It's freezing rain out. Earlier, there were tons of cancellations, delays, and early dismals. There were ice storm warnings and watches and many listings running along the TV screen earlier.
I called the gas company back around 4p, to see if there was a delivery on its way. Ya know, just to confirm. They sounded harried but were reassuring.
About an hour ago, I heard the gas truck coming in. I bounded out the door, and realized that all those warning which tend to usually exaggerate what COULD be instead of what IS were dead on this time. There was a bumpy coating of ice sheathing every surface, including my concrete steps. It was extreme luck that allowed me to be safe, and sound.
However, the gas man was not. He slipped when he was coming in, despite my cautions to watch your step. But he corrected himself and did what he had to do in the house in the case of no gas at all (they have to shut everything down, and one guy has to stay in while the other goes out, fills the tank and then they relight everything, blah blah blah). The same man who skidded up the steps, fought with my door, which I finally opened for him so he could leave, and I saw it happen before it did.
His foot descended, his weight went forward, his foot shot out from under him and down he went. A huge crack rang out in the night air, followed by a very painful grunt/groan/scream combo, ending with a few select curses that evidently embarrassed the man since I was standing there (fragile maiden that I am). The other man, already at the base of the steps, seemed to be trying to voice conflicting concerns (a resounding guffaw and inquiries into the man's health and welfare) so things were quite garbled. Shaddow was attempting to rush to his aid, altho I was not so sure that he would have welcomed her nosing about his private parts at that moment. The man stood up, wincing, hobbling and then went down again.
Long story somewhat shorter, he rebroke his leg, which had just healed. And I thought, rather uncharitably, "ya dumb shit." I'm glad that I didn't say it aloud. And I'm glad that it wasn't my dumb-shit ass that was broken.
25 January 2008
ice man cometh? (gas man, too)
and the garbage man.
There are few things I dread more than dealing with Bureaucracy, with the layers of double-sided Red Tape, redundant Forms, contradicting Rules, and lack of responsibility. So this morning, I was not overly enthusiastic when my alarm went off. Then I realized that it was a good deal colder than it should be. Oh, I thought, it is colder outside than it was last night. I now realize that makes zero sense, but at Buzz O'Clock this morning, it did.
As I was leaving to go for my appointment, I tripped over a huge block of ice that had been in the Furrbee's water dish. So I unlocked my door and went back inside and got fresh water and set off for the Dreaded Meeting once again. I don't like to jump in a vehicle and race off, so I was sitting in my car, letting the engine warm up and my Low Fuel light dinged! on. I knew I'd have about twenty-five miles to drive and with less than ten dollars to my name, I was wondering if I should get gas on the way in or if it could wait til the way out. I am leery of getting gas on myself cuz I'm a ditzy klutz and the last thing I wanted to do was sit in the Dreaded Bureaucratic Meeting making my headache worse with wafting gas fumes. So I decided it could wait til my trip from town toward home. Except I forgot.
The meeting actually went well. In part because I had all forms, bills, proof of income, and identification pre-copied and ready for them with amounts, names, and explanations highlighted in yellow and written in red. Also, I repeated the mantra "just get thru this and it's all good til next year" til I drowned out the other voices. It worked beautifully. Altho it didn't last year. And that is not a story for THIS entry. And also in part because my counselor and others were sending warm wishes my way and I felt more reassured. And also in BIG part because the Officer who I met with remembered the whole fiasco for the last several years (the biggest was last year) and so was very ginger with me. Normally, that sort of tentative babying annoys me, but this time, it was required and a GOOD thing. Really. So the meeting was done and I now have seventy-five bucks in food-stamps monthly til next year, when I shall have another Bureaucratic Meeting. But I'll deal with that then.
So I get home, and fight with my keys, the door knob, the lock, and my library books with my gloves on (my hands were wearing the gloves, not my library books; altho the books would have been just as effective) and an ungodly odor from the bowels of hellish tombs greeted me. After feeding the furrbees, I trudged around to the propane tank which is located outside the fenced in yard behind the trailer. And lo! and behold! the needle was resting on the absolute lowest point it could rest. Tears of frustration were building but knowing that they would freeze in my now decidedly colder than outside home, I called my gas company who assured me that since I was pre-pay, they should have been checking my gas levels on a regular basis. Uhm, hm, well since I haven't had gas delivered since last September, and it is a one hundred and fifty gallon tank, I'd say that no, they'ven't been checking and regardless, the point is, now I have none. Nada. Zip. No gas. As I stressed this point, I remembered that I had forgotten to get gas in my car as well. I'm an idiot. A very cold idiot.
So I heard a truck pulling in and thought, "yes! the promised delivery, so soon! they must be making amends and rushed right over to get me some needed heat! yes!" But no, no that was the garbage man cometh.
I'm off to huddle under the quilts. Perhaps when I wake up, it will be like the Little Princess and I will have heat and lovely things to eat and my aches and pains and sore throat will be gone. Sigh. I can dream, can't I?
There are few things I dread more than dealing with Bureaucracy, with the layers of double-sided Red Tape, redundant Forms, contradicting Rules, and lack of responsibility. So this morning, I was not overly enthusiastic when my alarm went off. Then I realized that it was a good deal colder than it should be. Oh, I thought, it is colder outside than it was last night. I now realize that makes zero sense, but at Buzz O'Clock this morning, it did.
As I was leaving to go for my appointment, I tripped over a huge block of ice that had been in the Furrbee's water dish. So I unlocked my door and went back inside and got fresh water and set off for the Dreaded Meeting once again. I don't like to jump in a vehicle and race off, so I was sitting in my car, letting the engine warm up and my Low Fuel light dinged! on. I knew I'd have about twenty-five miles to drive and with less than ten dollars to my name, I was wondering if I should get gas on the way in or if it could wait til the way out. I am leery of getting gas on myself cuz I'm a ditzy klutz and the last thing I wanted to do was sit in the Dreaded Bureaucratic Meeting making my headache worse with wafting gas fumes. So I decided it could wait til my trip from town toward home. Except I forgot.
