yeah yeah yeah, we've all heard it and we've heard it expressed in various ways. it's not a new idea, and we all would agree that it has merit. however, there are many times we do discount entire theories because of one area that doesn't set well in our minds. well, maybe you don't, but i do and when i catch myself doing it, i cringe and wonder about those times when i don't catch myself.
today while i was wrapping yarn around myself in intricate designs and then extracting myself in time to make it to the bathroom (i shouldn't have drank 7 gallons of tea within 2 hours, but i was thinking that my kidneys needed a workout. tomorrow i plan to breathe often and deeply so that my lungs don't get jealous. it's all about balance, ya know), i was listening to John Gray's "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus" (and then i found a website "rebuttal from uranus"). Now, I have glanced thru the book before, I'm sure. I mean, it's been around and has been referred to by various folks we listen to with sage adulation (wait, sorry, was that my slip showing?). But actually listening to it was a much different experience than idly thumbing thru a few pages here and there.
First off, I didn't care for the way a significant portion of the book (it was audio, but still a book, cuz it was an unabridged reading of the book; so i'm calling it a book) was devoted to foretelling with great enthusiasm what was to come and how improved my life would be. I often feel that if ya gotta hype up something that big, there is less than substantial matter to be had. Please don't tell me how I will feel or what the results will be, cuz I might feel differently than you predict. And if you must tell me what is coming up, do so briefly; a summary as an intro is good, a retelling of the entire book is, well, the entire book. so don't do this, it's wasteful and allows my mind to wander away from the chalkboard (and that defeats the purpose of my listening to the friggen book in the first place).
Then, there were so many assumptions about gender-roles and relationships and all that that i was gobsmacked with how retro-nostalgic we humans are portrayed. It was just, just, well, so Stepfordian that images of helpless whining women (who loved shopping and fashion) clinging to manly cavemen kept pushing their way into my musings time and again. I do get that he does the standard disclaimer that some of these assumptions may not apply and that there may be some gender role reversal going on. He does reassure us that we are normal and all is fine and not to worry about this. Just skip the stuff that doesn't apply and keep the stuff that does.
And that was where I caught myself chucking the baby out the window with the bathwater. Fortunately the baby was imaginary so I was able to retrieve it and wash it off again (what with me being in the bathroom anyway). See, for all the stuff I was scoffing and snorting at...there was a ton of stuff that was legitimately good and worth noting.
And since Gray repeats himself ad nauseum, I didn't have to loop any CDs. I knew that he would go over it again and again and again again. and then once more. he does this so that we really get it. and i can appreciate that. cuz even tho i've been having difficulty with focusing, i think i did get most of the lessons to be had.
i just had to wash them off first.
31 October 2007
30 October 2007
ideal, for now
Judith HeartSong's October's Artsy Essay calls for us to describe our ideal day. Because ideals motivate us toward goals that we have based on our values, I've decided to focus on an aspect that may not suit everyone. And that's quite all right. For me, and for them.
In Nocturnal Turnings, Truman Capote interviews himself. It is during one mock- exchange that I nodded, thinking that was exactly how I feel right this minute. Here is an excerpt:
tc: if you could be granted one wish, what would it be?
tc: to wake up one morning and feel that I was at last a grown-up person; emptied of resentment, vengeful thoughts, and other wasteful childish emotions. To find myself, in other words, an adult.
As we enter the holiday season, I feel this reflection could not occur at a more appropriate time. Many of us are confronted with folks we don't normally choose to be around; then we feel guilty about the fact that we don't enjoy these family members, especially at such an outwardly festive time. But we also have reasons for why we avoid these folks throughout the year, and to deny those reasons (even to ourselves) would be hurtful and disrespectful. Yet, we might feel that we need to endure what might be extremely unpleasant and painful memories and feelings, to keep the peace in the family. In the long run, we end up feeling frustrated with ourselves and others; we end up exhausted instead of restive and content. It's a tensely anxious foreboding that curses the holidays for many of us.
My birthday is in a few weeks, and yet again, I am surprised because I certainly don't feel as old as I am. It isn't the aging process that bothers me per se, it's because I think I ought to be more mature than I am; ya know, act (think, feel) my age. I am most assuredly not like how I think adults are. Somehow, as a child, I figured that adults know things, that they are reasonable, that they are in control, that they don't have petty peevishness, that they aren't like me.
Well, with those expectations, is it any wonder I failed to live up to my notions of adulthood? Still, I would love to let go of the resentment, the old hurts and cringing anxiety, the awful memories, the fears, the awkwardness, the discombobulated dissociation. I would like to honor myself, by acknowledging and validating that yes this person has been hateful and I do have reason not to trust them, to be wary. At the same time, I'd like to be centered enough, to be true enough to me, to realize that all those negative inner feelings are only harming me more so. I'd like to be comfortable with being me and to know that I can control some aspects of encounters. Ya know, like an adult does.
(*note*i've been having difficulty focusing here lately; and am feeling some frustration at the moment, because i'm afraid that i am not able to clearly communicate. i hope that i have conveyed what i meant to, and if not, then i apologize. on another note, if this fuzziness continues, i may need to go see my gp for yet another med adjustment. hopefully this too shall pass)
In Nocturnal Turnings, Truman Capote interviews himself. It is during one mock- exchange that I nodded, thinking that was exactly how I feel right this minute. Here is an excerpt:
tc: if you could be granted one wish, what would it be?
tc: to wake up one morning and feel that I was at last a grown-up person; emptied of resentment, vengeful thoughts, and other wasteful childish emotions. To find myself, in other words, an adult.
As we enter the holiday season, I feel this reflection could not occur at a more appropriate time. Many of us are confronted with folks we don't normally choose to be around; then we feel guilty about the fact that we don't enjoy these family members, especially at such an outwardly festive time. But we also have reasons for why we avoid these folks throughout the year, and to deny those reasons (even to ourselves) would be hurtful and disrespectful. Yet, we might feel that we need to endure what might be extremely unpleasant and painful memories and feelings, to keep the peace in the family. In the long run, we end up feeling frustrated with ourselves and others; we end up exhausted instead of restive and content. It's a tensely anxious foreboding that curses the holidays for many of us.
My birthday is in a few weeks, and yet again, I am surprised because I certainly don't feel as old as I am. It isn't the aging process that bothers me per se, it's because I think I ought to be more mature than I am; ya know, act (think, feel) my age. I am most assuredly not like how I think adults are. Somehow, as a child, I figured that adults know things, that they are reasonable, that they are in control, that they don't have petty peevishness, that they aren't like me.
Well, with those expectations, is it any wonder I failed to live up to my notions of adulthood? Still, I would love to let go of the resentment, the old hurts and cringing anxiety, the awful memories, the fears, the awkwardness, the discombobulated dissociation. I would like to honor myself, by acknowledging and validating that yes this person has been hateful and I do have reason not to trust them, to be wary. At the same time, I'd like to be centered enough, to be true enough to me, to realize that all those negative inner feelings are only harming me more so. I'd like to be comfortable with being me and to know that I can control some aspects of encounters. Ya know, like an adult does.
(*note*i've been having difficulty focusing here lately; and am feeling some frustration at the moment, because i'm afraid that i am not able to clearly communicate. i hope that i have conveyed what i meant to, and if not, then i apologize. on another note, if this fuzziness continues, i may need to go see my gp for yet another med adjustment. hopefully this too shall pass)
29 October 2007
wahoo...and other yippettee-skippettees
Altho the student loan discharge mess is still ongoing (i've not heard from the ombudsman, other than the initial contact; but! apparently she has lots to say to other official peeps who have informed me of stuff~which is her job, which makes me think, what else is her job that she isn't following thru on...?), I do have excellent news on other fronts.
i got my flu shot this morning (yea!)
i also went to campus (my guy did his master's studies here) and went to the registrar's office and got fifteen (15) official transcripts in signed with blood, sealed with super glue sticks, and stamped in five different colors of ink (one which disappeared as soon as she stamped it~~muwahhhhahhahha) so that my guy can apply for various and sun-dried internships.
i discovered that i can crochet and knit lots better than i thought (including crocheting a stitch that looks exactly like stockinette knitting; damn-skippee, i'm good!).
my young friend, eight, presented me with my very own special fob that she has labored over and perfected this last month. it was well worth the wait.
AND the best news of all, ya know that matter of the continuation review that i've been waiting to hear a decision on for like 6 months? ok, it's only been 5 months (but in their own policy for procedures it states that the process should take 90 days max, that's like uhm way different than 150+, ya know? i'm just sayin'). the point is tho that i'm glad it's a done deal for the time being. cuz when i got the mail today, there was a very official looking envelop from the Social Security Administration.
it says that they recently reviewed the evidence and have decided to continue my benefits cuz girl, you crazy. no, they didn't say that. the psych eval dude said that. no, he didn't say that. what he said was, "good god girl, if they don't continue your disability, they won't continue anyone's". and that's a dude that the social security administration hires to tell them things that weigh in their favor so they don't have to continue payments.
to all the taxpayers, thanks! i appreciate your dollars helping my to pay rent and see my doctors and counselors and get my seven (7) daily meds so that i can function at the level i do. i know sometimes people grumble when they see me use my food-stamp card to buy those vegetables, yogurts, and other non-essential items like milk, cheese, and the (occasional splurge, gasp) .59 cent chicken thighs...and i apologize for not being in a better place, or to continue to function at the pace i was...so i just wanna let ya know, i appreciate the portion each of you help me with. thanks, dudes!
i got my flu shot this morning (yea!)
i also went to campus (my guy did his master's studies here) and went to the registrar's office and got fifteen (15) official transcripts in signed with blood, sealed with super glue sticks, and stamped in five different colors of ink (one which disappeared as soon as she stamped it~~muwahhhhahhahha) so that my guy can apply for various and sun-dried internships.
i discovered that i can crochet and knit lots better than i thought (including crocheting a stitch that looks exactly like stockinette knitting; damn-skippee, i'm good!).
my young friend, eight, presented me with my very own special fob that she has labored over and perfected this last month. it was well worth the wait.
AND the best news of all, ya know that matter of the continuation review that i've been waiting to hear a decision on for like 6 months? ok, it's only been 5 months (but in their own policy for procedures it states that the process should take 90 days max, that's like uhm way different than 150+, ya know? i'm just sayin'). the point is tho that i'm glad it's a done deal for the time being. cuz when i got the mail today, there was a very official looking envelop from the Social Security Administration.
it says that they recently reviewed the evidence and have decided to continue my benefits cuz girl, you crazy. no, they didn't say that. the psych eval dude said that. no, he didn't say that. what he said was, "good god girl, if they don't continue your disability, they won't continue anyone's". and that's a dude that the social security administration hires to tell them things that weigh in their favor so they don't have to continue payments.
to all the taxpayers, thanks! i appreciate your dollars helping my to pay rent and see my doctors and counselors and get my seven (7) daily meds so that i can function at the level i do. i know sometimes people grumble when they see me use my food-stamp card to buy those vegetables, yogurts, and other non-essential items like milk, cheese, and the (occasional splurge, gasp) .59 cent chicken thighs...and i apologize for not being in a better place, or to continue to function at the pace i was...so i just wanna let ya know, i appreciate the portion each of you help me with. thanks, dudes!
28 October 2007
happy samhain
happy halloween
happy harvest
happy however you decide to celebrate the day/time of the year
the last few days i've been keeping myself occupied with books and knitting needles and crochet hooks and yarn and ripping and purling and re-ripping. and haven't been on the computer, not even a smidgen. my guy has been here and usually on the weekends of late, he needs the computer, access to the net, and access to his stuff, so we set up both computers for him to use and i occupy myself in some other fashion.
good news!
he is defending his dissertation proposal friday morning! yea!! he is in a mad scurry now with application for internships and all the accompanying paperwork and such. for the past coupla days, he has been checking out appic and their listings of internships sites and those hosting websites and all that other gory stuffs. there are a ton and a half of places with deadlines coming up (but are still viable options) and once applications are made, then there are the interviews with prospective places and positions (we are talking national here; i think for the most part that he will be focusing on the southeast region, but there are a few far-flung possibles). all of it culminates with match-day in february (i think). then there is acceptance or clearing house and blah blah blah. the whirlwind never dies.
at this point, he needs to complete the master app for appic, plus all the individual apps; and make sure that the folks that are writing letters of recommendation have done so (or are soon to do so), and obtaining official transcripts from all post-secondary schools, and essays and such. i'm not sure but i think he has to sign over the rights to his first born son and give 12 pints of blood, two gallons of spit, and a pear in a fig-tree (i'll be coming to see you, russ. wink).
i expect things will get busy in more ways than one.
i've heard a few things from a few key peeps re: student loan forgiveness. there are a few things that i want to stay on top of. like the fact that i haven't heard from the ombudsman since the initial contact a few weeks back. and i still haven't heard anything from my review of continuation (the examiner told me a month ago i would be hearing something in two weeks). i've called and left a message inquiring about the status of my case last week. i will call again tomorrow. i need to get my flu-shot (way overdue, but i keep forgetting to do it, bad on me). my mom is probably coming next weekend for a few days, adn she will teach me (and my friends) how to bake bread. it will be great to visit with her and share crafts and such. however i always get twitterpated when i know mom is coming, a whirlwind of cleaning and tons of questions of, dude, is she gonna notice that i haven't cleaned the shower lately and will the dog hair in the corners be a problem and omg debra don't forget to wash the bedding before she gets here...
more later
happy harvest
happy however you decide to celebrate the day/time of the year
the last few days i've been keeping myself occupied with books and knitting needles and crochet hooks and yarn and ripping and purling and re-ripping. and haven't been on the computer, not even a smidgen. my guy has been here and usually on the weekends of late, he needs the computer, access to the net, and access to his stuff, so we set up both computers for him to use and i occupy myself in some other fashion.
good news!
he is defending his dissertation proposal friday morning! yea!! he is in a mad scurry now with application for internships and all the accompanying paperwork and such. for the past coupla days, he has been checking out appic and their listings of internships sites and those hosting websites and all that other gory stuffs. there are a ton and a half of places with deadlines coming up (but are still viable options) and once applications are made, then there are the interviews with prospective places and positions (we are talking national here; i think for the most part that he will be focusing on the southeast region, but there are a few far-flung possibles). all of it culminates with match-day in february (i think). then there is acceptance or clearing house and blah blah blah. the whirlwind never dies.
