two large pittbull mixes I’d adopted for companionship and safety. Three different times they attacked someone trying to push their way into my hotel room or the RV. One was a drunken lady in shitty Flint MI who just couldn’t figure out that my room wasn’t hers…even though there was NO other room around. The economy had bottomed out in Flint long before everywhere else and the girls at that c! lub were hooking for $5, so I’m guessing that’s what my room had been used for before. Another was a drunken soldier on a Georgia military base who followed me. He tried to break my door down. A third was a very sober stalker in northern Indiana. That guy had my dog taken from me. Thank God the club owner was tight with the local politicians. I got my American Bulldog back that later night between shows, but not before crying a lot of tears and a very hysterical panic attack. It was time to hang up the sequined g-string and do something a little less crazy.

I had an adult porn star friend (whose heart was actually bigger than her giant tits) who opened up her home and office to me in Las Vegas and that’s where I crashed for a little while to get on my feet, while she taught me how to run a website.

My site has been a source of stability, and I truly appreciate when fans become members. It’s also been a source of creativity as well. Whatever it says about me, I like getting naked and making sexy videos and dressing up for photo shoots. Writing my tour travails down, sprucing them up with all the snapshots backstage and video clips. I like CREATING something out of nothing. Content. Sexy content. It’s gratifying. 

I also know that as much as I’ve enjoyed this life, that it’s a limited time kind of career. And this is a source of great angst to me. Working for myself, having the freedom to fly home and visit my sick mom every two weeks, creating stuff…

Just FREEDOM. That means a lot to me. Working when I want to. Whether it is not all, or til 4 am, because I’m in a mood to keep going.

I don’t know if I could do that working for someone else. I don’t think I’d be a productive person being told to work 9 to 5. I doubt most people are. They just fake it a lot better than I could.



My mom sucks up a lot of my energy. Fear & anxiety. Guilt that I’m so far away.

I don’t know what I’ll do when she dies. I’ll be crushed. Lost. Gutted. I’ll probably never visit home again, unless her or Gram of  leave me property. What would be the point? I’ve nothing there BUT her. How will I survive without her? Even if she is not all there for me (with the damage chemo has done to her), she’s still THERE for me. How can I live my life without her? I just want to cry to think about it…so I try not to. It’s a horrible feeling. 

My mom is autistic. Trying to get her to try anything different for her cancer has been more of a challenge than it should have been. Fighting with her about simple dietary changes, like eating more raw fruits and veggies, would wipe me out for the day. Then, as soon as I got her convinced, my asshole family would come along and undo it all. 

Aspergers Syndrome is hard. Aspergers with a disease that has to be managed carefully…a fucking nightmare. She has managed to make everyone around her sick and tired and worn down too. I’d never tell her this. But, it’s true. 

I went to a the…

I went to a theta healer today. Long story. Figured I had nothing to lose except an hour and fifty bucks. Whatthefuckever, right?

So, right. Back to the healer. She was in a neat mobile home retirement community. When I think “mobile home” I usually envision white trash meth-heads, but this was quite a fetching place. Groomed, gated…and offering a showing of the movie “War Horse”. With optional popcorn being $1.

Her place was polished wood floors, sunny yellow walls and an open sun room facing the bay’s waters. I instantly felt at peace. The healer was much younger looking than she was, and she asked me not to tell her anything about myself. I didn’t, except my name. I sat across from her, barefoot. Open. She asked “The Creator” about me…

This is where it got fucking weird.

She said I carried a lot of sadness. Check. I was angry with my mom and needed to forgive her. Check. That I was injured on the right side of my body, especially at my hip. CHECK. That my mother smoked and I was sick in the womb. (I was born with a pneumonia and barely survived.) Check. That I don’t feel I’m worthy of love, so I sabotage my relationships. Check.

She also said I had angels looking out for me and I was more loved than I realized, but needed to ask them for help, since they can’t do it unless I ask. I cried then. I’ve had so many family members die recently…I wondered if that’s what she meant. She said I didn’t have a purpose yet because it hasn’t been revealed…but that I DO have one. And that it’s something that benefits others. She said she was ‘honored’ to meet me and that she was supposed to give me something. It ended up being a crystal in the color that I wear the most. She said in one sleep cycle, I’ll feel lighter and more hopeful. And that self help books don’t work, since they only get into our cellular level…we feel better for a day or three, but they don’t penetrate our historical, genetic or soul levels.

