10 things...no, make that 12 things...I love.

Sylvan posted this the other day and I've been giving it some thought.

Not numbered, because there's no particular order to these.

I love when my Golden Retriever, Sergio, comes up and lays his head on me as a sign of pure puppy love; melts my heart every time.

I love the fur on my black cat, Cessna's chest. It's the softest thing you will ever feel.

I love belly dance music.

I love my daughter's writing.

I love new school/office supplies (figure that one out...).

I love having several of my critters on my bed at once.

I love the smell of natural lavender.

I love anything big and powerful (I know this doesn't seem to fit the "small things" theme), like a locomotive, a jumbo jet, an aircraft carrier. I'm just fascinated by these engineering wonders. They had a big red crane at the construction site for the new north end of UT's Texas Memorial Stadium the other day. It was one I'd never seen before and it built the big tower crane. I could have pulled up a folding chair and cooler and sat there all day watching this thing...awesome.

I love the early-early morning, with a cup of coffee or tea and no place to be...sitting outside , the only time I really enjoy clear weather.

I love grey, misty, drizzly, cool weather....

I love the feel of notebook paper that's been written on with a ball-point pen, with the paper sitting on other paper while you're writing, so you get that delicious, crinkly feel and the raised writing on the back side of it.

I love the feel of my son's skin, so pure and smooth...but it scares me, too, thinking what he's going to face in life.

Expanded wardrobe

"I wear black until they make something darker" printed on the T-shirt in Book People

I love to wear black, but couldn't for a long time because I have dry scalp...not dandruff, but dry scalp. My experiences with it prove that doctors don't know shit about anything sometimes. I said...dry.scalp...and the PA gives me a prescription for dandruff. *sighs* I try it, and as predicted by my previous experiences, it makes the condition WORSE...fuckers.

But, finally, I think I've discovered the answer.

So far, so good...can't wait to break out the black again.

dance 1

I have always loved to dance, it’s been my preferred way to work out since I don’t know when. Turn the lights off, crank the music up and dance…dance till my sides ache and I drip with sweat. I haven’t done it in a long time, and yes, my body is testament to that failing. But in the wake of meeting Dianne Sylvan for the first time—I am really looking forward to classes with her—she is a sane, rational being and I got to thinking about her series on Conversations with God and the new direction dance could take me.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t expect “Jeff,” or any other manifestation of Deity to pop into my living room and freak my cats out. After all, if one expects deities to come around, they just don’t, do they? Not to mention that it would probably scare the crap out of me and then where would we be—one dead Wiccan and a repentant god/dess. Not at all good for the faith.

I usually start out with music that’s designed to make you move fast and keep moving, but I knew I’d probably pass out, so I flipped thru my CDs to find something a little less energetic. I saw Fleetwood Mac and one of my favorite songs…”The Chain.” Only later, after the lyrics stood out in my mind as being rather fitting, did I check the name of the album...The Dance.

In the past, I’ve used my nocturnal dancing as a transport to other realities. No, not in the airy-fairy out-of-body sense, but fantasies that were nothing but pure escapism. A means by which to escape, if only for an hour or two, my crappy little life. I’ve done this since junior high school, play-acting if you will. Pretending I’m someone else, a guy usually, or myself, but better (or at least better in my own mind). But last night I made a conscious effort to be myself, to not escape into the world of make-believe. I concentrated on me, as I am, trying to draw energy to me, to work out the months of kinks due to inactivity. And talking. To myself, to the other energies in the room, reminding both myself and them just why I was here.

I wondered, if the divine were to manifest itself in my living room, just what would he, she…it? look like? Well, certainly not Sylvan’s teh hawt Jeff. Male? More than likely not, I thought…I need the feminine side of deity now, since most my life I’ve seen God as male. Female, then. Old…young…? At one point I pictured Dawn French in wings and a lopsided tiara as my fairy godmother…and said to the room—I don’t WANT a fairly godmother!!

My son got up and wondered what the racket was…I let him dance with me. At first he tried to mimic what I was doing and I think, given enough help, he’d actually get it after a bit, but I told him, don’t worry about what I’m doing, just dance however you feel like. It made me happy on the inside, like few things do to see him jump and bounce, and try turning jumps, and work in his version of jumping jacks, all woefully off the beat, but he was dancing with mommy and we both felt good about that. We stretched and we crunched; I had to put him to bed twice and promise that I’d start my dancing earlier the next night so he could dance with me. Dawn French was sounding more and more likely.