The meeting actually went well. In part because I had all forms, bills, proof of income, and identification pre-copied and ready for them with amounts, names, and explanations highlighted in yellow and written in red. Also, I repeated the mantra "just get thru this and it's all good til next year" til I drowned out the other voices. It worked beautifully. Altho it didn't last year. And that is not a story for THIS entry. And also in part because my counselor and others were sending warm wishes my way and I felt more reassured. And also in BIG part because the Officer who I met with remembered the whole fiasco for the last several years (the biggest was last year) and so was very ginger with me. Normally, that sort of tentative babying annoys me, but this time, it was required and a GOOD thing. Really. So the meeting was done and I now have seventy-five bucks in food-stamps monthly til next year, when I shall have another Bureaucratic Meeting. But I'll deal with that then.
So I get home, and fight with my keys, the door knob, the lock, and my library books with my gloves on (my hands were wearing the gloves, not my library books; altho the books would have been just as effective) and an ungodly odor from the bowels of hellish tombs greeted me. After feeding the furrbees, I trudged around to the propane tank which is located outside the fenced in yard behind the trailer. And lo! and behold! the needle was resting on the absolute lowest point it could rest. Tears of frustration were building but knowing that they would freeze in my now decidedly colder than outside home, I called my gas company who assured me that since I was pre-pay, they should have been checking my gas levels on a regular basis. Uhm, hm, well since I haven't had gas delivered since last September, and it is a one hundred and fifty gallon tank, I'd say that no, they'ven't been checking and regardless, the point is, now I have none. Nada. Zip. No gas. As I stressed this point, I remembered that I had forgotten to get gas in my car as well. I'm an idiot. A very cold idiot.
So I heard a truck pulling in and thought, "yes! the promised delivery, so soon! they must be making amends and rushed right over to get me some needed heat! yes!" But no, no that was the garbage man cometh.
I'm off to huddle under the quilts. Perhaps when I wake up, it will be like the Little Princess and I will have heat and lovely things to eat and my aches and pains and sore throat will be gone. Sigh. I can dream, can't I?
24 January 2008
Heeeere's Ziggee!
This is Ziggee. He's a "rat-cha". That means that he is a mix of rat-terrier/feist and chihuahua. Ziggee's about six pounds. He'll be five years old in April. He's been living with me since just before his second birthday. He is a good boy (my "pretty boy"), and I never scold him. I do call him down from the quilt; he usually knows when he has erred and slinks away, combat grunt style.
Ziggee goes into submissive-crouch mode when men approach him. We're working on that. Sometimes, he does well; sometimes he gets too shaky and intimidated. I think he was abused before I rescued him from an acquaintance, who had taken him off someone else's hands, who had adopted him from an animal shelter. I'm not sure what his history was beyond that, but all those moves took place within four months just before I drove about two hours away and brought him home during stormy weather.
Ziggee loves Shaddow and follows her every move. Shaddow is resting right now, so I can't get a picture of her because the camera is a web-cam that I've been taking still snap-shots with, so it only goes so far as the cord and as you can see, I'm still working with the lighting and resolution and such.
Ziggee goes into submissive-crouch mode when men approach him. We're working on that. Sometimes, he does well; sometimes he gets too shaky and intimidated. I think he was abused before I rescued him from an acquaintance, who had taken him off someone else's hands, who had adopted him from an animal shelter. I'm not sure what his history was beyond that, but all those moves took place within four months just before I drove about two hours away and brought him home during stormy weather.
Ziggee loves Shaddow and follows her every move. Shaddow is resting right now, so I can't get a picture of her because the camera is a web-cam that I've been taking still snap-shots with, so it only goes so far as the cord and as you can see, I'm still working with the lighting and resolution and such.
23 January 2008
Weighing In
Freedom of Speech. Right to Assembly. Noble concepts that are often bandied about as though they are clearly understood and are god-given rights. I do feel that we ought to have the rights to have freedom of speech and assembly. But I also think that my right ends where your nose begins. In other words, it is not with reckless abandon that I might exercise my perceived rights.
The first amendment to the Constitution, which most point to indignantly to endorse their behaviors, forbids Congress to make any laws that would prohibit the right of people to peaceably assemble. Usually, this includes approved petition, in which organized protesters must have a permit to conduct their assembly. Limits to public speaking includes where (free speech zones) and the assembled crowd size. Speech which is probable to incite violence does not fall under right to freedom of speech, this is considered hate speech, and is in excess of peaceable protest.
There may be a time for all things under the sun; a funeral is neither the time nor the place for a protest. In the case of funerals, where emotions are running high, protest can cause distress beyond the acceptable levels. Several rather prominent cases have recently made the news, with courts presiding and legislation addressing the specific issue of protests held at funerals. Below are some linked quotes:
"“Family members have a personal stake in honoring and mourning their dead and objecting to unwarranted public exploitation that, by intruding upon their own grief, tends to degrade the rites and respect they seek to accord to the deceased person who was once their own,” Justice Anthony Kennedy wrote"..."“the interests of families in privately and peacefully mourning the loss of deceased relatives are violated when funerals are targeted for picketing and other public demonstrations.”"
"it turns out that the government (a) can ban loud picketing outside funerals, and (b) can probably ban all picketing immediately outside the funeral, but (c) must allow picketing or marching relatively near to funerals. How near is impossible to tell, but picketers can't be required to stay 300 feet or more away; they probably have to be allowed to march past the funeral, and perhaps even to picket, say, 100 or 200 feet away."..."it's a good bet that courts will find that the interest in protecting the privacy of the grieving at a funeral is at least as strong as the interest in protecting the privacy of people at their homes."
As I've commented on another entry, "ya know, if a group of PFLAG supporters protested a funeral, the entire world would be up in arms about the crass violation of sacred space and the intrusion of grief. perspective folks, for god's sake, have some respect."
By the way, Fred Phelps, the ring-leader in the circus of church-sponsored protesting at funerals, has been considered problematic from the Courts' perspective for thirty years, having received many reprimands and warnings, which finally resulted in his disbarment about twenty years ago.
The first amendment to the Constitution, which most point to indignantly to endorse their behaviors, forbids Congress to make any laws that would prohibit the right of people to peaceably assemble. Usually, this includes approved petition, in which organized protesters must have a permit to conduct their assembly. Limits to public speaking includes where (free speech zones) and the assembled crowd size. Speech which is probable to incite violence does not fall under right to freedom of speech, this is considered hate speech, and is in excess of peaceable protest.
