Ward of the State of the Mind

It Has Truly Been

2011-02-06T14:59:00.000-08:00

"Been what?" you might naturally ask. At first I wrote It Has Truly Been Grand, but then I thought back on some of the material covered on this blog and in particular the events of the last couple years, chronicled both directly and indirectly and grand isn't quite the right word. I mean, writing on this blog has been hugely important to me. It allowed me to communicate with friends and family in a very new way, make amazing connections with people I would have never known about otherwise, sit and produce words that sometimes turned into funny stories and personal realizations... all really good stuff, but let's face it, this blog has been a bit of a downer at times. Anxiety, depression, psychotropic drugs, self-harm, unemployment, and finally... divorce! Fuck, it bums me out to think of it all and so I am letting you know that I am letting this blog be consumed by the ether. I have moved on to a new blog because in truth I have changed so much, over the last year in particular, that this blog and its history just doesn't fit right anymore. This place, like so many other places in my past are just too heavy with sadness to attach myself to them so directly anymore.

I am saying goodbye to these internet walls and making my new home here: I Love You To Madness Come on by, the music is on and the weather is nice. It will be much of the same snark and silliness, but tempered with a slightly more grateful and happy tone and with an eye on the future.

Thank you so very much if you joined me at any point in my journey here at Ward of the State of Mind. It has meant a great deal to me. Now, come on over!

Me On Ice Skates

2010-10-19T18:09:00.000-07:00

Awkward, wobbly, disaster prone.

Umm, truth? I just typed the subject of this post with no thought whatsoever to its relation to its actual content, thus the results may be spars, picture-centric and at times, just like all my other posts, heavy on the WTF.

To start us off I will relate the sliver of a memory I have about "Me On Ice Skates" because I committed already for reasons that elude us all.

Scene: Teenager, impossibly thin, horribly self-conscious and possessing the knowledge that my coordination on the dance floor (I can seriously bust a move, people) would in no way save me from a bruised tailbone and the prodigious amount nervous sweat I would invariably produce leading up to said injury.

It was a church youth group outing meant to be a fun way to spend Friday night instead of drinking wine coolers and taking bong rips. I was remarkably straight and narrow at the time and really thought it could be great night. We piled into the 15 passenger van and off we went, probably singing Jesus songs for all I know. That time was important to me in many ways, but it is also a huge blur as many horrendous events fell among the "JESUS IS LORD I THINK I AM CALLED TO SEMINARY" time. It served its purpose and I survived, huzzah.

We got to the rink, it was cold, etc, but I got on the ice without major incident. I wasn't completely stupid, so I immediately clung with a drug addicts like grasp to the outer railing, knowing it was the only thing keeping me from dying a horrible, heroin-free death. Wait, what?

(shhhh, I know those are roller skates.)

The thing is, the boy I was pretty hung up on (IT ALL BECOMES CLEAR, I KNOW) was attending that night and he was one of those modelesque, graceful figures that was familiar with gliding on shoes with knives attached to the bottom of them. My only previous experience ice skating was when I was like 4 in Canada and the moment I let go of my parent's hand (or they gently set me free thinking I was ready to balance on two legs... HA) I slammed onto the ice and cried for the next six hours or so about my broken butt, so I had good reason to be TERRIFIED, but...

That lanky so-and-so lured me out away from my safety bar and OH MY GOD I WASN'T DEAD, THIS MUST SPEAK TO THE POWER OF OUR LOVE RIGHT? I sort of kicked with one leg and progress all of 3 inches on the ice. I felt invincible, which if you haven't discovered on this blog means catastrophe is right around the corner. I pushed again and again, but only with my right leg for some reason, so I sort of veered further and further center of the rink where HOLY SHIT THESE PEOPLE ARE MOVING FAST I am pretty sure this is amazing or terrible.

It was terrible. Some young hockey-loving 10 year old bashed into me, knocked me down and left me there. The love of my life was busy skating like an angel in an attempt to be inspirational to me, but was really just self absorbed awesomeness (it was neat to see him, even from my prone position on the ice). I turned onto my side and realized I had no idea how to get up. Like none. And I hurt.

And then someone skating backwards and not able to see me caught their blade in my fucking lower shin and proceeded to skate over my legs.

I have no idea how I got off the ice that night, but I sure as shit am never going back on. THE END.

PICTURES!! NOT RELATED TO ICE INJURIES!

Awwww, fuck yeah we are back to happy!! Let's party and shotgun Boone's Farm!!!!

Serious British Cat is Seriously British and says, "No, only the driest of gin martinis will do for these celebrations."

In my dreams, this is what I look like.

In real life, this is my chosen profession.

Angry Man Noises & A. Nonny Mouse (AMN vs ANM)

2010-09-16T23:41:00.000-07:00

Right now, outside my apartment window a group of youthful male individuals (please note I cannot/will not call them men) are making guttural noises that frighten/annoy me (we are talking Cro-Magnon at best) and are rattling fences as they plod along. So that's cool. I can tell you all want to be their friends and maybe their lovers... You can't fool me.

Ugh.

In other news, I am going underground. Kind of. The blogspot address is the same, long mouthful it has always been and I intend/hope to keep it so, but it is time to be a bit more reticent about my actual identity. Because there was that time when I only had one email and it was the same one I use for my cuss-heavy blog as I did my resumes. OHMYGODIFYOULECTUREMEIMIGHTCRY/PUKE so let's not go to that realm of "new mystery author of this here blog" thinks so much about so many things it is kind of intense, but not the self-identifying blog issue, okay? I am lucky to be figuring it out now, as opposed to losing my job because I yammered away with explatives and flippant discussions of what might be termed as serious (as plenty of individuals have before me). Hi, Learning Curve! I usually like to be high up on you, but in this area I was sort of ditzy. Do you forgive me and believe in my dedication otherwise? You do!? AWESOME.

My freak-out about this whole thing has lead me to the following:

No more identifying pictures. Of course outside of my little greeting photo I haven't posted anything that was too recognizable, but safety first. No more face shots (a face that can sooo Work It sometimes. So we are all gonna miss that, but we will move on).
The contact email has changed. It is now wardofthestateofmind@gmail.com. If you search my old email, NADA related to wardofthestateofmind should appear and now I have a blog specific email. Why I didn't do this earlier, I am not sure.
Comments: Seeing as pretty much those of you that actually comment, know me and my lovely name/history/appearance I would request that you keep in mind my desire for anominity (A. Nonny Mouse). Leave out my name, picture links, etc. Not that much along these lines has even happened, but I am in safe-rather-than-sorry mode.
If I am missing something obvious, would you be so kind as to loop me in? I plan on remaining as candid and off the cuff as I always have been, but in the interest of preparing for my future in an adult way I would like to not make a total public ass of myself. With lots and lots of help from you, I might be able to accomplish this.

Okay so, I am super tired. Whoa.

Oh, by the way, I turned 29 yesterday and it was lovely. The Gorgeous German bought me necklaces, DVDS (all ones I had mentioned I really wanted to see in passing over the last few months), WWII memorobilia, and a dictionary that when on its back stands almost a foot tall from the late 50's. SWOON. (Oh, and then just earlier today I got a gift in the mail from my parents from China along with a hand-drawn card!!) We met with the few friends that could actually make it out on a Wednesday evening and went home early. I was happy and am grateful. Also, facebook made me feel all twitterpated, because so many people left notes and messages. Yeah, FB prompts you about bdays, but I, the new and improved secret blogger, really felt loved and happy.

FUCK YEAH, 29.

Postscript: I want a dress like this, but cotton and dyed this way.

Now you know.

Baking Blueberry Scones Is A Full Contact Sport

2010-09-02T13:07:00.001-07:00

1. New blog design: I need your feedback. Should I stick with the redesign?

Pros: a) looks like spilled wine/artsy watercolor, two things I am very familiar with, b) layout provides wider posting space so pictures and video fit better, c) I was wanting a bit of a change.

Cons: a) I can't seem to get a picture in the header that fits/can be centered nicely, b) umm, it's an awful lot of pinkish hues, c) change, though perhaps desired, is haaarrd.

I'm not sold either way, but I am going to give it a couple-of-posts test run (which could last a few months with my serious lack of posting lately) and see how I feel. My guess is I will feel too lazy to change it up too much and leave it more or less, as is. But, if you have a strong feeling either way, I want to know!!

2. The kitchen tried to kill me, specifically the oven: Two weeks ago I had the distinct pleasure of prepping for a day trip to the beach. Yes, that mini-vacation that I have been whining about needing for my sanity for like, ever, was in fact to happen. I was PUMPED and decided that I would bake some scones for the Saturday morning car ride out to the ocean. Yum, right? Well yes, they were tasty as heck, but I practically had to give up my left arm in the process. Everything was going groovy during the mixing/kneading/shaping phases. The counter, the floor and most of my upper torso and face were finely coated with flour and smeared with blueberries so all was as it should be. I popped the suckers in the oven and left them there for about 8 minutes before checking on them. Here is where things went a titch haywire. I opened the oven and reached in with a toothpick to test if they had been baked through yet and as I reached my arm in the oven door decided it was time to seal itself back up. My tender (and extremely pale even after all of summer) forearm of course was smack dab in the oven door's path and I got caught. I screeched like a damn banshee, jerked my arm out, cursed at the oven, and did a little dance reminiscent of the pee-pee dance, but while delicately holding my left forearm with my right hand. However, there was no one to see my sad dance for pity so I stuck my arm under cold water until I couldn't feel it anymore.

For those of you that are concerned about the real issue here, the scones turned out fine. My arm? Not so much. Two red line across my upper forearm formed immediately and initially (and rather tricksterly) looked like they might not be so hideous after all. But that is because it took a full day for the blisters to appear and then rupture as angry, hurty blisters so love to do.

I guess this could all be okay, if it didn't make me look like a cutter/burner at freaking almost 29 years old, and I didn't already have SIB in my past, and the sight of these burns didn't trigger huge feelings of guilt and make me think OMG, everyone is judging me, no one will believe me, I feel 16 again, this sucks. So to cover it up and relieve some of my ridiculous fears I went around with this massive band-aid that I put on everyday, which was still pretty fucking lame, but if there is one thing I can count on it is the white-washing of the band-aid world which is all sorts of fuck-up, but damn if it don't match my skin tone remarkably well. Of course no one seemed to notice AT ALL, even though I went around furtively tugging at my 3/4 length shirts and sweating because even partially long sleeves during a mild Sacramento summer remain ill-advised.

And just to top this all off: After four days of ultra-adhering band-aids, I had to struggle to pull the damn thing off (we are talking grunting and yanking for a good three minutes), taking with it a layer of, up until that point, TOTALLY UNHARMED SKIN. Little sticky bits remained in some places that I could not remove with soap, exfoliating scrub, pumice stone, toothpaste (don't ask) or peanut-butter (really don't ask) and thus I acquired blueish/purple fuzz patches that looked bruisey from only the slightest distance. Essentially I looked like a cutter with leprosy all because of some goddamn blueberry scones.

But the beach was awesome.

Let's Touch Some Shit

2010-08-02T16:31:00.000-07:00

I don't even know, and yet I do. It is one of those days.

Happy Piffle Post

2010-07-23T13:04:00.000-07:00

For no real reason at all other than my cat is curled up on my desk with me after playing fetch for 15 minutes, the weather is nice, my family and friends are awesome, I love love, and the plant I thought I had killed is sprouting new growth all over the damn place I give you happy random pictures:

You may be penned in a dank soviet era-looking zoo, but on the plus side you do have a cello soloist that plays Bach and Vivaldi every Thursday and Sunday. (I found this picture with absolutely no explanation so I am just going to go with my story.)

FINALLY. And I will take 500 stickers for my trapper-keeper, walls and body (don't ask), thank you.

Oh heavens, rainbows are wonderful. And Judy Garland knew very well the wish to find a place of comfort and grace when she sang this song. But we all do at times, I suppose. And this is such a pretty poster from Music Philosophy. Many more song lyrics to look at and order if you like.

Baby duck butt in shimmery water should be self-explanatory.

Istoleyourprozac hopes you are feeling like sticking your tuckus in the air and head under water this weekend. I know that is my plan.

I'm A Poop Hero (You Can Be One Too)!!

2010-07-16T11:52:00.000-07:00

As so often is the case, the answer to the question hanging in your head after reading something odd and vaguely concerning on this this site (such as the title of this entry) is YES. Yes, this will be a post about my bowel movements. Hey, fecal matter is furiously funny (and alliteration often annoying), so resign yourself to the fact that although I am not a mommy-blogger who can regale you with hilarious antidotes about the funny-runny that just won't stay in little shmoopy's diaper, etc I still think I have the right to talk poop. I mean if you can laugh about Dooce's Shit Storm entries, than I deserve a little leeway. If you think it is only funny when it is about babies, then that is just ageism, man and I can't hang with that kind of discrimination.

Thus I present, Poop, A Story of Success.

It was a Sunday late afternoon. I was just putzing around my apartment, likely putting off all work that a responsible adult would be engaging in. It was Sacramento summer heat so I was doing my putzing in underwear and a t-shirt. I was relaxed, well fed and unknowingly preparing for one of the best poops of my life.

If you have read here before, you are aware that my GI track is perpetually plagued by stress, bad food reactions, etc. You know, the Generation Y "something really serious is wrong with me, because my stomach is not perfect at all times, and IT'S PROBABLY CANCER you guys" complaint du jour. (However, Celiac Disease is no joke for those contemporaries of mine that have it, so you are exempt from this judgement.) I'm not pretending that I don't lean more towards the "small bad thing= DISASTER" end of the nervous/calm spectrum. I know this is true, but just as I freak at the sign of gastrointestinal broo-ha-ha, I also can celebrate the success. Oh Yes I Can (thank you Obama, for believing in me).

Okay, so back to my useless story. I was changing the music on my stereo, taking out the Tom Petty CD that had been in frequent rotation and putting in Raphael Saadiq (seriously, check him out. Of Tony Toni Tone!, but his solo stuff blows my ever lovin' mind. Think early Marvin Gaye, but with more current RnB sensibilities.) to dance around to in said underwear. I have it on good authority that pretty much everyone like to dance around in their underwear, in a manner they do in no other setting. A little booty-wiggle into the first song and I was all I need to poop, I think. No more than five notes later and it became I definitely am about to go take an awesome crap. In fact I can tell right now that this will be a superwoman kind of poop. And then out loud to my empty apartment, "I AM GOING TO GO BE A POOP HERO RIGHT NOW."

And I did. Oh did I.

Details are not necessary (you're welcome) as the act was not the main point. No, rather it was the satisfaction that beamed from my face afterwards. You have had them, I know you have. Shits that make you want to pat your own back and record what you ate and then eat that every day for the rest of your life if that means you take craps of that caliber more often. I know it isn't a common topic of discussion, but it is a feeling that can unite us. Bring peace to the earth, be a poop hero.

Hmm, so maybe the slogan and supporting argument needs work, but you get the idea. It is as simple as this: Right before you go to the bathroom announce to your cat (or internally if your family is really not into this idea) "I AM GOING TO GO BE A POOP HERO" and then go forth and shit bricks of awesome. Afterwards I advise standing in front of the mirror with you hands on your hips and your chin up. Power exudes from every pore, fire light flicks in your eyes, but it is a benevolent strength you possess. The world for a brief moment make sense and you see through time and that gravity is an illusion and all the strings wiggling as the basis of everything makes sense. It is quite the sensation, people.

Should I get some shirts printed up? "I'M A POOP HERO" on the front and "You can be one too!!! Just ask me how!" on the back. The movement will gain momentum for sure this way.

Heh. Movement.

The JOB OF MY DREAMS Is Not Invited To My Super Awesome Party Of Rad

2010-07-06T15:58:00.000-07:00

That'll teach it. You don't pass me by without consequences!!

Umm, unless it isn't clear (or you haven't already heard from me on Facebook/by phone) I didn't get the job. I will not be the director of anything besides my own misery and spite, let alone communications and special projects. Which, when you think about it a Directorship of Spite sounds pretty bad-ass, however it mostly involves me struggling to get up in the morning and not drink gin straight from the bottle while hurling mental insults at the sun and the people on the street walking to THEIR JOBS, and all around being a crazy bitch. I may be good at it, but the benefits are shit.

Note: I am not waking up and drinking so just relax. I did enough of that in college to last a lifetime.

Also, there is no super awesome party of rad planned so don't get your panties in a bunch when you don't get an invite with ladybugs and flowers printed on it. It was just to make the JOB OF MY DREAMS jealous.

And the answer is yes to both of your questions; I have now really anthropomorphized a job that I didn't get and it will always be referred to in all-caps.

Welp, I think that is the extent of this blurb. It's 4pm and I need a shower before I go sing some acoustic songs this evening including this gem:

Bathing Suits

2010-07-05T23:29:00.000-07:00

Hmm, so this entry needs to start with a disclaimer/warning. It is going to be a bit emotional, but more so it may have trigger elements if you have/do self-harm. I don't say that to sound dramatic, I say it because there is a community of women and men that struggle with this issue and require a heads-up when the subject pops up online. If we are not in the right head-space to deal with some heavy-duty shit, a warning gives us the option to skip over it. SO, now you know.

Bathing Suits. As a woman, they are innately stressful. You find one that finally covers your ass nicely, but not too modestly and the tops are itty-bitty and not in a fun, sexy way. You finally find something that fits like a glove but it happens to only come in neon green that reflects putridly on your pale, pale skin and clashes with your red, red hair. Okay, MY pale, pale skin and MY red, red hair. Point it, bikinis, tankinis, and suits are a mean beast to tame all on their own let alone approach when you have marks you want to cover up.