I danced until I was sweating, I kept dancing, I danced until I laughed…and felt like crying in the same breath. I opened myself to what would come to me…and felt someone else in the room…that feeling when you know someone’s there. At first it was unnerving, but then I concentrated on relaxing and accepting myself for whoever I am and that presence for whoever it is. Perhaps, one day it will decide to let me know who or what it is, but until then I dance.

i been alone
all the years
so many ways to count the tears
i never change
i never will
i'm so afraid the way i feel
days when the rain and the sun are gone
black as night
agony's torn at my heart too long
so afraid
slip and fall and i die
i been alone
always down
no one cared to stay around
i never change
i never will
i'm so afraid the way i feel

(Fleetwood Mac, i’m so afraid)

Serious? Me?

I wonder if all "adult" bloggers go thru a phase wherein they wonder about their existence; moan about their lost skills as writers (as proof that they would have as large a following as Plain Jane or even Dooce *rolls eyes*, if only they were still stellar writers); post trippy little self-emo-izing monologues, memes, and infantile quizzes; and indulge in a plethora of other sophomoric antics guaranteed to drive away all but anyone related to the writer. In my case, I think I've done even that.

Maybe my life just isn't amusing, or perhaps I haven't the skills to turn the mundane into the laughable...but I don't really care. I seem to be the only one who reads my blog, so I'll write for me. Hmmm...now where have I heard that before? Some author wrote somewhere, if you want to write, find the novel you'd like to read and write it...I'm sure I murdered that, but you get the idea.

Today was probably the nail-in-the-coffin for work. My bosses have been for the past 10 ½ years, full bird Air Force colonels, who while they tout family and all that jazz, really have no fucking idea what it’s like to be the one who has to stay home with the kids, while dealing with her own health issues, and possibly a job, too. Late is a four-letter word, at least if you’re a civilian. Everyone else on staff can be late, because of course they get shot at (not that I can think of any one except my current boss out of all the officers and NCOs I’ve worked with over the years who has been close to being shot at (he was in Baghdad for a while)—excepting of course, one who left us to go get shot at, sort of…) and none of the attendance/punctuality rules apply to them. But, my son had a bad sore throat and Mr. Crazy* stayed home with him yesterday, so I stayed today and took him to the doctor. Non-specific (i.e. non-strep) infection, throw antibiotics at it for good measure, with the standard, if-this-is-a-virus-antibiotics-won’t-do-any-good, lecture. Yeah, doc…you’re the one who mentioned the ABs, not I…and if I didn’t understand that WELL before I became your patient? I’d sure as hell know it by now. Muah!

I have a burning question about the houses of neatniks, those born-organized types who never have anything out of place, only have 10 books and gods-forbid any dust on any surface. Where did they hide it all? Or are their lives really that boring? They have no hobbies, they work, come home, feed the kids, wash the kids, put the kids to bed and then spend the time twixt kids and their own bedtime cleaning. As much as I’d like to believe there’s no one out there like this…I know they exist. I’ve seen evidence of them. Or, they keep their one little crafty project in a drawer, or have their sewing room fold up into a spare closet. Pathetic, just pathetic. Where’s the gusto, the cursing as you stub your toe on the foot of the ironing board, positioned just so, next to the patio door, as you let the dog out at 0300? Where is the adventure, the sense of panic when you know someone is coming over?? Safe lives are boring lives, people, get some clutter in your life!! I can help, I can send prepackaged clutter, bottled bookshelf dust, or even a bag of the finest mixed dog and cat fur available! Well, maybe not the clutter…I mean, that would involve sorting it and actually *shudder* getting rid of some of it. Heaven forfend!!

*I’ve played around with all sorts of pseudonyms for my husband here. I hate the ubiquitous DH. Not only can it be misconstrued as Damn Husband, Dumb Husband, Dame Hater, Deer Hugger, and any number of other things that might just flit by, I figure…what if he’s not a Dear? What if he’s a dear only 3% of the time and the rest of the time he’s a Dumb Head? I thought about using his real name, but it’s unusual enough that a simple Google might turn it up. I thought about using Mr and the initials of this blog and it came up Mr CCLITM….ermmmmm…no. So, since he’s married to ME, and that’s proof of his insanity, he’s just Mr Crazy.

habeus corpus

Well, I did some playing around with this Prevention Virtual Model



This is kinda sorta at 18. My boobs were bigger.



This is "now" -- actually, I wish I looked that good. The problem with this thing is the same problem I have with clothes, they do not account for the 50+ woman who looks like she's 8 months preggers...



This is with a "designer" suit on, not too shabby, but once again, no allowance for the huge tummy.



This is if I get down to like...140 or so, I can't remember where I set the weight on this one.

Mrrrt?