It was strange. I stayed open minded. The agnostic skeptic in me is screaming out to laugh, but it felt way too personal and real. Theta healing.


So, this mornin…

So, this morning, my husband reached under the pillows, grabbed my arm and squeezed. He left his hand there, but seemed startled when I turned. 

“Oh! I thought that was your boob,” he said.

Really? I pride myself on my fit arms…and now he’s confusing the two in the dark. Great. Granted, I have fake tits, so they’re not that soft, but still.

What the fuck. I have to lose some weight.

The Muse, Herself.

I’ve decided to start a blog to keep myself from going completely crazy. By “completely”, I mean I am already sort of crazy. But, more on that in a minute.

I call myself a “Muse” because I seem to have the ability to inspire others to reach their goals and dreams…and an infuriating INABILITY to figure out my own.

At this point in my life, I feel like I’m in a four way traffic jam and no one is letting me move anywhere. I’m hoping that by writing HONESTLY, I’ll be able to figure something out for myself.

I’m doing this anonymously, because I don’t want people to know who I am. I want to be able to say things that might hurt me, or hurt others feelings.

I am also a little known, publicly. And people think my life is “glamorous”. I’m a model, an athlete and an actress. But the truth is:

-My right wing family dislikes me, aside from my mom. Who is dying a slow, suffering cancer death thanks to a lifetime of smoking cigarettes.

-I’m bi polar. (See…there’s the crazy I was talking about.) I fluctuate between extreme creativity and utter depression where I think about killing myself. In between that, I work like a madman and get snappy very easily. I’m on Lithium, but I’m having a very hard time balancing the dosage correctly.  Too much and I’m in a brain fog where no amount of triple espressos motivates me. Not enough, and I’m tearing peoples heads off (almost always those I love) over running out of coffee creamer. I’m ridiculous and I hate it.

-I tend to intimidate people. I’m actually very kind…but I try to keep a hard edge because I feel people will take advantage of me if I let them in and end up caring for them.

-My marriage is hanging on by a thread. There has been pretty much zero affection in ages, despite that we are both considered some kind of ‘sex symbol’. Most days, my husband doesn’t like me. He’s a better person than I am. Despite not liking me, he stays. In a word, he is dutiful. Which should thrill me, but it just makes me more depressed. I don’t want to be with someone who doesn’t actually LIKE me. Yet, I won’t leave, because he is good to me, and I don’t have anyone else.

-Little things drive me crazy. I hate middle seats on a plane and will wear a knee brace to the airport to get “early seating.”. Traffic drives me nuts. I’ve been known to jump out of the car and yell at indecisive drivers who can’t seem to go around parked cars or manage to make a turn.  I take bad stuff on the news personally sometimes, so I can’t watch it. I once jumped on stage during a concert to scream at a band who cut my husband off on the microphone when he was doing HIS show on the other side of the arena. And if I’d had the chance, I would have punched that guy in the face too, without thinking about it. I’ve punched a lot of people. All of them have deserved it. I personally feel that at times, violence can (and DOES) solve problems. My friends joke and call me “O.G.” I think they’re a little afraid or incredulous of my short temper as well. I can’t stand disrespect or lack of manners. There’s no reason for it.

-With my mom dying, I’m trying to spend as much time with her as I can. And on the side, I’ve emotionally eaten myself into 8 pounds heavier in just a few months, which threatens my career….as every dollar I earn is based off what I look like. All of it.

-I’m xx years old. I look and act xx, so I lie and say I’m xx. But I’m fucking xx. My husband, however, is much younger. We have no kids and probably won’t have any. That’s a long story as well. (I’ll touch on it more, but bi polar is passed down genetically. My father had it. I have it. I would not wish this on anyone else, let alone my child.) But, when someone doesn’t like you, sex isn’t that frequent. And sometimes, I’m relieved.

-I make a difference. In the world around me, with friends, with strangers. I smile, I help, I volunteer, I inspire, I share knowledge and information.I pay it forward. I have had fans and customers turn their lives around with my help. I just cannot seem to do that for myself.

So, here goes. My quest for truth and a career NOT based solely upon on what my ass looks like. Typos, truth and all.

Wish me honesty.

-The Muse

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