Last summer I didn't really spend any time in a just a suit. I layered shorts over the bottoms or stayed wrapped up somehow. In fact, the same went for the year prior and prior to that, etc. Not because I felt fat (although, let's be real, I had my terrified moments of "wait how much skin that jiggles am I thinking of showing?!" here and there) but because I had welts, red marks, jagged edges. I cut in the same places and over the same scars for a few years. I couldn't show the scars because, they weren't just scars. They were scars layered with new cuts. New and sad and painful.

There was no question what I would do when summer came those years. I would wear shorts. Or pants. And not get in the pool, not get in the river... Hold back more than I wanted because some one might see and the chlorine might burn too much.

This year I am hurt free, except for the memory suggested by old scars. Little and not so little white lines lightening across my hip and thigh. Some raised like a melted marshmallow smooshed out the edge of a smore by the campfire when I pull my legs in, some indented like a river bed gone dry when I stretch my legs out on my towel in the sun.

So what do I do about these lines? Will people notice? If they do, will they comment, ask, change how they interact with me? Worst of all, will they pity me? I can't stand that.

I don't have the answer about how I should deal with it really. So far I have only been in a bathing suit around people I trust and they didn't even seem to notice so perhaps there is nothing to worry about. Maybe I am the only one who sees the ridges of pain on my skin and maybe that is a blessing. The other week I asked the Boyfriend if it looked bad and obvious as we got ready for sunbathing and pool time at a friends house. He said you could hardly see them unless you were as close as only he should be getting to my upper thighs and even then, they were good friends and it was okay and you are beautiful. If he hadn't been there to say those nice things I would have gone in my high-cut black swimsuit anyway, but it helped to have it told to me before I stepped outside into the balmy summer air.

Truth? I love my scars. I touch them sometimes, running my finger-pads along their length to remember what I went through to do such things to my soul's carrier, to my temple. As a reminder to not do it again, but also as a homage to those old pains, struggles, hatreds, longings, worries, fucked-up moments. I can't ignore them and I don't want anyone who cares for me to pretend they don't exist either. You don't have to mention them if they flash in the sun this summer, but just know they are there for a reason and although I never, ever want to go back I am proud that they are a sign of how I made it through.

Yes, I am that pale. Suck it.

It's The Tii-ime Of The See-eas-son For Hai-ting

2010-06-28T13:57:00.001-07:00

1. Blarg, it is warm around here. I have touched on how the heat affects my outlook (and output) before and am realizing I will probably do this every summer as long as I keep up this blog and live in Sacramento. The heat is pretty much my main enemy. It is seemingly out to thwart me at all turns and thus I must avenge it through my undying and public hatred. As a result of this hatred of the heat I also hate everything else that I see, taste, touch and am aware of in any way because the temperature is making everything lame. Those fragrant flowers blooming next to the scorching sidewalk? I hate them and their heady, droop-in-the-summer-afternoon stench. My windows which so pleasantly let in the spring breeze and and flickering sun spots through the branches of the trees a few months ago? Now they act as a fucking magnifying glass or some shit, letting the sun bore holes through my body and soul with laser precision. I am freaking swiss cheese over here. I sweatily flop around at night, intermittently getting a few moments of sleep here and there only to discover that dreams when you are overheated are inherently creepy/stressful and make absolutely no sense (even more so than my regularly broadcasted WTF dreams). Proof positive that the temperature is boiling my brain. You can't argue with science, folks.

So, what else is happening besides me feeling as though the sun's rays are oppressing me like Omar al-Bashir does the Sudanese. What, too much? WELL YOU ALL KNOW I AM PRONE TO EXAGGERATION AND AM GRUMPY AS ALL GET-OUT so just deal with it.

2. I mentioned some time ago that I was applying for THE JOB OF MY DREAMS and that I had inside operatives working in my favor on this here blog, however, that position passed me by. Dropped my ass. Left me for dead. The organization didn't even call me back to say they had moved on. Hell, that job treated me like a cheap hooker. Gave me the briefest of attention when it suited and then tossed me aside with not even a thank you tip. BUT I AM A HOOKER WITH A HEART OF GOLD and this is not how this movie is supposed to end... /sniff sniff

Turns out the universe wants to maybe provide for me in other ways. The job I am interviewing for now puts "THE JOB OF MY DREAMS" to shame. I am not sure how to discuss this new opportunity and my gut says to leave all details out besides the small note that I really, really want this job and would so rock at doing it. And that I made it to the second round of interviews. (!!!!!)

I have been unemployed for 6 months, people. Working my ass off for free for most of that time and praying it pays off. I am not too strong with the "I deserve this good thing because of my various forms of energy dedicated/suffering/etc" statements, but dude, I deserve this job for more reasons I care to count.

NO PRESSURE COSMOS.

3. So this boyfriend of mine is pretty much crazy awesome and not only did he buy me flowers and wine for simply completing the first interview, but he has let me borrow his Season 1 and 2 box set of "Moonlighting" starring Cybill Shepherd and Bruce Willis. So this is what love feels like... I had no idea.

4. Anyone want to come up with ideas for me to blog about? Like questions I should answer that would likely lead to me revealing some embarrassing story about my past or topics you are just dying to have my opinion on? I feel I am struggling to stay in "blogging mode", but I really do want to keep this thing fun and frequent(er). You can comment or email me with ideas. Or Facebook me. Or Twitter me.

Clearly, I need more ways to stay in contact with you all.

Ms. Fat Booty And Other Ruminations

2010-06-15T20:03:00.000-07:00

It's been awhile so I am getting numerical on your ass. And mine:

1. I never had what one would call a big butt. It will never be said by Mos Def about me "ass so big you can see it from the front" (which in his song "Ms. Fat Booty" is very much a compliment). It will likely never be said by anyone. I am okay with this. However, for most of my teen and early college years I such a small tush, that its lack of "ba-dow!" was commented on occasionally (I swear, there is no such thing as a girl just being in her body comfortably). I am pretty sure no one actually thought is was anything but part of the range you get in a high school of 1600 and then a university of 3000, but I was aware. My tookus was small. Too small. The Grinch's heart size if you had asked me then.

And then I discovered beer.

It was the best of times, it was the, etc. Much beer was consumed (in particular my senior year of college) and suddenly my jeans never, ever felt loose in the caboose. Beer is the reason that I have been told I have "a happy handful", that I should "swing that thang, girl" and that my "booty could make a grown man cry". Beer is the reason for the season, as far as I am concerned January through December regardless of it's hoppy effect on my ass, but I am finally, FINALLY embracing this part of my body. Yes, it is about 6 years after its arrival, but HEY IT'S HARD OUT THERE FOR US LADIES what with practically perfect starlets and the media and snarky high-schoolers.

So even on days like today when I stick my tongue out at the scale because the number is not quite the one I want to see, I pat my hindquarters affectionately and whisper, "It's okay. I'd rather you be here than not. Also, I love beer too much."

2. Where have I been for the past month?

(Source)

I don't know entirely, but clearly not here. Internship, music, romance, friends, and food cover the basics. Tarot card readings, peanut-butter obsession, de-furring my work clothes of cat hair, trying different deodorants, walking with purpose somedays and with an aimless wonder others, getting blisters on my feet, cooking dinners with my partner, playing cowbell and ukulele, learning as much as possible about the California State Legislative process and Communications in a short period of time... Okay, look a bunch of stuff. Whatever. Point is, I am happily posting this blurb and maybe, just maybe another one soon. CRAZY, I KNOW.

I missed you.

3. Can we talk about food obsessions for a moment? I don't care, we are going to. My cravings have always been intense affairs that last anywhere from one meal to years upon years. Currently I am under the sway of oysters and/or muscles, garlic (like burning your mouth, people the next day know what you had for dinner last night strength), granola, peanut-butter, olives, and bok choy (oh god, just say "bok choy" a couple of times. Don't you love it and want to eat it now too!?!? Isn't my emphatic excitement about bok choy just a little too much!?! Isn't it starting to creep you out?!! WHOOOOOOO!!) something fierce lately. In fact, the last three items were my dinner tonight. Farmer's Market baby bok choy (with garlic, duh), half of a large can of black olives and two spoonfuls of peanut-butter. Not mixed together, but it did occur to me to try that. It is a kind of satiated that I know won't last as I will crave another fix soon, but damn if it don't feel goooood right now.

4. Quotes from people I have encountered while walking around downtown Sacto:

Homeless Dude #1: (getting all up in Homeless Dude #2's face) DON'T TELL ME THE SHIT YOU DIDN'T DO!

A group of homeless people were grilling some food in an alcove of a church courtyard and apparently SHIT WENT DOWN and HD#1 wasn't having it. Perhaps the meat was not ready according to him, but HD#2 decided it was time to eat? Whatever it was, the quote has stuck in my head for well over a month now. I can't wait to use it.

Stateworker(?): (on mobile phone) ... She be trifling too damn much. She ain't no thang. You know what? She's small time. I ain't no small time bitch so I ain't gonna play, but she better watch her ass. Oooh yes, she better WATCH.

It is possible that I was terrified of this woman along with completely impressed. I am pretty certain she would cut a bitch and not give it a second thought.

5. Pictures for the laughing:

This kid is feeling it. "And I need you nooow tonight, and I need you mooore than ever!"

That which has been seen cannot be unseen.

Platypus Keytar. Hmmm yes, it all makes sense now and I can die happy.

I Super Mean To Post More Often. Really.

2010-05-10T20:08:00.001-07:00

I just don't. And then when I start feeling that an especially long time between post has occurred and yet I have nothing to say (or more likely don't seem to have the energy to type it, because, seriously when do I not have SOMETHING to say? Yeah, pretty much never. Opinions, I got 'em.) I reach into my folder labeled "Pictures To Use" and voila, a post!

It is time for a visit to the ocean. I haven't been on a beach, looking at the pacific waves, sand all up in my bits, sunglasses tanlines being established in ALMOST TWO YEARS. Umm, I live in California, people. There is something super wrong with this. There are like 15 things super wrong with this, actually. Luckily, I am working to remedy this dire situation in the near future. Flying a kite, snacks and beer, maybe even wearing a bathing suit are all in the works. The moment my feet hit that sand I am bolting for the water, I don't care how cold it is. GET ME SOME SALT WATER WAVES BEFORE I HOLD A DAYCARE OR SOME SHIT HOSTAGE, because I am losing my mind just a smidge.

The Truth, it speaks it.

Click to make this larger and be prepared to laugh. How various stimulants and depressants will affect you in different situations. Having lived briefly in a house during college in which walking into a room full of people tripping on mushrooms, etc was perfectly normal I found this chart to be hilariously accurate. But I have no personal experience AT ALL WITH ANY OF THIS NO REALLY.

For all I know this could be a painting of one of my favorite places from my teenage years, Los Carneros Park in Goleta. It looks exactly like my memories do and I have many, many memories of this place. I used to walk/run/bike/sit in this park at least three times a week for a couple of years. It had trails, lots of uncontrolled vegetation, and this lovely little lake in the middle. I assume it is mostly the same these days, but can't be sure, so I will let this perfect painting remind me in soft tones. I don't miss the existential/spiritual/personal challenges that I spent so much time contemplating in that place, but the sanctuary it provided a 15 year old girl on pristine blue sky days does make for a little wistfulness.

More Truth. And a Truth I am about to confirm by popping open a cold beer and taking a hot bath. It sounds odd until you try it, but trust and believe that a chilled bottle of a light beer in a steamy room, bubbles up to your nose is pretty freaking awesome. Cheers to that!

The Night My Apartment Burnt Down (But Really Didn't So Don't Freak Out).

2010-04-22T21:04:00.000-07:00

I haven't talked much about my current state of mental health on this blog for a while, but it is still something I think about often. I lost my really intense diagnosis some time ago after a great deal of personal work, healing time, and minor emotional epiphanies that finally added up. Also dropping the doctor who seemed to believe if the low dose pills weren't working, that we should probably up the dose or add this other prescription to the regimen instead of discussing diet changes or homeopathic remedies was a pretty good move too. Nearing a year and a half of being pharmaceutical-free is pretty awesome.

So. Current status.

Pretty damn good most days. Like, really good. Maybe even, is this how normal, usually positive people experience and feel life, because they are totally on to something! Of course then I quiz myself about what is going on in my life and wonder if feeling positive in the face of unemployment and divorce is really such a great sign of mental stability...

But not to worry (or maybe to worry lots!), I still have these blistering moments of anxiety and depression so abysmal and ridiculous that I get this urge to reach up and pat my own head while saying, "whoa there, Nellie. You are gonna be just fine if you could just start breathing slower." (We have already established that I often times split into two characters when sort of losing my shit. One is sweaty, panicky, GI-track issues girl with the million-words-of-worry-per-minute-thoughts and the other is this sensible, knows I'll make it through, somewhat amused by the flurry of nervous activity the other is putting on display character. These two parts of me talk to one another. HEY I COULD SAY I TALK DIRECTLY TO JESUS AND HE TALKS BACK OR SOME SHIT, so just roll with it.)

(This is my favorite kind of Jesus. The kind that calms nervous velociraptors. This picture has nothing to do with this post really, but you aren't going to complain because it is Jesus holding a fucking dinosaur and you know how rad it is of me to have shared it.)

The longer I am not employed the more frequent these little bouts of hysteria occur. We are coming up on FOUR MONTHS OF UNEMPLOYMENT PEOPLE. I mean, I have this amazing internship that I love, love, love, but love ain't paying my damn bills. It does allow me to feel productive most of the time, but I still experience this distinct sense of FAILURE AND SUCKITUDE at being an adult.

Anxiety by definition is: Unjustified fears or concerns that are likely to meet other fears you may have and then they all start mating in rabbit-like fashion and pretty soon you have rabbits falling off all the available surfaces in your brain and did you guys know they smell funny when they get packed in tight, and how am I going to feed them all, OMG I AM GOING TO COMMIT BUNNY GENOCIDE IF I DON'T KEEP WORRYING/FEEDING THEM, SOMEONE HELP ME STOP THIS SIMILE/METAPHOR DISASTER. Well, that is my definition at least.

Okay, so I started this post like five paragraphs ago with the intention of telling a story about this totally out of hand anxiety response I had to a very minor situation that I now can laugh about. Worked out really well, huh? Whatever. Today was total shit and I just needed to vent about having a sort of loose, shaky structural feeling about myself. Like I might just collapse into a vibrating puddle of emo when I get a really kind, loving message from someone and don't feel worthy, and don't know why I don't feel worthy, and I thought I was over these internal and irrational chantings of "no one will really love you if they could see you as you really are which right now is in faded yoga pants, popping amoxicillin and pain killers for that wisdom tooth you need to get pulled but haven't, peanutbutter smeared on your cheek and a general outlook of doom and misery."

Phew.

Finally here is the story (though I doubt if I need to illustrate further that I am neurotic at this point):

I woke up the other night to the smell I realized (after nearly hyperventilating from huffing the air rapidly) was like something burning. I sat up and pointed my nose in every direction. I got out of bed and wandered around. Was a burner on? Can radiators break and suddenly turn waaay up and explode (even though I know they are water based and probably don't make smokey smells)? Not shockingly this spiraled into "SHIT WE ARE GOING TO DIE IN A FIRE IF I DON'T FIGURE THIS OUT RIGHT NOW" and "HOW AM I GOING TO GET MY GRANDMA'S HOPE CHEST DOWN THE STAIRS IF THEY ARE BURNING?!?!!" I woke the gorgeous german that was staying the night (yes, he stays the night sometimes family; don't freak out on me) and asked if he smelled it too. Yes, he did, and it smelled a bit like a cigarette he thought. I believe he turned over and had the audacity to go back to sleep not realizing that we really needed to plan our emergency exit strategy OR WE WILL DIE A FIRERY DEATH, WHY DON'T I HAVE ONE OF THOSE ROPE LADDERS LIKE IN THE ADVERTISEMENTS, FINE I WILL DO EVERYTHING. I stayed up another 45 minutes sniffing the air (which pretty much didn't smell like burning for 40 of those minutes, but I stayed vigilant) and organizing how I would corral my cat, grab my most important things, and swiftly get us all to safety only to watch the rest of what I have burn to the ground.

Um, so we didn't die and my apartment is still intact, if you are wondering. Turns out I have a new neighbor that smokes directly below my place. I am in the process of submitting a courtesy request that he knock it the fuck off so I don't have to fear for my life and wonder if I have told the people I care about that I love them enough.

This post is sooo done now.

Hipster Freakout

2010-04-13T23:07:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I just embrace that I have these vaguely hipster tendencies here and there. For example, I do like the scarf with t-shirt/thin jacket/no-it-is-not-cold-out-but-I-am-too-cool-to-care look. Never mind how idiotic and obviously contrarian it appears, I dig it.

Also related:

I have a weakness for girls who pull off messy, butch haircuts.
I get a kick out of introducing music to a group of friends that is 1) amazing music and then, yes 2) unknown to them until that point.
I do own vinyl and yet no record player anymore.
I understand how one can have good taste in wine and beer all while being on unemployment.
I have a friend who collects grandma shoes and rocks them for all the comfort and radness they are worth (a lot, according to her).

And then there is this song which is my current anthem.

Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros pretty much rocks my face off

with hipster happiness and I suggest if you have any qualms about how

asshat-ish hipsters can be, that you put them aside and revel in this

goodness.

Then we can return to mostly hating on those pretentious pricks as per usual.

There Was An Old Woman Who Lived In A Studio Apartment. And Her Name Was Stoleyourprozac.

2010-04-07T17:12:00.000-07:00

I am getting old.

Okay, not really, because come on, I'm only 28 years along, but I am going to drop a bomb right here, right now. I have white hairs. WHAT THE OLDER-THAN-I-FEEL-IS-FAIR FUCK? The other week I leaned into check out my extensive roots (hey, I am a red-head, but I like to amp it up a few notches) in my bathroom mirror to see if I can pull off a few more days/weeks of lazily not attending the disparagement between dyed and real. I decided, hells yes I can. As I pulled away from practically smooshing my face against the cool mirror I caught a little gleam in my hair.