There may be a time for all things under the sun; a funeral is neither the time nor the place for a protest. In the case of funerals, where emotions are running high, protest can cause distress beyond the acceptable levels. Several rather prominent cases have recently made the news, with courts presiding and legislation addressing the specific issue of protests held at funerals. Below are some linked quotes:
"“Family members have a personal stake in honoring and mourning their dead and objecting to unwarranted public exploitation that, by intruding upon their own grief, tends to degrade the rites and respect they seek to accord to the deceased person who was once their own,” Justice Anthony Kennedy wrote"..."“the interests of families in privately and peacefully mourning the loss of deceased relatives are violated when funerals are targeted for picketing and other public demonstrations.”"
"it turns out that the government (a) can ban loud picketing outside funerals, and (b) can probably ban all picketing immediately outside the funeral, but (c) must allow picketing or marching relatively near to funerals. How near is impossible to tell, but picketers can't be required to stay 300 feet or more away; they probably have to be allowed to march past the funeral, and perhaps even to picket, say, 100 or 200 feet away."..."it's a good bet that courts will find that the interest in protecting the privacy of the grieving at a funeral is at least as strong as the interest in protecting the privacy of people at their homes."
As I've commented on another entry, "ya know, if a group of PFLAG supporters protested a funeral, the entire world would be up in arms about the crass violation of sacred space and the intrusion of grief. perspective folks, for god's sake, have some respect."
By the way, Fred Phelps, the ring-leader in the circus of church-sponsored protesting at funerals, has been considered problematic from the Courts' perspective for thirty years, having received many reprimands and warnings, which finally resulted in his disbarment about twenty years ago.
the verdict is in
Three loves, Loves, LOVES! her Backpack and Nappy (my map, which i had given multicolor hair). Three clutched Nappy in her chubby lil right hand and talked to it non-stop while eating. She kept announcing to me, "Ms. Debra! Look! It's NAPPY! Look!" Finally, Friend said, "yes, I'm sure she knows, cuz she made Nappy." And Three would enthuse, "yes! She did, she made NAPPEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"
I finally had to leave before my face fell off from grinning way too much.
I finally had to leave before my face fell off from grinning way too much.
Dora, the explorer
Eight and Three get giddy wit it, over Dora. Their enthusiasm for many things just bowls me over, but they love, Love, LOVE Dora. And Backpack (backpack!). And Map! and (gasp) BOoooooooooooTz!! Dora's colors are pink and orange, a ghastly color combination that kids lust after.So, I made a Backpack, complete with Map, in orange/pink (shudder). The backpack can be worn as a hat as well. The separate lil pocket that my Map is in, has little straps on it so that it can be worn by their multitude of toy critters (Three's favorite one right now is a Lamb that she calls "Sheep". i asked her to show me here Sheep, and she corrected me indignantly, "it's a Lamp, Ms. Debra, a Lamp. But her name is Sheep.") All the straps and such can be easily removed (by their mom, I'm not gonna show the kids; I realize that isn't a guarantee, but they might enjoy it for awhile this way, then when the novelty wears off, Friend can go ahead and remove the straps and POOF! it's a hat that they can wear.). I may have to make another hat so they won't fuss over just ONE. When they are TWO, Ms. Debra. (big eye roll)
(i know it's not the best pic, but you get the idea; and my Map is not the same as Dora's. Dora's Map is a rolled up white thing. I did mine Map in pink/orange, with funky hair. kidz might like it anyway)
22 January 2008
To the left is not a quilt, but soon to be! My folks (my mother, brother, and father) have created all the stars you see here. They took pix and eMailed them to me. I then downloaded them, indexed them, put them onto one sheet of paper, scanned that in to photobucket and POOF! there they are. I apologize for the poor quality, as I have not yet mastered the whole color/shading thing. Obviously.
You may think that they are appliqued, but nope. The stars are done using the depression-era technique, crayon quilting. The squares are crayon, then outlined (embroidered), pieced together, and quilted (by hand, of course). When I get pix of the finished product, I will post them. The colored pencil on fabric that I had posted last month was a sort of variation of that theme.
Oh! Doggies need fed!
You may think that they are appliqued, but nope. The stars are done using the depression-era technique, crayon quilting. The squares are crayon, then outlined (embroidered), pieced together, and quilted (by hand, of course). When I get pix of the finished product, I will post them. The colored pencil on fabric that I had posted last month was a sort of variation of that theme.
Oh! Doggies need fed!
when in Maine, eat lobster.
My guy and I have been missing each other. His messages are extra special and I've been careful not to call his cell when he might be busy (sleeping or interviewing or whatevering). When I got home from my landlord's, I decided to see if his cellular service was any good. So I tried to call, and didn't get thru. I tried again, and he answered, saying, "hey baby!" It makes me smile. Before the call cut out entirely, he had a chance to tell me that his colleague (who is currently interning there in Togus, Maine) was driving them both over to his girlfriend's for a lobster dinner. I told the annoying er-er-er-er signal to enjoy the dinner, and the rest of the visit, and the return flight, and that I love him very much and since he was no longer there, aren't I an idiot for continuing to convey my well-wishes to an electronic device?
Why, yes. Yes, I am.
Why, yes. Yes, I am.
21 January 2008
weather or not
Are ya having any weather?
(uhm, scuse me?)
weather, are ya having any?
(yes please, one sunny side up)
very funny. what's it doing outside?
(it's dark, we don't have any weather)
oh.
When I woke today, I thought, "YES, today is the day I will finally don my pants and go to town. I will go to the doctor and get my blood drawn, which should have been done weeks ago. I will go pay bills, including the way overdue phone bill. I will go to the library and return books. I will go to the post office and send Bonnie's hats and scarf. I will accomplish some serious shit."
Then I hopped in the car and drove off. And did none of those things, because altho last Tuesday was King's birthday, it wasn't celebrated last Monday (like I thought); but it is observed today. So, I'll do the serious shit tomorrow.
Today, I visited my Friend, the mother of Eight and Three. It was a very good and very looooooooong visit. So when I got home, my guy had left his message that it was, indeed, very cold in Maine. Wish I was there to warm him up. Four whole degrees Fahrenheit is damn cold. No matter where you are. In fact, the highs tomorrow there are lower than the lows here tonight.
25.
(uhm, scuse me?)
weather, are ya having any?
(yes please, one sunny side up)
very funny. what's it doing outside?
(it's dark, we don't have any weather)
oh.
When I woke today, I thought, "YES, today is the day I will finally don my pants and go to town. I will go to the doctor and get my blood drawn, which should have been done weeks ago. I will go pay bills, including the way overdue phone bill. I will go to the library and return books. I will go to the post office and send Bonnie's hats and scarf. I will accomplish some serious shit."