at this point, he needs to complete the master app for appic, plus all the individual apps; and make sure that the folks that are writing letters of recommendation have done so (or are soon to do so), and obtaining official transcripts from all post-secondary schools, and essays and such. i'm not sure but i think he has to sign over the rights to his first born son and give 12 pints of blood, two gallons of spit, and a pear in a fig-tree (i'll be coming to see you, russ. wink).
i expect things will get busy in more ways than one.
i've heard a few things from a few key peeps re: student loan forgiveness. there are a few things that i want to stay on top of. like the fact that i haven't heard from the ombudsman since the initial contact a few weeks back. and i still haven't heard anything from my review of continuation (the examiner told me a month ago i would be hearing something in two weeks). i've called and left a message inquiring about the status of my case last week. i will call again tomorrow. i need to get my flu-shot (way overdue, but i keep forgetting to do it, bad on me). my mom is probably coming next weekend for a few days, adn she will teach me (and my friends) how to bake bread. it will be great to visit with her and share crafts and such. however i always get twitterpated when i know mom is coming, a whirlwind of cleaning and tons of questions of, dude, is she gonna notice that i haven't cleaned the shower lately and will the dog hair in the corners be a problem and omg debra don't forget to wash the bedding before she gets here...
more later
26 October 2007
because imma ijjut
so earlier this evening i call mom to wish her happy birthday and also to find out when she is coming this next weekend (not this weekend, but next weekend; i never know what to call it so 'this next' covers it). then i called a friend (omg, they are popping up everywhere, i tell you) to let her know when mom is coming over (when i say over, i mean oooover, i live on the east side of ms and she lives on the west side of ar, so oooooooover is 8 hr drive over) cuz my mom is gonna teach me and all two of my friends how to bake bread. my friend, the one i called (not the mother of eight and three), was musing to me while penciling me in on the calendar (she said she would use pen, but the ink runs backward and she can't get it to write. yeah, that's what she said.) and i hang up and really quickly call mom back.
me: omg, mom you can't come visit me then!
mom: uhm, hm?
me (gushing anxiously): you'll miss tuesday.
mom: and this is important why?
me: cuz you'll miss Election tuesday.
mom:...?....
me (as it slowly sinks in that we can't vote for a new friggen pres til next year): right, then. can't wait to see you. loveyouhappybirthdayb'bye.
all this is like two months' worth of phone activity for me. and way too exciting. i'm tired, g'n'nite.
me: omg, mom you can't come visit me then!
mom: uhm, hm?
me (gushing anxiously): you'll miss tuesday.
mom: and this is important why?
me: cuz you'll miss Election tuesday.
mom:...?....
me (as it slowly sinks in that we can't vote for a new friggen pres til next year): right, then. can't wait to see you. loveyouhappybirthdayb'bye.
all this is like two months' worth of phone activity for me. and way too exciting. i'm tired, g'n'nite.
25 October 2007
filet'ed roses
they're tasty!
no, not really. i'm talking about crochet. ya know that lace that has some solid blocks in it? like ya know, it's sorta woven into it? table runners, doilies, tableclothes, curtains, bedspreads...wait, here, let me show you an example:
so, yeah, ya know what it was, it's just my explanation sucked. it's actually easy to do this sort of thing. filet is a mixture of two meshes, some are open and some are filled. both meshes are a combination of chain stitches and double crochet. the hardest part is initially learning it accurately, so that you can understand the entire scope because there is alot of planning that goes into it. if you mess up, it's not so easy to fix; so it requires some amount of attention (albeit minimal at times).
over the last couple days, i read about it and tried to understand the instructions. now you might remember that i first read crochet instructions (and began to follow them, well, some of them) only a couple months ago. so it was with great trepidation that i picked up the hook and cotton yarn last night. i wanted to make sure each and every stitch was done perfectly, because it can mess ya up later if you don't do the foundation stitches right.
it's fun and appeals to my more spacial-related parts; altho, the graph can seriously mess with my eyes (cuz small repetitive patterns like boxes can create some nausea and some vertigo), so that might not have been the wisest choice of stitch combinations for me to pick.
but those filet'd roses are soooooooooooo pretty!
no, not really. i'm talking about crochet. ya know that lace that has some solid blocks in it? like ya know, it's sorta woven into it? table runners, doilies, tableclothes, curtains, bedspreads...wait, here, let me show you an example:
so, yeah, ya know what it was, it's just my explanation sucked. it's actually easy to do this sort of thing. filet is a mixture of two meshes, some are open and some are filled. both meshes are a combination of chain stitches and double crochet. the hardest part is initially learning it accurately, so that you can understand the entire scope because there is alot of planning that goes into it. if you mess up, it's not so easy to fix; so it requires some amount of attention (albeit minimal at times).
over the last couple days, i read about it and tried to understand the instructions. now you might remember that i first read crochet instructions (and began to follow them, well, some of them) only a couple months ago. so it was with great trepidation that i picked up the hook and cotton yarn last night. i wanted to make sure each and every stitch was done perfectly, because it can mess ya up later if you don't do the foundation stitches right.
it's fun and appeals to my more spacial-related parts; altho, the graph can seriously mess with my eyes (cuz small repetitive patterns like boxes can create some nausea and some vertigo), so that might not have been the wisest choice of stitch combinations for me to pick.
but those filet'd roses are soooooooooooo pretty!
24 October 2007
Bad Body/Brain Day
The weather on Monday put us all in a drowsy mode. Tuesday was chilly, indeed it was colder during the day than it had been the previous night. Wednesday (oh yeah, today) is even more chilly, probably it seems that way because I've got slush for circulation and once I'm cold, I can't get warm. So my body is having a bad day today, the rain is kicking my arthritis into great swollen proportions. The condition of my brain is not much better (it too is swollen, and I have big head syndrome). Ok, that's not true, but I feel like my brain is severely congested and so I'm having difficulties functioning and focusing. But Friday and thru the weekend, it is to warm up and be sunny (unseasonable, I tell you!) and I may have thawed out in time for the next big chill.
(but debra, you say, turn the friggen heater on! and to that, i say, great idea, thanks! and well i have a gas space heater and it's not in the condition to be fired up yet. i'm working on it, but i'm slow, see above)
california, i'm feel for your plight; it must surely be awful. perhaps the fires there and the chill here could meet up and balance each otehr out. but ya know, without all the damage and loss of life and property.
(but debra, you say, turn the friggen heater on! and to that, i say, great idea, thanks! and well i have a gas space heater and it's not in the condition to be fired up yet. i'm working on it, but i'm slow, see above)
california, i'm feel for your plight; it must surely be awful. perhaps the fires there and the chill here could meet up and balance each otehr out. but ya know, without all the damage and loss of life and property.
Happy Birthday, MeMom
Earlier today I mailed Mom's birthday card, she will have finished her 60th year on Thursday. I enclosed a small swatch that I'd used as a stitching sample as a clue for her to guess her birthday gift, which I finished tonight. Since I know she won't be reading this (she knows about my journal, she just doesn't read it unless I send her a specific link or copy the entry over into eMail), I can tell ya that I decided on the bibbed apron as the project. I don't have a camera and keep forgetting to suggest to my guy that he bring his digital, so that I can take a picture to post. Maybe that's a good thing though.
23 October 2007
"write your representative"
ok, ya know how you're always hearing stuff like, 'write your representative' or 'write your congressman' or whatnot? well so maybe you didn't, but where i'm from, it was always the case. in fact, it got to be such a stand-by line that anytime we had a complaint about anything, i'd cry, 'k, who do i write?' in an mock-outraged and outrageous voice. it worked to alleviate bitching and moaning, about stuff like the weather (cuz really, who can ya write about the weather? so quicherbichin)
in fact, when i was in high-school, our typing classes (those were pre-computer days, shut up) used the ole stand-by standard and would type out letters to our representatives on a regular basis. well most of the class did, i usually wrote letters to the editor (cuz that's what my grandfather was forever doing, writing long detailed letters to the editor that would get sent in about two months too late, but he sure told them, by gummit!).
so a few of you may remember about ten days or so ago when i posted a letter that i was sending to my representative. well, i did. i sent it to him and 110 other state reps and 3 congressmen from our state. it's the shotgun strategy, fire at 'em all and you're bound to hit something.
so earlier today, i was online and saw a call coming in (i have a little pop-up box that tells me when someone is calling me when i'm on dial-up, handy) and i was perplexed cuz i didn't recognize the number nor the name but lo! and behold! it was the representative that i wrote to specifically (because he has proven to be an effective advocate for those with mental illnesses and brain disorders in our state, and believe me, in Mississippi, that is REALLY saying something). dudes! he called to say that he got my letter and has already called a few folks, including the director of financial aid at msu, and suggested then suggested that i return his call at such and such a number at such and such a time so that we could discuss the situation in more detail. the representative also said that he would like to have the go-ahead from me to contact the congressmen from our state so that we could perhaps make some progress on the federal level, seeings as to how it IS a federal office we are dealing with here.
i've been yippittee-skippittee all evening! (it's kinda hard not to get my hopes up, even if i do get em dashed and smashed). so i plan to call the my state rep tomorrow and i'm just so scattered i can't settle down enough to get some sleep. wahootee-woot!
sometimes, letter-writing skills do help further the cause.
in fact, when i was in high-school, our typing classes (those were pre-computer days, shut up) used the ole stand-by standard and would type out letters to our representatives on a regular basis. well most of the class did, i usually wrote letters to the editor (cuz that's what my grandfather was forever doing, writing long detailed letters to the editor that would get sent in about two months too late, but he sure told them, by gummit!).
so a few of you may remember about ten days or so ago when i posted a letter that i was sending to my representative. well, i did. i sent it to him and 110 other state reps and 3 congressmen from our state. it's the shotgun strategy, fire at 'em all and you're bound to hit something.
so earlier today, i was online and saw a call coming in (i have a little pop-up box that tells me when someone is calling me when i'm on dial-up, handy) and i was perplexed cuz i didn't recognize the number nor the name but lo! and behold! it was the representative that i wrote to specifically (because he has proven to be an effective advocate for those with mental illnesses and brain disorders in our state, and believe me, in Mississippi, that is REALLY saying something). dudes! he called to say that he got my letter and has already called a few folks, including the director of financial aid at msu, and suggested then suggested that i return his call at such and such a number at such and such a time so that we could discuss the situation in more detail. the representative also said that he would like to have the go-ahead from me to contact the congressmen from our state so that we could perhaps make some progress on the federal level, seeings as to how it IS a federal office we are dealing with here.
i've been yippittee-skippittee all evening! (it's kinda hard not to get my hopes up, even if i do get em dashed and smashed). so i plan to call the my state rep tomorrow and i'm just so scattered i can't settle down enough to get some sleep. wahootee-woot!
sometimes, letter-writing skills do help further the cause.
20 October 2007
cuz all the kewl kidz are doin' it
actually, i have no idea if the kewl kidz are doing this; but it is inspired by NaNoWriMo and is probably much more probable rate. it's the first time i've heard of it, tho i think they held it last month; just blog every day for the month of November. NaBloPoMo: National Blog Post Month (i think it is a tad bit redundant, but they probably don't want to go by ~NaBloMo~ i'm just sayin')19 October 2007
A Strong Daring Woman
Martha Plimpton,
Judi HeartSong,
and I share a birthday.Well, Martha and I share the exact same date (look at my screen name for a clue *gasp*); but we don't know each other. I do admire her tho, in more ways than one. And I am contemplating bangs, like those pictured (in Martha's pic; not mine, i already can achieve that inverted alfala look with no problem, even have barrettes).
Judi and I don't share the same year, but we do share the same day, and we do know each other. And since the entry I did promo'ing her call for the October Artsy Essay has been one that has been sacrificed to the tantrum-child (aim/aol) latest fit on the early morning hours of Tuesday 16th October, I thought I'd give at least a mention here, again. The other original entry was so much more witty, but that was then and this is now. And I'm contemplating entry (to Judi's essay call; not Martha, altho wouldn't that be a scream?!?).
By the way, in the above pic, I am 4 and very happy cuz I am wearing my very favorite sweatshirt. And I was a happy kid, it took so lil to amuse me, which was good, cuz i provided most of my own amusement. That pic was my beloved Grandma's favorite (my maternal grandmother was much, much different from the paternal grandmother who starred in a recent entry). My friend, Ferah, recognized me when she saw this pic (altho she didn't first met me til some 25 yrs later) because she says that my hands are exactly the same. And they are. Except bigger.
The Last of the Harvest
I simply adore this picture. I found it on a website dedicated to the fruits of fall harvest, namely every single type of apple that exits! When I was a child, apples were my absolute favorite fruit. I always loved finding the star within the firm crisp flesh. Do you know where the star is?18 October 2007
thought i'd share a visual feast of souls
The above illusion is a favorite; but i also love the one below, which i've just now found.
Masterpiece Theater
Yeah, ok, so I lied. It's more a hybrid of two websites I wanted to share, then an attribute to the classic show. I'm feeling my wit draining away, into the slow ebb. and this is the best i can come up with at the moment.
This is a pic I've wanted to share from the gallery over here at Masterpiece Pumpkins. Check out there designs that cover a range from autumn to weddings. You can find animals and portraits, scary stuff and sweet stuff, and lettering and logos. Some of them are simple and have a low difficulty level, while others are complex and truly require master's skillz of deft turns with the knife. I love trees, leaves, and vines; so the one I've selected to show above is just right for me.
The other website is fitting, being that this week a very special 3D version of Nightmare Before Christmas is being released into the theaters. This site has links for several scripts of horror films, including Alien/s, Final Destination, Nightmare on Elm Street, and of course Nightmare Before Christmas.
This is a pic I've wanted to share from the gallery over here at Masterpiece Pumpkins. Check out there designs that cover a range from autumn to weddings. You can find animals and portraits, scary stuff and sweet stuff, and lettering and logos. Some of them are simple and have a low difficulty level, while others are complex and truly require master's skillz of deft turns with the knife. I love trees, leaves, and vines; so the one I've selected to show above is just right for me. The other website is fitting, being that this week a very special 3D version of Nightmare Before Christmas is being released into the theaters. This site has links for several scripts of horror films, including Alien/s, Final Destination, Nightmare on Elm Street, and of course Nightmare Before Christmas.Proud November Baby Since 1970
Dudes! Did you know that Christmas is in December this year?!? And my birthday is in a month? And NaNo WriMo starts in two weeks? didja?!?
