Nothing makes sense anymore

They found Whitney Houston in a hotel room earlier tonight. For the first time since I received it for Christmas, I wrote in a journal given to me by an old new friend. I Googled how to find my higher self because of Suzy Soro. Tonight I struggled to remember the password to sign into this blog when at one time I could remember certain entries on here word for word. Tonight I held the one I love like I was never going to see him again. I've never done that before. I told him how much he was teaching me to appreciate this life. Tonight I was supposed to tidy up. Wash dishes. Separate the laundry. Instead, I listened to the one Whitney Houston song that made it into a dream I was having four years ago while visiting Atlanta. In the dream I was crying uncontrollably. I was sitting on the back stoop of a log cabin. I don't think log cabins really have back stoops but in the dream, there I sat. Crying. Whitney's voice belted through the dream; more than mere background music. Tonight I thought a lot about irrational fears and moving closer to my purpose. Google turned up a site that recommended keeping a journal and asking questions to my higher self. It said that at first, my ego would answer but to go deeper. And once the answers started to sound wiser, more grounded- then I'd be on the right track. That possibly, my higher self is answering. I don't know if abandoning my cleaning routine was part of the plan. I'm not sure that I haven't already mourned for Whitney through that dream. I wonder if my friend even realizes the gift she gave me; me to myself through a leaflet of ladybug decals and a book of blank, lined pages. All of the unwritten questions with answers yet to be found; all of these unseen connections that I'd be a fool not to respect. Nothing makes sense anymore. But at this moment right now, I am unafraid.

I'd like to think that's a good start.

Thankful Pt. 2

So here's the thing. I didn't think I'd write through this medium again for a long, long time. But that's the thing about writing. You don't move it; it moves you. In the past few months the trials and tribulations enveloped me like quicksand. But suddenly I can breathe. It occurred to me today that one revolution around the sun changed more than the seasons. It changed my perspectives, my outlooks, my outcomes. It changed me. As it very well should. This same time last year I was grateful to be alive. I came within what I resolutely believe was within inches of my demise. I was wild with fury and prepared to fight for my life. But it went the other way. I lived.

I've never been a religious person. Spiritual yes, but far from pious. My moral compass has hardly ever pointed due north- but it has steered me where I was meant to be. It's what I call faith. I've experienced enough loss to know love. I am wise because I've been foolish. I'm compassionate because I've known suffering. At my most honest hour, when I question the landslide like Stevie did, I can say that I've handled the seasons of my life to the best of my ability. I'm a work in progress and I will make no apologies for who I've become along the way. It sounds cocky but truly- it's me at my most humble and imperfect.

Kanye had the right idea. In a sense, we all live by our own scripture borrowed from others. We apply what we need to our own existence. I've never fully known what to hurl and what to hold, so I keep it all to survive. Experience. Memory. Intuition. Compassion. Instincts. These are what I hold close. It's why a term like 'No Church In the Wild' resonates with me. Because every thing can flip in a New York minute no matter how unfathomable; and your mind is decidedly your own personal Heaven or Hell. In one revolution around the sun I've learned to be equipped. And to be thankful.

Overdue Conversation

Lately, the entries have been sparse. The ideas have been cluttered. I know when it's time to bow out. I know there is reason for the departure of my creativity. It's time to get back to center, redirect and refocus. Rather than fill this blog with useless drivel- I'm making the decision to close up shop. The next thing anyone will read by Jayne Neverow will be my book; a dutiful collection of my firsthand experiences in laughing, loving and living. I know I have an incredible story to tell in its entirety. It's time.

And so it goes; one journey ends and another begins. Every step of it has been authentic and fulfilling. I appreciate you all for taking a walk with me through This Bug's Life. With all that I am- I thank you. The faithful Bug readers, the passers-by, the quiet watchers and the vocal commentators. You have all made it worthwhile. Feel free to re-live the misadventures and musings through past entries. Stay tuned for Conversations with a Ladybug. Farewell thee well.

This Day is Mine

It's been a while. Trials, tribulations and a virus-ridden computer kept me away for a spell- but not for long. When I finally had a chance to be in my element again, I was at a loss as to what to write. The words escaped me. But now I'm found. Today marks the anniversary of my birth. I've been blessed to see another year of life, love and laughter. This time around, I'm filled with purpose in more ways than one. Had I known then what I know now, I wouldn't change a stitch of it. I'm here. I'm grateful. I am. Alive.

Some Time Soon for Sanity's Sake

"Solitude vivifies; isolation kills.”~ Joseph Roux, French Artist

Pictured above are the waters and sand of Luquillo Beach in Puerto Rico. I was there once. Years ago- on what I guess I could call my first honeymoon. Only because on my first anniversary, I can remember lugging very heavy bags, walking uphill in frigid temperatures and saying (more to myself than to my then husband) "This same time next year I will be somewhere warm, Dammit." I made good on that promise and planned the trip. We went. It was a fantastic time. Oddly enough, I don't attach any romantic emotions to the memory of my time there. I always said I would go back alone if the means and time permitted. I engulfed my time there that much.

These days are harder to bear than usual. The transgressions are beginning to outweigh the triumphs. As I stand watching the last of my marbles roll away into darkened corners, I know where I need to be; in blue crystalline waters under a forgiving sun. I need to rent a convertible and feel the wind whip through my hair. I need to drink in the horizon from the backdrop of El Yunque rain forest as I drive the winding road to Luquillo. I need solitude to replace the self-imposed isolation I feel closing in on me each day. I need a few days without Blogger, Google, Youtube, Gmail and Facebook. As cliché as it sounds, I need to feel the sand between my weary toes.

