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.