Then I hopped in the car and drove off. And did none of those things, because altho last Tuesday was King's birthday, it wasn't celebrated last Monday (like I thought); but it is observed today. So, I'll do the serious shit tomorrow.
Today, I visited my Friend, the mother of Eight and Three. It was a very good and very looooooooong visit. So when I got home, my guy had left his message that it was, indeed, very cold in Maine. Wish I was there to warm him up. Four whole degrees Fahrenheit is damn cold. No matter where you are. In fact, the highs tomorrow there are lower than the lows here tonight.
25.
20 January 2008
my moon, my man
Well, my guy flew from Memphis to Togus, Maine today. I'm sure he had lay-overs somewhere along the way, doubt there was a direct flight. I've not yet spoken with him, but have called his cell and left a message for him earlier.
This is the last interview for him, for internships. Apropos, it is with the very first VA in the US. I know that he is glad that this past month of travel is over, I am too!
I hope he enjoys his visit there. Lots of snow, Kathy assures us, and c-c-c-c-cold, for sure! As far as here, in MS, it has been chilly; about 20 degrees. Caledonia's kids are back in school (two tornadoes on January tenth took out a portion of the school, tore up the town, wiping out several churches and a number of homes) and everyone is bouncing back on there feet.
The local news is forecasting freezing temps every night this week, with 15 degrees being tonight's low. During the day for this week, the forecast shows highs in the low forties. I can cope with that. I'm sure you are tired of my whhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiining.
I know I am!
This is the last interview for him, for internships. Apropos, it is with the very first VA in the US. I know that he is glad that this past month of travel is over, I am too!
I hope he enjoys his visit there. Lots of snow, Kathy assures us, and c-c-c-c-cold, for sure! As far as here, in MS, it has been chilly; about 20 degrees. Caledonia's kids are back in school (two tornadoes on January tenth took out a portion of the school, tore up the town, wiping out several churches and a number of homes) and everyone is bouncing back on there feet.
The local news is forecasting freezing temps every night this week, with 15 degrees being tonight's low. During the day for this week, the forecast shows highs in the low forties. I can cope with that. I'm sure you are tired of my whhhhhhhiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiining.
I know I am!
Morning Thunder!
yup, russ! a stampeding buffalo, creating some morning thunder! since i ought to limit my caffeine, this wouldn't be a good choice for me. but i have used it in years gone by, perhaps during those same years as you did.Vanilla Apple White Tea and Yarn Selection
I love Celestial Seasonings, they have quality teas, and their packaging is extra special. I almost hate to throw out the boxes, which are covered with quotes, explanations, and other factoids and useful information. Including the quotes, this one was featured on Vanilla Apple White: "Happiness is the ability to recognize it." by Carolyn Wells.For several years now, I've developed a habit of visiting the tea area of stores (if they have them) and purchase a box of either a favored blend or a new blend that I'd like to taste. Sometimes the tea is tasty and becomes a favored, and sometimes it isn't exactly what I'd buy again. The Vanilla Apple White Tea is fabulous and will be a favored for some time! It is flavorful, a tad sweet, and is good hot, cold, plain, or with milk.
Now, I also visit the yarn department (again, if it is there). There, I have more restraint and can actually walk away without a skein in hand! I have quite a selection of yarns at home already and have a few projects in mind. There are a few I have started, but have been too scattered to focus on them at the moment. I'm learning that if I am too scattered, and try to work on them, that I can completely ruin the project. In most cases, I can undo what I have done and save the work. But other times, I've truly ruined the project, and then feel badly when I realize that I didn't listen to my self when I was feeling too scattered and frazzled. Sometimes yarn soothes, and sometimes I am too frustrated.
Oooooooooh, tea's brewed!
19 January 2008
While I am crafting, I listen to audio books. So currently, I am listening to "Perfectly Reasonable Deviations from the Beaten Track: Selected Letters of Richard P. Feynman". When I am in a reading mood, and am able to focus on the written word and am not otherwise occupied with my hands; I've been reading "Tortilla Flat" by John Steinbeck.
It's been cold, especially for Mississippi. I think that part of the chill that seems worse is because my home is a very old trailer. Altho I have attempted to seal what I can, by layering plastic over the windows (this is something that I have done for years, not only to help with heat, but also to help with the cold...in general to reduce drafts); trailers are not known for being well insulated or even well constructed. It seems the very walls are so porous that dank bone penetrating cold seeps in, settling into me.
I'm from PA, so I do know how cold it can be. The house we lived in for the majority of my teen years was over 150 yrs old, yet had fewer drafts than this trailer. I wear layers, keeping snuggled as much as possible and wear my hat to keep my head heat in, my ears warm, and most of the time I am ok. The propane heater has two settings, low (which is three cells) and high (which is six cells). I've been drinking hot tea, and have been warming me from the inside out.
Somehow, I missed the warmest window of the day, that early afternoon period when the air is the warmest. I meant to take my shower then. When I was a teenager, I didn't have running hot water. So I took tons of sponge baths, or else took very tepid shallow baths in the tub. At times like these, when I dreading shucking my clothes; I know that at any rate, I'd rather have the hot water my shower here provides than repeat that time in my life.
I know some folks think that it can't be that bad. And since that is relative, I must agree; compared to folks who have no heat, and therefore are extremely cold inside as well as out, I do not have it that bad at all. Compared to someone who is sitting inside a toasty home, even if the air is cold outside; well, perhaps there is no real comparison possible. It is about ten degrees warmer in here than out there, and since out there is about 30 degrees right now; perhaps you can see my point.
Well, I'm off to shower (ahhhhh, heat!) and bundle up again. I can't type when I wear gloves, but I have made some good wrist warmers that extend down over the backs of my hands, so that I do have some ability to move my fingers freely, typing and crafting are options then. And next week, I will begin to visit the wellness center, taking showers there, and staying in the warm toastiness. Plus, Leona may have opened the coffee shop so I can sit for hours with a two buck tea with refill. And there is the library too, for siphoning their temperate air. It's just that leaving the house isn't always an option for me, so here I am.
later, dude(tte)s!
It's been cold, especially for Mississippi. I think that part of the chill that seems worse is because my home is a very old trailer. Altho I have attempted to seal what I can, by layering plastic over the windows (this is something that I have done for years, not only to help with heat, but also to help with the cold...in general to reduce drafts); trailers are not known for being well insulated or even well constructed. It seems the very walls are so porous that dank bone penetrating cold seeps in, settling into me.