I can remember my co-workers at the time joking about planning my baby shower that would no doubt be needed after my vacation. Funny. Once I was on that beach- I can remember swigging my drink and thinking, "If I get knocked up on this trip- I won't be able to do this again this same time next year..." Needless to say, that didn't happen. And the next year found me on a beach in Negril. But I always felt a connection, a magnetic draw back to that vast beach just outside of San Juan. It felt like home- or the closest thing to it this side of Chaguaramas in my native land. Soft sand. Privacy. Welcoming water. Peace. That's all I'm in search of. That, and..me I suppose. So before I unplug, I'll swing by Expedia to see what deals await me this same time next month. Damn the time or the means..for sanity's sake.

Gilligan's Isle: The Office Edition

A job. Work. Livelihood. The gig. Call it what you want. These days, I call mine Gilligan's Island. I say this for two reasons. One, I work with a milieu of oddball characters worthy of their own sitcom. Second, I really need to get off this island. Every day my alarm sounds I'm greeted with a stark reality; Rise and Grind. This is becoming an increasingly arduous task mainly because I'm starting to hate going there. It was cool at first. But any gig will seem cool after a year and half of being unemployed like I was. These days, I sit at my desk inundated with work that bores me to tears. When I'm not trying to find a needle in a haystack I'm thinking of new and interesting ways to make my escape from the following true to life characters at my workplace.

The Diva: As the story goes, she hails from a big shot firm in the city and is slowly...and I mean ever so slowly adjusting to the culture of our homey little office. Where ever she came from, they apparently did nothing for themselves. This includes ordering lunch, carrying a box of files from her Lexus truck and knowing how to copy and paste a document. I wish I was joking about the last one. I'm not. Also, she has a penchant for dressing in all black every day and complains about how freezing she is though I've never seen her clad in anything but pumps, pencil skirts and sleeveless sheaths. Yes, even on the day we were hit with 12 inches of snow. But she sure has that Damsel-in-Distress thing licked.

The Basket Case: There's one in every office. A nice but nerdy girl that is so socially awkward that you'd feel sorry for her if she weren't so damn irritating. Her voice is perhaps a pitch or two lower than a thousand dying cats. She talks with her mouth full and includes herself in conversations she has absolutely nothing to contribute to. Once, she went out to the "post office" and came back with $2000 worth of damage to her car which she claimed happened in the parking lot. When we asked her what happened at the post office she let out a high-pitched squealing explanation of "Idunno!Inevermadeit!" Not a breath in between. Who knows what carnage she left in her clumsy ass wake. She's never at her desk. Actually, I think she's usually under it secretly devouring sleeves of Oreo cookies since she seems shy to eat in front of another human being. She may be bulimic. Just my suspicion.

Nosferatu: This dude frightens me. Every. Single. Day. He doesn't walk, he saunters. And sometimes, he's lurking in the doorway for God knows how long before someone looks up and notices he's there. He claims to be married and bemoans the cost of his daughter's upcoming wedding to anyone who will pretend to listen. This guy actually reproduced? I don't buy it. He has a stubborn fang that looks like it's been pulled ten times already but continues to grow back. It's a wonder he hasn't stabbed his lower lip while he yammers on about shit no one cares about. That thing is sharp, okay? I started keeping garlic in my bottom drawer and he now mysteriously keeps his distance.


The (Multi) Millionaire: Yeah, no shipwrecked island is complete without one- so we have him. He actually looks like one of the Kennedys. One of the dearly departed, bloated, alcoholic Kennedys known for accidentally driving off bridges with pretty party girls legal secretaries in the car who aren't so lucky as him. I'll say this much: If his head weren't attached, it would be sitting right on the desk with the files he perpetually needs for closings and the Blackberry he seemingly cannot live without. His wife calls him 20 times a day...and 20 times a day he's "in a meeting" when she does. To each his own. I actually think he and the Diva would make a great pair if they weren't married to other people and if either one had an attention span longer than Polaroid flashbulb.


The Snacker: I really have no complaints about the Snacker. She's just known for eating every time you pass her office. Granola bars. Pop Tarts. Biscotti. Last night's lasagna. You name it. But she shares the goods which is a plus. I honestly have no idea where she puts it. She must have the metabolism of a racehorse because anyone else would be 100 pounds overweight by now if they ate the way she does. She's just healthy. And strong as an ox. I swear I saw her lift and change the Poland Springs water cooler with her pinkie finger once.



The Space Invader: This girl worked in my office for a week before she divulged that she was drinking a gallon of cranberry juice a day to battle a pesky UTI. Why I knew that much about her vag so soon- or at all is anybody's guess. She also told wildly inappropriate jokes- even by my standards. I used to wonder why she stands so close to everyone when she speaks to them- but then I realized that most of what she says has no place being spoken aloud in an office. The girl is a freak. Simple and plain.


The Dirty Old Man: It is with mixed emotions that I write about this guy. Some of you may remember when I caught him surfing porn at his desk a while back. Well, he had some serious health trouble and at the ripe old age of 71, he can no longer practice law. But I know where ever he is now- he has visions of daisy chains dancing in his head.


How I'm able to spend 40 hours a week with these people is a testament to my fortitude. I avoid them at all costs and make myself scarce when I can. It could only be worse if The Skipper had a back office. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a resumé to go upload.

And..how did you find me, again?