I think I might have to change my blog title to "Crazy Cat Lady Meets the World." Meet Cat Number 5. This is Ella who came to live with us yesterday. She kind of went through a lot of names, including Butterball, Butter, Butterfly (??) and a couple of homes. She's been declawed, which in a way is good, because if she hadn't, her last people would have let her outside. She's a very large cat and very friendly...except that now there are OH MY! Other Cats, not to mention OFMG!! WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?!?!?!? No doubt her first thought upon realizing the huge, fluffy, gold lump in the hallway moves. Serg (the huge, fluffy, gold lump) of course is all whoaa...dude, will it play with me?? He wags his tail and stares hopefully at the new addition like a surferdude with high hopes the waves will rise today. But Ella's having none of it, she growls very softly and her tail fluffs to three times its size while keeping a steadfast eye on the moving dustbunny on steroids.

Cessna, The Queen of the Universe, can't hear, so She has to catch sight of the interloper in order to give her a piece of Her mind. This happened this morning while Her Highness was eating said interloper's food. I had to take it away from Her because it's not Her normal food and She was wolfing it...sure signs it would end up on my floor later, and not in its original condition.

So, five cats (not to mention the fluffball on steroids and the other dog)...but I think this is it. The spousal unit begrudgingly gave in, because I was a last resort before the shelter.

Meanwhile, yesterday was marvellous. A whole day with the senior offspring (BSEG). After a trip to Home Despot to get a piece of inch-think pink! foam insulation board, we dug through my rather inflated fabric stash and found several likely candidates for her faux headboard, then took them over to her apartment to see how each looked with her spread, etc. One of them was like, erm...what were we thinking? Another, by itself was...uh, no...one we didn't even hold up, another gave us pause, but we threw it out. Then one we really liked, but it was kind of blah. So I had an idea to take the uh, no and make it a four-inch border around blah...and OMFG! So we did that. I cut the first two strips of the border fabric and then mentally whacked myself upside the head...because I had forgotten to add enough to wrap around the back. So, after redoing my calculations, I cut everything out, sewed it together and then hot-glued it to the foam board, and if I may say so myself, it looked rather awesomely cool. So for 12 bucks (the cost of the foam board, out of which we'll get a couple more projects), we had a designer-look headboard! Joan Steffend, eat your heart out.

erm...

I'll admit I guessed on a few, but this is fairly amazing for one who's never read more than probably 20% of the Bible and is a grimoire-thumpin' Wiccan.

You know the Bible 85%!

Wow! You are awesome! You are a true Biblical scholar, not just a hearer but a personal reader! The books, the characters, the events, the verses - you know it all! You are fantastic!

Ultimate Bible Quiz
Create MySpace Quizzes

Epiphanies

* My mother likes me to come over to see her and spend time with her the same way I get excited as hell when I know my daughter is coming to see me (Note: Unless she’s a weenie and backs out, we’re spending tomorrow together, doing stuff and I’m all trippy and excited today.)

* This is an old epiphany, but I revisited it yesterday. Although I might heartily disagree with your views on creation, the nature of the Divine, etc. Those views are, nonetheless, true. Your reality is not my reality. All of us could be right, none of us could be right. In that sense, truth is a relative thing. An odd thought just hit me. What if there is a separate reality for each of us? 6 billion planes of existence…and that’s just for this planet. Okay…psycho-rambling alert…I don’t really think of it quite that way, but yes, each person’s reality is different. I will attend to my own little boring, insignificant life today, my co-worker to his, his thoughts are his and less than 1% of them will he ever share with me. The idjit in the White House will do his thing--and no, I do NOT want to know what his thoughts are, I’d probably hurl--etc. And if I haven’t lost you on this bullet point, you’re not paying attention. (Bulleted points are for clarification, just think how lost you’d be if I hadn’t bulleted.)

* It’s time for me to grow up. Oh, why? you say. Growing up allows me to do several things, including getting control of my life (that’s a very long post all on its own) and being there for my son (it’s hard to be a parent to a 9 YO when you’re terminally 14). Never fear, I shall always be 14 at heart.

* I can establish good habits, too.

* I’ve long respected others’ right to have views that differ from my own, but the fact that they differ so wildly does not necessarily mean half their brain has been removed.

* My children rock. (This is not really an epiphany, I just throw it in here so that you won’t forget it.)

* Another non-epiphany, but this one is thrown in so I wont’ forget it. My husband is an overgrown, lazy wanker, but he’s gentle, patient, and loves me to a fault (which I never have figured out); puts up with a lot of my shit without saying anything. I try not to nag, but probably do, I’m a backseat driver, I make unilateral decisions and then tell him, this is what we’re doing…but he’s there, he’s literally bathed me when I was so sick I had shit on myself (I did warn you this blog wouldn’t be pretty at times) and ended up in the hospital for a week; I can’t count the times he would go up to the store to get tampons and pads for me (sometimes with a pint of butter pecan ice cream to boot and at times at two in the morning), because he knew if I went, I’d be in trouble before I got there and have to turn around and come back. Okay so he doesn’t get out and paint the house or dig all the gardens I want, but you know, he’s a keeper.