What was that magical shimmer, I wondered.

I leaned back in. (Feel free to imagine the Jaws music playing in the background or some creepy CSI kinda tunage.) I saw it again. Right there, in my bangs. I innocently wondered if I had some blonde in my hair again. HEY, IT COULD HAPPEN. However, it did not happen. I believe I said " Oh, fuck me" when I realized this hair was white.

And then.

I SAW ANOTHER ONE. HOLYFUCKINGSHIT, I CAN'T REALLY HANDLE THIS RIGHT NOW, SO I AM JUST GOING TO HYPERVENTILATE ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR.

When I regained consciousness (it was touch and go for a good 10 minutes) I clung to the sink with one hand and rapidly plucked with the other. OUT DAMN SPOT kinda stuff was going on in my mind.

I had to get these suckers where I could really see them and confirm the shocking whiteness that was happening. If I had a microscope I would have spit on a slide, slapped those hairs down and dropped some biology knowledge, but as it turns out I got a C+ in biology and I do not own fancy science paraphernalia.

But don't worry that they are all gone. Oh-ho-ho noooo. There are more of them. Taunting me. For a week I sort of FREAKED OUT ALL THE TIME, but now I am embracing these thin wisps of I-am-closer-to-death-than-a-day-ago thingies. It could be a pretty striking look don't you think?

I mean Bonnie Raitt straight up rocks the skunk stripe. I'm thinking I could do the same.

What The What?

2010-04-03T21:33:00.003-07:00

PICTURES! COMMENTARY! EXCITEMENT! ALLCAPS!

Let's do this.

First I will kill you with cute! I know, right? Eh Geh, so adorable I want to shove marshmallows in my mouth and raise flutterbies (that was what butterflies used to be called, which makes WAY more sense, p.s.) in a commune or some shit.

I am a little late with the cultural relevance on this one, but it has been just sitting in it's jpeg glory, waiting for the right post. And here we are. Ready to drop this hot shit like it is... well hot. I preemptively apologize for getting this song stuck in your heads if you know it. Damn, it catchy though. And cause I am feeling goofy, here is the best version of the song. Like I said, HOT SHIT.

Now that you are in the mood to dance, I give you titillating hints of pop-and-lock instructions.

Let us break it down, break bread together, beatbox, bust a move, bump-a-rump, Brokeback Mountain Hip Hop I Can't Quit You!!

Whoa. Yeah, I went there. And it was good.

Well, it's sweet and weird, which is pretty much me on my best day. I really like this work and you can find it here. A Softer World.

If this diagram doesn't explain everything in the world to you, I am not sure we can be friends. But let's get serious, if The Big Lebowski didn't offer the universal theory of everything to you with open hands and a come hither expression when you first watched it, then we were never meant to be anyways. Or just watch it again and get back to me. Because I need my readers. And the movie is SO worth watching approximately 56 times over the course of a few decades.

I love my chickadees, and I hope they love me. I will try to stay more on track with posting regularly again. I just needed a month or so of laxidasical posting habits to get my energy back. And beef up my random picture collection.

xoxo

Catch As Catch Can

2010-04-02T13:35:00.000-07:00

Shit. This a catch up blog post. I took a break from publishing as life got busy and the posts that got started certainly didn't get finished. I think I have four or five posts still in the "edit" phase and today I am pulling some of them together in no real order and with no real purpose. Just a release of them and perhaps a release of some of these thoughts.

Orange wedges, divorce papers, forgotten about loads of laundry, spring walks, friends, internship, crushing on someone, ukulele jamming. These things, among a few others pretty much sum me up these days.

Exhibit A: I took to eating orange wedges in the mornings after seeing my niece go to town on them recently. She is nearly two years old and has a more developed palate for food than I did at 16, I think. If it's not oranges, it's grapefruit, or banana, or lentils, or salsa, or... you see where this goes. When her mom or dad cuts up the wedges of orange she wiggles in her highchair and reaches with a smile and hint of a whine in her voice if it takes too long. Once her plate is in front of her she jams the wedge into her mouth, slurping and gnawing away with a blissed out look on her face. There is much to learn from the young, and even if all I figure out is to eat fruit with distinct and obvious pleasure, I am totally cool with that.

Exhibit B: My dear friend came up with and introduced me to the term "the Divortex" and I love him for it. In essence it is can be defined as any conversation that spirals rapidly into only focusing on the proceeding of a individual's divorce you are not legally involved in and that does not allow you to extradite yourself with ease. The only surefire way to end the cycle of chatter is to establish "divortex" as a safe word of sorts that cues the other person that they have taken over the conversation to a degree that is no longer acceptable. I make a point to not really talk about the divorce at length to anyone, but there have been moments when the sympathetic ear of another has allowed me to teeter at the edge and once or twice, fall in. Swirled around faster and faster amongst legal forms, emotions, useless theories... it is a dangerous place to visit for anyone, even for me as I go through the process. Printing out the forms and filling them out for the first, tentative time was... heavy. I sort of buzzed in my fingers and lifted above myself at times, like the feeling you get right before you come down with the flu. Distant and confused.

Exhibit C: From February:

The light is changing in Sacramento. More often the grey morning breaks open by noon into puzzle pieces of huge puffy clouds and bastions of blue. I wasn't so sure I was ready to lose the promise of rain, muffled noises from the street... but after one afternoon of ennui the moment the sun shown in through my window, I think I am ready. It was silly, I suppose, to mope like a teenager when the weather did not suit my tastes exactly. And it happens every spring. I get a little panicky when the ratio of rain clouds to blue sky tilts in the latter's direction. It takes a few days to remember how the clear, clean light of spring brings promise, little buds on spindly branches, voices bouncing off buildings up into the open sky...

Many years ago February consistently was the hardest month for me. It harkened back to times of strife and stress. Those of you that know me well, remember how you became more vigilant and most likely more worried for me. Each February I feel it less and less until, I nearly don't feel it at all. And hopefully, so do my loved ones.

This year the rebirth metaphor of the season is particularly apt. I have a freshly tilled garden in which to plant whatever my heart desires. Never having a green thumb to begin with, I am hesitant to really go wild with it. I may love to look at dalia's, but I haven't the faintest idea how to care for them. And so it is with new endeavors, too. New friendships, new projects, new affections. I am operating on intuition and a solid dose of hope. Come on, blossoms! Wow me like I think you just might.

Exhibit D: The new affection. It isn't that new anymore. He's been around more often and I'd like to think I am better for it. I don't know how much to say or even how to say it. I'll just start with the words that come up first. Heartbeats, goosebumps, coffee and tea, fingertips to fingertips, silly chatter, meaningful talks, journal entries, discovery, surprise, trust, music, postcards, dreams (day and night), being present, being calm and excited all at once, reality exceeding fantasy. I realized I don't care if it is "too soon" or just a smidge crazy of me to feel all of these things. Life is for the living and I feel so very alive these days. A New Year's kiss that has brought me thrills and beyond as the months have passed. Fuck yeah.

Sie sind mein herz.

Bits And Pieces

2010-03-04T14:58:00.000-08:00

A list!

1. On my plane ride up to Washington a week or so ago I had the pleasure of watching a somewhat odd and sweet man maneuver through his travel experience. He was a slight build with white, white hair and an equally white beard of about 3 inches. He was probably in his late 50's early 60's, but with a very youthful stance and sparkling blue eyes. I first saw him standing near the gate, looking out of the floor to ceiling windows at the planes as they came and went. He was wearing all denim and stood with his legs planted wide apart and his fists on his hips. Think superhero position. He would lean back slightly and then rock on his feet and smile. I should mention that it is likely he has a developmental disability and that my little blurb about him is in no way an insult or joke about him. I found I felt rather affectionate towards him actually, or at least as much as a stranger can about another. He stayed there for a good 30 minutes and then we boarded the plane. I think he was pre-boarding, but didn't pay close attention. When I found my seat I realized we shared a row, with one person between us. I smiled at him and sat down. He immediately took off his shoes and placed them next to the canvass bag (with cartoon cars on it) under the seat in front of him. Hey, yeah why not get comfy? It is only an hour and a half flight, but shit, relax all you want. Also, I was okay with it because his feet did not stink. Good hygiene goes a long way with me. He spent nearly the entire flight nose to window, occasionally murmuring things to the sky and world below. I like to imagine he was throwing out compliments to the mountains and clouds or was engaging in some interstellar communication (Mork and Mindy style). When we landed he started clapping and said softly, "oh hurray! good landing plane!" He put on his shoes, retrieved his bag and waited his turn to exit the plane. And I think I fell in love with his perspective on things a little. Wherever you are little gnome-like man, I sincerely hope you are still as happy and amazed by life as you were that day. However, to the man with the matted toupee in the seat in front of me? Let it go. You are not sandy blonde, you are not young, hip, and in the late 1970's anymore, and you are not going to convince anyone otherwise.

2. I have made two meals that are exactly the serving size for one person in the past two days. This is quite the feat as I usually cook for a family of 6 at the minimum. Adjusting to cooking for one (okay only down from two, but still, a change) is going better than I imagined. Leftovers are sort of depressing, so I am liking this plenty. Cooking related, I sort of had an unintentional flambe experience last night. My eyebrows are still in place and no fire broke out, but the flame plume was impressive. I know how to keep it exciting, even if it is only exciting to me.

(it was like this, but with me making the "oh shit!" face in the background)

3. Applied myself to applying for jobs today. Sent out four resumes and cover letters and am going to sit with my fingers crossed. Okay, I am going to go to band rehearsal, call a friend, and work on some art instead of sitting, but it felt productive to put myself out there. I am staying fairly upbeat about finding work, or at least surviving on unemployment for now until the magic of the fates bestows upon me a killer position somewhere for a reasonable amount of money. Ah, timing. It really is everything.

Well, You See I Was Trying To Do My Taxes When...

2010-03-03T14:45:00.000-08:00

My printer ran out of black ink, I realized a specific form I needed was no longer in my possession currently, and my internal though process started resembling that of an ADD pre-pubescent boy. Time to take a break.

I am running low on energy, but as you all know, never low on pictures. You also know where this is going.

If you don't already see the winner in this picture look again. Now, imagine approaching life in his manner. Animal print! Thumbs up! One foot forward! That's right, chickadees, be a hand-full from the get-go!

Sexiest. Arrestee. Ever.

I am guilty of occasionally using vaguely internet-like lingo (acronyms such as BTW, OMG, FWIW come to mind) to retardedly comment on things of interest, but when it comes down to it, I fucking hate all the simpleton sounding phrases. And since I am all about harnessing the power of my random rageful leanings I use it for good. Or for snarking about people I hardly know as they walk by my window saying stupid shit and wearing frighteningly ill fitting clothes. I love being a bitch.

When I found this I nearly cried with joy. Stoleyourprozac has a lolcat, people!! (It should be noted that although this cat did take your prozac, it did so only because I carefully trained it to. So really it was me all along and my moniker is still appropriate.)

Hell, I don't know with this one. I thought about discussing hiding from the world, masks we wear, blah, blah, blah... really I just like this picture and hokey costume items.

I'm going to go create a Hall and Oates Pandora station now and pretend these picture heavy dealy-bobs count as a real post. HUZZAH.

A Post From A Month Ago: Last Night Was A Doozy

2010-02-18T16:40:00.000-08:00

I wrote this last month after a particularly shite evening. I am posting it now, because a bit of time has passed and I have been mulling over the traits of various women in my family and in my life. How we each approach and deal with hardships and bad news. This is most recently felt and observed because my grandmother passed away and I am seeing the reactions and fallout. I have blogged about her before here. Being strong and being sad and letting tears fall or not fall is certainly on my mind. So, here is what I wrote for Last Night Was A Doozy:

And it is all Grand Torino's fault.

So I sometimes make a pact with myself not to cry about things for certain amount of time. Once in college I said three months with no tears. Four dry months went by. Recently I made an agreement to be very, very, very strong and to not give in to my tears too often, even as my heart broke and my marriage crumbled. Movies and happy tears have been excused from this, but the real tears... the drops that don't just mist, but fall; the swollen eyes and blotchy-chest tears I refused to let out. Maybe a stray one spilled for the briefest of moments or that one time I drank too much and let loose the existential angst waterworks, but day to day I. Do. Not. Cry.

It has been important to me to demonstrate how in control I am. When everything around me swirls in confusing, angry patterns I can have say over my reaction. Years ago the control manifested in the ways I have mentioned before. The self-abuse was key and allowed me to control simple things, even if it ended up hurting quite badly. But now that I treat myself nicely and so often am found smiling, I chose to put the reins on my tears.

I am getting a divorce and until tonight I have not truly cried real, big, painful, unlimited tears. Even now they pool in my eyes and I swipe them away. Annoyed. Sad. Soft underbelly bullshit.

Someone asked me tonight if moving out of AM and my shared home is going to be an emotional thing for me and I said "no, not at all. I closed my heart off long ago and I am ready to leave." I really believed myself when I first said it, but now a few hours later... I am taking on the weight of what it means.

Five minutes ago I was standing in my bathroom, tears streaming saying over and over "You failed. You failed at marriage, Anna. You are a failure." I let myself feel it very deeply and for the smallest glimpse of time I thought of self-injury. It is still there, after all this work and time. Ten seconds later I was back to pep-talk mode and believing that yes, I can do this and yes, it will be okay, etc.

It all started with Clint Eastwood and the movie "Grand Torino". I watched it tonight in bed with the covers up to my armpits and Kiki Dee attempting to snuggle my head. I misted over for the movie, but it triggered the tears that only real life knows and can summon. The cute white cat that every night tries to fall asleep on my pillow and next to my face will no longer be in my life. The boxes that have to be packed loom before me. The man I thought I was going to be with forever, snores in the back room as he has for months on end now, as I lay alone. Everything is changing. Nothing is as I thought it would be. And FUCK, IT HURTS.

So I cried. Sober, ocean filling tears. I let them be accurate and I let go of the pretend control I have over the emotions of something this sad. It deserves tears. I don't want to cry much more (though I am sure I will at some point) and think I might have purged something very deep in me so that perhaps the next time I cry it will be less. But I don't really know.

I know I am not a failure. I realize I am the best version of me I've ever known to date. I also know that honoring the pain and heartbreak of this decision is not weak or a loss of control. It just makes my eyes hurt and my lids to be awfully puffy the next day. That I can handle.

Tardy For The Party

2010-02-15T19:49:00.001-08:00

I don't actually like that phrase, "tardy for the party." In fact I think I might hate it. Why would I use it then, I suppose would be the natural progression of my hypothetical conversation I have with my audience. Well, I am terribly glad you asked! (In my vivid imagination you are holding a small notepad to record my response. But hey, guess what? You don't need to jot it down, because I am WRITING IT ALL DOWN HERE, ON THIS BLOG. Internet/wackadoodle mind of Stoleyourprozac garners another win!) Sometimes, I use phrasiology that grates on me and others in an attempt to illuminate my strong sense of irony and humor. SEE, I AM FUNNY AND LOVABLE.

It is going to be a ALL CAPS kind of post, so just get used to it now. NOW.

The party for which I am tardy for is Valentine's Day. This wasn't one I was particularly pumped about say... a month or five ago? A heart that breaks slowly and having to reestablish an identity free of marriage will do that to a person. Turns out, the name or date of a day doesn't really mean shit; however, I still love... love. Dammit, I do. I see all these dear friends of mine planning weddings, writing love songs, making babies, celebrating years upon years... and I like it. I might be a bit shattered and just managing to keep my own heart together with a somewhat shredded fishing net, a wire tie from a bag of bread, and the elastic band from a fake pirate eye patch, but it works okay. I still pump blood and maybe, just maybe am able to enjoy glimmers of new affection.

Wait, did I just go a paragraph without caps-lock on? I AM THE FLIGHTIEST BITCH WHEN WRITING SOMETIMES, SERIOUSLY. Okay, I think we are better now.

So I have some Valentine related pictures to share. Let's bring them on stage now, shall we? (THE ANSWER IS YES.)

Titled "Ventricle Vessel" you can find it here at Tsunami Glass Works (Um, yeah, I just linked it. That is of course the extent of my linkage today likely, but I keep track of the few blogger brownie points I accumulate. ALL FOUR OF THEM.) (Hmm, caps-lock is even starting to annoy me now... perhaps a respite is in order. OR NOT! Aha!)

(Please keep reading my blog, even though I am annoying and plagued with limited desire to harbor any sense of self-control.)

I actually sent this as the body of an email to someone. What? Said person is very much fine. It was merely an observation of fact.

Okay, so the romantic in me would love to set this up, make a card indicating a significant other should visit its location (e.g. "Your presence is requested on the corner of 6th and St. Helens Ave at 7pm on the 14th of February") or create a treasure hunt for the person I care for to find among other hidden-in-plain-sight symbols of affection.

The moral of this story is simple really. A belief in love endures, even when the way I expect it to manifest changes dramatically. I haven't a clue if romantic love is near or far for me, but I certainly believe it exists and that alone makes me hopeful and happy.

Also, someone brought me flowers, and I totally swooned. I AM AN EASY SWOON, OKAY? It felt wonderful though.

Tulips and roses and orchids, oh my! (Yes, this a picture I took of them.)

I wish you a (tardy) day, month, life of love from friends, family, and if you want it, from someone special. You certainly all deserve the happiness you crave or have already found, built, and nurtured. To all of us:

Playing House

2010-02-04T12:06:00.000-08:00

I have a new apartment and it is all mine and I love it. I started moving on Monday and am completely done as of yesterday. My cat is slightly unsure of it all and has spent much time under the bed or weaving in-between my ankles, never not in physical contact as I walk around straightening things.

Here is a sneak-peak blurry picture I took yesterday. These are the apartment's first flowers. A dear friend brought them by and they just look so happy sitting there. Love them.