I'm from PA, so I do know how cold it can be. The house we lived in for the majority of my teen years was over 150 yrs old, yet had fewer drafts than this trailer. I wear layers, keeping snuggled as much as possible and wear my hat to keep my head heat in, my ears warm, and most of the time I am ok. The propane heater has two settings, low (which is three cells) and high (which is six cells). I've been drinking hot tea, and have been warming me from the inside out.
Somehow, I missed the warmest window of the day, that early afternoon period when the air is the warmest. I meant to take my shower then. When I was a teenager, I didn't have running hot water. So I took tons of sponge baths, or else took very tepid shallow baths in the tub. At times like these, when I dreading shucking my clothes; I know that at any rate, I'd rather have the hot water my shower here provides than repeat that time in my life.
I know some folks think that it can't be that bad. And since that is relative, I must agree; compared to folks who have no heat, and therefore are extremely cold inside as well as out, I do not have it that bad at all. Compared to someone who is sitting inside a toasty home, even if the air is cold outside; well, perhaps there is no real comparison possible. It is about ten degrees warmer in here than out there, and since out there is about 30 degrees right now; perhaps you can see my point.
Well, I'm off to shower (ahhhhh, heat!) and bundle up again. I can't type when I wear gloves, but I have made some good wrist warmers that extend down over the backs of my hands, so that I do have some ability to move my fingers freely, typing and crafting are options then. And next week, I will begin to visit the wellness center, taking showers there, and staying in the warm toastiness. Plus, Leona may have opened the coffee shop so I can sit for hours with a two buck tea with refill. And there is the library too, for siphoning their temperate air. It's just that leaving the house isn't always an option for me, so here I am.
later, dude(tte)s!
18 January 2008
oh the irony of it all
k, just a reminder, I live in Mississippi. It's been getting chilly at night. That's ok, I'm not complaining about that.
It's just, well, the counties SOUTH of me, here in Mississippi, are receiving snow right now. The counties north of me are not. Oh the irony.
Also, on the news tonight, an accident at the entrance/exit for Walmart; where the drivers were rushing to the store to get bread, milk, and toilet paper (that last one is what I hope they are buying). There was a jam so the drivers in the cars that were turning in got all excited about the POSSIBILITY of the snow drifting northward and omg, we might have some flakes! nevermind they won't even touch the ground. let alone stick.
It's just, well, the counties SOUTH of me, here in Mississippi, are receiving snow right now. The counties north of me are not. Oh the irony.
Also, on the news tonight, an accident at the entrance/exit for Walmart; where the drivers were rushing to the store to get bread, milk, and toilet paper (that last one is what I hope they are buying). There was a jam so the drivers in the cars that were turning in got all excited about the POSSIBILITY of the snow drifting northward and omg, we might have some flakes! nevermind they won't even touch the ground. let alone stick.
17 January 2008
I'm Back!
My guy and I drove home, to my place, this afternoon. Then shortly afterward, he drove home from here to his place (about an hour and a half). Sunday, he flies to Togus, Maine for his last interview for internship positions. He'll be back to Mississippi Wed, and I will probably see him next weekend. So, I'm about ready to call it a night.
night!
(there, i called it)
night!
(there, i called it)
16 January 2008
Biloxi Lighthouse
So, my guy and I are driving along the Beach Boulevard in Biloxi. He is stunned and at a loss at the devastation that is so clearly evident still, over two years after Katrina. Since I have never been here before, I don't have a full appreciation; but I can see the wreckage, the vacant lots, the empty ruins, the efforts to rebuild. Of course, there are the casinos and the waffle houses, but there are more missing than present.
In the middle of the road, there is a puny lil lighthouse. I do a double-take and snortle a bit (a snortle is a snorted chuckle), saying incredulously, "that? is that the famed Biloxi Lighthouse?! THAT is what now graces our mandatory Mississippi license plates for the next five years?!?! THAT?!?"
"yes, yes, yes," he assures me repeatedly.
"are you shitting me? the damn street lights are just as tall and way wider than that celebrated Lighthouse! I mean, that has to be a scaled down model of the real thing," I say as I wave out toward the water.
But nope. And here is the proof. check it!
(**edit: the biloxi lighthouse is literally less than 50 ft tall! when i said the street lights are larger, i really meant it. that's why i thought it was a scaled down model of the real thing. but, nope!)
In the middle of the road, there is a puny lil lighthouse. I do a double-take and snortle a bit (a snortle is a snorted chuckle), saying incredulously, "that? is that the famed Biloxi Lighthouse?! THAT is what now graces our mandatory Mississippi license plates for the next five years?!?! THAT?!?"
"yes, yes, yes," he assures me repeatedly.
"are you shitting me? the damn street lights are just as tall and way wider than that celebrated Lighthouse! I mean, that has to be a scaled down model of the real thing," I say as I wave out toward the water.
But nope. And here is the proof. check it!
(**edit: the biloxi lighthouse is literally less than 50 ft tall! when i said the street lights are larger, i really meant it. that's why i thought it was a scaled down model of the real thing. but, nope!)
15 January 2008
my and i
i just wanted to say i mightn't be posting much over the next couple days. fear not, sweet lads (laddettes)! my guy and i are spending some quality time and all during the very brief lull. possess much glee! (uhm, have tons of fun!)
14 January 2008
The Bells will be ringing...
Greta is getting married on Friday! Wahoo! Congrats, baby girl, congrats!Hatz 4 Bon
Bonnie lives in Rochester, New York; where it is still very much winter for a few more months. So I made her a few hats. First, see the blue hat, that is in two of the pix below? Well, actually, if you look in the background of the first picture I posted a coupla entries back, the yellow loom that was on the bed held the first stages of the very hat you see finished in the first two pix in this entry. Neat, huh? I also had made her the soft hat on my head in the third picture (I made it a few days ago) and the baby blue hat with white that I am holding on my hand (I made that last week). The baby blue hat has an interesting swirl on the top that I tried to capture here. You don't see me modeling it, cuz I can't. It won't fit on my big ole head. I've removed all the doors on my home so that my big ole head won't get stuck. Now it's time to lay me head down to sleep. g'n'nite
getcher suitee on!
oh, yeah, so i donned my suitee and went swimming, which is wonderful! i don't swim so much as do a water workout. i just recently learned how to swim, so i'm best on my back. swimming, that is.
below is a pic of the backside off my hat, with the tassles, and the condom, which i am holding. see? look, ma! i made it myself!
below is a pic of the backside off my hat, with the tassles, and the condom, which i am holding. see? look, ma! i made it myself!
swimming with the fishes
Earlier today, my guy and I went to the gym and had a very pleasant surprise. See, a few years back, when he asked what I wanted for Christmas, I told him a year's membership at the gym. It was there that I lost the weight from two year ago and there that helps me keep it off. So I asked the following year for a renewal. Which he gave me, cuz he loves me and is a swell guy. (wink)
So today, when we got there, we expected that it would be renewal time. And when I asked if the girl could check to see if my account is current (cuz I couldn't remember if it was up in December or if it was the end of this month), she said, "yup, til Dec 21, 2008". I smiled, thanks, I called over my shoulder as I pulled my guy away from the desk and down the hall. But, he protests, I didn't do it!