* I’ve been at my job for 10 ½ years…if we averaged 15 commissionees a year, that’s 150 people whose lives I have affected—for better or worse. They remember me and ask about me. Wow. I think just one of these guys calling the other day and asking the colonel about me might have started this entire introspection and determination to set things in my life straight…literally saying to myself today is the first day of the rest of my life. Trite, perhaps, but true nevertheless. I’m trying to build habits, getting to work on time, eating what’s good for me, as opposed to not eating what’s bad for me (or stressing out because, hey! I wanted that half a can of Pringles, but shit, I should not have eaten them!). For so long I’ve come home, looked at the clutter, or dishes in the sink and just not known how to cope—some of you will identify with this and others will say, WTF is the deal?? Just do it! It’s not that easy. I look at it and my mind does this kind of shrinking thing and I go sit at the computer and do anything but look at the two-foot-high stack of crap on the cutting table. But now I come home and try to do SOMEthing…ANYthing that will slowly poison the clutterus amoebus.

* Our lives are not as private as it seems. I thought I was fairly well protected by using a nickname for everything on the web, however, I did a Google on it and Holy Suspenders of Jesus, Batman! You get my real name, linked to my email, linked to my MySpace, linked to my age and city….oy.

* My daughter and I are way more alike than I ever thought. Some of that is good, but the more distressing part is that she got the clutteritis, the indecision, the self-doubt..etc. etc. why couldn’t she have gotten more from her dad? But this highlights that perhaps nurture has more to do with it than some people might think. She lived with me (as opposed to both of us) from age 4 to 18. Yeah, she spent a lot of time at her grandparents and lived a year with her dad, but for the most part, she lived with me, surrounded by clutter, albeit nowhere near the proportions my house has taken on in the last decade. The one thing she did get from her dad is his wicked sense of humor and for that, I am eternally grateful She makes me laugh. I now know the depths of her depression because she has graciously allowed me to peek in the door via her blog, but she’s resilient and that humor has a buoyancy to it that is stronger than any antidepressant. And it’s a powerful drug that she can share.

Unsure

Does the title refer to unsureness about the title or about what I'm to write, or my life...or what I'm having for dinner?

Yes.

So far, my insignificant little blog hath not drawn the attention of Fundies, Bushites, and like radicals. (Here I must pause to knock on wood.) There is some happiness in being unknown.

Dammit, I had a dozen thoughts before I sat down and suddenly I'm hit by a huge yawning fit and cannot remember…I have this bizarre little theory about those sudden lapses in memory. Perhaps we have just morphed into an alternate plane and whatever chemicals formed that memory are altered, or maybe a past life progression eclipses the current one or, it's just because I'm in much deeper denial about menopause than I care to admit.

Damn. I cannot seem to stop yawning! I’ve dropped Diet Cokes pretty much cold turkey, along with the afternoon bit of chocolate. The chocolate, in very small doses, I plan to add back, but the Diet Coke, aka “Evil in a Can,” will stay gone. Talking about it has started the jonesing….*sighs*

One of the thoughts I had came back to me just now. I’m always considered myself a writer, and I suppose, at one time I was a rather good one. But like any skill, talent, art, you must use it, or lose it. I read some of my favorite blogs, LL’s, Jane’s, and Sylvan’s, and realize I’m no longer capable of turning a phrase like I used to be. My histories and stories for PWs (persistent worlds, for any of you who are not gamers) get rave reviews, but the mundane, expository thing has atrophied. It’s getting easier to pour it out now that I’ve started blogging, but at times I reread it and think, who IS this sophomoric woman?

There might be a break in thought here, I have to save this to my jump drive and make the jump to hyperspace to get home (gods, I wish I could!).

Okay, some time later, we return to the scene of the crime….

One of the things I was thinking about is this, the diary of some woman going from her dyed hair to grey. Good gods, I thought I was being too egocentric when I tossed the idea around for 20 minutes and then asked a couple of people what they thought. I went to my stylist that Saturday and said…cut it off, take it back to the color line—it was grown out a little over an inch at the time. Over the weekend badaboom! I went from the look at the top of the page, to a chubby Jamie Lee Curtis look. No looking back, no agonizing, no…oh, gee, let’s do it so no one will notice shit. It’s hair, you don’t like it, you change it. And here I thought I was being vain. HA! I love validation. In the end she looks gorgeous, but 13 months!! Oh, hell no.