So, once I get a bit more organized, etc I will also get back to blogging more often again I hope. Give me a few more days to lure my cat out from under the bed, cook my first real meal, and dance around in my underpants a few more times, singing "I did it! I did it!"

Lastly, thank you for the support that many of you have provided, whether it be through comments on this here site, private emails, calls... It has made this transition immeasurably easier and more hopeful than it might have been.

I Never Liked That Stupid Game Anyway

2010-01-29T11:59:00.001-08:00

There are a few major life changes that are going on in the Stoleyourprozac universe lately and as always, my body is noting them. All of them. In unique and specific ways. (Here is where I turn into an old lady and list my ailments.) My face is reminiscent of a teenager, my hair is frizzing out daily, and as always is the case when I have to deal with things that are emotional, my digestive track is all, "let's play red-light/green-light, but not actually tell you when we are changing the light." Fuuuuck.

Red Light: Most of my stress is from getting ready to move to my own apartment. I am doing it all pretty much alone and although it is going very smoothly so far, the toll of coming across unused wedding invitations, old photos, and the like is, uh.... DUDE, IT SUCKS SO HARD. And it hurts and I don't really have any tears for it, but man oh man can my stomach knot up and just sit there like a grumpy toad. Arms crossed, refusing to move, and majorly scowling. That was much of yesterday.

Green Light: Then suddenly, umm... a shift occurs (oh god, is this post seriously about whether or not I can take a crap due to stress? Just... wow.) and serious gurgling and movement starts. And I then shit myself wild for the next 14 hours straight.

It's been great fun around here.

But my new apartment is fucking cute as hell and has all these built-ins and lots of sunlight. I know that once I am settled in and out of this emotional (and gastric) purgatory, I will be back on top.

On top of what, we are not so clear about, but let's not question the slightly dehydrated, overwrought, redhead today. Let's just feed her Malox and weak tea, and give her sweet compliments about her appearance that may or may not be true.

Yep, I totally look like this today.

There Are Real Post Written, But It Isn't Time For Them Yet

2010-01-24T12:00:00.000-08:00

So instead of my emotion based rantings, I give you some youtube videos. Enjoy, chickadees.

Time Is On My Side (I Wish It Would Get Off)

2010-01-19T16:05:00.000-08:00

This was the subject line to an email to a friend, but only having one person read it was not enough to satiate my desire for attention regarding tiny witticisms. That pretty much explains why I have a blog at all, now that I think about it. Also, I have a lot of time to dawdle away lately.

BUT, I have some hopeful news on the job hunt front, and although I realize saying anything about it on such a public forum might potentially jinx it, I just have to gush a little. It is one of those perfect storms. (Which is meant to be a positive metaphor, since I love the rain. Keep up, people.) I really want the job and I have someone with a notable amount of clout advocating for me. It feels awfully nice to have some hope about employment for a few days, even if it doesn't pan out in the end.

I am currently listening to a band called Royksopp, and even though I am about a decade late on the pick-up (their album Melody A.M., which is the one I am listening to, was released in 2001), the light use of auto-tune is not driving me batty. No small feat.

Have we established that this is going to be another directionless entry? I think so, but I just wanted to clear that up incase you were wondering.

My band's first real show is tomorrow and I am sort of vibrating with slightly elevated adrenaline levels. I am walking around doing my normal to-do items, but with a fuzzy feeling in my joints, pulsing very lightly. WHEEE, cheap highs are cool by me. It is going to be a great show, I can feel it, but being in front of all these people I know and respect makes me nervous. I really want people to like what we are doing and I hate the idea of falling flat or friends nodding and saying "yeah, that was really great" just to placate me (and my bandmates) if we are weaksauce. I think it helps me to imagine the worst case scenario. I can't say exactly how this is beneficial at all, but the nervous nellie in me won't shut-up, so I guess I have to make her useful somehow. Even if it is bit of chimera. So, if you haven't looked us up, here we are online: The Visceral

The other day, I stopped by a place I used to haunt all the time. I have made a few appearances lately and although I was rather nervous about peoples reactions to me showing up, things were completely fine, and my worries were for naught. In fact, the sweetest thing happened. A few people there have picked up on the fact that AM and I have been going through some very hard times and that the nature of our relationship is changing and being redefined. I didn't know if people would take sides, shun me, get way too fucking nosey, etc. Consistently people have been graceful and kind (okay there are a few I sorta want to spit on, but I think I wanted to spit on them anyway), letting us figure it out. So, there I was at the bar ordering a beer, standing next to someone I have always liked, but was never particularly close to. He is a middle-age black man, always impeccably dressed and possessing very kind eyes that he hides behind sunglasses. We always say hello and exchange pleasantries/updates and a quick hug. I assumed that day would be no different. We greeted one another and then mid-sentence he stopped, looked at me and said, "Girl, come here. We don't need words, do we?" And then he gave me a hug like never before. It wasn't lecherous, lest you get the wrong idea. It just was supportive, protective and caring. An "actions speak louder than words" moment. I got a little verkelmpt and leaned in. He just held me for a moment and then we smiled at each other and said "yeah."

I have been trying to remember to take my vitamins regularly and always get a kick out of how it turns my pee from pale yellow (I am hydrated, bitches) to sort of NEON pale yellow. I feel like a mutant superhero, or some shit. I AM RADIO-ACTIVE, MUTHAFUCKAS.

I think I have consumed no less than five cups of tea today. Caffeinated tea. Nerves and caffeine is making me want to have an impromptu dance party!! Won't you join me?

I Have No Idea Why I Want To Have a Post Title With Spud Mackenzie In It, But I Do. So There.

2010-01-12T02:39:00.001-08:00

It is nearing on 3am and I can't sleep. I have managed, as I so often do when given lenient schedules, to flip-flop my sleeping hours to only occur during the early to mid morning. I start to actually get tired around 4am and finally asleep by 5. Then I wake up every hour or so until 9, check my email, maybe make some tea. I often crawl back into bed by 11:30, totally exhausted and pass out for an hour or two. Fucking ridiculous. But the wacky, light sleep does lead me to thinking about Spuds MacKenzie in the the wee hours, which is kind of fun, right? I GOT FREE ASSOCIATION ON LOCKDOWN, bitches.

So. Do I actually have anything to say? Yes. Am I feeling articulate enough to elaborate? Nope.

Things I was going to cover:

1. How much I have changed since I started this blog. How the blog itself has morphed and changed to reflect this.

2. How I wonder about someone reading old stuff, today for the first time and how they might then get a slightly off perception of me.

3. A universal theory of physics. That I developed on my own.

It was going to be pretty badass with its heavy emotional and intellectual content. But now I am just going for pretty. And badass. And meaty. And then WHOA.

Oh my god, I just want to go to sleep.

Pep Talk To Myself

2010-01-06T23:11:00.000-08:00

I am getting really good at being strong. Not physically strong, of course. In fact, I think my arms were sore for two days after carrying four heavy grocery bags barely two blocks recently. I mean, I am mentally and emotionally capable of dealing with loads of shit in ways I never was before. And let me tell you, there is shit everywhere these days. Okay, well I need different imagery, but you get the idea. I have had so many sleepless nights in the last 6 months... nights fraught with worry and anger. Days filled with moving forward as much as life allows, which often is not particularly far and frequently I get pulled back behind where I was even further. Losing my job was a huge blow. I am glad to be rid of it, but the timing was just about the worst ever. Pretty much the moment I had some money in my savings account dedicated to a very important use in my near future I had to let go of that plan. It is now my emergency survival fund as opposed to the deposit and first months rent in a new place.

This reality keeps me stuck like a lightning bug in a jar. I have some grass and a twig, but there is no escape until the fates release me. I can flicker all night long, but to no avail if no one sees me or if they think it isn't such a bad deal being contained like this. I know, I am being esoteric with my metaphors here.

I am one of those people that avoids getting angry as much as possible. I don't like to raise my voice, I don't like being cruel or cutting to another person. However, I know I have a depth of rage in me about some of the things that have happened in my life. The things no one asks for, never wishes on another, but they happen anyway. Rape, manic-depression, job loss, watching someone choose substances over their relationship with you for just too long... What I am learning about myself is that I am finally capable of taking the hurt and anger and using it for something greater than it really is. (Giving myself a little slack when I provide someone with a piece of my mind doesn't hurt either.) I never pretend that I have it all figured out or that I am some pro at dealing with the fucked up parts, but I am able to see the progress I have made and how much better off I am these days.

Ya know, just harnessing the power and energy of life's shit-storms on the regular.

I really gotta get better metaphors around here.

1. I Make Lists 2. For They Are Good 3. Even If Uneeded

2010-01-04T21:22:00.000-08:00

A. Phrases I have said repeatedly over days or weeks for often totally unclear reasons:

1. Katarina Witt (which I pronounced "Vitt" as it should be). This is my first memory of a persistent word or phrase that I would say over and over in my mind that occurred with no triggering reason. I was in 6th grade and I remember sitting at my desk in my remarkably boyish looking outfit (consisting of an oversized striped t-shirt, oversized plaid shorts and vans. This was also the year I wore turtlenecks under a fitted blazer to school. I guess I couldn't decide if I was a skater wannabe or a professor in training.) and being called on during class. Turns out Katarina Witt was not the answer to the simple math question I was requested to solve and it took multiple verbal summersaults to get out the correct answer.

2. Deutschland uber alles. Mostly the "uber alles" part. This happened the other day as I was wiping down the kitchen, changing the music playing on my computer and adjusting my resume's objective section for a possible job. I was not singing the German national anthem or anything, just letting the words ping around my brain, echoing each time they hit a preferred neuron, I guess. Germany above all.

3. Subcutaneous. College. I am glad that one was short-lived, as that word gives me the heebie-jeebies.

4. Coin. This stems from when I was young my older sister pointed out any word could sound weird and not actually like a word you would be inclined to use in conversation if you say it over and over enough. Her proof of this was for her to say the word coin 10-15 times in a row and leave me with this groundbreaking discovery (hey, I was 6), and boy-howdy did it fascinate me. I said it over and over out loud and then, when told to shut-up at the dinner table (I certainly don't blame them) I just set it on internal repeat. That word still sounds odd to me to this day.

I am not too OCD-ish otherwise. Just let me organize my MnM's/Jelly Belly's by color, wash my hands 5-6 times per day (okay sometimes more, BUT THAT'S JUST GOOD HYGIENE), and find a measure of solace in completing menial tasks in a particular order.

B. Firsts (inspired by a much more eloquent post about firsts by Petunia Faced Girl)

1. First time I got the wind knocked out of me: Also my first day of kindergarten. I was running around a corner just as Michael Whoshisface was rounding the same corner in the other direction. I was notably smaller than he and down I went hitting the checkered linoleum floor on my back. I promptly thought I was dying. Drama ensued. I never forgave Michael for that as well as for having the same birth date as me. HE STOLE EVERYTHING FUN FROM ME was my stance for a good year. Punkass.

2. First kiss: My first real lip-lock was with my then Junior High boyfriend. We had been sweatily holding hands as we walked home for a couple of weeks and hugging before we parted ways. Each day the hug lingered, we touch foreheads, but neither of us would go for it. My girlfriends had all been kissed (one had her boyfriend make out with her bellybutton. I still do not like that image.) and were pestering "when is it gonna happen, already!" One lovely blue sky day we stopped where we always stopped, on the sidewalk right outside of the park we always walked through. When we said our goodbyes, I was never aware of the world around us. Puppy-love did a number on me, that's for damn sure. It was just always him. And me. We engaged in our silly little mating dance of laughter, closeness, bad british accents, quietness, and longing. I haven't the slightest clue who leaned in first or even how the kiss finally came about. I just know it did and I was never the same. The best part was that as we separated from this new and awesome lip to lip thing, someone across the street hollered "WHOOOO!" We were shook out of our revery and giggled like the school kids we were. The accolades may have been unrelated, but I like to think that some homebound weirdo was rooting for us each afternoon and got a kick out of us finally going for it (stopping short of the possible pedophile thing, of course). It was simple and sweet and once I was around the corner and out of my first's vision range I clicked my heels and then ran with a shit-eating grin plastered on my face the five blocks left home.

(Source)

First desired professions: I wanted to be Mrs. Bon Marche (why I had to marry "Mr. Good Market" and couldn't just be the CEO on my own was rather telling of the times, no? In my later years I made up for this by being a totally kickass feminist) and get to run the store, speak french, and wear awesome clothes all the time. Also I wanted to be a detective as well as a broadway star singing show-tunes every night. Not necessarily in that order, but these first vocational leanings occurred roughly around the same time. (Alright, then it isn't really a "first" then is it, rather a series of firsts, but we are flexible here at Ward of the State of Mind. Except when it comes to Jelly Belly organization.) Now if I could just find a profession that wraps all these up into one I might actually know what they fuck I am supposed to be doing professionally in my life today.

Ugh, I am tired of this post. And hungry. And my drink glass is empty. I NOW PROCLAIM THIS POST COMPLETE.

Things Made of Stuff. Wrought From Other Stuff/Things.

2010-01-03T16:54:00.000-08:00

Today is national articulation day, if you can't already tell. Also, here is a bunch of random shit that I thought about as I wrote it. TA-DAH.

1. I am yet again battling a swollen gland/throat affliction and am all, um, 2010 has been 2/3rds sickness already. Great. Which is sort of unfair to 2010 as there have only been 3 days so far, but I thought I had an agreement (with who, I am not sure) about strange viruses decreasing in frequency and severity in this coming year. I should probably be happy that my joints are not attacking themselves and AM is not having to help me get dressed and I am not breaking down into tears every time I try to walk up and down the stairs because it hurts and WON'T THE DOCTOR PLEASE EXPLAIN THIS, I AM PRETTY SURE THAT IS YOUR JOB, as was the case last year near this time. That was hell. Okay, perspective.

2. The first words out of my mouth this morning were "what on God's green earth?" My alarm sounded at 5:30 in the morning and as I reached to turn it off that is what I blurted out. (What could have possibly possessed me to set my alarm for 5:30a.m. on a Sunday? I have absolutely no idea.) It is rather quaint sounding of me to use that phrase as normally I would have opted for slightly more vulgar terms. Definitely would have thrown a "fuck" in there, bare minimum. I think all the Prairie Home Companion that has been playing in my home is having a vaguely Lutheran-y restraint/aw-shucks effect on my language.

3. I keep having brief pockets of brain twitchy, emo-ness where I just mentally flop about like a fish out of water who is rapidly giving up the fight to find the river again. There is no pattern to it, so I haven't figured out how to predict its appearance. Suddenly I am disconnected and floating above everything with questions, questions, questions. Just bonk me on the head already life, and let's move on to frying me up with lemons and capers or some tasty campfire/cook-with-beer recipe. (Hmm, I took that metaphor too far and now it makes no sense, but I am hungry for fish now. Which if I follow this to its logical conclusion sort of means I want to eat my own brain/emotive state. BRAINS!!!! Self Cannibalizing Zombie on the loose!! Which I suppose I don't have to warn you about, because I am only eating myself. Scary warning rescinded.)

4. (That was a fun rabbit hole, no? I think so.)

5. On New Years Eve I went on a date with myself (gotta woo that brain before you nosh on it. [I just can't let it go, can I?]) with a book about George S. Patton and a couple beers at The Fox & Goose Pubic House. 20-30 minutes before midnight, I was invited repeatedly to various tables after many pitchers of beer were consumed by those table's patrons and many strange looks were thrown my way. You could just see the "WTF" thought bubbles above their heads as the evening wore on. After politely declining numerous invites, I said "oh hell, why not?" to the table that seemed to be having the most enjoyable time talking intensely, smiling, laughing and guzzling beer. In the brief time I was hanging out with them I was able to get three awesome book recommendations, people committed to coming out to MY BAND'S FIRST SHOW, a midnight (and chaste) kiss from a stranger, and heady conversation about supporting local arts and music and the ultimate purpose of art. It was fifteen kinds of fun and silly as well as remarkably information dense and passionate.

6. The only resolutions I have made are to use the the word "tits" as a confirmation of coolness phrase (e.g. If a friend tells me about a great meal he had, I can happily reply "tits!" so as to convey I am glad for him and think it is rad that he enjoyed said meal so much) and to find a reason to use the word "fisticuffs" more often. I am all about vocabulary enhancement for the new year.

7. Why is there no sex allowed in the champagne room? If ever there was a room for sex, I would think the champagne room would be it, or at least next door to it, so you could wobble your happy little butt over and get it on. Someone should look into this. But not me.

Today Was Eventful In Its Own Special "Only In My Head" Way

2009-12-27T17:36:00.000-08:00

I was eating an apple turnover today and after I took a bite I set it on the corner of the table (I do not know why) while I reached for my tall glass of cow-juice (nice imagery, huh?). As I tilted the glass to my lips I saw the apple compote spill out of the opening I had made with my last bite. Everything turned all slow motion-like and I said "Nooooooooooo!!" as I reached out to save the fruity goodness. I then realized that things had not in fact turned slo-mo-like, but rather I perceived it this way because the fruit guts of the turnover were quite gooey and thus moved at a very plodding pace. I was tricked to believe time had slowed down by an apple pastry.

Have I mentioned I am sick and had just woke up from a nap when this all occurred? Yeah, that still doesn't give me a good out, but perhaps a little lenience can be allowed.

During my nap I dreamt about a friend that I have not seen in the flesh for a good 10 years give or take, coming to visit me at my parent's house in Washington. He showed up with approximately four garment bags stuffed full and proceeded to change his clothes three times over the course of 20 minutes (in dream time, which has absolutely no bearing on reality time. Also, YAY DREAMS). He asked for advise on what to wear on a date with my sister (not my real-life one, but the extra one I have in my dreams. Again, whoa dreams). I pulled out some button down shirts and nixed them. I found a baseball shirt with a rather intricate diagram/flowchart on how to determine if what you want to do is okay by social standards. The only part I remember clearly stated the following in blue and red script: "Is the person you are asking if your actions are okay, smart?" "Yes" pointed to this bubble: "Follow their advice, they are most likely guiding you in the right direction" "No" pointed to: "They're stupid? Fuck 'em. Do whatever the fuck you want."