So it's going on three years since I started This Bug's Life. No drum roll. No bells and whistles. I already got the 100th post out of my system. It's been a pretty good run and I can only hope to continue it. That being said- I'm still figuring out this whole 'Blogger' format. Recently, I discovered a neat little tab on the dashboard of my blog once I signed in. "STATS". It was there that a whole new world opened up to me. Of course it shows you how many page views you've gotten in a day, week, month, etc. and referring websites but that's not what caught my interest. There's list of the top key words that people Googled in order to reach my site. Much to my surprise (and some less so) I learned what led random traffic directly to This Bug's Life. Here goes:



assup - Call me slow, but it took me a second to realize that more than one person hastily typed in 'Ass Up' as in Uncle Luke's infamous chant, "Face Down, Ass Up. That's the way we like to F**k" and somehow wound up on my blog. Wowzas.




massaging a martini - I wish I knew what the hell this is supposed to mean. I really don't remember posting anything that involved massages and martinis simultaneously- but I'm officially inspired.



bug's life racist - As if! Actually, I know exactly what this is about. I got my hooks in Disney a while back and didn't let go. It's in the archives. Check it out. I pissed a few people off simply by shattering their flowery childhood memories of a few beloved cartoon classics. If pointing out the obvious facts makes This Bug a racist...let's discuss it. Seriously.



bitchwearingnodraws - Ha! I saw this one and thought, 'Classy huh?'. Then I saw how many folks have come across the Panty Free Friday I was thinking about petitioning for as a national holiday. Once you go Commando for a day- you'll understand why a 'bitch wearing no draws' is highly unoffensive when sought after in proper taste. Let's do this!




taxi cop- It's not a myth, People. They exist. It's sneaky. It's entrapment. And it's perfectly legal. Think about that the next time you decide to text with that yellow cab next to you at the red light.


Anyway, it matters very little what led you here. You got here. And made This Bug very happy in the process. Make it a Favorite. Bookmark it. Come back for more. You might be surprised at what you stumble upon. I know I was- and I write the damn thing.

Ciao!

A Reader's Confessional

"A good book on your shelf is a friend that turns its back on you and remains a friend." ~Author Unknown

Sometimes I buy the books because the titles sound interesting. The Call of the Weird.  A Thirst for Rain. Death Be Not Proud. 100 Things You're Not Supposed Know.  Or because the covers are eye-catching. Open to a random page.  Skim a few lines.  If they can write, I buy it.  Discarded library books for 50 cents.  Books from thrift shops.  The occasional designer bookstore purchase when I get a coupon via email.  Novels.  Cookbooks.  Poetry.  Once in a while- a self-help book disguised as an instructional manual or revelatory instant classic.  I buy them all.  Because as long as I have them, there's an  unspoken confirmation that my wheels are still turning.  The books help oil the machine.  As long as I can read- I can make sense of my reality while escaping it.  Books by the plentiful pound.  Stories about foreign, faraway places and close-up tragedies not unlike my own.  The missed train.  The tyrant of a mentor. The forced hand. The skinned knee.  The inexclusive love.  The flood of afterthought that drowns every living and already decayed thing in 20/20 hindsight. The rebirth of spirit.  Quiet chaos and triumphs holding hands; riding off into the sunset.  Books, quite simply...are my truth when the rest of the world is lying straight to my face. 

Bug Behaving Badly

Where there's smoke...

Lately I've been tempted to be a bad Bug.  A very, very bad Bug.  This list of misdeeds includes but is not limited to: cursing out the driver of a utility van that was headed straight for me and my little hooptie, waging an all out war for approximately 24 straight hours with my lover and flicking my tongue at some old man in a car Manolo (from Scarface) style for no decent reason. What? He shouldn't have admonished my driving.  He's lucky I didn't give his pacemaker a kick start by licking my window. It's my way of settling the score since I wouldn't flip the bird to an elderly person.  C'mon, I have some home training. Then there's the other bad behavior I've indulged in lately.  Boredom + Camera Phone = Reasons I should never go into teaching or politics.  But that's another story.

I can't explain it- this recent odd behavior.  It just happens every now and then.  I'm a good egg for the most part but once in a while...I can be a deviled egg. Hot, spicy and way more interesting than your average.  Call me Paprika the Wild Child. I can be what some may call a handful. The scary thing about this- is that I literally check out while holding minimal accountability for my actions.  I'm fully aware that my actions may exact a less than a desirable reaction but at the moment, I just don't care.  So much so, that even if I had an entire bag of fucks- I could not give one while I'm in flip mode.  Seriously.

There's a part of me that takes a deep, dark satisfaction in casting off  the kinder, gentler Bug and unleashing a wanton force to be reckoned with.  The warrior in me thrives on it. I trade the halo for the horns, guard my grill, knuckle up and let the chips fall. No apologies. Until it catches up to me- I'll continue with my road rage induced diatribes, petulant partner practices and maybe only pixelated versions will hit Media Takeout if my Blackberry ever gets hacked. Whatever. As Method Man so eloquently stated, "We ain't acrobats but we flip on occasion."  I feel him on that one.  Hey, at least I can admit it.

Sleep to Dream

All my life I've admired people who have dreamed about flying.  Mostly because up until last week, I truly couldn't relate.  It seemed that those people had a mental freedom that I lacked. They weren't afraid.  Perhaps before last week, I couldn't fathom soaring above it all.  But in the dream, that's just what I did.  Everything looked small.  Like those intricate little villages you see around Christmas time with miniature trains chugging through them.  I sailed through the sky with wind enveloping me and coasting me along.  I didn't fall.  I didn't falter.  I just flew through and above clouds without a worry in the world.  I know better than to think it may happen again. I don't even need it again.  If it does, great.  If it doesn't, at least a I touched that feeling of being completely free and unencumbered.  Light as the invisible feathers that carried me through an element that I'm totally unacquainted with.  It was beautiful. Maybe in waking life, I've risen above something I was incapable of before. Who knows? Sleep brought me a new treasure other than much needed rest. When I awoke I was looking into a  familiar face. Another dream began. I'm awake now though and like Fiona- I don't go to sleep to dream.  