17 October 2007
"What's this?! What's this?!?"
"You're joking, you're joking! I can't believe my eyes!"
When Nightmare Before Christmas came out in the theaters in 1994, my friend and I went with bells on, dressed in our flowing robes and witches heels. Glenn and I sang along and danced down the aisles, entertaining ourselves and everyone else. It was a musical, after all. We were giddy idiots, then.
And we still are. Altho we live a thousand and ten miles apart, and it is a baker's dozen of years later, I know that we both are "sensing something in the wind". We're both gearing up for the very fitting 13th year special release of the 3D retelling of Jack's tale (along with the help of Sally, Sandy Claws, Lock, Shock, and Barrel and Oogie Boogie and a supporting ghoulish cast including ghosts, werewolves, devils, demons, mummies, witches, corpses, vampires, clowns, and the mayor), that is scheduled to hit the theater this week.
So, "come with us and you will see, that this is Halloween!"
When Nightmare Before Christmas came out in the theaters in 1994, my friend and I went with bells on, dressed in our flowing robes and witches heels. Glenn and I sang along and danced down the aisles, entertaining ourselves and everyone else. It was a musical, after all. We were giddy idiots, then.And we still are. Altho we live a thousand and ten miles apart, and it is a baker's dozen of years later, I know that we both are "sensing something in the wind". We're both gearing up for the very fitting 13th year special release of the 3D retelling of Jack's tale (along with the help of Sally, Sandy Claws, Lock, Shock, and Barrel and Oogie Boogie and a supporting ghoulish cast including ghosts, werewolves, devils, demons, mummies, witches, corpses, vampires, clowns, and the mayor), that is scheduled to hit the theater this week.
So, "come with us and you will see, that this is Halloween!"
tunisian, eight, and me
a note on the last entry: i wrote the entire tale in three entries (split as indicated) while online, directly in this journal's 'add an entry' (mistakenly thought of as 'add an entry and it will stay') in the early morning hours on tuesday the 16th. ya ever get that lil voice niggling in your head? the one that says, 'debra, better copy those entries into a word document'? of course not, because that's my niggling lil voice. your's probably says things like, 'dude, did i remember to turn off the stove?' and other useful things. this time i paid attention and actually did create (and save) the how she-bangette and squirreled it away in my files. i didn't think i'd be retrieving it this soon. so whatcha see in that one entry is basically the same as what i'd written in three entries last night. the lost entries which may never surface in aolhell. good thing for my niggling lil voice, huh?
now about today: Eight and i decided to swap mad-skillz, cuz we be chillin that way. last week she learned how to use knotting to make keychains and i asked her to make me one, and paid her ahead of time. she put the money in her camera-fund and set about knotting cords and inserting beads and has made a few key chains, yes but not for me. for me, she told me that she wanted to make an extra-special one. i like extra-special stuff and so am eagerly awaiting my macrame'd fob.
monday night she asked me, "miss debra (that tickles me!) will you teach me how to crochet?" i told her that i would and that i would do so the very next day. now i've never taught a child to crochet before (once i tried to teach an adult and omg, what a mishap that was, she tied her thumbs together and hung herself) and haven't much experience with teaching children much of anything (there was a reason i taught college and not high school, and certainly not elementary~shudder); but i have had great fun with Eight and we have done the grasshopper/blind-master-po routine with most excellent results in the past. so i figured how tough can this be anyway? i mean, just teach the kid some chain-stitch stuff and let it go at that. her interest may wane and if it doesn't then move on to teach her the more complex stitches, like crochet (single, double, half-double (which is not single), treble, quarter-note, and four-time).
so completely intending to start Eight off on the chain stitch, since it is so crucial to the foundation for other stitches; i gathered hooks, yarn, bags, and whiskey bottles to put in the bags and off i went. by the time i'd gotten there, Eight had almost pee'd her pants from sheer delirium and eagerness. kids, such zest for life!
now if ya know anything about crochet, past yarn and hooks i mean, you'd agree with me when i say that afghan stitch (or tunisian, as it is sometimes called) is a bit more complex and advanced than the ol' standard chain, and should not be taught as a starter stitch to beginners. which is precisely why i thought, ya know to hell with that basic chain stitch thing, let's go for the tunisian stitch (and then i snickered, cuz that's what you do when you've imbibed in the whiskey bottle in the bag trick, that and tunisian stitch is hilariously fun to say when you're drunk).
actually, eight had all sorts of problems holding all the stuff and still being able to pull the yarn thru the loops for the flimsy ol silly stupid chain stitch (and that's for babies anyway). so what i did was i made her a small sample swatch, about two to three inches long, and several rows high of the tunisian stitch. then we sat, with her back against my chest (like "ghost" but without the sexual connotations and the moore/swayze nudity) so i could demonstrate and teach and she could watch and learn from the right angle instead of trying to flip it around in her head. learning can be challenging enough, why make it more difficult with distractions like mirror images and other tricky principles and stuff?
now, if you're still reading, dear reader, kudos to you! thanks for sticking in there.
i figured that eight could concentrate on one aspect at a time with the tunisian stitch. you repeat one set motion til you get to the end of the row, and then you use another set motion all the way back. the steps are more basic and broken down into easy to remember and good confidence building maneuvers. plus you can see some real progress, another key to learning and wanting to continue to learn.
since the sample swatch had weight and bulk, it was easier for Eight to handle and didn't fly and flip around like that wimpy skimpy chain stitch did (pft!) and the vertical loops are larger and nice and long so she could clearly see where to go for the next step. she watched me, with me telling her what i was doing. then i held the yarn in my left hand, looped for the right tension (that's tricky to learn and shouldn't be distracting her at the get-go, ya know?) while she took the hook in her right hand and showed me what to do while she told me too. eventually, i gave her the entire set-up and watched her. it was really cool and she was really proud and very excited. i gave her lots of complements and let her know that it takes practice and time to get the hang of it and that she was doing great for a first time crochet'er. i could so get into the whole mothering gig.
maybe.
now about today: Eight and i decided to swap mad-skillz, cuz we be chillin that way. last week she learned how to use knotting to make keychains and i asked her to make me one, and paid her ahead of time. she put the money in her camera-fund and set about knotting cords and inserting beads and has made a few key chains, yes but not for me. for me, she told me that she wanted to make an extra-special one. i like extra-special stuff and so am eagerly awaiting my macrame'd fob.
monday night she asked me, "miss debra (that tickles me!) will you teach me how to crochet?" i told her that i would and that i would do so the very next day. now i've never taught a child to crochet before (once i tried to teach an adult and omg, what a mishap that was, she tied her thumbs together and hung herself) and haven't much experience with teaching children much of anything (there was a reason i taught college and not high school, and certainly not elementary~shudder); but i have had great fun with Eight and we have done the grasshopper/blind-master-po routine with most excellent results in the past. so i figured how tough can this be anyway? i mean, just teach the kid some chain-stitch stuff and let it go at that. her interest may wane and if it doesn't then move on to teach her the more complex stitches, like crochet (single, double, half-double (which is not single), treble, quarter-note, and four-time).
so completely intending to start Eight off on the chain stitch, since it is so crucial to the foundation for other stitches; i gathered hooks, yarn, bags, and whiskey bottles to put in the bags and off i went. by the time i'd gotten there, Eight had almost pee'd her pants from sheer delirium and eagerness. kids, such zest for life!
now if ya know anything about crochet, past yarn and hooks i mean, you'd agree with me when i say that afghan stitch (or tunisian, as it is sometimes called) is a bit more complex and advanced than the ol' standard chain, and should not be taught as a starter stitch to beginners. which is precisely why i thought, ya know to hell with that basic chain stitch thing, let's go for the tunisian stitch (and then i snickered, cuz that's what you do when you've imbibed in the whiskey bottle in the bag trick, that and tunisian stitch is hilariously fun to say when you're drunk).
actually, eight had all sorts of problems holding all the stuff and still being able to pull the yarn thru the loops for the flimsy ol silly stupid chain stitch (and that's for babies anyway). so what i did was i made her a small sample swatch, about two to three inches long, and several rows high of the tunisian stitch. then we sat, with her back against my chest (like "ghost" but without the sexual connotations and the moore/swayze nudity) so i could demonstrate and teach and she could watch and learn from the right angle instead of trying to flip it around in her head. learning can be challenging enough, why make it more difficult with distractions like mirror images and other tricky principles and stuff?
now, if you're still reading, dear reader, kudos to you! thanks for sticking in there.
i figured that eight could concentrate on one aspect at a time with the tunisian stitch. you repeat one set motion til you get to the end of the row, and then you use another set motion all the way back. the steps are more basic and broken down into easy to remember and good confidence building maneuvers. plus you can see some real progress, another key to learning and wanting to continue to learn.
since the sample swatch had weight and bulk, it was easier for Eight to handle and didn't fly and flip around like that wimpy skimpy chain stitch did (pft!) and the vertical loops are larger and nice and long so she could clearly see where to go for the next step. she watched me, with me telling her what i was doing. then i held the yarn in my left hand, looped for the right tension (that's tricky to learn and shouldn't be distracting her at the get-go, ya know?) while she took the hook in her right hand and showed me what to do while she told me too. eventually, i gave her the entire set-up and watched her. it was really cool and she was really proud and very excited. i gave her lots of complements and let her know that it takes practice and time to get the hang of it and that she was doing great for a first time crochet'er. i could so get into the whole mothering gig.
maybe.
the lost entries, in part.
(written as a three-part series of entries in the wee hours prior to dawn on Tue 16 Oct 07)
First of all, you must realize that this isn't true (including this
sentence). So if you snicker, feel no guilt (unless you are into that
sort of thing). I thought this tale would be in keeping with the coming
of dead days, a season of dormancy and barren starkness, with roots delving
deep into the dense coal-streaked ground. Feast yourself on this
offering.
It was a cold miserably wet dank day, the day my grandmother died. It was
just as wet, though less cold, the day she was displayed at the funeral
home. In comparison to those days, the day she was buried was downright
balmy.
It was in January 1993, and my grandparents had been married for almost 55
years. The key to their marriage was that they had clearly delineated
spaces and routines. They had lived for the previous ten years in a
modular unit, a mobile home, really. The front door entered into a space
just between the living room and the kitchen, as marked by carpet to the left
(living room) and faux-tile to the right (kitchen). The left half of the
trailer (I can say that now, grandmother is not here to glare at me for such a
cheap label) was hers and the right was his domain. She spent most of her
waking hours in her rocker in front of the television which was lord of the
living room, and highly revered (in all my 22 yrs, I was never allowed to touch
the controls for changing the channels, adjusting the volume, fixing the
ghoulish green tint that Bob Barker sported on the Price is Right!). The
furniture was in pristine condition, although it was not covered in plastic (as
was commonly used by her generation). No, but neither could I sit on it
(the floor was my place, and if there was a way she could have prohibited me
from sitting on the carpet, she would have). Just through the living
room, with its myriad of antiques displayed just so in shadow-boxes, was her
bedroom with an attached master bath.
Now my grandmother was a very modest woman, and would shut her door upon
retiring. During the day, a heavy black poodle cast in iron stood guard
and held the door open to the living room. Her bathroom was rather nice,
but not used much. The toilet was, of course, but the garden tub and the
separate shower stall were stacked with boxes filled with things that she moved
with her from a sturdy little house some ten years prior. Sliding pocket
doors separated the bathroom from the bedroom and so modest was she that when
using the toilet, she would not only remove the cast iron poodle and close the
living room to bedroom door, but she would also close the bedroom to bathroom
pocket doors.
Please, remember this is not true, not any of it. My grandfather's domain
began with the kitchen. Oh, he visited the living room for a brief spell
every day, usually early afternoon, and would watch a few minutes of television
with my grandmother. Then, saying that the cushions were not kind to his
back, he would leave and return to his side of the trailer, having done his
daily duty.
The kitchen was his, he did the cooking (frying eggs every other day, having
toast and oatmeal on the off days) and he did the dishes. A small laundry
sat off the side, and he did that too. At the end of a short hallway lies
his bedroom. Just before his room was a small bathroom, functional and
spare. His shower and tub were vacated of boxed memorabilia and were
indeed used, at least twice per week. His bedroom was small, but neat and
held his own small black and white television which was atop his CB units and
his amps, receivers, and other things that allowed him interaction with the
outside world. In those days, computers were not common, never mind the
internet. My grandfather would chat as the Peaceful Quaker while watching
muted professional wrestling (which had a cinematic quality, silent films had
nothing on the antics of Hulk Hogan and his ilk, especially when viewed in the
formal black and white that screamed, "classic" at me).
They had a very scripted life, my grandparents. Their routine varied
little and was most likely worn like an old comfortable coat. And like
the coat, it became tattered and worn and frazzled, but was still donned
religiously.
One day, my grandfather cracked the eggs into the fry-pan and called out to my
grandmother, "oh honey! your breakfast is almost ready!"
He set the pink 1950’s melamine plates with their eggs and toast (Sara Lee's Lite
bread for diabetics, please thank you) at their places and settled himself down
to read the paper. Now, my grandmother always read the obits first, but
he read the front page and then laid that section next to her plate and he went
onto read the next section, which was usually the sports’ (it was a small
paper, it was a small town).
It wasn't til he had rinsed his plate, fork, knife, and orange plastic cup that
he realized that she had not stirred from her room. He called out to her
as he hobbled to her door, his cane sure and steady but his legs not so.
Once there, he tapped gently, and now began to feel a bit of hesitation.
Perhaps something happened, she had been feeling poorly. She was
5'2" (eyes were not blue, but brown) and I think it would not be a gross
overestimation to say that she was every bit as round as she was tall.
She was the absolute worst kind of diabetic there is, the kind that thinks they
are getting one over on the doc but are merely harming themselves with
non-adherence to the prescribed diet, exercise, and then frantically observing
the orders just prior to a check-up. Why, didn't she just two weeks
before bump her head on the door knob whilst moving that damned poodle and end
up in the hospital because she scared him with her fainting spell? And
didn't she give him hell over it cuz they kept her in the hospital til she was
stabilized and learned how to give herself the needle?