I cannot say this enough or with adequate emphasis, I NEED THIS SHIRT.

(above shirt is not as close to as rad as I need it to be, but you get the idea. Also google image search can only do so much.)

Before this epic nap adventure took place, I was on the couch bemoaning my sore throat and swollen glands to my cats (as no one else was around) and ended up wrapping my scarf around my head a few times in an effort to warm up my ears and thus up my overall body temperature. I had this sort of hip turban look going on, I am certain. The cats were less than impressed, but dude, they are cats. Nothing other than hunks of tuna, catnip and string actually gets them aroused in any fashion anyway. I took no offense and drifted off into my own personal turban wearing land of nod.

This was all well and good until some sleep shifting occurred and I woke up with start. (In my dream someone was running towards me with a jousting stick, or whatever the hell those scary, large pointed medieval accessories are referred to as.) I sort of lurched forward, only to find that one of the end of my scarf was tangled beneath me. This would have been fine had the rest not been coiled around my neck in a rather constricting manner. There was a battle between me and an inanimate object, from which I reigned victorious, but narrowly so. Fucking scarf, with its innocuous soft warmth and fucking ninja-like thin/longness being all dangerous and shit when you least expect it.

To cope with all the excitement of today, I am going to have a economy size glass of wine and scribble flowchart ideas on scraps of paper. Maybe I will make a flowchart about whether or not you need to make a flowchart to illustrate a point or facilitate a process. That is META, MUTHAFUCKAS!!! And probably has been done a million times over by others and with better graphics than the ones I would come up with.

Oh, and Happy Holidays, or something. Mine can be summed up in the following sentences:

1. I love my niece and nephew.

2. The other family members are pretty cool as well, for just the right intervals of time (not too long, not too short).

3. I am pretty fucking ready for 2010.

4. I got hit on by a Boise State football player on a plane ride and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. He was only 22! (Though cute as hell. Had the tall/dark/handsome thing going for him. Oh, and a southern accent as well as southern gentlemanliness to top it off. He must be used to getting all sorts of positive feedback on planes. I think my "sitting next to you friendliness" paired with my rather short goodbye threw off his sense of game. His parting look after I said "pleasure talking" and walked off was priceless.)

5. I do not like when people I know get hit by cars. It is stressful. (Said person should be alright. He's 89, but built like an ox, as AM puts it.)

6. I ate of lot of cookies.

7. One day was dedicated to solely eating fried pork skin and donuts. Yeah.

8. I got to see snow. Not bad.

I Hate Dory (Dory Was Right)

2009-12-24T19:29:00.000-08:00

I am at a point in my life I never anticipated being at. A crossroads, time of change and uncertainty that is has left me without orientation. My compass rose is malfunctioning and true north could be any which way as far as I am concerned. In the past, my mood and mental health would dictate that during a time like this that I curl up in the fetal position and stay there for as long as possible. Rarely washing my hair, often eating too much or hardly eating at all, and crying buckets in ragged tones. Ya know, clinical depression, or whatever the doctors were calling it at the time.

However, this time through the confusion and sadness, something is different. Something palpable and good.

I have so many unknowns flitting around in my head . Where am I going to find a job? When? Will I be able to afford a new place to live? Will my mood suddenly collapse? Am I going to loose friends? The questions are nearly constant. A buzzing, humming noise in my mind. It is always there, but is most noticeable when everything else is quiet. Needless to say, I listen to a lot of Pandora lately. The unending circle of questions results in something new however. I have answers that I keep saying to myself: It will work out, it always does. I’ll be fine. I am strong enough for this. I will keep going.

I cannot count how many times I have said these words out loud to the reflection in the mirror or the even more multiplied times I have repeated them as my mantra, silently before bed. Laying in the relative dark, city lights seeping in the crack of the windows just as the questions seep into the cracks of my mind.

My way of coping with loss is different than ever before as well. In times past of emotional turmoil I have resorted to tears, self-abuse, copious amounts of alcohol and a near constant verbal assault on myself. I’m no good, I don’t deserve happiness, I am a failure. People's support and willingness to love and help and listen was seen, but not understood. It was just another way I was a burden. I hated to rely on anyone, I hated to ask for help, say I wasn’t okay.

Alright, so some things haven’t changed too drastically. Asking for help, love, support takes epic amounts of energy, nerve wear and hours, days of contemplation. There is a certain amount of perceived control that is lost in the action of saying, “I am not enough on my own, and I need help”. You must understand, coming from the family I do, giving up control is sort of like giving up a limb or two for absolutely no reason. Who would do that?

"Hey Anna, why did you shear off your right arm and leg?"

"Oh, just to see what it’s like."

NO. That simply does not make sense, thus it is not done.

But I have asked for help. And I got it.

Before I did any of this though, I decided I was going to keep moving. I was not going to let the sadness and scariness of what may be, stop me in my tracks.

Everyday I set goals for myself in order to keep going. Some days it involves applying for at least three new jobs, and writing the corresponding cover letters. Other days it is cleaning house, cooking dinner, practicing music. There are days where I start with one simple goal and once it is accomplished, I set another one. Incremental steps that get me out of bed, and often times showered and relatively productive. In the mornings sometime I have to set goals like “I am going to count to 5 and then get out of bed." Some days I have to count to 1000 in various increments of time before I actually get out of bed, but I don’t beat myself up about it too much. I just get up and set the next goal. In 10 seconds I am going to put pants on, etc.

Which leads me to realizing that Dory, from “Finding Nemo” was right all along. When you are lost, just keep swimming. When you are scared, just keep swimming. When you don’t know what comes next, just keep swimming. Just. Keep. Going. Pretty soon you find yourself dressed, fed, contacting loved ones, laughing, singing, writing, and perhaps dipping into the occasional dark alley of the mind, but walking back out in time. I hate that I can take all my life concerns, boil them down and realize the basic answer is to quote a fucking cheesy Pixar movie. Although, let's be real, it was a pretty good movie…

Silly For Silly's Sake (And My Mental Health)

2009-12-10T17:24:00.000-08:00

(click on the picture to read the text better)

Superpoop is one of the greatest online comics ever. DO NOT ARGUE ME ON THIS POINT. Chances are I will contradict myself soon enough anyway.

This is how I am tempted to approach all of life's challenges. I shall just hammer them to pieces until they yield to my will. Or they become a pile of broken plastic. Whatever. Also note I have pliers and a screwdriver. Do not fuck with me anymore universe, for I am prepared to assemble Ikea furniture. What? I need an allen wrench? I HATE EVERYTHING.
Click to embiggen. I forgot to keep the link to the source for this poster. I suck at blogging, okay. What's new?
The day I realized I was probably getting canned from work I did exactly this. I stayed in the dark for a few hours, burrowed under the covers with just my nose and eyes showing, not moving at all and wondering what else could go haywire. I gave myself one evening for this kind of moping. Now I am driven and energetic and mope on the go! Sitting on the couch sending emails! While going for a walk for no reason! Shopping for groceries! All prime mobile-moping opportunities. It is way different then staying in bed.
I never liked the owl trend. The "ORLY?" owls as well as pretty much all of the kitschy, 60's retro owls that were plastered on all hipster items just didn't do it for me. These owls, though? These owls rock my face off.
I don't really have to ask because I already know what the answer will be to the question "Who wants to take a sled-ride in their jammies on a rainbow that originates from the crotch of some floating sky-man?" I know, EVERYONE. Line starts behind me!

And thus concludes the latest installment of: Anna collects random ass pictures/the internet has no lack of WTF.

Sometimes When You Start Writing What Comes Out Is Not What You Expected

2009-12-09T20:12:00.000-08:00

I meant this to be a subtle mulling over of greater desires in life, but I got real specific, real soon. I give you, Whoa Is Me. (Yes, Whoa, spelled that way, not woe. It's funny, so just go with it.)

Everyone is looking, searching for something. A lost button on a shirt, a soulmate, a cheap but functioning car. I am searching for a job again. I am also thus searching for what my professional calling is. I really, REALLY want to be done in the field I have been working for... oh god, eight years. The thing is, I am quite good at what I do most of the time. I work long hours, come up with super creative ways to address behavior concerns of kiddos with developmental disabilities, can train a new tutor like it was nothing, and build relationships with intention and empathy. The area I fail in time and time again is the nit-picking bits. The items I feel take energy and purpose away from the ultimate goal (independence and self-assurance for my clients) annoy me, frustrate me and ultimately, trip me up. The constant additional paperwork that the supervisors who forgot what it is like to be in the field all the time assign, the accounting for every last minute of all work completed in triplicate (at the minimum), and the expectation that you will learn all of the intricacies of policy and operation with no flaws whatsoever. And it's funny, because ultimately I actually love details. I love making sure everything is covered and taken care of. Generally speaking, I thrive on these elements, but when you are told to spend 75% of your time making direct visits (face to face with consumers), but are still expected to have all the tedious paper and electronic work completed without full compensation, one gets a little... grumpy. Now, it should be noted that my previous employer (yes, I was let go) was pretty much the best company I have worked for, but there are pervasive elements in the field of ABA that no matter how wonderful your company may be cannot be avoided. Nature of the beast, or something like that.

I will miss my kiddos. They were amazing, and well on the way of their loosely linked path to independence and personal success. Wildly variant, I learned the most from them over the years. I have loved them deeply, all the while playing the professionals role. Did they know? Brief glimpses told me yes, but the majority of the time I spent with them I was enforcer, trainer, teacher with a mission, etc. I have had a kid within five minutes of my arrival grab my work bag (3/4s of his body weight), drag it to the front door, and start waving goodbye. Yeah, love you too, you stinkbutt. But I would always stay and by the end of the session be giving tickles, making silly faces, learning how to put on shoes, playing appropriately with the Ironman action figure, or practicing saying "mama".

So it turns out I focused too much on ideas, hopes, and innovation and forgot to track my time perfectly. And guess in which area you are not allowed second chances? You got it right. And it was my fault so I have no one to point fingers at besides this miffed redhead. I hate to know my passion also sabotages my success. I asked point blank if my confession of personal strife (details withheld from readers because I said so) had effected their perception of me as well as the quality of my work so much that it was over for me. The answer was no. They didn't want to lose me and would have liked to have worked to develop me professionally, but when a company has a no tolerance policy...

And here I am, unemployed again and SO ready to do something... different. It is time. I have applied for a few positions already and will apply for even more tomorrow and the next day until I get what I am looking for. Okay, until I get a reasonable offer if we are gonna get real about it, but I do hope it is brand new to me and at least for a little while, fulfilling in a novel way. I need a tabula rasa to scribble my abilities on and see my marks, not anyone else's.

A girl can hope.

I Got Nada.

2009-12-07T00:12:00.001-08:00

'cept for some pictures that reference The Beatles. Look, it has been a long few weeks and promises to be a long many more. Breaks need to be given. Also, this shit is funny.

How Much Is Too Much

2009-11-11T17:11:00.000-08:00

I am an over-sharer. Once I get talking or typing I will spill much more than in required by circumstance and divulge intimate pieces of my life and my opinion with reckless abandon. And it is not so much that I innately trust some people, I pretty much have no qualms about rehashing my entire 5th grade experience, my concern about my GI track, or pronouncing my perspective on things I know little of to quite a range of people. The sweet and caring drunk older lady at the bar that one night a few months ago who played confess-your-deep-dark-secrets with me. The awesome family members that put up with infrequent phone calls versus random gut spilling emails. Girlfriends who know that I have a tendency to dominate a conversation if I am not conscious of maintaining the balance. (Luckily most of the women I surround myself with are loudmouths too, who have no issue with shooshing me so they can have the spotlight for a bit. We all know that this is acceptable etiquette during repartee.)

I have gotten better, in a way, about not spilling the beans about whatever my little heart desires (minus during heated, beer swilling evenings) at the drop of a hat. Now I insert a pause and perhaps a few questions to the other person before running my mouth.

Which brings me to this blog. I pretty much only do stream of consciousness writing. I open a page, start typing and see what happens. There's a lot happening lately that needs an outlet, and if I really let myself I could post all sorts of entries. But the time isn't right. I don't know if it will ever be right. I might get there one day, but may well have moved on from blogging by then to writing novels or poetry in bathroom stalls. You never can tell.

(source)

It feels weird to self edit as the things I can write about keep shrinking. If I talk about work, I risk client confidentiality; if I blab about the personal lives of myself and friends, I risk the friendships themselves; if I put it all out there, I could cause some strong reactions (and by no means sparkling and positive in nature). So now I have all these ideas running around in my head, eating their own tails and nipping other's ankles. Is it possible that I am learning a lesson about restraint and timing? I think this may be the case and its not a bad deal. It makes for lackluster posts until I can find some random foible of daily life that no one cares if I rant in detail about, but I think we will all live.

Why the Modigliani Face?

2009-10-27T20:56:00.000-07:00

I keep trying to turn the corners of my mouth up, but today it is not working. No, no, no, not at all. Even my stupid art joke of a title doesn't do anything for me and I LOVE bad puns, especially if they have a snobbish reference in them.

It is as though the muscle relaxer I took over 24 hours ago (whoa, the muscle spasms lately) is still lingering in my face. But not so much my brain, because although it may be feeling rather lackluster in mood it seems to be spitting out all sorts of random shit at normal speeds. I can feel that the grey matter is maintaining its weight atop my shoulders, but damned if I can figure out what the hell it is scheming up there.

It amazes me that something so integral to my entire concept of self can be such a fucking mystery at times. When my body does weird-ass shit and my mood plummets I get this distorted way of looking at things. It is as though I am looking at everything I do, people I interact with from above, or away from myself. Watching me, as though in a movie, with one goofy perspective.

Another strange side-effect of a crummy disposition and the sorta-sickies that are plaguing me (get it? Plaguing-->plague-->sick. This play on words has never been done before, I am sure of it.) is the sudden sensitivity to the most random of stimuli. The smell of popcorn in the office (co-workers, seriously, three bags in one hour!?) makes me want to puke in someone's desk drawer next to their post-it notes and paperclips. My own internal monologue seems really EMPHATIC suddenly, but I can't make myself not hear it as LOUD NOISES.

Today, I got into a shouting match, with my brain between my perceived external persona and my brain's narrator. It was all kinds of WHOA.

External Me: Hey brain voice, do you know you are shouting the email you are trying to compose? You needn't do that.

Brain Narrator: ACTUALLY, I DO RIGHT NOW. IT IS HELPING YOU FOCUS. JUST TRUST ME.

EM: I do not feel HELPED right now. In fact it feels like the opposite.

BN: NO, THIS IS A GOOD THING. THIS WAY YOU CANNOT HEAR THE USELESS BANTER OF OTHERS. SEE? IT IS ONLY ME SHOUTING. GREAT, HUH?

EM: (rubbing temples) That makes NO FUCKING SENSE, BRAIN. Please, just go back to normal volume. I promise I will stay focused.

BN: NOT YET. I AM REALLY SEEMING TO GET THE HANG OF THIS LOUD THING. GONNA RUN WITH IT FOR THE NEXT FEW HOURS.

EM: FINE. Just don't mind me when I box my own ears.

BN: WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER HOW AWESOME WE ARE BEING RIGHT NOW.

(this is what I imagine it would look like if re-inacted by a small asian child and a bovine-like animal)

And then my brain asploded. It's been happening a lot lately.

Distraction Action

2009-10-20T18:56:00.000-07:00

This post is purely an excuse to take a break from working on lesson planning sheets. I have about 55 to write by the end of the week and my brain is starting to make a "ffzztz-fztzz" noise. WHEEEEE!

Look, I know this looks creepy and has every potential to smell really bad, but the truth remains: I want to go to there.

FINALLY! It is about time someone drew up the anatomy of Godzilla. I mean anthropologists, come on! And to think you called yourself scientists up to this point. Pfff.

I am going to attempt to use the word peapod more often from here on out. Try it. It feels really, really good to say. (Oh, that's just me? Fine, I will say it as much as I please and you can have the other vegetables. Have fun with cabbage.)

I love this anthropomorphized penguin ever so.

Heheh. I mean, don't be this guy. Too much.

This post did not take nearly enough time to fully distract me from my actual responsibilities. Thus I shall now make a mix CD for some poor SOB.

What!? I Am Not Peter Pan's Hot Sister That Also Never Has To Grow Up?

2009-10-18T11:01:00.000-07:00

I keep thinking I would blog about growing up in an eloquent, I'm not just stringing a litany of complaints together way. I am not sure I am there yet, but I just gotta get this out.

"Everybody knows

It sucks to grow up
And everybody does
It's so weird to be back here.
Let me tell you what
The years go on and
We're still fighting it, we're still fighting it
You'll try and try and one day you'll fly
Away from me

Ben Folds knows what's up in this regard. We all know how hard it is to take on the trappings of adulthood and not go fucking insane every once and a while. Go on a bender of excess, irresponsibility, shortsightedness. But we also can't stay young and cared for by others forever. In fact we resist it mightily for much of our formative years only to figure out how fucking sweet we had it once we flounced out of our self-described 18-and-under prison and experience post-college paying bills and cleaning our own messes (food spills, employment woes, etc) aspect of life.

Hey... so, oops Mom and Dad. I take back the prison comments I used to make. Ha ha. All a joke! More like four-star hotel! Private chef! Personal spa! Chauffeur! (just wondering if the basement is still open?)

I do an adequate job of being a grown-up. I don't call myself a girl very often anymore. I actually say woman without blushing or adding caveats to qualify my statement. But I still struggle to maintain certain expectations about my performance more than I would like. Like waking up from my dreamscapes for work, doing my laundry, sticking to a budget, dressing my age (whatever that means), thinking seriously about home ownership... I watch some of my peers make small people, take on debt for a home and my mind reels. How do they do it without their heads exploding each morning!?!