I tell you how I feel, but you don't care
I say tell me the truth, but you don't dare
You say love is a hell you cannot bear
And I say gimme mine back and then go there - for all I care

I got my feet on the ground
And I don't go to sleep to dream
You got your head in the clouds
And you're not at all what you seem
This mind, this body
And this voice cannot be stifled by your deviant ways
So don't forget what I told you
Don't come around, I got my own hell to raise

I have never been so insulted in all my life
I could swallow the seas to wash down all this pride
First you run like a fool just to be at my side
And now you run like a fool
But you just run to hide, and I can't abide

I got my feet on the ground
And I don't go to sleep to dream
You got your head in the clouds
And you're not at all what you seem
This mind, this body
And this voice cannot be stifled by your deviant ways
So don't forget what I told you
Don't come around, I got my own hell to raise

Don't make it a big deal, don't be so sensitive
We're not playing a game anymore
You don't have to be so defensive
Don't you plead me your case, don't bother to explain
Don't even show me your face, ''cause it's a crying shame
Just go back to the rock from under which you came
Take the sorrow you gave and all the stakes you claim -
And don't forget the blame

I got my feet on the ground
And I don't go to sleep to dream
You got your head in the clouds
And you're not at all what you seem
This mind, this body
And this voice cannot be stifled by your deviant ways
So don't forget what I told you
Don't come around, I got my own hell to raise

Time and Space and In Between

You know that saying, "Time flies when you're having fun." ? Why doesn't anyone ever mention that it also flies when you're not having fun. That it flies or drags according to how busy you are and how much you have to get done. I've been dealing with that a lot lately. I'm a working stiff now. It's a far cry from last year when I had time to do what I wanted to do since I was unemployed. Sure, I had less money- but the time to myself and freedom was priceless. I could go to Hip-Hop shows. Sleep late. Write. Food shop. I could actually make spontaneous plans (as oxymoronic as that sounds). I could blog at my leisure. *sniff sniff* That's what I miss the most. It's funny- I was talking to someone the other day about time and money and how subjective they both are depending on the circumstances. Take for example five dollars. Five dollars is not a lot of money. Not if it came to say...buying a car. Shit, gimme two if that's the case. But am I going to pay five dollars for a Jolly Rancher? Hell to the no. The same theory is relevant with time. Five minutes at the DMV is akin to a wet dream. But I've heard five minutes of an asthma attack is the equivalent of five unbearable hours. So it's all relative. Anyway, read on if you want to know what This Bug has been doing with her time and moola when they both flow a little freely.

Last year it was Breakfast at Tiffany's. This year it was Kill Bill. I don't care what anyone says. Halloween is fun and I'm not too old for it. This one was a doozie. It involved a lot dying and sewing where the costume was concerned (That alone was a labor of love. My dad rocks!) and I went through two wig changes. The first wig was a platinum blond and made me look more like Diddy's moms than Beatrix Kiddo. But I got it right eventually. Note to self: Take samurai sword out of backseat.

(This Bug baked)

You know, when some one asks you to make a big ass cupcake for their child's birthday party- you never expect that many accolades for simply following instructions. But the praise was overwhelming this weekend. It's amazing the oohs and ahhs some silicone bakeware and custom made (read: freakin' overpriced) sprinkles can solicit. I swear everyone there were just overgrown kids drooling over an over sized cupcake. At this point, I'm so over it.

And speaking of over it, I am so not when it comes to the Ghostface performance I broke my neck to go see. If anyone runs into Mr. Starks, please let him know I have a bone to pick with him. First of all, I don't blame him for things that are out his control, like the show being under promoted and having a sparse crowd. I don't blame him for being disappointed with the venue. When Cappadonna asked for the lights to be adjusted, I kinda felt Ghost when he said, "They don't got no light man. They don't got shit!" It was type funny because it was so true. But his energy was not 100% and once again he flooded the stage with those Theodore Unit cats. Why? They can't rhyme for shit. How many glorified hype men does one need? I love me some Ghost, but that show was trash. I mean- Sheek Louch was drunk but at least he looked like he gave a fat frog's ass and his catalog can't compare to what Ghost has in the stash. But unfortunately, that well went untapped most of night. I would've at least felt as though my money was well spent had he freaked off with the groupies onstage like the pic above. That might have entertained me. *Sigh*

Let me say this: Role playing works wonders and shouldn't be limited to couples who think they've lost the spark. It can actually lend additional fireworks to an already sparky relationship. (Is sparky even a word? Spellcheck says yes- though my context is questionable.) So, head out. Meet up with that not-so-unfamiliar stranger and let your imaginations be your only limitation. How can you go wrong? At the end of it all, neither of you can be charged for bad behavior when you already know each other. Am I right? You may be surprised at what a mock first date can spark. And...Oh yeah, a blond wig or samurai sword leftover from Halloween can't hurt. Unless you want it to. Just sayin'...