Now, he turns the knob and ever so gently pushes the door open. He knows
something is wrong. He sees the empty bed so knows that she isn't having
a lie-in. With increasing dread he crosses to the closed pocket
doors. Here, he hesitates, for he knows that nothing good lies behind
this door. He knows that the silence is not good and yet he can't put
this off any longer. So he slides the door open and sees her, sitting on
the toilet, frozen in mid-strain. Her face tortured and her glazed eyes
open.
He knows in that instant, before he even realizes that he knows; what has
happened. She woke in the night, heaved herself off her bed, waddled to
the bathroom, slid the pocket doors shut, and wedged herself in the space
between the end of the sink (those fancy spindles separating the sink's long
counter and the tiny toilet alcove) and the outside wall of the trailer (on the
other side of which was a metal shed). He knows that she most likely
strained a bit too hard (either to move her bowels, a Herculean effort, or to
stand from the toilet; probably a bit of both) and her heart gave out under the
laborious task at hand (having gone beyond the call of duty for a good twenty
years, the doctor said).
He sees all this, and knows it, just like that. He limps back to the
kitchen, where the wall unit is mounted, and places a call to his son; cuz
really, what do you do? He knows she's dead, and you can't exactly call
the morgue to come pick her up, now can you?
A few hours later, he watches as the shrouded form of her is maneuvered
awkwardly through the hole they have made when they removed the door-jamb from
its frame. He resists his daughter's pleading that he come home with
her. This is his home. A bit banged up, sure, but still his.
He turns and sees the dismembered bedroom door, a hole gaping there too.
And he knows that the bathroom is a mess. Well, he thinks, at least the
pocket doors are alright. And he squishes down a stray giggle, aghast at
himself. For they had to cut the sink's counter off and remove the
faux-wall so that the tiny toilet's space could give up its occupant.
When his daughter protested, he said reasonably, that it wasn't nearly as bad
as removing the side of the trailer, now was it?
Finally, his daughter drove him to past the point of endurance and he sent her
away, telling her he just wanted some time to be. Already, she was poking
through her mother's things, and squirreling away the good jewelry and
trinkets. Already, she'd opened the closets and pawed through the hanging
clothes. Already, she was making plans for her inheritance (that would
not materialize until his death, if then).
He was tired. And he was old. And somehow, he had to get thru the
next few days.
Part 2: The Viewing
(as seen from the granddaughter's perspective)
When I was a child, my grandmother was hospitalized (I think that time it was
for a hernia, well, one of them). I was so young that they wouldn't let
children visit, but they would allow me to wait in the little stale common
room, just opposite the bank of elevators. I remember sitting there,
bored out of my skull, uncomfortable, and trying not to let it show. My
parents were sympathetic to my plight, and engaged me in conversation in an
attempt to distract me from the agony of waiting. And yet she still did
not materialize. I am hazy on all the details, but I do recall with a
sharp clarity, that still makes me chortle, one shining point of camaraderie
with my parents.
All was quiet on the floor, and then in the distant, a slow lumbering rumble
was approaching. I sat up straighter in my chair, peeling my bare thighs
off the sticky plastic and squiggling back into the chair, absolutely no sign
of slouch to be shown in grandmother's presence, no sir, no way. My
father, the son of said grandmother, who would receive a call from his father
years down the road, leaned close to me and said, "sh, she's coming
now" and the rumbling grew louder, and my spine was so straight there
was no curve, and my father continued, "she's coming. yep, here she
comes" and a white clothed orderly pushed a laundry cart past. You
know, one of those deep canvas carts that held huge mounds of white sheets, all
tussled and balled up. I was still perched on the edge of my seat, so my
feet could touch the floor (having decided that it would be more proper than
letting them dangle) and my dad said (rather boldly, rather loudly), "and
she pops up! waves (he demonstrated), 'hi there! hi!' there she
goes!" as the cart disappeared into the elevator. I gaped at my
father, his eyes merry and bright, his face lit with a smile that was rare and
heard my mother smothering a guffaw that escaped a little in a barking kind of
way that called forth a giggle from me. And since it was ok, and a good
thing it was cuz I doubt I could have held back, I snorted and snickered and
chuckled and before you know it, the three of us were weakly collapsed over
each other there in the waiting room of the hospital. I don't recall if I
ever did see my grandmother that visit.
Viewings are such barbaric affairs. They had their place and reason, but
such a god-awful waste and aren't they just too gaudy? My mother always
warned us that if we insisted on a viewing for her, that she would come back
and haunt us indefinitely. Unless we could rig it so that she would sit
up and give us all the bird at random intervals. That's just the way my
mom is. I love her so, sigh.
My grandmother's viewing was, well, a carnival. I sat toward the back of
the drawing room that opened into the funeral parlor. Such fancy names,
yes, but it was an old house and it was a small town and that's the way things
were done, there and then. I watched my aunt, and her daughter, steal
scene after dramatic scene. I tried to feel sympathy for them, or at the
very least remind myself that their tears, wails, nay! cries of despair and the
rest of the gnashing of teeth and rending of clothing may have very well been
sincere. As of yet, I had maintained a low profile, and I liked it that way.
However, it was not to be. My cousin, oh she of the dramatic tears, came
to me, knelt before my chair and clasped my hands in hers. She snuffled
and her blotched face crumbled again. Then she bravely stood, hauling me
up, and fastened an arm around my waist and began to walk me up to the coffin,
saying, "i'll be by your side, I can't believe no one has offered to be
with you in your time of need, in this hour of grief, ohhhh you poor poor
thing." I briefly thought of pulling away but the struggle would
have been unseemly and it really was easier to just go thru with it and get it
over. Or so I thought.
As we neared the coffin, with its lid closed on the bottom half and the upper
half propped open as though to display a jewel, I saw with great discomfort
that the single rose that I had bought at the florist with my lowly student
funds (I was 22, in college, the first in my family to go to college), the rose
that designated me as her granddaughter, as though defining our relationship is
some deeply symbolic way, that I knew was a farce...the damn rose was the only
item in the coffin with her. It was clasped in her hands, on her
chest. And say, didn't her chest look immeasurably smaller than I'd ever
seen it? Yes, why she looked downright snug in there, but it wasn't as
though the coffin was extra wide or anything. Well, those morticians can
work wonders I suppose.
My father joined us just as we neared the coffin and he leaned his head down
toward me and I flipped back to when I was a child, in the hospital waiting
room and dad trilling, "hi there! hi" and waving
enthusiastically. The laughter burbled out, I quickly clapped a hand over
my mouth, spun on my heel, and dashed toward the front porch. My mother
saw my exit and joined me out there, with the rain steadily dripping from the
eaves and the air too chilly for other mourners. My cousin, of course,
came to be a part of the drama and my mother cut her off, steered her back
inside, saying, "she's just overcome, she needs a moment." as I brayed
laughter into the rain and the whooshing spray of the passing cars, truly
crying now, crying tears of laughter. My mother stood guard, knowing that
I was unable to stop my chuckles. As they would die down, another round
would burst out of me and I just couldn't stop. That's the way I remember
that day, in January 1993.
Part 3: Bizarre (and final)
Moments, brought to you by the funeral (and the sound, pft!)
If you've read the prior entries, the story til now, then you may be
experiencing a mixed bag of reactions and thoughts. That's alright,
really, and who am I to say differently? Especially given the entire
macabre tale. This will wrap it all up, the death of my grandmother being
far more amusing (and useful) to me than her life. Sad and horrible to
say, perhaps, but oh so true.
At the viewing, my cousin (miz drama-sin) was a bit put off by the rose, my
rose, in the coffin. It was an affront of sorts. After all,
everyone knew that while my brother was the favorite grandchild, I was the most
abhorred. The one who was merely tolerated (at best) when the family
gathered; the one who was constantly berated to the others, at least they were
much better than me, they sniffed and all was well with the world.
My grandmother had a certain soft-spot for elephants (not a huge stretch of the
imagination there) and collected them in all shapes and forms. She had
small delicate glass ones, large china ones with red and gold paint, wooden
ones made of jig-sawed pieces that fit in 3-D. She had plush ones,
stuffed ones, cute ones, realistic ones. She had Dumbo and little trains
of them, trunks twisted around the tail of the one in front. She had ones
that had little carts balanced on their backs and ones who appeared ferocious,
their tusks sharp and dangerous. She had gray ones, and pink ones rearing
up as a mouse scurried by. She had elephants on teacups and carving
platters and mamma's with their babies. She had elephants everywhere, on
the walls, in the shadowboxes, under the coffee table, on counters, dresser
tops, above the door. It was impossible to miss the rounded figures;
every where your eye rested, there was one or two, or even more.
My cousin had stolen into my grandmother's room and whilst her mother took
piles of whatnot, my cousin took the small plush toy that she'd given my
grandmother. It was a gray furry thing with delicate pink inner ears,
white felt tusks, and cutely widened eyes. Its mouth was slightly open,
and it would squeak when squeezed. Well, it had when my cousin first gave
it as a gift. It wheezed now. Age attacks even stuffed toys, you
know.
My cousin brought the ratty tattered thing to the viewing, cradled in her arm,
tucked under her elbow when not being bandied about as though it were a badge
of pride. When she saw the lone rose, central to the reposed figure, my
cousin asked my grandfather if she mightn't put the elephant in the coffin with
grammee (after all, she adored the creatures in life, wouldn't she want its
company in the here-after?). He agreed, and she waited til the very end
of the viewing, having informed the funeral director that the elephant had a
place of honor with the deceased (this the same cousin who attempted to show me
pictures of both of my grandparents in their coffins, holy shit woman, have you
no sense of propriety? apparently not), and inserted the elephant
into the coffin, tucked in for infinity.
The morning of the funeral, my brother arrived via bus from quite a
distance. He was to be a pall-bearer and was much respected. After
all, he was the favored one. His eyes red rimmed from grief, from
sleepless bus travel, from a little recreational therapy...quite possibly all
three.
I'm standing grave side, behind the row of her children; standing behind my
seated father (I think I am safe from giggles now, besides, he cannot lean down
toward me, now can he?). The ground is so wet that we are all sunken,
squelched into the mucky mire. There had been some confusion at the
hearse, as men jostled into position, like jockeys primed. They heaved
the coffin up, surprised at how light it was (she was a big woman, short yes,
but heavy) and they began to come toward us, under the tented freshly dug
grave, finding their stride, settling into the rhythm of their own walk and the
others'.
As they draw near, my brother falters, sinks to his knee (is it the mud?
the grief? the weight of the moment?) and then I hear it. An
asthmatic wheeze emitted by the shifting bulk inside the coffin. I see no
reaction from anyone, anywhere. So I question, did I really hear it?
Then as heregains his footing, my brother rightens his burden; and I hear it
again. This time there is no mistaking the dry tired wheeze of the damned
stuffed elephant trapped, needing more space from its accompanying
occupant. Glancing around, I see bored stiff expressions and slackened
numbed cheeks and jaws. It doesn't seem to register with the others, but
this time I know I heard it.
After the graveside words are said, I feel the surrealism of the whole affair
coming to a point; as the crowd and family has left, and I am standing to the
side, not far from the grave, waiting for my father to finish speaking with his
brother. They have begun to lower the coffin into the grave, a
half-hearted drizzle has hastened the job. I hear the faintest protest of
a wheeze coming from the cut bowels of raw heavy earth, streaked with coal, one
last time as I turn toward my father, with a faint smile on my lips.
Dear reader, there is nothing left to say about those days in January 1993.
16 October 2007
wtf?!?
ok, i got that the entries that were gone monday have now come back. goody! but all the entries that i posted last night and early this AM are now gone, missing thru no fault of my own. and it pisses me off. cuz i've received comments on those entries thru alerts and i can't even access the entry so i can read the complete comment. and ya know, if for some reason aol/aim is pissed about some unbeknownst to me TOS violation, then for pity's sake, notify me of such a snit fit so i have a clue of what happened.
signed,
lost in Starkville's walmartZ
signed,
lost in Starkville's walmartZ
Bizarre Moments, brought to you by the funeral (and the sound, pft!)
If you've read the prior entries, the story til now, then you may be experiencing a mixed bag of reactions and thoughts. That's alright, really, and who am I to say differently? Especially given the entire macabre tale. This will wrap it all up, the death of my grandmother being far more amusing (and useful) to me than her life. Sad and horrible to say, perhaps, but oh so true.
At the viewing, my cousin (miz drama-sin) was a bit put off by the rose, my rose, in the coffin. It was an affront of sorts. After all, everyone knew that while my brother was the favorite grandchild, I was the most abhorred. The one who was merely tolerated (at best) when the family gathered; the one who was constantly berated to the others, at least they were much better than me, they sniffed and all was well with the world.
My grandmother had a certain soft-spot for elephants (not a huge stretch of the imagination there) and collected them in all shapes and forms. She had small delicate glass ones, large china ones with red and gold paint, wooden ones made of jigsawed pieces that fit in 3-D. She had plush ones, stuffed ones, cute ones, realistic ones. She had Dumbo and little trains of them, trunks twisted around the tail of the one in front. She had ones that had little carts balanced on their backs and ones who appeared ferocious, their tusks sharp and dangerous. She had gray ones, and pink ones rearing up as a mouse scurried by. She had elephants on teacups and carving platters and mamma's with their babies. She had elephants everywhere, on the walls, in the shadowboxes, under the coffee table, on counters, dresser tops, above the door. It was impossible to miss the rounded figures; every where your eye rested, there was one or two, or even more.
My cousin had stolen into my grandmother's room and whilst her mother took piles of whatnot, my cousin took the small plush toy that she'd given my grandmother. It was a gray furry thing with delicate pink inner ears, white felt tusks, and cutely widened eyes. It's mouth was slightly open, and it would squeak when squeezed. Well, it had when my cousin first gave it as a gift. It wheezed now. Age attacks even stuffed toys, you know.
My cousin brought the ratty tattered thing to the viewing, cradled in her arm, tucked under her elbow when not being bandied about as though it were a badge of pride. When she saw the lone rose, central to the reposed figure, my cousin asked my grandfather if she mightn't put the elephant in the coffin with grammee (after all, she adored the creatures in life, wouldn't she want its company in the here-after?). He agreed, and she waited til the very end of the viewing, having informed the funeral director that the elephant had a place of honor with the deceased (this the same cousin who attempted to show me pictures of both of my grandparents in their coffins, holy shit woman, have you no sense of properity? apparently not), and inserted the elephant into the coffin, tucked in for infinity.