'Cause I am pretty sure that is what would happen to me if I tried any of that shit.

Baby-steps. Holding down a job, waking up before 10 on weekends of my own volition, planning dinners ahead for the week. And there is nothing like relaxing with a book, candles going, a glass of wine, music low and a clean house in the evening. I do love me a good night out with beers, loud music, late hours and suffering the ensuing headache earned through the debacle of the previous night. Just not every night please. My old joints can't take it, and my stomach lining really insists I cool it. Oh darn, guess I will just stay in and cuddle with the cats. Rough life, I tell ya.

I Am A Study In Psychosomatic EVERYTHING

2009-10-16T18:20:00.000-07:00

If you every wonder how I am doing and have the misfortune of knowing me in real life you don't really have to ask. Just look at my posture, my healthy glow or conversely my pallor, my cuticles... Okay, actually ask me instead of inspecting me like a monkey searching for nits and such, but you get the idea. I can hide my emotions and put awesome make-up to cover up the haggard look I sometimes sport, but too long in the sunlight and it fades. It melts away and my smile doesn't crinkle my eyes like a genuine smile should. It is at this point that people tell me I look tired, or worn out and I nicely resist punching them in their fucking neck.

When my mind is stressed my body is soon to follow. AM and I have a tiff about something trivial? Eczema only on the wedding ring finger. I am under deadline pressure at work and feel overly burdened? Back spasms assault me when I reach for a cup for my tea at the office. Existential angst about my "true calling" or "path"? Insomnia for a week or five. Not being able to afford donations to local NPR station or Loaves and Fishes? Break out the Malox and fiber pills, Mama can't digest her food.

And heaven forbid someone near me get ill, injured or overly stressed. Whatever ailment you have I pick up because I care for you so much my brain makes my body freak out with sympathy pains. Example: I had boyfriend in college who had a family history of bad knees. Here is what happened:

BF: (limps into apartment, sets down soccer gear)

Me: Are you okay? What happened?

BF: I slide tackled (name) before he could score and fucked up my bad knee.

Me: Oh shit, have you iced it yet?

BF: Nah, I should be okay.

Me: Really? Let me get some frozen peas. Just in case. It sorta looks swollen...

Five Hours Later

BF: Uuurgh! This really hurts. Can you grab me some more ibuprofen?

Me: Coming up shortly. (gets up stiffly from couch)

The Next Morning

Me: (waking up, I toss the covers off my legs) What the hell is going on with my knee?

BF: You mean MY knee? I can't bend it still. I think I might go by the doctor.

Me: Umm, no. Look at my knee. Something is going on.

BF: (he looks) Holy shit! Its as swollen as mine almost. Did you hurt it last night?

Me: (flopping back down on the pillows, realizing what it is) No. This is just because I love you.

BF: What?

Me: Sympathy symptoms. I must like you something awful 'cause this hurts a ton.

BF: You're body is weird.

Me: Yes, thank you for pointing it out.

When he twisted it playing soccer and it swelled to epic proportions, my corresponding knee was not far behind. I couldn't bend it and it actually swelled enough that I stopped by the school clinic. I took anti-inflammatories for a week and hobbled about until he was better. Once he was, overnight, the pain was gone. Same thing when he got his wisdom teeth pulled. I couldn't swallow or talk for 48 hours (relief to some I imagine).

So, it's cool and all that I know I can feel very strongly for others (and for my own gerbil on a wheel of a brain), but perhaps there is a way to feel a little less literally. Oh, who am I kidding? If tomorrow I lost this oft inconvenient way of experiencing the world I would feel... lost, disconnected, numbed. And, let's be honest I'd bitch about having lost it just as much as I do about having it in the first place.

But just because you love me and I love you, please do not seriously injure yourself or become intensely ill, thank you. I can only handle so many ailments at a time and right now there seem to be a few more flair-ups than I would like.

Walking Contradiction

2009-10-08T21:29:00.000-07:00

Every person I know changes their mind sometimes. It may be about trivial minutia or big, changing-my-life items. We contradict what we insisted last year we would never be caught dead wearing/doing/believing. My sister used to remind me that when I was in 9th grade I swore up and down that I would never be caught without mascara on and would never smoke pot. Guess which one I stuck with?

Okay, yeah neither.

The point is that we change our opinions all the time. Its normal. However, I sometimes engage in what can only be described as paradoxical behavior. As in, I am believing or engaging in two rather opposite behaviors at or nearly at the same point in time. Exhibit A: I was looking at waist cinchers online (for a Halloween costume idea that requires a tiny waist) while eating a chocolate bar and four servings of garlic melba rounds. Exhibit B: loving the taste of lime in my bloody beer (tomato juice, cheap beer, pepper with a squeeze of lime), but finding the lime in my menudo (tripe soup with tomato base broth) to be completely gross. Two similar versions of lime in tomato only six days apart is a completely different experience somehow.

The more serious types of incompatible thoughts are of course the projection judgments I place on others, decrying their inconsiderate nature, disgusting habits, etc all while knowing deep down I share a bond with them for these very same behaviors. Stealing, cheating, lying. We have all done some variation of these, and perhaps while hiding it from the world as best we can we are pointing fingers at someone else.

I watch someone bite their cuticles and I want to vomit. I get nervous about a deadline at work and suddenly, as long as I hide doing it (sort of) it is not so gross. The list goes on a long time and I do have some deeper, scarier things that I am not even willing to fully face (or put on my blog at least) that swim in the depths where light barely filters through to. Freud talked about defense mechanisms of the ego (in order for the ego to survive it has to create and live in a world of defense mechanisms) and as outdated as much of his interpretations of the internal world are nowadays, I find myself going back to these ideas. Hell, much of my blog could be called one big intellectualization of my emotions. Not as in, "I am awfully smart and reflective aren't I?" but more so in that I distance myself through analysis and attempt an objective standpoint so all the touchy stuff isn't so damn sensitive. And it works. Sometimes.

God, where the fuck was this going? Umm, humans are weird and confusing and judgey, including me? Yes. Yes, I think that is it.

I am going to push publish now and pretend that this post is better than is actually is. Is that denial? Repressions? Rationalization? Another resounding YES.

Playing Dress Up

2009-10-01T23:32:00.000-07:00

Halloween, the greatest holiday pretty much ever is nearly upon us and I do not know what I am going as this year. Last year I was Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction post-OD from snorting heroin with syringe extruding from my breastplate. It was awesome. The year prior I was Beetlejuice from the movie of the same name with greenish/yellowish hair, striped pants and killer make-up. Again, awesome.

(some further adjustments were made after this quickie photobooth shot, but you get the idea)

This year I am at a loss. Anything that involves being dead or almost dead is clearly high up on the list, but I just haven't been struck by inspiration yet and I am getting nervous. I want this year to be epic and thus I am culling the extensive knowledge of my readership (all four of you) for ideas. Ready, set, COMMENT.

Winning idea gets a beer on me.

My Little Bride

2009-09-27T16:05:00.000-07:00

My grandma is dying. At a faster rate than the last 15 years, which were at a faster rate than her first 60, give or take a few. Much faster now.

I have known that her Crohn's Disease, the crippling arthritis that bent her spine, her extended morphine addiction, loss of hearing and deteriorating vision will take her completely from us one day. I have known for years now and I think I have accepted that depressing reality. Her body has stolen from her and from all of us. It is so strange to watch the slow progression of near constant pain take more and more of her corporal being from the people left to see it.

(Ohop Valley where my grandparents farm is located)

I miss a great deal of it living the distance away that I do. It probably gives me a buffer and will make her passing less of a striking impact on my life. I take no comfort in that truth. If anything I wonder if the distance I have established from these familial relations risks a great deal of closeness, love and feelings I could be sharing, experiencing... I don't want to get the phone call that she is gone and wonder what I am supposed to feel. But I probably will. And I will tell people out loud that I am thankful she was taken from the pain, safe in the knowledge that it was her time, blah, blah blah. I will also be pinching my own leg under the table. See, you still know how to feel, I will reassure myself.

Someone that will be feeling too much will be my grandfather. He will feel so much that he will cease to feel anything but the loss. Now, I readily acknowledge that I idolize my grandpa. I have always said that I do not use the word hero for anyone but Lucille Ball and My Grandpa. I decided that when I was young and it stuck. So yeah, my hero is going to loose his wife. And it is going to ruin him.

It is a strong statement, but entirely true. How do I know? Easy. My grandma has spent much of the last 6 months in a nursing home in an attempt to have her put on weight, heal deep and infected bedsores, receive physical and medication therapy, etc and every single day my 87 year old grandpa drives 45-60 minutes from their farm to the nursing home, spends 6-10 hours by her side and then late at night drives home. Alone. He has yet to miss a day as far as we know.

(That's actually great gramps. Photo by my uncle. Find him here. )

He became the staff favorite within days, no doubt in part to his "awe shucks" amicableness and simultaneous old soul/really listens to what you say-ness, but mostly because he so clearly loves my grandma. He has the taken to referring to her with the staff as "my little bride." As in, "take care of my little bride," "we gotta make sure my little bride is getting better," or "how's my little bride doing today?"

Yeah.

He has other pet names for her that only recently came to light in front of the family because he shows his soft side with the nursing assistants. Maybe when my mom, aunt and uncle were young they heard these endearments, but chances are they weren't privy to this inside world either until now. As lovely as he has always been as a grandpa, I know little of his parenting or his married life. And it's not mine to know beyond what they let us see.

My little bride. And she is little, even more now than ever. She used to stand at 5'7" and 120 pounds. Tall, thin, regally hosting dinners at times, dirty and sweaty from the zucchini patch at others. And my Grandpa no doubt has flashes of all those times and more as he tries to get a response from her hunched and nearly gone from this world frame. His love... boggles, inspires, hurts, repairs all at the same time.

What I will feel, regardless of close or far, will pale so dramatically in comparison to his loss it will risk disappearing. And I am glad. I am glad that his love for her is so powerful. I don't pretend to understand their relationship. It is foreign in too many ways to account for, but I understand what he means when he uses those terms of affection. It resonates like Shakespeare or Rumi.

Translated as best I can, My Little Bride:

Your being sustains me, gives me order, thrills me, breaks me, has been next to me for decades (millennia), is all I know, and I cannot bear the thought of losing this gift. I do not know how to live without you. If you disappear, will I also? I think I might. I love you my little bride. I love what we have had, as the farmhand on your family's homestead that teased the farmer's daughter and promised to come back for you after the war. I love you here and now in this smelly, sterile building I drive to and from where you are fading from me daily. I love you in all the in-betweens we spent together that only you and I really know. I learned love with you and I am scared to love without you. So I won't. When you leave me, us I will pack away my heart for the hereafter. I will save it for you as I always have and I will come to you again.

True Life: Random Happens

2009-09-25T15:13:00.000-07:00

Some true tidbits from today:

After my shower I was toweling off in the hallway (don't ask) and I suddenly knelt down on the floor next to my slightly affected cat and sang loudly "THE FINAL COUNTDOWN!" I then stood back up, walked into the bedroom and looked in the closet for what I wanted to wear.

While rifling through a drawer for a shirt I came across a pair of panties and thought, "Hmm, underpants. What a concept." I AM NOT KIDDING. Who thinks these things? (other than me, clearly.) I am proud to say I am in full undergarment regalia today.

I made 18 phone-calls in a row to clients, employees and funding sources for work. Back to back to back to back to... Well you get the idea. I hate the phone intensely and get all sweaty and annoyed when I have to talk to that many people (or their voicemail) in a row. Then again, pretty much anything makes me sweaty and annoyed, so perhaps this last tidbit lacks the required randomness I was going for.

I made the thickest steak I have ever cooked the other night and the leftovers will not quit. Today I took a hunk and thinly sliced it to nom on. Very tasty and I went back for seconds. Which I followed by eating three spoonfuls of peanut-butter and two glasses of milk. My stomach wants to punch me in the face. Too bad for you GI track my brain controls voluntary movement of my limbs!! HA.

Tonight has lots of promise for a continued trend of WTF.

This Could Essentially Be a Tweet It Is So Short In Nature

2009-09-03T00:03:00.000-07:00

I have threatened The Universe with my wrath more than once today if certain events transpire. I also bargained, pleaded, and perhaps briefly cussed out the Cosmos. I intend to maintain my stance that me holding a grudge against All That Is ranks as a pretty frickin' huge threat because though I may be diminutive in thought, word and deed I know some people. People you don't want on your bad side. Like the Russians. YEAH, pretty sure everything will turn up roses since I had my little chat with the Macrocosm.

And for good measure here is a tweet from earlier today with the added bonus of pictures:

sometimes when I worry about a loved one I visualize my brain as a burrowing animal, displacing dirt rapidly & accomplishing little.

Pretty Ones and Zeros

2009-08-24T21:36:00.000-07:00

My anal retentive side loves organizing jellybeans by flavor. Like, I zen out on that shit. And then get a massive sugar rush because I ate half of them while organizing. Oops.

It's not so much that I have a crush on this vintage nerd as it is I respect the shit out of him. ACCORDION PLAYERS ARE AWESOME. It is a well known fact among hot redheads, but lesser known to the masses. It is my job to educate in the ways of accordion pride (and occasional lust. Fine, you got me.)

No idea. I just like the color.

I would wear every single pair of these ankle boots. In fact I think I may have a version of the top black pair. Vintage ads never fail.

These gals are my new best friends, they just haven't been informed yet. But they will know when I find them, dressed as a dancing peacock with a pumpkin in tow. Then all will be revealed and we shall frolic in fields of gold as scripture spake. Or Sting sang about. One of the two. I am too busy collecting feathers to check.

Editors note: I have no idea why some of my words are underlined and others aren't. Let's pretend there is a conspiracy theory that explains it all. When you have figured it out let me know in comments. Which means it will always remain a mystery because I have no one that comments. /echos into internet infinity-void.

Wanting To Be Electric

2009-08-16T23:23:00.000-07:00

Because if I were I could simply plug in to a wall outlet and recharge. My little battery percentage status would blink 100% when I was ready and I would receive equally effective and accurate warning when my levels approached dangerously low. Instead of this highly controlled measurement system I operate in a world of "that was the third night in a row I hardly slept" and "what can someone make for dinner from panchetta, mustard, two slices of bread, and a carrot, because said person hasn't had time to go to the grocery store in a well over a week?" And my current favorite "acquiring deep, dark bruises when a the fluffy cat laid on your leg for 15 minutes. OMG WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO MY BODY. I think I might be DYING."

(art is titled "a pile of bruises" and be found here)

Yeah, it is time to attend to my health again. And a sanity check in with a therapist probably wouldn't hurt. And a spa day. In the south of France. Alright, spas and transcontinental travel is not so much a realistic option, but I did go the the GNC section of Rite-Aid today and stock up on my ulcer prevention meds, Malox, multi-vitamins, omega-3 fish oil pills. (Confession, I actually like the "tuna burps" those things give you. No one around me does, but I do.) I have a habit of starting medication and supplements and sticking with it for as long as it takes me to get back to well. After the anemia fades and the stomach cramps are gone I invariably get lax in my approach to healthy regimens and ho-ho's and pickles for lunch and dinner seems totally okay.

Drool....

Ummm, yeah that sounded so good I sorta went cross-eyed. I'm back now.

It always seems like recharging, attending to personal health, caring for your own person enough to actually treat it like a temple (or at the very least a nice museum or theater) should not be so dang hard. Why is it that I will have to schedule on my calendar what days I will go for a walk/run/die/sweat-fest and finally call the doctor to ask about the bruises, exema, and lethargy after saying I will do it tomorrow everyday for the last month? It would be in my best interest to take care of myself, but it is just one more damn thing I have to do. Hell, most days I come home from work so exhausted that I cannot think past getting my pants off of my being and having a glass of wine while I let my glazed-over eyes flit through the comments on Jezebel and Awkward Family Photos. Adult responsibilities can pretty much suck it as far as I am concerned at that point in the day.

The short-term effect is great. I get a little buzz before dinner, don't have to think too hard for 45 minutes and forget about the t0-do list. The long-term effects can really bite you in the ass though, huh? Laundry piles up to frightening proportions, you end up with more of a tolerance for wine than a gal your size should have and for me the anxiety kicks in at full blast, often in the middle of the night. Since I have been off pretty much all pharmaceuticals for 8 months now I don't have the "oh, I'll just pop a sedative and coast through the hellish landscape of panic attacks" option anymore. I keep some Ativan around just in case I really start to go sideways, but ideally I have been able to address the root causes and thus engage in preventative measures against those very moments. Until I lose focus and forget to keep apace with getting my shit taken care of.

It is no fun to be reminded that for as much of a blast as it is to work-hard, play-hard it is simply not an equation that is compatible to my system for long. Wishing I could leech energy from some easily accessible source and then just keep truckin' along ends up being kind of a lame desire after a bit of consideration. Perhaps if I put in the effort now to discover some of those recharging aspects within me I won't have to keep wishing and hoping for some saving grace from places outside of me. And I like the idea of that better than being an appliance any day.

This Is Not Really How I Feel

2009-07-22T12:15:00.000-07:00

Angry Cats Are Awesome.

When You Put Your iTunes On Random and It Plays The Cure Anyway

2009-07-13T22:35:00.000-07:00

I know I wanted to blog, but I wasn't sure what about. So I did my nails (and am now attempting to not get polish on my board with each keystroke), and put iTunes on random to see what it pulled up. That should inspire me, right?

It should be noted that I have been listening to The Cure pretty obsessively lately and purposefully did not opt for that particular heavy rotation band this evening. It then makes sense that when I opened up the iTunes application and hit play "Pictures of You" started streaming out of my weakling Mac speakers and I just had to wryly smiled to myself. Yes, of course coincidence allowed this to occur. Too bad I don't buy into the idea of reason or coincidence for moments like this because at the end of the day the science of statistics (variable frequency of item A, when item A occurs in conjunction with variable items B through Z, etc) is my bread and butter. I trust data, I trust numbers and I trust patterns.