This book freakin' rocks. And I'm only the first chapter in. I have to say that happening by this book in a Dollar Store and actually buying it for one dollar (no lie) has been one of the best things that has occurred all year. It's the little things, dig? This woman can write her ass off and she's deeper than the River Styx. It's not a self help book. It's not a novel. It has history anecdotes, admissions of every day people and a different spin on age old ruminations of self. It defies categorization and that's what I love about it. Check out this excerpt:

In 2002, Verizon Wireless debuted a service called Get It Now. This allowed subscribers to download music, videos and other entertainments onto their cell phones: "Watch sports clips, comedy, news and weather from major networks and indie favorites -- all on your phone, on demand," the promo urged. "Express yourself with colorful and stylish images.... Fight boredom with fun games."

But by the time you read this, such technology will already be ancient history. And I will look the fool for citing it, like an old rube in a cartoon trying to feed hay to a car. Cutting edges are disposable blades now, replaced incessantly. We watch, twitching and restless.

I haven't enjoyed such a milieu of ideas and stories since The 48 Laws of Power. Find it now. Read it soon. Thank me later.

Time is such a precious commodity- as subjective as it is. I'll leave you with a Tweet I saw just the other day but chose not to #RT (that's retweet for all the those who are clueless just like I was) because...Twitter just doesn't do it for me, okay? There I said it. Anyway, it goes like this: "Yesterday is a canceled check. Tomorrow is a promissory note. Today is the only cash you have. Spend it wisely."

I couldn't agree more. Today, do the things that will bring you closer to your purpose and peace. That's the space where happiness lies. Make it count. You won't regret it. I know I didn't.

Never That Simple

What I'm doing- is like trying to build a cathedral out of Popsicle sticks. And while one may admire the artistry of such a feat- anyone observing will instantly recognize it as a useless and laborious task.  Each attempt to come closer to peace finds me several paces further from it.  If it were as simple as applying my favorite shade of lipstick to the contours of my lips without the aid of a compact- I would soar.  Knowing this mouth all my life takes the work out of it.  But it's never that simple, is it?  You cannot just paint over the cracks and pretend the dilapidation is nonexistent.  The truth will bleed through eventually.  It's still there.  Like the mottled blemishes on the once mauve lips of  my youth, I know how they got there.  I only succeed in hiding them from the rest of the world.  It's the reason I don't leave the house without lipstick.  But I know what's there from dragging smoke across them for the better part of eighteen years.  Damage.

This is my guilt.  Shining up the armor each morning.  Preparing for battle.  Locking out the world and showing a brave, war painted face.  Brandishing scars and weapons of sarcasm that tell the same story.  I fight against phantom assailants that are no more than shadows of my past.  They would disappear if I could just turn a light on.  I could back up and finally see the wholeness of me.  But I'm broken at best.  Constantly piecing together the ill-fitting parts for some semblance of normalcy. It's like groping around in a dark but familiar room.  When you knock into the end table, sending the lamp to the floor- it's not because you didn't know it was there.  You just weren't mindful of the known obstacles.  They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing repeatedly and expecting different results.  They would have had me committed years ago.

Sometimes I dream of a love that rights the wrong.  A love that hurts and heals simultaneously, a deserving love.  I came close once.  But in my haste, I mistook it for mine. I understand now that it was not mine to claim.  None of it is ours to keep.  We should simply pass it along like a message that may self-destruct once read. And be thankful someone thought us worthy of the mission.

Ah so it go

"There's no easy quick way out, we're gonna have to live through our whole lives. Win, lose, or draw." - Walt Kelly

Every now and then- I have a habit of unplugging. It starts with my social networking. The FB page gets deactivated. Then it moves to the phone. It goes straight to voice mail. If I happen to turn on the TV, it's usually just for some background noise which I eventually tune out. Maybe I'll leave the blogs alone for a little while. I do these things to find center. To remove myself from routines and trances that I find myself in. Sometimes it works. Admittedly I'm doing some soul-searching. I recently had a birthday last week and in a matter of days I was re-examining everything that led up to it. True to my zodiac, I retreated into my shell where it felt safe. I tend to pull away from everyone and everything in an effort to see where it will all be once I reemerge. I silently ask questions like, 'Was I missed?' 'Did they need me?' 'Did they even notice?' Juvenile, I know. But I should get points for being honest.

Well I'm trying something different this time around. I'm starting to look for answers outwardly. I'm allowing people to show me where I fit into their lives- instead of fighting for a spot in it. I'm staying connected to technology because right now, it's a decent outlet...or escape. Writing has always been therapeutic for me. Perhaps I should begin to compile my story now. At the pinnacle. At the exact moment that I can pinpoint the shift in my life. I just want to put a cap on the things that keep me in limbo and uncork all the things that will allow me to be me to the fullest. Finding yourself can mean stepping out of that comfort zone- that false sense of security or it can mean clinging to what makes sense in fleeting moments. I honestly don't know at this point. One thing's for sure. I have to strike a balance on my own without checking out. The last time I let that go on for too long, I lost a good job. I isolated myself from friends and family. I tortured myself with thoughts of what I should have done and why. I refuse to walk that path again.

Presently, I don't have the means to just book a flight and get away from it all. And truly, what would I be getting away from? You can't run away from yourself. So I've decided to stay firmly planted. Keep searching for myself until I find something to embrace. And when I find it, I won't be so quick to share or squander it. I can't help what baits the catch. My heart is always out here for all to see. It always has been. This site is evidence of that. But this time around, the plan is to keep what is worthy of keeping and toss back what is no good for Jayne. There's only one life to live. I'm well aware of that. But remaining in a stagnant mind state or worse, adopting one that is clearly not the right fit- is no way to live it. With every end comes a new beginning. Todo Tiene Su Final. Start or finish, I hope to find some peace. Soon.