The morning of the funeral, my brother arrived via bus from quite a distance. He was to be a pall-bearer and was much respected. After all, he was the favored one. His eyes red rimmed from grief, from sleepless bus travel, from a little recreational therapy...quite possibly all three.
I'm standing grave side, behind the row of her children; standing behind my seated father (I think I am safe from giggles now, besides, he cannot lean down toward me, now can he?). The ground is so wet that we are all sunken, squelched into the mucky mire. There had been some confusion at the hearse, as men jostled into position, like jockeys primed. They heaved the coffin up, surprised at how light it was (she was a big woman, short yes, but heavy) and they began to come toward us, under the tented freshly dug grave, finding their stride, settling into the rhythm of their own walk and the others'.
As they draw near, my brother falters, sinks to his knee (is it the mud? the grief? the weight of the moment?) and then I hear it. An asthmatic wheeze emitted by the shifting bulk inside the coffin. I see no reaction from anyone, anywhere. So I question, did i really hear it? Then as he regains his footing, my brother rightens his burden, and I hear it again. This time there is no mistaking the dry tired wheeze of the damned stuffed elephant trapped, needing more space from its accompanying occupant. Glancing around, I see bored stiff expressions and slackened numbed cheeks and jaws. It doesn't seem to register with the others, but this time I know I heard it.
After the graveside words are said, I feel the surrealism of the whole affair coming to a point; as the crowd and family has left, and I am standing to the side, not far from the grave, waiting for my father to finish speaking with his brother. They have begun to lower the coffin into the grave, a half-hearted drizzle has hastened the job. I hear the faintest protest of a wheeze coming from the cut bowels of raw heavy earth, streaked with coal, one last time as I turn toward my father, with a faint smile on my lips.
There is nothing left to say.
At the viewing, my cousin (miz drama-sin) was a bit put off by the rose, my rose, in the coffin. It was an affront of sorts. After all, everyone knew that while my brother was the favorite grandchild, I was the most abhorred. The one who was merely tolerated (at best) when the family gathered; the one who was constantly berated to the others, at least they were much better than me, they sniffed and all was well with the world.
My grandmother had a certain soft-spot for elephants (not a huge stretch of the imagination there) and collected them in all shapes and forms. She had small delicate glass ones, large china ones with red and gold paint, wooden ones made of jigsawed pieces that fit in 3-D. She had plush ones, stuffed ones, cute ones, realistic ones. She had Dumbo and little trains of them, trunks twisted around the tail of the one in front. She had ones that had little carts balanced on their backs and ones who appeared ferocious, their tusks sharp and dangerous. She had gray ones, and pink ones rearing up as a mouse scurried by. She had elephants on teacups and carving platters and mamma's with their babies. She had elephants everywhere, on the walls, in the shadowboxes, under the coffee table, on counters, dresser tops, above the door. It was impossible to miss the rounded figures; every where your eye rested, there was one or two, or even more.
My cousin had stolen into my grandmother's room and whilst her mother took piles of whatnot, my cousin took the small plush toy that she'd given my grandmother. It was a gray furry thing with delicate pink inner ears, white felt tusks, and cutely widened eyes. It's mouth was slightly open, and it would squeak when squeezed. Well, it had when my cousin first gave it as a gift. It wheezed now. Age attacks even stuffed toys, you know.
My cousin brought the ratty tattered thing to the viewing, cradled in her arm, tucked under her elbow when not being bandied about as though it were a badge of pride. When she saw the lone rose, central to the reposed figure, my cousin asked my grandfather if she mightn't put the elephant in the coffin with grammee (after all, she adored the creatures in life, wouldn't she want its company in the here-after?). He agreed, and she waited til the very end of the viewing, having informed the funeral director that the elephant had a place of honor with the deceased (this the same cousin who attempted to show me pictures of both of my grandparents in their coffins, holy shit woman, have you no sense of properity? apparently not), and inserted the elephant into the coffin, tucked in for infinity.
The morning of the funeral, my brother arrived via bus from quite a distance. He was to be a pall-bearer and was much respected. After all, he was the favored one. His eyes red rimmed from grief, from sleepless bus travel, from a little recreational therapy...quite possibly all three.
I'm standing grave side, behind the row of her children; standing behind my seated father (I think I am safe from giggles now, besides, he cannot lean down toward me, now can he?). The ground is so wet that we are all sunken, squelched into the mucky mire. There had been some confusion at the hearse, as men jostled into position, like jockeys primed. They heaved the coffin up, surprised at how light it was (she was a big woman, short yes, but heavy) and they began to come toward us, under the tented freshly dug grave, finding their stride, settling into the rhythm of their own walk and the others'.
As they draw near, my brother falters, sinks to his knee (is it the mud? the grief? the weight of the moment?) and then I hear it. An asthmatic wheeze emitted by the shifting bulk inside the coffin. I see no reaction from anyone, anywhere. So I question, did i really hear it? Then as he regains his footing, my brother rightens his burden, and I hear it again. This time there is no mistaking the dry tired wheeze of the damned stuffed elephant trapped, needing more space from its accompanying occupant. Glancing around, I see bored stiff expressions and slackened numbed cheeks and jaws. It doesn't seem to register with the others, but this time I know I heard it.
After the graveside words are said, I feel the surrealism of the whole affair coming to a point; as the crowd and family has left, and I am standing to the side, not far from the grave, waiting for my father to finish speaking with his brother. They have begun to lower the coffin into the grave, a half-hearted drizzle has hastened the job. I hear the faintest protest of a wheeze coming from the cut bowels of raw heavy earth, streaked with coal, one last time as I turn toward my father, with a faint smile on my lips.
There is nothing left to say.
The Viewing, as seen from the granddaughter's perspective
When I was a child, my grandmother was hospitalized (I think that time it was for a hernia, well, one of them). I was so young that they wouldn't let children visit, but they would allow me to wait in the little stale common room, just opposite the bank of elevators. I remember sitting there, bored out of my scull, uncomfortable, and trying not to let it show. My parents were sympathetic to my plight, and engaged me in conversation in an attempt to distract me from the agony of waiting. And yet she still did not materialize. I am hazy on all the details, but I do recall with a sharp clarity that still makes me chortle one shining point of comradery with my parents.
All was quiet on the floor, and then in the distant, a slow lumbering rumble was approaching. I sat up straighter in my chair, peeling my bare thighs off the sticky plastic and squiggling back into the chair, absolutely no sign of slouch to be shown in grandmother's presence, no sir, no way. My father, the son of said grandmother, who would receive a call from his father years down the road, leaned close to me and said, "sh, she's coming now." and the rumbling grew louder, and my spine was so straight there was no curve, and my father continued, "she's coming. yep, here she comes" and a white clothed orderly pushed a laundry cart past. You know, one of those deep canvas carts that held huge mounds of white sheets, all tussled and balled up. I was still perched on the edge of my seat, so my feet could touch the floor (having decided that it would be more proper than letting them dangle) and my dad said (rather boldly, rather loudly), "and she pops up! waves (he demonstrated), 'hi there! hi!' there she goes!" as the cart disappeared into the elevator. i gapped at my father, his eyes merry and bright, his face lit with a smile that was rare and heard my mother smothering a guffaw that escaped a little in a barking kind of way that called forth a giggle from me. and since it was ok, and a good thing it was cuz i doubt i could have held back, i snorted and snickered and chuckled and before you know it, the three of us were weakly collapsed over each other there in the waiting room of the hospital. i don't recall if i ever did see my grandmother that visit.
Viewings are such barbaric affairs. They had their place and reason, but such a god-awful waste and aren't they just too gaudy? My mother always warned us that if we insisted on a viewing for her, that she would come back and haunt us indefinitely. Unless we could rig it so that she would sit up and give us all the bird at random intervals. That's just the way my mom is. I love her so, sigh.
My grandmother's viewing was, well, a carnival. I sat toward the back of the drawing room that opened into the funeral parlor. Such fancy names, yes, but it was an old house and it was a small town and that's the way things were done, there and then. I watched my aunt, and her daughter, steal scene after dramatic scene. I tried to feel sympathy for them, or at the very least remind myself that their tears, wails, nay! cries of despair and the rest of the gnashing of teeth and rending of clothing may have very well been sincere. As of yet, I had maintained a low profile, and I liked it that way.
However, it was not to be. My cousin, oh she of the dramatic tears, came to me, knelt before my chair and clasped my hands in hers. She snuffled and her blotched face crumbled again. Then she bravely stood, hauling me up, and fastened an arm around my waist and began to walk me up to the coffin, saying, "i'll be by your side, i can't believe no one has offered to be with you in your time of need, in this hour of grief, ohhhh you poor poor thing." I briefly thought of pulling away but the struggle would have been unseemly and it really was easier to just go thru with it and get it over. or so i thought.
as we neared the coffin, with it's lid closed on the bottom half and the upper half propped open as though to display a jewel, i saw with great discomfort that the single rose that i had bought at the florist with my lowly student funds (i was 22, in college, the first in my family to go to college), the rose that designated me as her granddaughter, as though defining our relationship is some deeply symbolic way, that i knew was a farce...the damn rose was the only item in the coffin with her. it was clasped in her hands, on her chest. and say, didn't her chest look immeasurably smaller than i'd ever seen it? yes, why she looked snug in there, but it wasn't as tho the coffin was extra wide or anything. well, those morticians can work wonders i suppose.
my father joined us just as we neared the coffin and he leaned his head down toward me and i flipped back to wheni was a child, in the hospital waiting room and dad trilling, "hi there! hi" and waving enthusiastically. the laughter burbled out, i quickly clapped a hand over my mouth, spun on my heel, and dashed toward the front porch. my mother saw my exit and joined me out there, with the rain steadily dripping from the eaves and the air too chilly for other standersby. my cousin, of course, came to be a part of the drama and my mother cut her off, steered her back inside, saying, "she's just overcome, she needs a moment." as i brayed laughter into the rain and the whooshing spray of the passing cars, truly crying now, crying tears of laughter. my mother stood guard, knowing that i was unable to stop my chuckles. as they would die down, another round would burst out of me and i just couldn't stop. that's the way i remember that day, in January 1993.
(to be cont'd)
All was quiet on the floor, and then in the distant, a slow lumbering rumble was approaching. I sat up straighter in my chair, peeling my bare thighs off the sticky plastic and squiggling back into the chair, absolutely no sign of slouch to be shown in grandmother's presence, no sir, no way. My father, the son of said grandmother, who would receive a call from his father years down the road, leaned close to me and said, "sh, she's coming now." and the rumbling grew louder, and my spine was so straight there was no curve, and my father continued, "she's coming. yep, here she comes" and a white clothed orderly pushed a laundry cart past. You know, one of those deep canvas carts that held huge mounds of white sheets, all tussled and balled up. I was still perched on the edge of my seat, so my feet could touch the floor (having decided that it would be more proper than letting them dangle) and my dad said (rather boldly, rather loudly), "and she pops up! waves (he demonstrated), 'hi there! hi!' there she goes!" as the cart disappeared into the elevator. i gapped at my father, his eyes merry and bright, his face lit with a smile that was rare and heard my mother smothering a guffaw that escaped a little in a barking kind of way that called forth a giggle from me. and since it was ok, and a good thing it was cuz i doubt i could have held back, i snorted and snickered and chuckled and before you know it, the three of us were weakly collapsed over each other there in the waiting room of the hospital. i don't recall if i ever did see my grandmother that visit.
Viewings are such barbaric affairs. They had their place and reason, but such a god-awful waste and aren't they just too gaudy? My mother always warned us that if we insisted on a viewing for her, that she would come back and haunt us indefinitely. Unless we could rig it so that she would sit up and give us all the bird at random intervals. That's just the way my mom is. I love her so, sigh.
My grandmother's viewing was, well, a carnival. I sat toward the back of the drawing room that opened into the funeral parlor. Such fancy names, yes, but it was an old house and it was a small town and that's the way things were done, there and then. I watched my aunt, and her daughter, steal scene after dramatic scene. I tried to feel sympathy for them, or at the very least remind myself that their tears, wails, nay! cries of despair and the rest of the gnashing of teeth and rending of clothing may have very well been sincere. As of yet, I had maintained a low profile, and I liked it that way.
However, it was not to be. My cousin, oh she of the dramatic tears, came to me, knelt before my chair and clasped my hands in hers. She snuffled and her blotched face crumbled again. Then she bravely stood, hauling me up, and fastened an arm around my waist and began to walk me up to the coffin, saying, "i'll be by your side, i can't believe no one has offered to be with you in your time of need, in this hour of grief, ohhhh you poor poor thing." I briefly thought of pulling away but the struggle would have been unseemly and it really was easier to just go thru with it and get it over. or so i thought.
as we neared the coffin, with it's lid closed on the bottom half and the upper half propped open as though to display a jewel, i saw with great discomfort that the single rose that i had bought at the florist with my lowly student funds (i was 22, in college, the first in my family to go to college), the rose that designated me as her granddaughter, as though defining our relationship is some deeply symbolic way, that i knew was a farce...the damn rose was the only item in the coffin with her. it was clasped in her hands, on her chest. and say, didn't her chest look immeasurably smaller than i'd ever seen it? yes, why she looked snug in there, but it wasn't as tho the coffin was extra wide or anything. well, those morticians can work wonders i suppose.
my father joined us just as we neared the coffin and he leaned his head down toward me and i flipped back to wheni was a child, in the hospital waiting room and dad trilling, "hi there! hi" and waving enthusiastically. the laughter burbled out, i quickly clapped a hand over my mouth, spun on my heel, and dashed toward the front porch. my mother saw my exit and joined me out there, with the rain steadily dripping from the eaves and the air too chilly for other standersby. my cousin, of course, came to be a part of the drama and my mother cut her off, steered her back inside, saying, "she's just overcome, she needs a moment." as i brayed laughter into the rain and the whooshing spray of the passing cars, truly crying now, crying tears of laughter. my mother stood guard, knowing that i was unable to stop my chuckles. as they would die down, another round would burst out of me and i just couldn't stop. that's the way i remember that day, in January 1993.
(to be cont'd)
First of all, you must realize that this isn't true (including this sentence).
First of all, you must realize that this isn't true (including this sentence). So if you snicker, feel no guilt (unless you are into that sort of thing). I thought this tale would be in keeping with the coming of dead days, a season of dormancy and barren starkness, with roots delving deep into the dense coal-streaked ground. Feast yourself on this offering.