The contradiction I struggle with after asserting that if all that IS (as in exists), is mathematics where is the meaning? (Does it depend on the what the meaning of is, is? thank you Bill Clinton for putting that question into the ether so effectively.) I have been working on creating personal relevancy to my actions a lot lately (as well as trying to balance the risk of new-agey bullshit with the hope for purpose) and would not mind feelings stronger about any of it.

So I mentioned "God-Girl" in my last post, who really did drive me up the fucking wall. She was nutso. But this is where I hedge, because through her extreme example I saw what I would never have again. That delicious, unwavering, core-strength faith in why things are. Yeah, maybe you can't explain it all, but you believe in its reason by the virtue of your overall faith in god. I used to have this. I used to (in a palatable manner I hoped) witness my faith to others. I was the youth homily-giver on numerous occasion at my various churches as I grew up. I spent hours on my knees praying and willing what I very much wanted to be true into existence. For a small period of time I actually thought I was called. As in called to serve and go to seminary. As in me as a pastor. STOP LAUGHING. Actually, keep laughing, because it is more bearable that way.

It hit me part way through my weird willingness to read Kierkegaard for my own personal growth when I was 16 years old that what I was most attracted to was the study of it, the questions I would get to ask and explore, the teaching of my interpretation to others. And the talking. Having a captive and willing audience appealed to me much in the way that I adored acting and singing. Power and the esteem of others are heady fucking drugs. And I was good at it. I have the gift of gab and I would have used it not for faith (though I am sure I would have convinced myself of it much of the time), but for glory, and that would be a chimera if ever there was one.

So now I am on the other side of things. Doubting, quick to explain away based on the here and now, math, frustrated that I can't get that 'belief in more' feeling back. But then my favorite song by The Cure plays and it has meaning damn-it. Not as in, God Willed This Song To Play or some batshit crazy reasoning like that, but that I love that song and it resonates with me and perhaps that is all the meaning I should be after. If I have given it meaning through experience, then I need not look for more.

Jeezy-chreezy, fresh and breezy, this has been some heavy shit. I think a post about not wearing pants or --HOLY SHIT, now iTunes is throwing down with Jeff Buckley. OKAY YOU WIN UNIVERSE. I am just a woman (more on the girl/woman identification issue soon) trying to relax at the end of a long day, not some cosmic seer or some damn shit.

Let's De-clutter this MutherFucker

2009-07-12T15:23:00.001-07:00

(WELL IT ALMOST RHYMES and I don't have time for your hoitey-toitey grammer rules anyhoo.)

There are times when I clean house purely as a procrastination method. I will pay the bills and write those thank you letters today! .... Right after I scour the bathtub and huff the mixing chemical fumes, followed by changing the sheets and vacuuming the furniture. Then I can really FOCUS on those letters. Yeah....

Today, yes there are all the loose ends, the week is almost starting and shit-I-have-15-things-I-need-done-by-8p.m.-tonight. BUTT, by which I mean but, I am really trying to keep a positive outlook on things and it is very hard to get my ass aligned with the universe when there is fucking cat spit-up on my floor.

And the truth is I despise cleaning. I pawn it off on anyone else I can. Hell, I even paid a pretty penny for a young, energetic, sanitizing goddess to come in a month ago and go to town on my place. And it changed my life (on a stack of Bibles). I was able to relax when I came home from work, not immediately going into a litany of cleaning jobs to foist onto AM the moment my eyes rested on the crumbs on the chair or the cat hair wafting in the summer evening breeze by the open window. That appears to have a dirty hand-print on the sill -I SWEAR TO GOD I HAVE MAIMED FOR LESS PEOPLE.

Where was I? Oh right, becoming one with the cosmos. The truth is for all my attitude and tone I really am feeling motivation most days to make something meaningful out of my time. Put myself out there more, tell people that they are important to me, talk to the cashier at Safeway about her niece and nephew, and staying on top of the dust quotient at home makes those overtures that much easier to come by.

Not to say that I didn't snark about the guy who's ample front and backside were spilling forth from all his articles of clothing as he bought bacon. I still live in an elitist bubble most of the time, entry into which requires various hazing procedures, etc. And certainly not to say that I don't heave a great big sigh, as dramatic and herculean as they come about the toils of life, the blue days, the cobwebs so high up the wall we can't reach them. Those suckers can really get a girl contemplating the gloomier elements of conscious living.

Further, I have to physically restrain myself from accosting anyone who walks around with the phrase "turn that frown upside down" or statistics about the number of muscle it takes to "make those sad faces." I wonder how many muscles it takes me to bitch slap the positive out of you? Yeah, so I am kinda on shaky ground in regards to taking "character flaws" and turning them into "attributes." Which is a conversation I have had twice in the last two days.

Just as long as I don't become one of THOSE people. I remember this gal from college who's sunny disposition knew no bounds. She had a smile on her face at all times and was quick to attribute anything nice or pleasant to the grandeur of God. She, on numerous occasion came up to me and stated "Aren't you just so thankful for today! God really is an awesome God." Then she would turn on her Keds clad feet and bounce away with the smile that only someone on the good shit should have. We called her God-Girl and it was not in a complimentary way. She was straight-up possessed.

That ain't gonna happen in my world anytime soon. What I am actively working on is setting goals and the stage markers to know where I am in relation to those goals. I had focused for so long on just getting employed, just staying healthy for a few months, just scraping by that I forgot all about drive and motivation and.... Well, let's face it, thinking about a future in a realistic way at all wasn't even on the table 6 months ago. Now it is and I am enjoying it.

Of course first I really must finish the dishes before I start planning my slow, but determined accent to the toppermost of the poppermost.

Faux-Family

2009-07-10T02:07:00.000-07:00

I have a fake family. It is new and strange and no else I have met has something quite like it. I almost worry that by mentioning I risk it. It goes like this: there are people that you meet in life that you just get immediately. Neither party can explain it and to the outside world it probably looks fucking weird. Really? You get along? You feel comfortable around this person? We watch cartoons and eat homemade brownies together. Yes. YES.

And it is brand new to me, this layered, lovely thing. How does one get welcomed in to an already existing entity like a family unit? The answer is I don't know. What I do know is that I have found a very sweet experience. We get together and do vaguely domestic things. We play house in a way. But this is no regular house, nor would I want it to be.

I am coming closer and closer to understanding that my wants and expectations of life don't line up very well with the larger populations outlined playbook. I don't buy into many of the lines drawn about this or that. I don't want kids, even though I adore them and think at times I would be a pretty bitchin' mom. End of the day, I don't want to be, but that doesn't mean I don't possess that maternal pulse. I use some of it in the work I do each day which is a very gratifying thing. So in this new opportunity I mostly just am, but I care for this little, crazy family. Fuck, I adore them. It triggers this slow, soft part of me. The part that listens, doesn't need to talk incessantly. The part that watches carefully, that takes it in and simplifies when possible.

AM taught me a phrase that I hold very dear. "Family is as family does." I consider myself lucky in that I have some blood relatives that are amazing, connected and dear. I also have the gift of individuals I have met along the way that exceed the bounds of acquaintance or best bud. They cross over into the realm of humans that I love outright, no questions asked, will do whatever is needed. And they are the ones that last.

Is my little faux-family part of that circle? I wouldn't say that yet, but at the same time I have abiding feelings of hope, trust and a presentness that you just don't come across that often. So here's to the unaligned ones, the ones we cherish, the ones that belong in a way all their own. These are my people and I raise a glass of milk (to go with the brownies) to them.

I think I am in love

2009-07-08T20:48:00.001-07:00

Aw, hell. I know it. Just check out this art. And then check out his website. It is sweetass.

FULLARTON

this guy is amazing.

Composition Books

2009-07-06T19:46:00.000-07:00

As per usual I have taken a leisurely attitude toward posting regularly. I am not too worried about it nowadays and figure writing happens, just like shit, so no major worries on when. It comes out in the end (ba-dum-BUM!).

Hell, the only real reason I am getting my prose-based ducks all lined up is because a good friend reminded me what fun blogging can be again. And I ain't knocking all the talented people who I have on my blogroll and beyond that post almost everyday, but let's face facts: I don't know you. I know the internet you and that is all there is. It is different to have a physical being you love to get drinks with and talk till all hours, etc. that is also a blogger. You can check her out here: Happy Formula

It is not to say that I haven't been writing copious amounts of drivel like my more hefty posting months imply I am capable of. I just haven't been writing it down. It is a very weird habit I have of being out somewhere and composing a full, edited post in my mind (even with breaks for the pictures I think I would want) and then never revisiting it again. I go to the extreme of picturing the blogspot layout preview page as I "type." In my imagination. Yeah...

And then there is the stuff that I have written down on paper and it sure as shit isn't getting posted here. Which may beg the question "really? you have been holding back about stuff? Cuz I am pretty sure you have emotionally vomited all over this sucker the whole way through." I hear you, but yes there is plenty that gets edited out. Maybe one day it will find its way, but much of it need time. Distance, perspective and all that thoughtful shit.

But I want to keep this interesting so I am going to scan some pages from my old composition books from college. They are self-indulgent ramblings, so not far off from everything else I have written before and since.

Here is one cover in all its beauty:

And here is a page. Fucking upside down. Hey, fuck you scanner. When I saved the pic and even adjusted the Gamma and Saturation and Sepia I apparently could not figure out how to rotate it and keep it that way. Suck a nut, scanner.

Translated is reads:

words we like & what they mean

hedonistic: pleasure seeking

analogous; similar in certain respects

indemnify: compensate

sophistry: deceptive, false arguments

immutable: unchangeable

chimera: fantasy

I subscribed to the royal "We" even back then. Good to know. Next:

And translated it reads:

there's a silk shirt i know

that lures me close, but i am

not sure why

i sit and watch and listen a bit

more absorbing and

w/ it all comes what!?

i need a good rattle

i need a good shake

i need you to come over

and breath me awake

what is it that is not filled in

there is a color that is

missing

some caress i crave that i

cannot have

because laws and mores

and folkways forbid

and the song i love he is starting

to play.

as though he knows my quiet

smile was telling him so

What makes me laugh the most (out of the numerous embarrassingly available options presented) is my favorite part is the bit that rhymes and bounces along all cadence-conscious.

Oh, that and I apparently did not believe in punctuation, had crushes on men in silk shirts (really? I am blushing right now), and was a horndog back then too who liked to use her psychology and sociology terms in tangential ramblings. Of course in the end I like that part of me a smidge. She wasn't so bad, though the writing leaves much to be desired. I can look back at all the pages and know that as plodding, clumsy and word drunk I may have been, I meant it all, word by word.

Just as I clearly meant everything implied in this picture from those same days:

Guilty of the Laze About

2009-06-18T20:24:00.000-07:00

Plenty to write but not so much on the energy. So lets laugh instead.

Is it bad of me to realize I would completely love this song (more) if the words were different? I just am into the Doors that much, okay?

Andy Williams Is A Hot Bitch

2009-05-31T20:26:00.000-07:00

I am sitting on the couch having finished a report for work and am now swinging with an Andy Williams LP. I don't care how schmaltzy his work is considered to be by, well pretty much everyone, I feel rather strongly that Andy is in the Hot Bitch category. Think about it, if everyone has rightly asserted he is cheesy, then he knows that too and chances are when he was at is peak he was high on pills, gin and kept the company of salty ladies like myself. He and I would have painted the town red, or at the very least the hotel room.

Here is a picture from a website that I cannot rave about enough:

Ricky slicked back his hair one more time. Yes. He was ready for tonight, and damn, he looked good.

Here is a blurb from the creator to give you an idea of the concept behind it: "Hi.

I’m Dan, and I’m going to take a photo with a LEGO guy every day for an entire year. I love LEGOs, and I love photography – so it only seemed natural to mix them."

There are lots of these 365 day photo projects out there and this one is done incredibly well. He is almost done, so I am glad I am catching it before it is complete. Something about knowing about a sweet-ass project during the process makes my ego shimmer that much more.

Lastly, I have heard rumors that there is various footage of me singing from last weekend and you had better believe I will be posting the shit out of that as soon as I get my hands on it. Mostly because my hair was banging all weekend and these rare occasions need to be documented and used as propaganda.

P.S. Isn't that guitar player dreamy? SWOON.

Placeholder

2009-05-28T23:50:00.000-07:00

I was going to post a superb entry tonight, but it became later than I anticipated rather rapidly and I need some sleep. SO. I have every intention of making it up soon. For now I offer these stunning videos and pictures that I can take no credit for.

There are few songs that have such a visceral trigger for me. Free Fallin' is one. I am immediately transported to Goleta, summer, bikini and the first real feelings of deep love at the same time as deep depression. I am holding the hand of my best girlfriend and we are singing soft harmonies as the sun brings forth a few more freckles. We need not say a word to know the other one knows.

Having seen VAST live a couple of time I can say with confidence that Jon Crosby does in fact

have such a clean voice. Also, he composed all of this and can play all of the instruments. Sigh.

This song has lots of fond memories. Lastly, the fellow in the lace dress playing acoustic guitar

at a show of theirs was way more agro and at one point threw his guitar in the air, missed it,

gashed open his eye and refused treatment. Played the rest of the show with blood running

down his face. Totally RAWK.

Okay Picture Time:

what I want to eat right now:

Edit: WTF with the weird spacing? I don't know. I tried to fix it 4 times, which is 3 more than I usually do, so you are going to just have to suck it up.

For Your Eyes

2009-05-21T14:51:00.000-07:00

Things that are true. And a few that aren't if you are being all skeptical about viking kitties (it will make sense once you scroll down).

Monday: Pants Optional

2009-05-18T16:14:00.000-07:00

With higher temperatures upon us in Sacto I have officially dubbed Mondays as Pant Optional. In fact, I think that I will extend this dress-code relaxing to all days for the rest of the Hell Scape people call summer here.

Roll Call:

1. In observation of the day I have spent much of it sans pants working from the couch and attempting to write reports for work.

2. Why does my face feel it necessary to relive high-school era blemishtopia? I woke up this morning (covered in a thin film of sweat even with the AC kicking in off and on) only to rub my face and marvel at all the small volcanoes that arrived suddenly. Ugh. Body, seriously, knock it off.

3. Enough with hating on my skin. That ain't no way to live. Where my feminists at? I am ready a fairly entertaining historical fiction book entitled The Company:

with which I have one major issue with. It is very much an ensemble cast, but so far all but one of the female characters have "failed" in some manner. Not passed a test that all the men did, is shallow and vain to a degree of losing love, life goals, etc. I also recently have heard too many sexist comments about female drivers, unsightly hair, the dangers of a woman PMSing. WHAT THE HELL PEOPLE! In order to recover from this onslaught of lady-bashing I have been refreshing my Jezebel page religiously. Thank goodness Judge Judy is here to mediate the shit out of things.

4. In a strangely fitting musical experience: I have had Tina Turner's "Private Dancer" running on loop in my head for nearly two weeks straight. Nothing like taking a shower and realizing all that I am actually thinking and doing is attempting to faithfully recreate the sensual "oohs" and "ahhs" Tina does halfway through the song while lathering and rinsing.

5. Wants to suggest to Tony Bourdain and his lovely wife that we all get it on french style sexitimes. That man is dreamy. In my pants. Which I am not wearing. Perhaps I will put on pants tomorrow so that I can take them off again when the Bourdain's accept my menage-a-trois offer.

He's thinking about it...

And we're a go!

A Post (In Which) I Anal(yze) Pare(nth)etical Usage

2009-05-04T20:43:00.000-07:00

I read many blogs, mostly authored by women who I admire, laugh with, get emo over the same things, and all around adore. They are mothers, wives, artists, sisters, teachers, editors, single occupancy gals, comediennes, cat lovers, book snobs, politicos, lovers, designers, total strangers... A pretty wide slice of the human experience is represented. What do they all have in common? Near obsessive use of parenthetical statements. We all seem to go GAGA over parentheses (and not Lady Gaga, but like Camilla the Chicken from the Muppets (Gonzo's girlfriend) who's only vocalization other than clucking to express her love of Gonzo is to chant "GAGAGAGA! That is the kind of GAGA I am talking about). See? It is the written way of going off topic, but not really. We are making a point, just in a rather round about, esoteric manner. Which is exactly how many of us talk. My speech is full of digressions from the main theme, illustrative examples, and all other manner of vaguely connected tidbits and puns.

However, I came to a moment in time where I questioned whether or not some people know how to use parenthetical statements correctly (myself included) (and yes, all of the ones in this post are purposeful). For example what I just did with the set of parentheses back to back? Is that allowed? Does it work? Initially I felt a low grade gammer fever over this. I even looked it up (here's a link), but not much came from the research. Least of all guilt about my blatant and excessive reliance on parentheses as a tone modifier in text. Further, I go back to writing the way I talk. And I talk totally rad (clearly).

(click photo for Flickr page)

I try not to abuse my blogging rights too much (they start to whimper, all whiney, bastard-like and it gets tiresome) all the while letting the stream of consciousness mumbo-jumbo rigamarole just be. So, parenthetical statement I am gonna run with you like scissors. (It could be dangerous, but it feels so right.)

Marrow

2009-05-03T17:57:00.000-07:00

Food confession: I eat chicken frequently and usually it is skinless, boneless, mostly healthy, etc. However, I have been know to go on "food binges" during which I become obsessed with eating the same kind of food every day regardless of how terrible it is for me. A prime example is fried chicken. It doesn't even need to be that good, and I will go crazy about it. College roommates no doubt recall with a certain amount of unpleasant queasiness my penanche for fried chicken legs and the manner in which I consumed them. I eat as much of the entire thing as possible. This includes all skin, gristle (which is sort of an onomatopoeia if you think about it), bone nubs and marrow.