Last fall, I had complained about one of the women that works there and how she treated me on several occasions, which I was overlooking for a long time (cuz I hate confrontation); but when she diss'ed my guy and all, I knew enough was enough. And I took my case to the business manager, and complained. I pointed out that he pays for my membership every year and doesn't deserve to be mistreated in such a manner. That he pays each time he goes, and that should be more than enough to ward off this woman's snide comments and rudeness. And the business manager agreed with me.
I think they gave me a free year. And I'm not gonna complain. I was wondering why I never got the renewal notice. And now, I know (i think).
merry christmas to me!
merry christmas to me!
merry christmas to MEEeeeee
mrryrchrissmastomeeeeee
So today, when we got there, we expected that it would be renewal time. And when I asked if the girl could check to see if my account is current (cuz I couldn't remember if it was up in December or if it was the end of this month), she said, "yup, til Dec 21, 2008". I smiled, thanks, I called over my shoulder as I pulled my guy away from the desk and down the hall. But, he protests, I didn't do it!
Last fall, I had complained about one of the women that works there and how she treated me on several occasions, which I was overlooking for a long time (cuz I hate confrontation); but when she diss'ed my guy and all, I knew enough was enough. And I took my case to the business manager, and complained. I pointed out that he pays for my membership every year and doesn't deserve to be mistreated in such a manner. That he pays each time he goes, and that should be more than enough to ward off this woman's snide comments and rudeness. And the business manager agreed with me.
I think they gave me a free year. And I'm not gonna complain. I was wondering why I never got the renewal notice. And now, I know (i think).
merry christmas to me!
merry christmas to me!
merry christmas to MEEeeeee
mrryrchrissmastomeeeeee
13 January 2008
finally, it's happened to me
shhhhhhhhhhh our secret. that's my guy in the background. i finally installed his webcam and took this still pic. of me in my hat. behind me is my bed, with the conrad argosy opened and a hat being loomed for bonnie (shhhhhhhh, don't tell her, k; our secret, wink). behind that is my guy, in his gym clothes (he would not be overly happy if he knew he was in the shot, so shhhhhhhhhhhh, we don't tell him, k? our secret. (nodding) pinky-swears.
behind him (which he is standing in front of my propane gas heater, warming his buns, contemplating to-do's) is my kitchen. that's right, i sleep in my living room. why? cuz that's where my bed is, sillies.
tis the promised pic! more to come i am sure.
behind him (which he is standing in front of my propane gas heater, warming his buns, contemplating to-do's) is my kitchen. that's right, i sleep in my living room. why? cuz that's where my bed is, sillies.
tis the promised pic! more to come i am sure.
my guy and i are resting, shhhhhhhhhhhhh
wahoooooooooo! my guy is HERE! he came a few hours ago. snicker. he got in awhile back. snicker. oh the sexual connotations of it all.
and! he remembered to bring the webcam. it's still out in the truck i think. but soon pictures are to be posted and you might, might, even get a chance to hear my very non-enunciated voice. i tend to sound like i am slurring, i've always had that characteristic. growing up, mom would slowly instruct me, "eee.nun.see.ate." yet over the years, i have packed em in for presentations of various sorts (motivational, work-related, mental-illness-related, family-related, and other miscellaneous relations) with good to great results and evaluations.
and! he remembered to bring the webcam. it's still out in the truck i think. but soon pictures are to be posted and you might, might, even get a chance to hear my very non-enunciated voice. i tend to sound like i am slurring, i've always had that characteristic. growing up, mom would slowly instruct me, "eee.nun.see.ate." yet over the years, i have packed em in for presentations of various sorts (motivational, work-related, mental-illness-related, family-related, and other miscellaneous relations) with good to great results and evaluations.
The House Pictured
Remember last Labor Day Weekend when I went to see Greta and then to see my guy? Of course you don't. I do remember that, because I so rarely leave the farm to go visit anyone now. I used to think nothing of hopping in my car and zipping here or there. Over the last five years, traveling has become problematic. By "traveling", I mean anything more than a trip to town and back, a whole 25 mile round trip which leaves me exhausted.
Greta had been asking me all summer to come visit her, three hours away in the Shiloh (Tennessee) area. I had been feeling particularly off last summer, fighting a well-entrenched infection in my lungs in the heat and humidity of Mississippi when breathing is already a chore was very draining. I drove up and stayed with her for several days, just prior to the labor day weekend.
As we drove into Savannah (uhm, Tennessee) from her home, I saw a pinkish house and did a double-take. The house actually was not pink. The roof was. It wasn't that rusty clay brickish manly shade that some roof tiles can be. No, it was pink. It gave the entire house a rosy glow that was quite the eye-catching spectacle. Or it was for me, for Greta, it was not eye-catching at all.
But she indulged me and let me drive by several days later while gassing up so I would be ready to go to see my guy the next day. Once I pointed out the house, she gasped in glee. It was empty. In fact, it was not just vacated, but sort of trashed inside. I know this because we parked and I went up to the house, the front door was opened and so I entered with caution (it turns out that the back door was hanging open and some of the windows were missing).
I may have written about this last fall (I think I may have, but am too damn lazy to go find it at the moment). So I won't tell you what all we found and our enthusiastic oooooooooohs and ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhs. But I will tell that if you look at the pic in the previous entry, you will note that I am holding up a mailbox.
Savannah had a few years back opened a new highway which branches off from the main street precisely at the point where the house sits. The old part of the road that continues past the house dead-ends at Cherry Hall, a historic landmark where the ferry used to be. So the house had been reassigned an address. Because so much of the mail, and many organizations and individuals no doubt, continued to use the old address; the mailbox has both the old and new address numbers.