It was a cold miserably wet dank day, the day my grandmother died. It was just as wet, though less cold, the day she was displayed at the funeral home. In comparison to those days, the day she was buried was downright balmy.
It was in January 1993, and my grandparents had been married for almost 55 years. The key to their marriage was that they had clearly delineated spaces and routines. They had lived for the previous ten years in a modular unit, a mobile home, really. The front door entered into a space just between the living room and the kitchen, as marked by carpet to the left (living room) and faux-tile to the right (kitchen). The left half of the trailer (I can say that now, grandmother is not here to glare at me for such a cheap label) was hers and the right was his domain. She spent most of her waking hours in her rocker in front of the television which was lord of the living room, and highly revered (in all my 22 yrs, i was never allowed to touch the controls for changing the channels, adjusting the volume, fixing the ghoulish green tint that Bob Barker sported on the Price is Right!). The furniture was in pristine condition, although it was not covered in plastic (as was commonly used by her generation). No, but neither could I sit on it (the floor was my place, and if there was a way she could have prohibited me from sitting on the carpet, she would have). Just through the living room, with its myriad of antiques displayed just so in shadow-boxes, was her bedroom with an attached master bath.
Now my grandmother was a very modest woman, and would shut her door upon retiring. During the day, a heavy black poodle cast in iron stood guard and held the door open to the living room. Her bathroom was rather nice, but not used much. The toilet was, of course, but the garden tub and the separate shower stall were stacked with boxes filled with things that she moved with her from a sturdy little house some ten years prior. Sliding pocket doors separated the bathroom from the bedroom and so modest was she that when using the toilet, she would not only remove the cast iron poodle and close the living room to bedroom door, but she would also close the bedroom to bathroom pocket doors.
Please, remember this is not true, not any of it. My grandfather's domain began with the kitchen. Oh, he visited the living room for a brief spell every day, usually early afternoon, and would watch a few minutes of television with my grandmother. Then, saying that the cushions were not kind to his back, he would leave and return to his side of the trailer, having done his daily duty.
The kitchen was his, he did the cooking (frying eggs every other day, having toast and oatmeal on the off days) and he did the dishes. A small laundry sat off the side, and he did that too. At the end of a short hallway lie his bedroom. Just before his room was a small bathroom, functional and spare. His shower and tub were vacated of boxed memorabilia and were indeed used, at least twice per week. His bedroom was small, but neat and held his own small black and white television which was atop his CB units and his amps, receivers, and other things that allowed him interaction with the outside world. In those days, computers were not common, nevermind the internet. My grandfather would chat as the Peaceful Quaker while watching muted professional wrestling (which had a cinematic quality, silent films had nothing on the antics of Hulk Hogan and his ilk, especially when viewed in the formal black and white that screamed, "classic" at me).
They had a very scripted life, my grandparents. Their routine varied little and was most likely worn like an old comfortable coat. And like the coat, it became tattered and worn and frazzled, but was still donned religiously.
One day, my grandfather cracked the eggs into the fry-pan and called out to my grandmother, "oh honey! your breakfast is almost ready!" He set the pink melmac plates with their eggs and toast (sara lee's lite bread for diabetics, please thank you) at their places and settled himself down to read the paper. Now, my grandmother always read the obits first, but he read the front page and then laid that section next to her plate and he went onto read the next section, which was usually the sports (it was a small paper, it was a small town).
It wasn't til he had rinsed his plate, fork,knife, and orange plastic cup that he realized that she had not stirred from her room. He called out to her as he hobbled to her door, his cane sure and steady but his legs not so. Once there, he tapped gently, and now began to feel a bit of hesitation. Perhaps something happened, she had been feeling poorly. She was 5'2" (eyes were not blue, but brown) and I think it would not be a gross overestimation to say that she was every bit as round as she was tall. She was the absolute worst kind of diabetic there is, the kind that thinks they are getting one over on the doc but are merely harming themselves with non-adherence to the prescribed diet, exercise, and then frantically observing the orders just prior to a check-up. Why, didn't she just two weeks before bump her head on the door knob whilst moving that damned poodle and end up in the hospital because she scared him with her fainting spell? And didn't she give him hell over it cuz they kept her in the hospital til she was stabilized and learned how to give herself the needle?
Now, he turns the knob and ever so gently pushes the door open. He knows something is wrong. He sees the empty bed so knows that she isn't having a lie-in. And with dread crosses to the closed pocket doors. Here, he hesitates, for he knows that nothing good lies behind this door. He knows that the silence is not good and yet he can't put this off any longer. So he slides the door open and sees her, sitting on the toilet, frozen in mid-strain. Her face tortured and her glazed eyes open.
He knows in that instant, before he even realizes that he knows; what has happened. She woke in the night, heaved herself off her bed, waddled to the bathroom, slid the pocket doors shut, and wedged herself in the space between the end of the sink (those fancy spindles separating the sink's long counter and the tiny toilet aclove) and the outside wall of the trailer (on the other side of which was a metal shed). He knows that she most likely strained a bit too hard (either to move her bowels, a herculean effort, or to stand from the toilet; probably a bit of both) and her heart gave out under the laborious task at hand (having gone beyond the call of duty for a good twenty years, the doctor said).
He sees all this, and knows it, just like that. He limps back to the kitchen, where the wall unit is mounted, and places a callto his son; cuz really, what do you do? He knows she's dead, and you can't exactly call the morgue to come pick her up, now can you?
A few hours later, he watches as the shrouded form of her is maneuvered awkwardly through the hole they have made when they removed the door-jamb from its frame. He resists his daughter's pleading that he come home with her. This is his home. A bit banged up, sure, but still his. He turns and sees the dismembered bedroom door, a hole gaping there too. And he knows that the bathroom is a mess. Well, he thinks, at least the pocket doors are alright. And he squishes down a stray giggle, aghast at himself. For they had to cut the sink's counter off and remove the faux-wall so that the tiny toilet's space could give up its occupant. When his daughter protested, he said reasonably, that it wasn't nearly as bad as removing the side of the trailer, now was it?
Finally, his daughter drove him to past the point of endurance and he sent her away, telling her he just wanted some time to be. Already, she was poking through her mother's things, and squirreling away the good jewelry and trinkets. Already, she'd opened the closets and pawed through the hanging clothes. Already, she was making plans for her inheritance (that would not materialize until his death, if then).
He was tired. And he was old. And somehow, he had to get thru the next few days.
(to be cont'd)
It was a cold miserably wet dank day, the day my grandmother died. It was just as wet, though less cold, the day she was displayed at the funeral home. In comparison to those days, the day she was buried was downright balmy.
It was in January 1993, and my grandparents had been married for almost 55 years. The key to their marriage was that they had clearly delineated spaces and routines. They had lived for the previous ten years in a modular unit, a mobile home, really. The front door entered into a space just between the living room and the kitchen, as marked by carpet to the left (living room) and faux-tile to the right (kitchen). The left half of the trailer (I can say that now, grandmother is not here to glare at me for such a cheap label) was hers and the right was his domain. She spent most of her waking hours in her rocker in front of the television which was lord of the living room, and highly revered (in all my 22 yrs, i was never allowed to touch the controls for changing the channels, adjusting the volume, fixing the ghoulish green tint that Bob Barker sported on the Price is Right!). The furniture was in pristine condition, although it was not covered in plastic (as was commonly used by her generation). No, but neither could I sit on it (the floor was my place, and if there was a way she could have prohibited me from sitting on the carpet, she would have). Just through the living room, with its myriad of antiques displayed just so in shadow-boxes, was her bedroom with an attached master bath.
Now my grandmother was a very modest woman, and would shut her door upon retiring. During the day, a heavy black poodle cast in iron stood guard and held the door open to the living room. Her bathroom was rather nice, but not used much. The toilet was, of course, but the garden tub and the separate shower stall were stacked with boxes filled with things that she moved with her from a sturdy little house some ten years prior. Sliding pocket doors separated the bathroom from the bedroom and so modest was she that when using the toilet, she would not only remove the cast iron poodle and close the living room to bedroom door, but she would also close the bedroom to bathroom pocket doors.
Please, remember this is not true, not any of it. My grandfather's domain began with the kitchen. Oh, he visited the living room for a brief spell every day, usually early afternoon, and would watch a few minutes of television with my grandmother. Then, saying that the cushions were not kind to his back, he would leave and return to his side of the trailer, having done his daily duty.
The kitchen was his, he did the cooking (frying eggs every other day, having toast and oatmeal on the off days) and he did the dishes. A small laundry sat off the side, and he did that too. At the end of a short hallway lie his bedroom. Just before his room was a small bathroom, functional and spare. His shower and tub were vacated of boxed memorabilia and were indeed used, at least twice per week. His bedroom was small, but neat and held his own small black and white television which was atop his CB units and his amps, receivers, and other things that allowed him interaction with the outside world. In those days, computers were not common, nevermind the internet. My grandfather would chat as the Peaceful Quaker while watching muted professional wrestling (which had a cinematic quality, silent films had nothing on the antics of Hulk Hogan and his ilk, especially when viewed in the formal black and white that screamed, "classic" at me).
They had a very scripted life, my grandparents. Their routine varied little and was most likely worn like an old comfortable coat. And like the coat, it became tattered and worn and frazzled, but was still donned religiously.
One day, my grandfather cracked the eggs into the fry-pan and called out to my grandmother, "oh honey! your breakfast is almost ready!" He set the pink melmac plates with their eggs and toast (sara lee's lite bread for diabetics, please thank you) at their places and settled himself down to read the paper. Now, my grandmother always read the obits first, but he read the front page and then laid that section next to her plate and he went onto read the next section, which was usually the sports (it was a small paper, it was a small town).
It wasn't til he had rinsed his plate, fork,knife, and orange plastic cup that he realized that she had not stirred from her room. He called out to her as he hobbled to her door, his cane sure and steady but his legs not so. Once there, he tapped gently, and now began to feel a bit of hesitation. Perhaps something happened, she had been feeling poorly. She was 5'2" (eyes were not blue, but brown) and I think it would not be a gross overestimation to say that she was every bit as round as she was tall. She was the absolute worst kind of diabetic there is, the kind that thinks they are getting one over on the doc but are merely harming themselves with non-adherence to the prescribed diet, exercise, and then frantically observing the orders just prior to a check-up. Why, didn't she just two weeks before bump her head on the door knob whilst moving that damned poodle and end up in the hospital because she scared him with her fainting spell? And didn't she give him hell over it cuz they kept her in the hospital til she was stabilized and learned how to give herself the needle?
Now, he turns the knob and ever so gently pushes the door open. He knows something is wrong. He sees the empty bed so knows that she isn't having a lie-in. And with dread crosses to the closed pocket doors. Here, he hesitates, for he knows that nothing good lies behind this door. He knows that the silence is not good and yet he can't put this off any longer. So he slides the door open and sees her, sitting on the toilet, frozen in mid-strain. Her face tortured and her glazed eyes open.
He knows in that instant, before he even realizes that he knows; what has happened. She woke in the night, heaved herself off her bed, waddled to the bathroom, slid the pocket doors shut, and wedged herself in the space between the end of the sink (those fancy spindles separating the sink's long counter and the tiny toilet aclove) and the outside wall of the trailer (on the other side of which was a metal shed). He knows that she most likely strained a bit too hard (either to move her bowels, a herculean effort, or to stand from the toilet; probably a bit of both) and her heart gave out under the laborious task at hand (having gone beyond the call of duty for a good twenty years, the doctor said).
He sees all this, and knows it, just like that. He limps back to the kitchen, where the wall unit is mounted, and places a callto his son; cuz really, what do you do? He knows she's dead, and you can't exactly call the morgue to come pick her up, now can you?
A few hours later, he watches as the shrouded form of her is maneuvered awkwardly through the hole they have made when they removed the door-jamb from its frame. He resists his daughter's pleading that he come home with her. This is his home. A bit banged up, sure, but still his. He turns and sees the dismembered bedroom door, a hole gaping there too. And he knows that the bathroom is a mess. Well, he thinks, at least the pocket doors are alright. And he squishes down a stray giggle, aghast at himself. For they had to cut the sink's counter off and remove the faux-wall so that the tiny toilet's space could give up its occupant. When his daughter protested, he said reasonably, that it wasn't nearly as bad as removing the side of the trailer, now was it?
Finally, his daughter drove him to past the point of endurance and he sent her away, telling her he just wanted some time to be. Already, she was poking through her mother's things, and squirreling away the good jewelry and trinkets. Already, she'd opened the closets and pawed through the hanging clothes. Already, she was making plans for her inheritance (that would not materialize until his death, if then).
He was tired. And he was old. And somehow, he had to get thru the next few days.
(to be cont'd)
dancing in my wooden shoes
i think the last several entries have disappeared. maybe they will be there when i look again. nope, still gone. sigh. altho i did notice that aol-servers were down earlier so maybe the snafu lies with them. (aha! it looks like they're back...for now)
anyway, I wanted to let you know that Judi HeartSong's October Artsy Essay will be judged by a guest-panel of students in Theresa William's creative writing class. The topic was a chosen suggestion one of her students made. So, let's really show some spirit!
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Artsy Essay, it is a contest that is open to everyone as long as your blog is public and can be accessed freely. Your entry should be written in English, cuz most of the panel is conversant in English and not another language. And we are, ya know, in America and so is Judi and English is still the official language. Again, anyone outside the US can enter as well, just observe the rules.
You may supplement your essay with sketches, paint-programs, camera pix, and use poetry, prose, etc. It's pretty free-reign with artistic license, except for the English rule stated above. Be creative and do what you want. Hell, if you submit non-English, it still gets linked to and all, you just won't win the prize. All efforts are appreciated and you needn't be a professional anything, something, or nothing.
Speaking of winning prizes, Judi, tell the fine folks what they could win! Why sure, Debra, ahem, "The prize will be a piece of art from my studio and will vary from month to month. Paintings on paper or canvas, multi-media pieces, handmade artist books, and other studio pieces are possible prizes and will be awarded as long as the winner is willing to provide their mailing address, which will be held in strictest confidence. For the time being, I am able to assume the shipping costs for continental US winners, international winners may be asked to help with their shipping costs should the need arise.
