Dear Dio

Soon I am launching a new advice series called Dear Dio. Where I answer your questions and solve your problems by channeling my gurdian angel known as Ronnie James Dio.

This series will rock your face off. 

Now accepting submissions to Dear Dio.

Ask questions here or via my twitter. 

And rock on...

Piece Of Me

There is a theme emerging all over my life. Although each time it emerges it is not about me. It does seem to be shaking out pieces of my past that need not shake loose. Pieces that are private and painful.

There is a piece of me that the world does not get to have. A piece of myself that I keep inside for a reason. It is painful and it is no ones business. The world can have my words, my sense of humor, my laughter, my mindless musings, my social media babbling. But it cannot have this piece. The tears I have cried on it’s behalf are sacred. They have cast a hardness inside of me that is needed. I survive today because of this piece of me, it’s strength, it’s steadfastness, it’s ability to numb the pain of things that are not permitted in my open forum.

Some close to me have seen this piece of me, when I trust them enough to hold it’s sacred secrets. Few hold this privilege.

The theme that emerges from the world mirrors this piece of me. And the strength of others empowers me further. I silently hold their hands, vigilant in our brokenness. I stand as a century at the gates of unification. Together we fight the hidden demons that threaten to steal away our very will to live. But the important part is that we fight. We fight together, whether we are screaming out loud or are silent. The monsters we fight are gone from our lives but live inside our minds like the big bad wolf threatening to reclaim us. We fight not physical battles, but battles that are waged in the what if. What if I had done this. What if they do that. The what ifs are more dangerous than flesh. They tear at our foundations, making every waking hour torture. And every sleeping hour a nightmare. If sleep even comes at all.

It lives in me, makes me just imperfect enough to be considered a rare treasure. I am that one misprinted stamp worth more than every other 15 cent stamp. And even in the reflection of this theme, I grow stronger. I become fierce. It drives me to be better. As much as I wish I never had to have had experienced the things that created this piece of me, I know that those experiences were the coals that forged my strength. I honor the past and refuse to relive it. I am the one in control of me now. Not the invisible creatures that prey at old wounds. The scars are trophies, they prove that I have won. And always will win.

Dear World, you cannot have this piece of me.

Food Sex With Donuts

I went out on the town for a ladies night with some of my best friends. We had the most delicious dinner and conversation. 

Dinner was at one of my favorite local restaraunts. I ordered the stromboli. Then I half-heartedly joked that my stromboli lacked it's usual visual flair. I used to say that I loved ordering the "lesbian stromboli" because it was the only vagina I enjoyed eating. 

The cook heard my complaint and made me dessert, on the house.

This is what he made for me:

This is how I chose to eat it:

This was the surprise he rigged for me:

*Hint: hot icing inside that spilled out all over my hand.

 

This is the lesbian stromboli from the past:

Saga Of The Bat: In Which I Discover I Am A Coward

I woke up today to my cats freaking out. Went into the dining room, turn on the lights, and coming toward my face is this huge black winged beast. Note, I had not yet put my glasses on so I had no idea what beast just dive bombed my head. I scream, run towards the living room, then the bedroom, and hide on the floor next to my bed. Still screaming. Like a bitch.

After about 5 minutes of incoherent shrieking, I call a friend: "Are you home? There's a bird in the house! Help!" 

He wasn't home.

My brain explodes into tiny fragments that resemble an Alfred Hitchcock movie. I still think it's a bird. A crow. And they are not good omens in my crumbling mind.

I breathe in what I believe is the closest thing to courage I can muster. As I walk back into the dining room to finally save the kitties, I notice that the winged beast is NOT a bird. It is, in fact, a bat. Which sets off a 2nd wave of panic.

Crow was creepy. BAT IS FUCKING SCARY. REALLY FUCKING SCARY.

I hide again. 

Then post my situation on facebook. (Priorities, you know.) And as someone pointed out took the time to 'Like' Harry Potter while facing my impending death. Which is, of course, what I would do in the face of true doom. 

From the suggestions of my friends, I try to lure the bat out of my dining room  by turning out all the lights.

I open all my doors and begin to make stupid noises that in my frenzied mind seem wise while standing barefoot on my back porch with a flashlight. I have never been to bat luring school, I assume my techniques were faulty. 

Nothing happened. The bat just hung there on my dining room ceiling looking all bat-like and spooky. 

I try a new technique. I begin pleading with the bat. I ask him to at least have the decency to turn into a vampire, as I believe I am less afraid of vampires than bats. He just hangs there like a mother fucking bat. My cats are still circling the floor trying to find a way to reach the tasty bat treat on the ceiling. They are acting more like hell hounds than cats. 

I again try the lure the bat out of the house with the flashlight and stupid noises method. Still barefoot. This time I try bat calling. Here batty, batty, batty. 

My friend comes home to help. This is where he becomes a bat slayer and I become a quivering mad woman that hears Orc drums in the basement.

Dressed in an isolation suit he goes to work. First by throwing gold christmas ornaments that I just happen to have in a bucket in my dining room at the bat. Then by staring the thing down. The bat doesn't budge. 

I am weilding a badminton racket and an extention cord with a sonic bug repeller. My Xena Warrior Princess persona has long left the building along with any dignity that I pretended to have. I stood there, knees shaking and making all kinds of high pitched anxiety noises. What a coward.

He takes up the other badminton racket and broom. Tells me to just get the fuck out of the room. As I am pretty much just a hinderance at this point.

Finally my hero catches the beast between the broom and racket. 

The bat was successfully relocated to the great outdoors of Covington. 

Now I have a new phobia. And now my cats are now circling me like they have turned into batcats. Those assholes have a sick sense of humor.