My guy lives just outside of Oxford, MS and I live just outside of Starkville, MS (closer to Pheba really, but if you don't live in Pheba, you have no idea it even exists. except you, you know Pheba exists, and since you know it exists, I ought to let you know the correct pronunciation, which is: FEEE-BEEE as in the girl's name Phoebe). Our homes are about an hour and a half apart (or about 110 miles). My guy comes to see me most every weekend. This is just another example of the awesomeness of my guy. He loves me.
Plus he likes the peacefulness of the farm.
Greta had been asking me all summer to come visit her, three hours away in the Shiloh (Tennessee) area. I had been feeling particularly off last summer, fighting a well-entrenched infection in my lungs in the heat and humidity of Mississippi when breathing is already a chore was very draining. I drove up and stayed with her for several days, just prior to the labor day weekend.
As we drove into Savannah (uhm, Tennessee) from her home, I saw a pinkish house and did a double-take. The house actually was not pink. The roof was. It wasn't that rusty clay brickish manly shade that some roof tiles can be. No, it was pink. It gave the entire house a rosy glow that was quite the eye-catching spectacle. Or it was for me, for Greta, it was not eye-catching at all.
But she indulged me and let me drive by several days later while gassing up so I would be ready to go to see my guy the next day. Once I pointed out the house, she gasped in glee. It was empty. In fact, it was not just vacated, but sort of trashed inside. I know this because we parked and I went up to the house, the front door was opened and so I entered with caution (it turns out that the back door was hanging open and some of the windows were missing).
I may have written about this last fall (I think I may have, but am too damn lazy to go find it at the moment). So I won't tell you what all we found and our enthusiastic oooooooooohs and ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhs. But I will tell that if you look at the pic in the previous entry, you will note that I am holding up a mailbox.
Savannah had a few years back opened a new highway which branches off from the main street precisely at the point where the house sits. The old part of the road that continues past the house dead-ends at Cherry Hall, a historic landmark where the ferry used to be. So the house had been reassigned an address. Because so much of the mail, and many organizations and individuals no doubt, continued to use the old address; the mailbox has both the old and new address numbers.
My guy lives just outside of Oxford, MS and I live just outside of Starkville, MS (closer to Pheba really, but if you don't live in Pheba, you have no idea it even exists. except you, you know Pheba exists, and since you know it exists, I ought to let you know the correct pronunciation, which is: FEEE-BEEE as in the girl's name Phoebe). Our homes are about an hour and a half apart (or about 110 miles). My guy comes to see me most every weekend. This is just another example of the awesomeness of my guy. He loves me.
Plus he likes the peacefulness of the farm.
12 January 2008
the point was
This is me, September 2007. Greta sent the pic to me a week or so ago. I flipped thru the packet, then shoved the pictures back into the envelop and then stowed the packet away, hidden from view. I dug it out today, because I wanted to actually LOOK at myself.
I don't look at me. I don't see my self in the mirror. I might focus on my teeth, or my hair, or some other piece and part of me. I don't give physical self attention, any more than the hurried cursory token that is a painful aversion. That might be why I take the fastest showers you've ever known. I jump thru them, scrubbing myself quickly, thoroughly, toweling off just as roughly and completely. Then clothing myself in elastic pjs, with t-shirts and stretched sweaters and socks. Utilitarian, warm, snuggly, comfy.
Two years ago, I lost thirty pounds. I've kept that weight off, stayed within the five pound leeway (because women do bloat monthly, and shed that bloat as their hormonal tides wax and wane). The plateau has become a plain.
Now it is time for me to begin to lose again. So, I need to give my body attention. I need to exercise. To do that, I will feel myself. I will sweat and be aware of my body. And to do that, I need to be able to see me, feel me, to accept me.
I don't seek reassurances, negations; "you are not fat". I don't take comfort in qualifiers (medication issues, side-effects, and inadequate levels of thyroxine). I don't ask my guy, "do these pants make me fat?" cuz it is not the pants' fault. I know I am fat.
I am not pleasantly plump. Or pudgy. Or big and beautiful. I am fat. In fact, at 200 pounds and 5'6", I am obese. My body mass index is lower than what some might think, because I am dense (in more ways than one) but no matter how you slice it, I am morbidly obese.
I could write a ton more, but I won't. At least not in this entry. But I will say that I am seeing this picture of me, and realizing the actual impact. I cannot ignore my weight, my health, my laboring heart, my stressed joints, my huffing/puffing winded lungs that gasp for air.
This is me.
I don't look at me. I don't see my self in the mirror. I might focus on my teeth, or my hair, or some other piece and part of me. I don't give physical self attention, any more than the hurried cursory token that is a painful aversion. That might be why I take the fastest showers you've ever known. I jump thru them, scrubbing myself quickly, thoroughly, toweling off just as roughly and completely. Then clothing myself in elastic pjs, with t-shirts and stretched sweaters and socks. Utilitarian, warm, snuggly, comfy.
Two years ago, I lost thirty pounds. I've kept that weight off, stayed within the five pound leeway (because women do bloat monthly, and shed that bloat as their hormonal tides wax and wane). The plateau has become a plain.
Now it is time for me to begin to lose again. So, I need to give my body attention. I need to exercise. To do that, I will feel myself. I will sweat and be aware of my body. And to do that, I need to be able to see me, feel me, to accept me.
I don't seek reassurances, negations; "you are not fat". I don't take comfort in qualifiers (medication issues, side-effects, and inadequate levels of thyroxine). I don't ask my guy, "do these pants make me fat?" cuz it is not the pants' fault. I know I am fat.
I am not pleasantly plump. Or pudgy. Or big and beautiful. I am fat. In fact, at 200 pounds and 5'6", I am obese. My body mass index is lower than what some might think, because I am dense (in more ways than one) but no matter how you slice it, I am morbidly obese.
I could write a ton more, but I won't. At least not in this entry. But I will say that I am seeing this picture of me, and realizing the actual impact. I cannot ignore my weight, my health, my laboring heart, my stressed joints, my huffing/puffing winded lungs that gasp for air.
This is me.
frustrating
well crap. i had a nice long entry, very raw. it took lots to do and then my computer shut down and i lost it all. so maybe something later, huh? it won't be the same, but maybe it will be better. or at least cover similar sorts of material. i need to look into getting the physical connection (the power cord's or the computer's port needs help i think) fixed so this doesn't happen.