Each winner will be sent an email with a jpeg of theArtsy Essay logo icon to use or display in any way they wish. Winners will need to upload the icon into their FTP or photo storage space, no hot linking allowed in order to save my bandwidth, please. "
So, the contest runs til the end of the month. That's why it is October's Artsy Essay and not The Ongoing Artsy Essay or September's Arty Essay (altho those submissions' links can be found at Judi's journal) or November's Naughty Artsy Essay (Ya better be bad, ya better be bold, ya better watch out and do what you're told...Mistress Debra's coming to towwwwwn).
Your contest entry must link back to her entry. If you are unsure how to do this, ask the linking gods that be. Or me. I'll give you the instructions in the most nontechnical language possible (here's an excerpt: ...m'k? then go to that little pic with the world on it and then press the cntrl key and the letter "v", for victory! and...); it's not cuz you're stupid, it's cuz i'm too damn lazy to learn the techno-speak like "above your text box, there are a list of icons, one of which is for hyper-linking", cuz really, if ya knew those terms, chances are you'd already know how to do the damn cross-linking necessary. Am I right? yeah, i thought you'd see it my way. She's very emphatic about Mister Linky Widget proper protocol, so make sure you do it right! Besides, ya don't want to piss off the panel; pissy panel means no prize for you!
All that having been said (it's the fine-print, but Hey! there really is no purchase required), let me tell ya about this month's topic. The theme is:
Describe Your Ideal Day
The sky is the limit..... your ideal day does not need to fit your current budget or circumstances. Dream a little dream and share with us just what your ideal day would be, start to finish.
(see judi's entry for more details; no animals were harmed in the making of this entry or this afternoon's banana blend; side-effects may include: the excessive flow of creative juices, leaps of logic, jumps of joy, and an overall sense of euphoria)
anyway, I wanted to let you know that Judi HeartSong's October Artsy Essay will be judged by a guest-panel of students in Theresa William's creative writing class. The topic was a chosen suggestion one of her students made. So, let's really show some spirit!
For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Artsy Essay, it is a contest that is open to everyone as long as your blog is public and can be accessed freely. Your entry should be written in English, cuz most of the panel is conversant in English and not another language. And we are, ya know, in America and so is Judi and English is still the official language. Again, anyone outside the US can enter as well, just observe the rules.
You may supplement your essay with sketches, paint-programs, camera pix, and use poetry, prose, etc. It's pretty free-reign with artistic license, except for the English rule stated above. Be creative and do what you want. Hell, if you submit non-English, it still gets linked to and all, you just won't win the prize. All efforts are appreciated and you needn't be a professional anything, something, or nothing.
Speaking of winning prizes, Judi, tell the fine folks what they could win! Why sure, Debra, ahem, "The prize will be a piece of art from my studio and will vary from month to month. Paintings on paper or canvas, multi-media pieces, handmade artist books, and other studio pieces are possible prizes and will be awarded as long as the winner is willing to provide their mailing address, which will be held in strictest confidence. For the time being, I am able to assume the shipping costs for continental US winners, international winners may be asked to help with their shipping costs should the need arise.
Each winner will be sent an email with a jpeg of theArtsy Essay logo icon to use or display in any way they wish. Winners will need to upload the icon into their FTP or photo storage space, no hot linking allowed in order to save my bandwidth, please. "
So, the contest runs til the end of the month. That's why it is October's Artsy Essay and not The Ongoing Artsy Essay or September's Arty Essay (altho those submissions' links can be found at Judi's journal) or November's Naughty Artsy Essay (Ya better be bad, ya better be bold, ya better watch out and do what you're told...Mistress Debra's coming to towwwwwn).
Your contest entry must link back to her entry. If you are unsure how to do this, ask the linking gods that be. Or me. I'll give you the instructions in the most nontechnical language possible (here's an excerpt: ...m'k? then go to that little pic with the world on it and then press the cntrl key and the letter "v", for victory! and...); it's not cuz you're stupid, it's cuz i'm too damn lazy to learn the techno-speak like "above your text box, there are a list of icons, one of which is for hyper-linking", cuz really, if ya knew those terms, chances are you'd already know how to do the damn cross-linking necessary. Am I right? yeah, i thought you'd see it my way. She's very emphatic about Mister Linky Widget proper protocol, so make sure you do it right! Besides, ya don't want to piss off the panel; pissy panel means no prize for you!
All that having been said (it's the fine-print, but Hey! there really is no purchase required), let me tell ya about this month's topic. The theme is:
Describe Your Ideal Day
The sky is the limit..... your ideal day does not need to fit your current budget or circumstances. Dream a little dream and share with us just what your ideal day would be, start to finish.
(see judi's entry for more details; no animals were harmed in the making of this entry or this afternoon's banana blend; side-effects may include: the excessive flow of creative juices, leaps of logic, jumps of joy, and an overall sense of euphoria)
15 October 2007
my excuse? my sleep was interrupted.
after seeing my guy off this early still dark morning, i was still groggy but very hungry. knowing that i'd only be hungrier later, and even more tired; i took the steps to resolve both conditions. i set the beans on the stove to do the two minute boil, intending to turn them off to stew like the directions say. i read a short story but kept nodding off, and once the pot boiled and toiled, bubbled and brewed, i turned the flame off and went to bed to sleep off the rest of the woozy fog.
only to waken to an offal nightmare. the smell of burnt beans cannot be described adequately. the entire mess of beans was bone-dry and the gas flame was merrily leaping about under the pot. instead of turning it off earlier, i'd cranked it up the rest of the way. gahhhhhhhhhh!
hope i didn't ruin the copper-bottomed pot.
only to waken to an offal nightmare. the smell of burnt beans cannot be described adequately. the entire mess of beans was bone-dry and the gas flame was merrily leaping about under the pot. instead of turning it off earlier, i'd cranked it up the rest of the way. gahhhhhhhhhh!
hope i didn't ruin the copper-bottomed pot.
my guy
last night, i was tired and figured that i ought to take advantage of that. so i took my night time meds and got comfy with my book and waited for gradual shut-down of my awareness. just about the time my brain was beginning to numb a bit, ya know, when the thoughts are slowing so they don't resemble falling flying matrix; my guy asked me to read his dissertation proposal. i foolishly agreed.
now, on my very best day, these days, i have to read his writing very slowly and often must reread entire paragraphs til i get the gist of what he is saying. he is one of the best academic writers i know. it's very succinct, concisely yet thorough. a draft of his is like the final publication. he slowly, persistently builds his papers with all the thoughts interwoven to provide a complete canvas. so it is very dense, with none of the filler filibustering that many folks use to camouflage the fact that they didn't take the time or make the effort to think, analyze, formulate, and solidify their thoughts.
so last night, with diminished capacities (yet i was unaware of how groggy i was, how far the process of shutting down was), i began to digest his dissertation proposal. omg. i'm not a psychologist, let alone a clinical psychologist. so there were tons of new material, concepts, constructs, and theories for me to try to stick and they were all just sliding down like mud on the glassiness of my brain.
he had stepped outside and i was chipping away and taking my time to get what i could get. when he came back in, he saw i was still reading and so he did a few other things, puttered about and such. an hour and a half later, i finally realized that what would have been difficult for me to grasp, was nearly impossible for me to even conceive an inkling. i was able to get enough of it to tell you that it is solid. it's quality stuff. he checks stuff out from every angle and then fashions it just so, presenting a complete picture that lacks for nothing.
after apologizing for my own ineptitude, i explained that my expressive skills were shot for the time and my receptive skills were not so far behind. i reassured him that i would love to read it again, so we could discuss it when i was more able to comprehend even the general gist of it all. then i collapsed on the mattress and solidly sunk into slumber for a few hours.
i woke up to see that he was still at it, no sleep for him. he left at 5:30a, to drive back to oxford and begin his week, his day, his meetings. i know i'm not to compare, but this all knocks me back, and i see the disparity between his and my days, life, abilities.
i need nappage. now.
now, on my very best day, these days, i have to read his writing very slowly and often must reread entire paragraphs til i get the gist of what he is saying. he is one of the best academic writers i know. it's very succinct, concisely yet thorough. a draft of his is like the final publication. he slowly, persistently builds his papers with all the thoughts interwoven to provide a complete canvas. so it is very dense, with none of the filler filibustering that many folks use to camouflage the fact that they didn't take the time or make the effort to think, analyze, formulate, and solidify their thoughts.
so last night, with diminished capacities (yet i was unaware of how groggy i was, how far the process of shutting down was), i began to digest his dissertation proposal. omg. i'm not a psychologist, let alone a clinical psychologist. so there were tons of new material, concepts, constructs, and theories for me to try to stick and they were all just sliding down like mud on the glassiness of my brain.
he had stepped outside and i was chipping away and taking my time to get what i could get. when he came back in, he saw i was still reading and so he did a few other things, puttered about and such. an hour and a half later, i finally realized that what would have been difficult for me to grasp, was nearly impossible for me to even conceive an inkling. i was able to get enough of it to tell you that it is solid. it's quality stuff. he checks stuff out from every angle and then fashions it just so, presenting a complete picture that lacks for nothing.
after apologizing for my own ineptitude, i explained that my expressive skills were shot for the time and my receptive skills were not so far behind. i reassured him that i would love to read it again, so we could discuss it when i was more able to comprehend even the general gist of it all. then i collapsed on the mattress and solidly sunk into slumber for a few hours.
i woke up to see that he was still at it, no sleep for him. he left at 5:30a, to drive back to oxford and begin his week, his day, his meetings. i know i'm not to compare, but this all knocks me back, and i see the disparity between his and my days, life, abilities.
i need nappage. now.
14 October 2007
All the Rage: Humanitarianism
to give credit where credit is due is only honest and ethical; the preceding pic can be found at: Bear Spirit Vision.
also, The StoryBin is a very cool website! there are some interesting and inspiring stories and things there. check it!
Beauty Tips
by Audrey Hepburn
also, The StoryBin is a very cool website! there are some interesting and inspiring stories and things there. check it!
Beauty Tips
by Audrey Hepburn
For attractive lips,
Speak words of kindness.
For lovely eyes,
Seek out the good in people.
For a slim figure,
Share your food with the hungry.
For beautiful hair,
Let a child run his fingers through it once a day.
For poise,
Walk with the knowledge you'll never walk alone.
People, even more than things, have to be restored, renewed, revived, reclaimed and redeemed. Never throw out anybody.
Remember: if you ever need a helping hand, you'll find One at the end of your arm. As you grow older you will discover that you have two hands. One for helping yourself, the other for helping others.
13 October 2007
'do rags and whitee tightees
earlier today, i was pulling my ruth buzzi (see her stylin, she is working that hairnet!) and frantically typing and pasting and copying and all that kinda stuff ya do when you're making those anonymous random notes to your state's congressmen; when i heard my dogs go into a fit and frenzy, sending up a bevy of barks and sounding downright enraptured about it too. as i live on the edge of eastbumblefuk, past timfukedtwo, well into gahd's kuntree and since it was in mid-afternoon, i wasn't thinking that anyone would be around (never mind the dogs are raising helen cain out there). or i simply forgot the "no pants, no door" rule. could be either or both nor neither. at any rate, i did open the door and gave the delivery dude quite a scare. coulda been cuz he was lost and expecting a 75+ yr old woman. but i'm thinking it was the favored pair of boxers with leafs all over them (very apropos for the season) and my crochet'ed 'do-rag that makes me look like the lunch-lady that did it, for he skedaddled back to his truck and peeled clods of turf in his haste to escape.
born stupid
sometimes i gotta ask, "were you born stupid or did your momma raise you up that way?" (hell, sometimes i ask my own damn self that, particularly if i consume coffee grounds in a shake when i'm craving sleep). tonight, i watched a drunk man get into his pretty lil souped up four wheel drive after falling over while attempting to reassure his girlfriend/wife/lay that he was fine, jush fine dammit gimme t'keys. i then watched him hurl himself into door, bounce back, open door, and then hurl himself into the driver's seat. then, i watched his sexpot/slut/bimbo sigh dramatically (boys, whatcha gonna do?) and get in on the passenger's side. i then watched them pull out into traffic after attempting to start the engine while it was already running (your starter thanks you, hear the grinding it is making?). and then, well, then i realized that i was an idiot for being a bystander and allowing an obviously inebriated fellow who was so not in the capacity to drive, do just that, drive off and endanger others.
why? cuz i'm a coward. and i was born stupid.
why? cuz i'm a coward. and i was born stupid.
and you don't because...?
there is a particularly pesky and presumptuous (he's preposterous, too) person who comes into lj's regularly and so we are nodding acquaintances. that is, i wish he would merely nod then move on. sigh. alas, this he does not do. instead he passes judgment and tosses his two cents around like he has it to spare (given his brainlessness, i'd suggest that he save those cents, til they are more common anyway). a prime example of his idiocy was several weeks ago when the sun was scorching the paint off the pavement and i was sitting at one of the tables in direct line of the fan's life-sustaining disturbance of air. the popinjay walked in, saw me looking at some abstract artwork by a variety of artists, including jason pollock, and declared, "i can do better'n that!" yet he seemed flummoxed when I asked, "and you don't because...?"
reiki revisited
Just before my guy slipped off to slumberland, he turned his head toward me and mumbled, "gotcher rated booked". now usually I can apply my great powers of deduction (and boy you should see my inductions, them some mad skillz) and translate most of his midnight ramblings, but this time none of it made sense. i blame it on trent lott. why? cuz i can. and cuz he helped make mississippi's schools what they are today. which includes the enunciation (and lack thereof) and elocution of all the chilluns schooled ri'icher where we is. gahd, i love the south, the state, and my home-town (cuz i chose to move here, and chose to continue to live here, and if i didn't like it, kwicherbitchin n move on). but i digress.
after mulling over the message and its myriad of possible meanings (including "got your raisin hooked", on what, i ask, but then again, it ought to be obvious being that they tend to be covered in powdery white stuff when i pick them out of my cereal), i finally resigned myself to the fact that i was not going to know until morning and even then, maybe not ever; when my guy sat straight up and then went to the kitchen (cuz goat just doesn't hold you for long), tossing over his shoulder, "got your reiki book" (that i've been wanting for months and months but that we only ordered two weeks ago and has only just today showed up at his place in the mail). oh! that!
that makes so much more sense than "goat grated cook".
after mulling over the message and its myriad of possible meanings (including "got your raisin hooked", on what, i ask, but then again, it ought to be obvious being that they tend to be covered in powdery white stuff when i pick them out of my cereal), i finally resigned myself to the fact that i was not going to know until morning and even then, maybe not ever; when my guy sat straight up and then went to the kitchen (cuz goat just doesn't hold you for long), tossing over his shoulder, "got your reiki book" (that i've been wanting for months and months but that we only ordered two weeks ago and has only just today showed up at his place in the mail). oh! that!
that makes so much more sense than "goat grated cook".
etiquette, get some and use it
My guy got here a little later than usual tonight and we both were very hungry. So we scarfed down half a goat each (but not the same goat) and then left for the Mexican place. No, not really. We waited to eat the goat til we got to the Mexican place. No, not really. We ended up getting our goat to go.