"We don't say- Hey that's the breaks. We say- Yo, Ah so it go."
-Kardinal Offishal (Bakardi Slang)

So hard

con·fi·dence : belief in oneself and one's powers or abilities; self-confidence; self-reliance; assurance


There's a scene in The Warriors where the characters pictured above are coming from a long, hellish night that seems far from over. They just want to get home. The train stops and two couples board amid laughter and revelry. All are dressed as though they are coming from a prom or some sort of formal party. They sit across from Mercy and Swan and the giggling stops once the couples observe one another. They are all of six feet and many, many worlds apart. Mercy, with her smudged dress and worn look begins to feel self-conscious. She brings her hand to hair in a fruitless effort to appear neater. Next to her, Swan takes his own hand to bring hers back to her lap in one instinctive and deliberate movement. There is no change in his expression- and he never takes his eyes off the pair across from them. He knows exactly what she is feeling. Wordlessly he tells her: Don't you dare be ashamed. They are no better than you. Than us. And she gets it. She leans her head back in a final state of tired but at peace resignation. The tension in the subway car is so unbearable that the party-goers get off at the next stop and return to their comfortable, self-absorbed lives. Even if they are now slightly tinged by the faces they just encountered. The scene begins about 2 and half minutes in if you care to watch it here. Powerful in it's subtlety.


It's a poignant reminder to us all that we are no more or no less important than anyone else. I have trouble with that sometimes. I'm not sure how it started but self confidence has never been my strong suit. My esteem has always toggled between mock confidence out of pride if nothing else- and a disdainful feeling of not measuring up. To who or what in particular depends on the situation, honestly. When I was a little girl, I had a nagging feeling that I wasn't Black enough. I'm a reader before I'm a writer so I always felt as though my work could never compare to the greats that I read. When I was a teen, I was cheated on by my first love with a girl that was physically my polar opposite in every sense of the phrase. For a time it destroyed my already withering confidence. While most of my peers went off to college, I stayed home and worked a sketchy job because of red tape. I didn't even have the proper ID to get into to a club in my twenties, so I became a homebody more out of constraint than preference. So when I assessed my life and where I wanted to be at that point- I had little more than disappointment and a wish for things to be different. It all turned around eventually but I'd be lying if I said that I'm A-Okay now. It hasn't been an easy road.

So many people tout the importance of self worth but I'm still trying to figure it how it's calculated. What is there to attach it to? It has nothing to do with the car you drive or title you hold at your job. It has nothing to do with being better looking than the next person. If it's really about "who you are on the inside" then why do I sometimes feel as though that's not always appreciated? Like it's not enough? I know nothing will stop a tom-catting man from going where he pleases. There is no such thing as the total package but I'd like to think I come pretty damn close. (Hey, that sounded like a breakthrough.) Hard work and persistence may get you the dream job, but they have to see something in you, don't they? You have to believe in what you deserve and more importantly, what you don't. There are times when I believe no one has anything on me. I can touch the sky and even bring a piece back for you. And then there are times when I'm Mercy in that subway car. Needing that reminder that I'm just as good as anyone else in my own unique way. I just have to remember not to compare Jayne to anyone but Jayne.

Out.

Formerly Known As

The moniker was Lady Lightning Bug. I chose it for two reasons. The first one is obvious. My affinity for all things small, red and dotted. I have always felt a strong pull towards ladybugs. Butterflies are nice but ladybugs are among my favorite of all living creatures. They brighten everything in their tiny, crimson and onyx glory. A stroke of luck, a quiet wisdom. I can relate. There have been so many times in my life where serendipity and luck (if you believe in such things) played a starring role. Certain events caused me to look back and breathe a sigh of relief, count my blessings and thank a nearby ladybug. Sidebar: Once, I was outside on a smoke break at work when I saw a ladybug land on my lapel. It flew away as soon as I laid eyes on it. (Or so I thought.) Minutes later in the ladies room, I brought my skirt and silky unmentionables to my knees to handle my ladylike business. And out flew a ladybug! True story. So, clearly we're connected in some fashion. I don't think they hang out in just anyone's panties.

The lightning component was equally relevant. Lightning is as quick as it is captivating. Anything that beautiful has to be dangerous. It strikes haphazardly. Awkward but deliberate. Like myself, it is prone to random acts of violence. I wish I could say why, but asking me that would be like asking why lightning strikes so indiscriminately. It just does. There is no rhyme to my movements but plenty of reason. It's hard to explain. An odd sensation takes hold when I can no longer sit on my hands, grin and bear it, that sort of thing. There is a need for reckless relief- and usually with seismic after effects . So much so, that I was coined "Erratica" by a close counterpart. I can't lie. I kind of liked the sound of it. It was like my superhero alter ego. "Look! Up and down the street. It's a bird. It's a plane!" No. It's Erratica: Flippin' cars and tippin' buildings with involuntary ease.
Yeah, that pretty much summed it up.

Anyway, nom de plumes withstanding, I will always love the quietness of ladybugs and I may always possess a volatile approach to certain endeavors. The duality makes no sense- but what ever really does? Just about anything or any theory can be plucked apart or cut to ribbons given the proper circumstances. Besides, it's not what you're called. It's what you answer to. Lady Lightning Bug. Jayne. This Bug. What's in a name? Google can say better than I can on some days. And then there are days where it's all crystal clear. Those are the days I share a piece of myself through my words for all to see. Deserving or not. Jay-Z was on to something. I can't see it coming out my eyes, so I gotta make the pen cry. I only write to get it right. Ever changing. Ever striking. One keystroke at a time.

Over and out.