AM shakes his head over this and has learned that he might as well offer me his leftover bits, because I will descend on them anyway, in the kitchen as I "do the dishes." I know that some day I will probably die from bone shards cutting up my gastrointestinal track (such a fun name for a section of the body, btw), slowly bleeding out internally, but it will be worth it. Bone marrow is a flavor you just can't find in any other food. I wonder if I nom on bones with such glee due to a freakish vitamin deficiency.... Nah, I will opt to believe that I just have a sort of Cro-Magnon streak in me that just won't quit. Sexy.

So, it can safely be said that this afternoon involved some aggressive bone chomping and greasy fingers. Besides my internet assertions, proof can also be found on the pages of the cheesy murder mystery I read this weekend about a forensic paleontologist. It is titled SKELETON DANCE. I am not kidding.

Flummoxed

2009-04-27T16:59:00.000-07:00

I am not particularly flummoxed per-se, but I have a few "huh. that's interesting" moments today and really, I just don't get enough opportunities to use flummoxed in daily exchanges.

1) I witnessed while in my car driving (which I do a lot of. Like up to two hours a day sometimes) no less than 5 near accidents with risk-taking cyclists. Equally guilty were the drivers of big SUV with way too many blind-spots and undeserved narcissistic road-ownership issues. By the time I got home this evening I was sort of freaked out and looking in my mirrors even more than I normally do. Which is a lot as I am a very conscientious defensive driver and remember from Driver's Ed that you should check your mirrors every 30 to 60 seconds to reappraise road conditions.

2) My local NPR station is doing its fund-drive and I got so emotional about my desire to give contrasted against my iffy financial sense of security (we are on our way, but after a whole year of employment shakiness I kind of want to do some personal savings/debt clearing-up-ness) that I had to change the station. Wow, the guilt was palpable

which brings us to 3) When I changed the radio station I opted for the UC Davis frequency and they were playing obscure B 52's songs. Mood stabilizer! Whew, that was close.

And now this for no reason:

Yarg! I am the dancing, sword wielding dragon man!!! FEAR MEEE!!!! Or just dance the rumba with me. Either is acceptable.

Back on the Horse (with prompting)

2009-04-20T19:54:00.000-07:00

I got tagged:

The rules:

1. Respond and rework. Answer the questions on your blog, replace one question you dislike with a question of your own invention; add a question of your own.

2. Tag eight other un-tagged people.

Why do you blog?

For plenty of reasons, I suppose. Mainly to give some of my more random thoughts and ideas an outlet. I think that fact that other people may in fact read these words encourages me to write a titch better than I would if it were just me spilling to my diary. Also when writing in a journal all the stupid word jokes, puns, etc go unheard and I really just can't abide by that.

Oh and community with others.

Good fika place?

Fika? Like the tree? Similar to Gin is Juiced I was unfamiliar with this term. And I am not gonna lie, I sort of find it pretentious/yuppie way to describe a coffee place I like to go to and dish with friends. That is, of course, what I label all things I don't know about though, so really I am simply defending my sensitive ego by insulting that which I don't understand. Not so hot on my part. I can honestly say I do not remember the last time I went with friends to grab tea or coffee and gab. But if I did, I would go with the Naked Lounge in Sacramento. Best coffee in town and comfy couches abound.

Do you nap a lot?

On weekends and vacations I have been known to do some serious napping. Otherwise I try to avoid it so as not to mess up my night time sleep schedule. I also love a good power nap. 20-30 minutes and I am back on top.

Who was the last person you hugged?
AM. I think he copped a feel too.

If you were a tree, what tree would you be?

The tree of knowledge. I AM KIDDING. I hate questions like this.

Have you ever had an altercation with the police?

I believe I have heatedly discussed a "situation" with a police lady in college during a spring all day campus party, but otherwise, no.

What was the last thing you bought?

A large Thai iced coffee.

What are you listening to right now?

AM is watching an SNL clip on his computer. Weekend Update. Also, the dryer is on. My answers to these questions are incredibly dull. WOW.

What is your favorite weather?

Spring certainly picks my mood up after the low light of winter months, but hardly anything beats the heavenly smell of crisp fall evenings. In other words, I am completely wishy-washy on this issue.

What’s on your bedside table?

Top shelf: Family pictures, candles, some unused meds from before, and a water glass.

Middle shelf: Books, journals, books.

Bottom shelf: Books, basket of nail polishes, books.

I am sensing a theme.

Say something to the person/s who tagged you.

Gin, I would totally fika with you if we lived near one another.

If you could have a house totally paid for, fully furnished anywhere in the world, where would you want it to be?
Somewhere in the bay area sounds fantastic. Hell, I'd be happy with something in Sacto for that matter.

Favorite vacation spot?
Cannon Beach, Seattle, and Paris.

Name the things you can’t live without:

For some reason I am finding this particularly hard to answer. I choose to replace this question with the following:

Why is your nose and head experiencing a dull, throbbing pain?

Because a kid head-butted me in the face today, making direct forehead to nose contact. On accident I believe, but the crunching cartilage noise is still echoing in my brain. I have been delicately touching my face in a bizarre "what good can touching it possibly do, but I can't stop" way ever since.

What would you like to have in your hands right now?
A temperature remote FOR THE WORLD!! (it is seriously hot right now) That or a check for a large sum of money with my name printed clearly and legibly on the Pay-to-the-order-of line.

What is your favorite tea flavor?

Jasmine green tea.

What would you like to get rid of?

My headache and the pile of old clothes that I have been meaning to donate for months that is sitting at the top of the stairs.

If you could go anywhere in the world for the next hour, where would you go?
Somewhere with a view of the ocean and the company of a good friend or a good book sounds mighty tasty right now.

What did you want to become as a child?

A detective. I even had a pretend agency and a briefcase with my "detecting accouterments." Perhaps I did not refer to my notebook, pen and magnifying glass that I carried around in a plastic doctor's visiting bag as accouterments at the time, but you never know.

What do you like better, e-mail or telephone calls?
Emails I think. There are certain special people that I know so well I can hear their voice in each word as I read it and people are often more heartfelt when they write. Perhaps more trusting that they can say things and mean them and be heard. It is awfully hard to interrupt an email from finishing it's thought or to dominate a conversation. These are two things I can be guilty of when talking on the phone.

What do you do when you get time alone?
I take baths, read and do my nails. Also a lot of singing happens, including harmonies with whatever I am listening to up the wazoo. Bathroom acoustics just cannot be stopped!

I don't think I have eight people to tag and truthfully the folks I will tag probably won't want to answer this and post it. The only people I can think of that haven't been tagged already are elitists who insist on having tight reigns over blog content. Which is part of the reason I love them so. Well, just for shits and giggles I will give it a go. Here they are:

LJWMerge

An Island Year

Return to Tacoma

Umm, so that is pretty much it. I would tag Michael Ian Black and Dooce, but I am led to believe they have no idea who I am. Rats!

Fissure

2009-04-07T19:08:00.000-07:00

Applying salve to cracked lips, putty in tack holes and resulting chips, wood glue for the split chair I fell backwards in the other week. Lots of temporary fixes for what are chronic issues, structural weakness that need to be address more forthrightly. But it is cheaper to spackle over it for now.

I look at the various hobbled together things around me and wonder if it might just come crashing down at some point. The car won't accept anymore mileage, the shelf no more books and junkmail, the favorite shirt has no more washes before the threads loosen at the seams to rags.

And what of the internal? This must be just along winded a metaphor right? I am not sure. For as much as I feel I am waiting for some important moment, and the waiting feel tedious so the year seems to have zipped along. Here we are in April. But I did break a chair and then jimmy-rig it into its current state of functioning with glue and sheer counter-force. It works just fine and you can barely tell I smashed it in an ill-advised attempt to "lounge" in a cheap Ikea pine straightback chair while calculating numbers for applying for unemployment.

Now I have a job and a chair that works. So what's my big problem? Here we must go back to the larger structural components and themes. I do something I enjoy and am actually quite good at, but it is not what I dreamed I would be doing at this point. Just more compromises because I don't have enough leverage to go for what I really want. I have too much to give, too much to wonder about, too much to learn to keep pushing the putty back and forth.

Tonight I told AM I am going to start studying for the GRE. It is time. I may not apply to schools by the end of this year, but at least I am going to have the GRE done. I haven't a clue how we will work out me at school, but if I can deal with constantly chapped lips, broken furniture and this intense longing to do what I am meant to than it will work out. Hand me the duct-tape and spray-paint.

The further away from art you get, the less definite the lines, light, and brushstrokes are; however, you lose the sense of individual work and person behind each movement. Which way do we each want to be seen? I'm ready for my close-up. Just let me grab my chapstick real quick...

Filler

2009-03-30T21:47:00.000-07:00

I want to be this man's friend. Unfortunately I think he may not look this rad anymore.

Also, this made me giggle and then snort. Share I must.

HA! Mothra...

Phantom Niece

2009-03-19T21:44:00.000-07:00

Since I just talked about excluding details regarding family it only makes sense that I word-vomit about my adorable, defenseless niece in the context of a family gathering. And for good measure my nephew too. I didn't blog when he was an infant/toddler so I have to make up for lost time.

All glory and praise be to the young relatives!! Not kidding, I experience what I imagine is close to bliss in the moments I get with those two. We play, we babble, we cuddle and I almost burst with love. I recently was in WA for a wedding and niece's birthday #1. I stole away with her and my nephew as much as the rest of my family would allow and good times were had. I carried her around on my hip or cradled her in my lap and read the newly minted five year old his favorite (of the day) book.

Leaving my sister and BIL's house was not pleasant as it meant the people I care for the most but see the least were again in my past. And I won't lie, I wanted more time to explore the world with the kiddos by my side. Catch more tumbling bodies, smell more downy heads, tickles more pudgy feet. I sat very still in the back seat of the car and watched the scenery, willing myself to commit all the words, noises, looks, games to memory. Suddenly I became aware of one of the greatest sensory experiences a person can have. The phantom weight of a child resting on you. Just as roller-coasters leave us whirly feeling hours later so can the steady weight of a child, then removed, linger. Is it some short-term muscle memory? Is my body on the fritz? I don't understand the physiology of it, nor do I care to. I just know that as the car ride continued to the ferry dock I barely moved so as not to disturb the impression left by my sweet redheaded hobit girl.

"and the greatest of these things is love." Can't argue with you on that one Jesus.

A deletion

2009-03-19T20:10:00.001-07:00

This will be a quick note because I have some live music to see and I am morally opposed to attending such events in my pajamas. Which I am currently wearing. Change gonna come, oh yes it is.

Note: I am going to delete a post or two from my blog because I believe they involve personal information regarding people I care for. Clearly, I don't give a rats ass about divulging trade secrets about myself, but I do want to draw the line there. Also, I want my family to be able to read my blog without cringing, shuddering and feeling vague (or acute for that matter) animosity towards me. Not much has actually been said that would cause this reaction I don't think, but I am going to opt on the side of caution and assume it would trip some sensitivity wires. In this case assuming something is way less "ass out of u and me" and way more "protecting the feelings of those I love."

HOWEVER, this does not mean I won't mention you in the future. Especially if you did something I find particularly humorous like my good friend in WA who is a teacher and calls certain students "hot messes." TO THEIR FACE. That is hilarious and needs to be shared with the world without her permission. When she asks her particularly disorganized students why no one chose to be their binder activity partner they studiously reply "because my binder is a hot mess." So what did we learn today? "To not be such a hot mess." Educators take note.

So, it stands at one edited and one deleted. If EVER I cross the line let me know and I will remedy as quick as my ditzy-for-posting-it-in-the-first-place butt can. Assuming I like you. If not, I don't give a fuck.

When I Have My Own Band (Again)

2009-03-11T09:59:00.000-07:00

I just came up with my hitherto nonexistent band's name! The Vacillators. How Fucking Bad-Ass! It came to me in a burst of early morning homemaking mocha genius. Okay, honestly I was sipping a mocha-like drink and in the middle of calling a Med Clinic to see if I could pick up my TB test result from two months ago to prove to my new employer that I am not sick with a highly contagious, gross me out disease when it just appeared before me. This apparition of awesome flitted around briefly before I got my mental butterfly catcher net out and brought that sucker in. Now gassed and pinned down for inspection the name is really showing its potential. I am going to go google search to make sure it isn't already taken and my excitement isn't for naught.

SWEET! I am golden. Now I shall copyright, stake my claim, and otherwise completely pwn this name.

If it isn't obvious why this title to my notational future is so effing candy-sweet then you are not so bright. I feel for you and will thus explain. The definition:

vac·il·late (vs-lt)

intr.v. vac·il·lat·ed, vac·il·lat·ing, vac·il·lates
1. To sway from one side to the other; oscillate.
2. To swing indecisively from one course of action or opinion to another. See Synonyms at hesitate.
[Latin vacillre, vacillt-, to waver.]
vacil·lating·ly adv.
vacil·lation n.
vacil·lator n.

The way I see it is this allows my imaginary band to cash in on multiple aspects of the term. Number 1 is of course the implied changing of course that would frequently occur. If a producer of sounds vacillates it would indicate the styles of songs are likely to shift on a intermittent basis and the freedom to explore new arenas of noise is implicate. No pigeon-holing here. Number 2 is that the definition of vacillate has a rhythmic quality to it. The swaying, movement oriented vibe is good all around. Number 3 is it is fun to say: The Vacillators. Seriously, try it out-loud and tell me it doesn't feel good in a sexy, slippery way.

Look for us on iTunes in the very far, distant, maybe never future.

Copout Post

2009-03-09T16:18:00.001-07:00

I have some post I am working on, but mostly they suck and I am refuse to compromise the quality of this blog that has so clearly been established in the past months. SO. Instead I am going to put up a YouTube streaming musical number that I feel summarizes my entire existence. Seat-belts buckled?

You're welcome.

(An actual post that required effort on my part instead of letting the genius of others reflect on me simply because I have indicated a connection of sorts is in fact in the works. Mostly I am lazy.)

Trans-Octave Burps

2009-03-01T18:15:00.000-08:00

Among my many unemployable skills is the ability to produce multi-tonal gaseous exertions. And I wonder why I don't have a job. Again. Hard learned advice is don't get uncontrollably sick without first notifying your employer weeks in advance and creating "health accommodations." What is that you say? How could I possibly know I was going to be ill and miss chunks of work ahead of time? I know, I thought it was rather demanding and unreasonable too, but as it turns out I have no legal recourse.

So today included continued general malaise, discovering a bump in my armpit that seems to be disconcertingly rapidly developing (probably just a swollen gland), and practicing my burps. I am aiming to be able to hit two different notes as well as whistle. Who wouldn't want to employ this hot mess!?!

Unrelated: Are blogs just an outlet for all of our unvoiced complaints and worries? Supplemental: if so, is that such a bad thing?

Unrelated #2: I am going to start writing music again. It will be moody and tell stories about nightly visions and robots bucking the system. Nothing new on the music scene. Gotta fill the day somehow. Perhaps I will use my mad burping skills and loop it as percussion on GarageBand.

Cure for Pain

2009-03-01T02:04:00.000-08:00

Favorite band and a lovely encore set to be sure. Just enjoy...

Could you be the most beautiful room in the world

2009-02-28T23:49:00.000-08:00

Here are some furniture pieces I am pretty sure exist in my imaginary beach house in the world of unicorns and lost socks.
In no particular order, other than this is how I loaded them onto blogger. Enjoy!

Weird Bumps Under the Bed-sheets (a.k.a. your feet)

2009-02-25T02:09:00.000-08:00

You know how cats never seem to tire of the "bed-micees!!" game? Every other night they scamper up into bed as you snuggle down to rest and pretty soon your toes are being nommed on by a wily cat in no mood to sleep. And so begins the process of gentle shooing away, verbal threats to de-claw, flinging of slippers at the cat's body and then the ultimate kitteh insult, room removal. This usually results in a ticked off feline meowing and scratching to be let back into the bedroom in short order and the foot-atackee breaking their previously asserted iron-will. Thus the cycle may begin again until sleep overtakes all involved.

I mention this as an analogy for how my brain seems to work sometimes. Bear with me, I swear it makes sense. Sort of.

The part of me that wants to stop thinking and get some quality rest = Owner of Cat

The part of me that constantly brings up new and useless topics to think about at obscene hours and won't let go until all ideas and options have been considered = Predatory Cat

If you followed that (as I know you did because my late night logic never fails) then you can also understand the following 1) I do not feel fully in control of my brain, insofar as I cannot shut it off even with cups of tea, threats of auto-lobotomy, or counting backward from 899 when the clock clearly says it is bedtime. 2) It seems to happen incredibly frequently and I have not got any better at dealing with it over the years. 3) I have managed to conceptually separate parts of my brain and brain function from one another, even as I know it is all one mushy mass of fatty grey matter and electric connections.

Thinking about thinking is called metacognition and it is one of my favorite words as well as a generally fun activity It is possible that this is especially when you are a psych nerd as I consider myself. However, I must raise objection to it when I am just reaching full-speed at 3am. Ultimately, I would like to reconcile my joy at having an active and fairly free-association thinking style with being able to exert some control over the operating hours.

I used to be concerned if the wackiness of all the stuff I spend time mentally sifting through was normal. Like, do other people create a pros and cons list of buying generic brand condiments that is as frightfully exhaustive as mine? You'll notice the pass tense thing going on. That is because I am thankfully over deciding what parts of me are crazy. I'm pretty sure the answer is yes in all cases. Now I am focused on adjusting the volume/timing of the nuttiness. Or learning to effectively respond to the intensity of the feline ferocity that is pouncing on my feets.

-and she ends with the same metaphor she started with. Shwing!

Never for money/Always for love

2009-02-12T22:53:00.000-08:00

YES.