Actually, that's not true either. Why? Cuz those Damn College Kidz (otherwise known as "whippersnappers") were acting like drunken idiots. Why? Cuz they were. Drunk. And idiots. And when you get lots of drunk idiots together, it becomes downright unbearable. Unless I am one of them. But since I haven't been drunk since...uhm....more than five years ago (yes, it's true, my guy has never had the pleasure of dealing with my drunk ass) and since I am clearly not an idiot (watch yourself, buster), I was not blindly indulging in joyful abandon as I slurred loudly and insistently that "I love ya, Dude, I rilllleee do...say!! lisssen ta me, I got sumpin portan ta ssay! i love alll ya'lll yep i do" (belching liquidy sounds while throwing up in my mouth a lil) Boy, them inconsiderate pansies ruined what coulda been a very nice digestive evening spent ruminating with my honey.
And they got my goat.
Actually, that's not true either. Why? Cuz those Damn College Kidz (otherwise known as "whippersnappers") were acting like drunken idiots. Why? Cuz they were. Drunk. And idiots. And when you get lots of drunk idiots together, it becomes downright unbearable. Unless I am one of them. But since I haven't been drunk since...uhm....more than five years ago (yes, it's true, my guy has never had the pleasure of dealing with my drunk ass) and since I am clearly not an idiot (watch yourself, buster), I was not blindly indulging in joyful abandon as I slurred loudly and insistently that "I love ya, Dude, I rilllleee do...say!! lisssen ta me, I got sumpin portan ta ssay! i love alll ya'lll yep i do" (belching liquidy sounds while throwing up in my mouth a lil) Boy, them inconsiderate pansies ruined what coulda been a very nice digestive evening spent ruminating with my honey.
And they got my goat.
12 October 2007
one manic morning (written a year or two ago)
Omigad, omigad, omigad, I don’t wanna be here, it isn’t safe, so much to do, why can’t I breathe right, my heart, my head, my thoughts, that isn’t in the right place, I gotta get out of here, get up, get moving but something isn’t right and I don’t know what it is and okay I’m okay wait slow down this is okay just a set-back slow down c’mon you can do this, breathe, breeeeethe, breeethe, brrrreeeethe…
As the rough sound of my blood rushing through my ears mates with my harsh ragged breath, I feel the tears of frustration and tension spilling hotly down my scrunched cheeks. The tightness of my body is difficult to undo. Waking from deep sleep into a full-blown panic attack is awful. I feel helpless because it seems there is no trigger that I can avoid. This threatens to overwhelm me.
In the shower, my attention is already shifted. My trains of thoughts are zooming past and the sense of urgency is only building, not dissipating the slightest bit. But, I don’t care, because I am caught up in quantum leaps of logic. I know what I have to do, what I want to do, the best way of doing it, as well as alternative ways of accomplishing what I need to in case there are obstacles. There always are, but nothing is going to slow me down, let alone derail me, let alone stop me. I am invincible.
Impatiently, I scurry from the house, with my various totes, bags, piles of books and papers, and scoot the boxes in my back seat, cramming my multitudes into my overstuffed car. The radio is too much right now, I want to feel my thoughts and solutions are clicking right along and I’ve important matters on my mind and the radio, pft, the radio is for driveling idiots and I have things to do, people to see, places to go!
This is past hypomania, accelerating right on through into my own special blend of “Frantic Mania”. For most people, depression is the absolute worst part of their bipolar disorder. But for me, mania is. It is the Red-Shoe Syndrome stage; the dancing faster and faster, the wired but tired, the inability to slow down and take the red-shoes off, dancing through my days until I drop dead of exhaustion. It is the speeding lightening thoughts, zooming out of control, further and further, the sense of urgency driving and pushing, and I know that I am highly unstable. I know that the devastating crash is coming but I can’t seem to slow down, for I am the locomotive. I’m rushing head-long through tighter and tighter coils and springs til I burst into a million scattered shards. Humpty Dumpty’s got nothing on me.
Desperate, yet proud that I am accomplishing so much, I am soon to careen off the tracks into a fine mess of jumbled angles and I wonder if THIS is the time I will slam through the barrier at the boundary of the third standard deviation, my own personal warp speed of thought, faster than the speed of sound, no shiny silver bullet can touch me. I would call for assistance, to help slow me down, to talk some sense into me, because I so obviously cannot get the job done myself. But, I know that I would be too impatient, too scornful, and most likely too mean and toxic. So, I tick that off my list of crisis management strategies. Medication adjustments may be what are necessary now. It most likely should have been done before this point; but I dread the process, the sluggish zombification of funkee-fog thinking, the slow tilt of the world, the thick syrup that coats my every single thing, leaving me burrowing under the covers, into my mattress, to slumber in limbo, not rested, not true sleep. But then again, I will be whole. I will not shatter and scatter and blow up and away. I will be grounded and tethered to the dank earth. Which would be worse, crashing into the end or ending this episode in the murky muck sucking my existence to a slow grinding halt, freezing me for a time?
I am past the chiding and scolding of myself. Very rarely do I consider my boot straps and the shoulds of pulling myself up by them. That time is past, for it seemed to do nothing positive and only harmful negatives hurt my ability to heal, to repair the damage inflicted by my own relentless drive to perfection. Now, although it doesn’t seem like it, I am kinder, gentler with myself. Now, I can ask what it is that I need to get back to being on a more even keel. Now, my priority is halting the damage, and then caring for myself, nurturing me from partial destruction to a fuller existence. Simple functions, yes, but to engage in them are to master the helm of my own mental health.
Good sleep hygiene, rest…solid sweet slumber in moderation, for I could oh so easily tip the scales to the other extreme of devastating depression. Diet, exercise, medication, I can recite byrote the basics of self-care. So much easier said than done, I know, but stay simple and stay focused and take the small steps. Slow but steady, watch for triggers, cautiously keep stress to a low level, engage in self-monitor mode, c’mon Debra, you can do this.
You can do this.
(breathe)
You can.
As the rough sound of my blood rushing through my ears mates with my harsh ragged breath, I feel the tears of frustration and tension spilling hotly down my scrunched cheeks. The tightness of my body is difficult to undo. Waking from deep sleep into a full-blown panic attack is awful. I feel helpless because it seems there is no trigger that I can avoid. This threatens to overwhelm me.
In the shower, my attention is already shifted. My trains of thoughts are zooming past and the sense of urgency is only building, not dissipating the slightest bit. But, I don’t care, because I am caught up in quantum leaps of logic. I know what I have to do, what I want to do, the best way of doing it, as well as alternative ways of accomplishing what I need to in case there are obstacles. There always are, but nothing is going to slow me down, let alone derail me, let alone stop me. I am invincible.
Impatiently, I scurry from the house, with my various totes, bags, piles of books and papers, and scoot the boxes in my back seat, cramming my multitudes into my overstuffed car. The radio is too much right now, I want to feel my thoughts and solutions are clicking right along and I’ve important matters on my mind and the radio, pft, the radio is for driveling idiots and I have things to do, people to see, places to go!
This is past hypomania, accelerating right on through into my own special blend of “Frantic Mania”. For most people, depression is the absolute worst part of their bipolar disorder. But for me, mania is. It is the Red-Shoe Syndrome stage; the dancing faster and faster, the wired but tired, the inability to slow down and take the red-shoes off, dancing through my days until I drop dead of exhaustion. It is the speeding lightening thoughts, zooming out of control, further and further, the sense of urgency driving and pushing, and I know that I am highly unstable. I know that the devastating crash is coming but I can’t seem to slow down, for I am the locomotive. I’m rushing head-long through tighter and tighter coils and springs til I burst into a million scattered shards. Humpty Dumpty’s got nothing on me.
Desperate, yet proud that I am accomplishing so much, I am soon to careen off the tracks into a fine mess of jumbled angles and I wonder if THIS is the time I will slam through the barrier at the boundary of the third standard deviation, my own personal warp speed of thought, faster than the speed of sound, no shiny silver bullet can touch me. I would call for assistance, to help slow me down, to talk some sense into me, because I so obviously cannot get the job done myself. But, I know that I would be too impatient, too scornful, and most likely too mean and toxic. So, I tick that off my list of crisis management strategies. Medication adjustments may be what are necessary now. It most likely should have been done before this point; but I dread the process, the sluggish zombification of funkee-fog thinking, the slow tilt of the world, the thick syrup that coats my every single thing, leaving me burrowing under the covers, into my mattress, to slumber in limbo, not rested, not true sleep. But then again, I will be whole. I will not shatter and scatter and blow up and away. I will be grounded and tethered to the dank earth. Which would be worse, crashing into the end or ending this episode in the murky muck sucking my existence to a slow grinding halt, freezing me for a time?
I am past the chiding and scolding of myself. Very rarely do I consider my boot straps and the shoulds of pulling myself up by them. That time is past, for it seemed to do nothing positive and only harmful negatives hurt my ability to heal, to repair the damage inflicted by my own relentless drive to perfection. Now, although it doesn’t seem like it, I am kinder, gentler with myself. Now, I can ask what it is that I need to get back to being on a more even keel. Now, my priority is halting the damage, and then caring for myself, nurturing me from partial destruction to a fuller existence. Simple functions, yes, but to engage in them are to master the helm of my own mental health.
Good sleep hygiene, rest…solid sweet slumber in moderation, for I could oh so easily tip the scales to the other extreme of devastating depression. Diet, exercise, medication, I can recite byrote the basics of self-care. So much easier said than done, I know, but stay simple and stay focused and take the small steps. Slow but steady, watch for triggers, cautiously keep stress to a low level, engage in self-monitor mode, c’mon Debra, you can do this.
You can do this.
(breathe)
You can.
Ombudsman
I was not familiar with this term; however, an ombudsman is an appointed neutral party who acts as an internal auditor of sorts, investigating internal matters based on complaints from external consumers or whistleblowing from internal employees with concerns of ethics and actual practices of stated organizational policy. At least that's what it appears to be. In theory, an ombudsman is to maintain absolute confidentiality when it comes to matters of investigation and complaints.
The US Dept of Edu's Office of Federal Student Aid has an Ombudsman's Office, which is less than ten years old. Their website says that they "will informally conduct impartial fact-finding...recommend solutions...(but lack) the authority to reverse decisions". My main concern is that the Ombudsman's Office is a part of the Dept of Edu, not apart from. Call me paranoid, but I was hesitant to contact the Ombudsman's Office because I was afraid that they would not be impartial and objective; rather I feared that they would be biased toward the agency that funds them. Silly me.
Last night, I thought about this matter more so. I thought about how it is a governmental office, which in theory is for the people, by the people, and of the people. I thought about how even if they are extremely biased toward the Dept of Edu, I ought to exhaust every avenue and all my options. I thought about how I know that I have a legitimate case, that is authentic, that is complex on so many levels. I thought about how the Ombudsman's Office ought to be made aware of certain practices within the Dept of Edu and how if they are not aware, then they cannot hope to police, investigate, and improve the policies and practices. I thought about how I ought not to be so negative and that they deserve to hear my story too.
So, last night, I bit the bullet. I submitted an online request for assistance with my discharge of student loans due to total and permanent disability resolution to the US Dept of Edu's Federal Student Aid Ombudsman's Office. I edited the aforementioned letter to fit the 2000 character-limitation for the "description of the problem" and hit submit. Through the magic of the internet, I received a confirmation of submission and a confirmation of receipt within mere moments in my eMail. Then, earlier today, I received a voice-mail message which stated that I've already been assigned a caseworker, who has already begun to research my situation. I admit that surprise doesn't even begin to adequately describe my reaction. Shock, breathless hope, fervent compilation of records, terrible anxiety, and increased amplification of the head-noise are mixing together and I fear even to think on the matter, because I might jinx it; but, decided to blog because this is such a consuming matter and I can't not think of it. I simply can't. Dare I hope that justice will prevail? i feel i am a trainwreck waiting to happen.
or in progress.
The US Dept of Edu's Office of Federal Student Aid has an Ombudsman's Office, which is less than ten years old. Their website says that they "will informally conduct impartial fact-finding...recommend solutions...(but lack) the authority to reverse decisions". My main concern is that the Ombudsman's Office is a part of the Dept of Edu, not apart from. Call me paranoid, but I was hesitant to contact the Ombudsman's Office because I was afraid that they would not be impartial and objective; rather I feared that they would be biased toward the agency that funds them. Silly me.
Last night, I thought about this matter more so. I thought about how it is a governmental office, which in theory is for the people, by the people, and of the people. I thought about how even if they are extremely biased toward the Dept of Edu, I ought to exhaust every avenue and all my options. I thought about how I know that I have a legitimate case, that is authentic, that is complex on so many levels. I thought about how the Ombudsman's Office ought to be made aware of certain practices within the Dept of Edu and how if they are not aware, then they cannot hope to police, investigate, and improve the policies and practices. I thought about how I ought not to be so negative and that they deserve to hear my story too.
So, last night, I bit the bullet. I submitted an online request for assistance with my discharge of student loans due to total and permanent disability resolution to the US Dept of Edu's Federal Student Aid Ombudsman's Office. I edited the aforementioned letter to fit the 2000 character-limitation for the "description of the problem" and hit submit. Through the magic of the internet, I received a confirmation of submission and a confirmation of receipt within mere moments in my eMail. Then, earlier today, I received a voice-mail message which stated that I've already been assigned a caseworker, who has already begun to research my situation. I admit that surprise doesn't even begin to adequately describe my reaction. Shock, breathless hope, fervent compilation of records, terrible anxiety, and increased amplification of the head-noise are mixing together and I fear even to think on the matter, because I might jinx it; but, decided to blog because this is such a consuming matter and I can't not think of it. I simply can't. Dare I hope that justice will prevail? i feel i am a trainwreck waiting to happen.
or in progress.
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