Back for the first time

“To awaken quite alone in a strange town is one of the pleasantest sensations in the world.” – Freya Stark


Routines are made to deviate from. It's been a while since I did that. It doesn't happen often but when spontaneity gets the better of This Bug, I must comply. Bottom line: I had to break out, yo. Sometimes you just need a moment to keep it to self. Last time it was Miami. This time it was Chi-town. There's plenty about my excursion that I'd like to hold close, just for selfish purposes. But I'll divulge a few quick hits simply for the sake of sharing.



For the first time in a long time- I slept. I mean really slept. Sound. I needed it. Weird dreams, too. Stay tuned.




I did my best not to fall into the run-of-the-mill practice of tourism but alas- it's not a trip to Chicago if you leave without consuming their famous Deep Dish. My take: NY Pizza wins hands down. But that might just be me.



No matter where I go, I'm always struck by how trusting people are in other parts. At the car rental, the attendant innocently suggested I leave my luggage there to go outside and peruse their fleet of cars to choose from. I promptly put her on. "I'm from New York, Sweetie. I'm not leaving anything anywhere." Homie don't play dat.




A gajillion tiny bubbles have the most exhilarating and calming effect all at once. Until you have to get out and reset the timer. It's still kinda fly, though.



As it turns out- I drove smack dab into the middle of the annual St. Patrick's Day parade out there. Wild! Those people know how to get it crunk. I actually watched a guy repeatedly kick a huge, inverted umbrella down the street in hopes of hitting his girlfriend who was walking up ahead, arms folded- utterly pissed at him. Yeah. I guess green beer can do that. He almost caught her a couple of times too- just in case you were wondering. *shaking my head*



Before I forget, allow me to impart some wisdom on not packing any compromising or embarrassing objects for your trip. Airport security employees live for this. I was stopped for having a bottle of juice I had forgotten about in my carry-on. This guy made it a point to specify that it was a Snapple. Then he looked me squarely in the eye and said, "Ask me how I knew it was a Snapple bottle." Panic. I instantly picture the tell-tale shape of errr...um... a grown up toy and say, "I don't want to know." He smirks. I wipe the proverbial brow and keep it moving through the metal detectors. Now mind ya biz. This Bug is a grown ass woman.



Wine tastes different at hotel bars. Perhaps it's the anonymity of traveling strangers. We're all just passing through. But savoring.




I made myself a promise that I would stare at this painting the same way Cameron did in Ferris Bueller's Day Off to get some semblance of what he was feeling. It's a lot bigger than I ever imagined it. As a matter of fact, I felt very small standing before it. In short: I get it. John Hughes was a genius. R.I.P.



So... all up in his hometown and I ain't run into Common not once. But that's not why I went. Contrary to what some may believe. (Next time, Gadget. Ha.) I just wanted to Be. I'm happy to say I didn't have to ask anyone Can I Borrow A Dollar in order to steal away. This was a Resurrection of sorts. My writing. My mind. My spirit. It was almost Like Water for Chocolate in a way. I wouldn't have made this trip and have it be so meaningful without everything single thing that lead up to it days before. Deep down, I felt like I was on my way to Finding Forever but I can't say for sure. I do know however... that One Day It'll All Make Sense.


Peace.

Don't Try This At Home.

This Bug wants to settle something once and for all. Pardon the tone but I like to jump right in. Lately a lot of folks have been noticing that I've lost some weight. And that's true. About 20 lbs. to be...approximate. But this did not- read: DID NOT happen overnight. It happened over a period of a year and half to be exact. There was a time when I used to exercise regularly and walk/jog a measly mile about four days a week. That doesn't happen anymore. When I run into people who haven't seen me in a while the remarks run the gamut from admiration, worry to outright side-eye hate. "Wow. You don't look any different from High School." or "I'm just used to seeing you with more meat on your bones. " to "Wow, you're so slim. Are you eating? Everything okay?" The last one is always delivered with a discernible tinge of sarcasm. But I guess going from 130ish to 112ish would raise a few eyebrows, so...

Let's get this straight. Yes, my frame has returned to the lithe figure I had senior year. Without dating myself to a tee- I'll say it's been at least um... not-so-roughly 10 years since then. Yeah, sounds good. But what many don't know (unless they read my tales of woe) is that a problem tooth last year is responsible for much of my weight loss. I was unable to eat solid food for just under 2 weeks. It was all about soup and milkshakes as if someone had cracked my jaw. (Kanyeezy I felt your pain, Homie.) And by the time I was back on normal food- it took a lot less to fill me up. I guess my stomach shrank? That happens, right? I still go in on the desserts with no shame, by the way. Pair that with very sporadic consumption of meat and the fact that I barely eat breakfast unless I'm starving and there you have it. Nothing too complicated.

Nowadays I eat regularly. I do calisthenics and a few moves to keep everything toned about three times a week. Booty injections are a cop out. It's all about squats for This Bug. I wear what the hell I want. Leggings. Clingy shirts. Trife shorts. I don't give a what. I flaunt that shit. And I am not too modest to say I blend right in with these young chicks and can give some of them a run for their money. I always had a bit of an hourglass once I (finally) filled out, so there's not a huge difference between then and now. The one thing I'm astounded/annoyed by is how much people can't hide their distaste for how I look now. I'm not too skinny. I'm healthy. Stop hatin'. It was a freakin' wisdom tooth from Hell that started all this, okay? I wouldn't wish that suffering on anyone. They should spend more time committing to diet and exercise than wondering if I'm a borderline crackhead or just have good genes. Speaking of which- between the ample boobies, narrow waist, meaty thighs, knobby knees and skinny calves that look like they belong on a Perdue roaster...I have officially become my mother.

Momz Circa '75

Bugz Circa '09

In light of recent events

Okay people, I have to say before I get into this- that I was strongly advised not to blog about the following topic. Very seldom do I ask others what they think of my sharing certain aspects of my life on here. When I do, I ask those whose opinions I respect. Right. Respect, but do not necessarily always heed. It's times like this that I always remind them that the blog is called This Bug's Life and make a pointed decision to type on defiantly. I am not afraid to show the cracks and the flaws...except for the infamous ass crack of course...and that little thing I've considered laser surgery on for years now. Those things are taboo and shall get no burn on this blog. But I'm all for laying the rest of it bare, including my own character flaws- if it means bringing me closer to understanding myself and helping others by the same token.

Alright, if anyone's been paying attention, it doesn't take much to see that This Bug is a fighter. The self proclaimed One Woman Riot did it again...almost. And I have to say that I'm quite proud of the control I exercised the other night. There will be no changing of names to protect the innocent or the wimpy. I will spare everyone the juicy mundane details and simply relay that my patience outshone my temper when my kindness was mistaken for something else. To be confronted by a lifelong passive-aggressive bubblehead who wouldn't know tough if it checked her on the chin- was laughable. Entertaining at best. Did the girl deserve to get her ass dragged down the street and handed to her in below freezing weather? Affirmative. Did I take the high road? Yes I did. Have I forgotten the directions to the low road? Absolutely not. But picking your battles is a part of growing up and I realize now that some people will inherently feel your presence while wasting immeasurable energy trying to do otherwise. Silly mortals. I don't know why they do it to themselves. What I do know is that my words and movements are genuine. So...


You may question my logic all day, but you can never question my sincerity. I don't make enemies. I finish them.

The 5 Ws (and 1 H)

Who: This Bug at your service.

What: Blogging like a bandit on Half Fruit Punch/Half Sprite with the ashtray close at hand.

When: The time is now!

Where: Everywhere.

Why: Preservation of my sanity. A responsibility to Hip-Hop and to all those who aren't seduced by what might be behind Door #3.

How: With excellence.

Let it commence.

Number One Suspect

I've never had to pick someone out in a line up before. I know nothing about it aside from two-way glass mirrors, height measurements in the background and at least five individuals who seemingly 'fit the description'. I am out of my element.

Well, I do know how to confirm a two-way mirror. If you hold your fingernail, just a sliver, up to it and see a fraction of space between it and its reflection- it's a genuine mirror. But if you do this and the fingernail and reflection appear to touch, you are on the other side of a two-way mirror. I forget where I'd learned this but it's true. I tested the theory when I worked in a sports bar some years ago. The owner's office was equipped with one so he could keep an eye on his beeswax while he counted out the register and married cheap Svedka vodka into Absolut bottles. I guess the two sides protect both the innocent and the guilty.

Anyway, if height measurements are meant to narrow the choices, it's of no help to me. My depth of perception has always been off. 5 ft. 6 ft. It makes no difference at my height. Almost everyone looks 7 feet tall to me once I remove my signature heels. Plus, I already know who I'm looking for. He stands 5'11 or so his driver's license claims. The round up of suspects are a motley assemblage. They have almost nothing in common by way of physical attributes. Dark. Light. Tall. Medium build. Muscular. Lanky. Sloped shoulders. Big feet. Small hands. None look innocent, though. They all share that certain something. A glint in the eyes. Roughshod but not scraggly by any stretch of the imagination. That air about them that whispers into your bent ear, "I'm the kind your Daddy warned you about...but your Mom will love me." Bad boys if you will. And let's face it; if they were all nice guys they wouldn't be here, would they?

I'm told to take my time. Study each one carefully. And I do. The crime comes back to me in vivid detail. He was gone before I had the sense to look for what was missing. Stolen from right under my nose like a cherry pie left to cool on a window ledge in a bad neighborhood. Only it wasn't so sudden. It took time. Hours upon hours of conversation and broken daylights on the phone. Breakfasts at diners where I felt sorry for anyone who wasn't feeling what I was. Laughter born out of a warm place that was begging to be discovered. Made to wrap my own Christmas gift with an ornate bow, only to squeal with a child's delight upon learning it was mine. That type of charm can't be bought nor taught. Can a protector truly be a criminal? A thief at that...of all things? Now, a stone is crawling into my throat. A thousand memories are awash in my brain. "Take your time," they repeat. For a split second I worry that they can all see me. I'm not here to accuse anyone. I don't want them punished for my own negligence. Moreover, I don't want to punish him. A free man is an asset to his surroundings. A jailed man is a quandary to himself, even if heart burglary is not a Class A Felony.

I divert my eyes so as not to reveal who I'm focused on. "Take your time. You're safe now." I nod. A slow, believable nod. But inwardly I balk at the untruth of this statement. 5'11. Milk chocolate skin. A long, beautiful mane like the Lion of Judah. A frame that says he doesn't obsess over his body but takes very good care of it all the same. Hands that can splinter shale and pluck violets with the same delicate intensity. Just as charming as the day is long. Kingly in his disposition. One look from those happy-sad eyes and you are instantly the only woman in the room. In the world.

I step closer to the fraudulent mirror and feign uncertainty. Seawater fuses my eyesight momentarily. The blurring is welcomed. Second one from the left. That's him. Clear as day. The only one looking straight through that glass into my soul. He knows why he's there. What's more, he knows he won't be charged. "I don't...see him." I lie. And just like that- he's free to go. No one is safe from him.