11 January 2008
Lurker Lurk aLot
When I saw this online, I thought about those interviews with an anonymous source that is shot in shadows and silhouette. And then, I thought of me, Lurking Lucy.post-holiday pudge
my pants shrank. all of them. i'm sure of it. otherwise, why would i have difficulties zipping them, huh?he taunts me
The world's largest salad was made in Spain, on the plains, in the rain, jump off the train, oh! i am so lame. sigh.
The salad was made of lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, olives, and onions. It was huuuuuuuge~~6,700kg (which is 14,000 lbs~~yes, that's right, fourteen.thousand.pounds). Twenty chefs assembled it in three hours, but only after sixteen hours prep work. Cuz cleaning, chopping, mixing, etc. takes time, and effort. Then after the official weight was logged, local restaurants received and served it.
Oh, how the kiss-my-ass happy bunny taunts me.
damn his happiness!
The salad was made of lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, olives, and onions. It was huuuuuuuge~~6,700kg (which is 14,000 lbs~~yes, that's right, fourteen.thousand.pounds). Twenty chefs assembled it in three hours, but only after sixteen hours prep work. Cuz cleaning, chopping, mixing, etc. takes time, and effort. Then after the official weight was logged, local restaurants received and served it.
Oh, how the kiss-my-ass happy bunny taunts me.
damn his happiness!and i might try to scribble a sketch or a story
as seen at this site which is loaded with fables, stories, tall tales, and other very cool resources.folks' tales
You may not know this about me, but I love tales (cuz that's what little boys are made of...no, that's not right. cuz that's what history is made of!). Folk tales especially, tho well told tall tales are a treat. I've always been a storyteller, starting when I was three and spoke my first words. I could talk before that, I'm sure, it was just that I didn't really have much to say at that time.
Stories change over time, in slight ways, from society to society. Similar themes run throughout the world, like threads woven into tapestry, with no one culture laying claim to any theme. However, the ways in which stories are told, the characters, the events, may be very particular indeed.
So while we may be able to name a variety of tales that are similar in nature to each other, there are some particular versions that really shine; grabbing the spotlight in its ability to tickle our fancies, awing our minds, hushing our hearts, or standing out in some other gripping manner.
I thought I'd share some of my favorites with you, my sweets. There are audios, books, sites, and all sorts of formats that I will share with you from time to time. When I do, I'll try to use the subject "folks' tales" so that you have an idea regarding the contents and can skip over that entry if you want or clue in if you are interested.
If you do like audio books, then I recommend the narrators of this (cuz their voices really give great character development): The Girl Who Married a Lion and Other Tales from Africa, by Alexander McCall Smith. It includes a letter from Mma Ramotswe.
Stories change over time, in slight ways, from society to society. Similar themes run throughout the world, like threads woven into tapestry, with no one culture laying claim to any theme. However, the ways in which stories are told, the characters, the events, may be very particular indeed.
So while we may be able to name a variety of tales that are similar in nature to each other, there are some particular versions that really shine; grabbing the spotlight in its ability to tickle our fancies, awing our minds, hushing our hearts, or standing out in some other gripping manner.
I thought I'd share some of my favorites with you, my sweets. There are audios, books, sites, and all sorts of formats that I will share with you from time to time. When I do, I'll try to use the subject "folks' tales" so that you have an idea regarding the contents and can skip over that entry if you want or clue in if you are interested.
If you do like audio books, then I recommend the narrators of this (cuz their voices really give great character development): The Girl Who Married a Lion and Other Tales from Africa, by Alexander McCall Smith. It includes a letter from Mma Ramotswe.10 January 2008
please bring back my bonnie to me, to me
Earlier today, Bonnie had left a message for me; she was watching CNN and there was a weather report, highlighting tornado damage here in Starkville. She worries about me and the furrbees. After psych'ing myself up, I returned her call. I've been thinking about her lately, and this was a good prompter.
We had a pleasant conversation, with the usual stilted then rushed conversational style of mine; it is a huge task for me to be conversational esp in verbal contexts, when i am feeling outta sorts.
Bonnie truly cares for me, and we very rarely speak on the phone. But it was so great speaking with her earlier. It was like she's got my back.
and that's sweet.
We had a pleasant conversation, with the usual stilted then rushed conversational style of mine; it is a huge task for me to be conversational esp in verbal contexts, when i am feeling outta sorts.
Bonnie truly cares for me, and we very rarely speak on the phone. But it was so great speaking with her earlier. It was like she's got my back.
and that's sweet.
do NOT panic
I've got it under control. Just barely, but it is getting better. I am prone to anxiety and have taken (and continue to take) measures to cut down on my exposure to triggers and other stressful events. But ya gotta breathe, ya know? Ok maybe you don't, but I do.
This week has been a very strange week for me, because I have been able to not worry about going anywhere, or meeting any deadlines (like, omg, Christmas! 5 hats done, 27 to go, loom, girl loom!). I think that I have probably been feeling a little delayed anxiety, cuz I've been having lots of heart palpitations (which I've had palps before, and often enough that I know when and why and what has contributed; I'm pretty in tune with me, ya know?); these are more like squiggles and wiggles.
It's as if you were holding a cat or a puppy, too tightly to your chest. Ok, now for an even longer time. Wait for it. Tighter. Longer. Now, that's it, that critter is trying desperately to squirm away from you. Ok, now imagine that squiggling wiggling critter is inside your chest instead of clasped to it. That's what I mean by I've been having heart palpitations.
I went thru my little (ok, it's lengthy) checklist that includes (but is not limited to) things like: medication? caffeine? topics of worry? period? sleep? sugar? exercise? food? fluids? You get the picture. Last year, when Walt was accessible, I'd IM with him lots. And I knew that if I was wigging out, that I could let him know and that he wouldn't freak and make it worse. And sometimes, just letting him know that I was skittering about would help me to defuse a bit and feel somewhat more safe and ok with the moment. Walt's not accessible anymore (he died last April, big adjustments all the way around, and selfishly, I miss him most at times like these). I cannot even imagine the depths to which his best friend, his wife, his love must miss his presence. Since Bonnie doesn't use the net, and I don't use the phone (especially during times when I can't speak for crying, it's very frustrating for me and confusing and worrisome for the other party); we keep in touch via snail-mail.
Most of the time, I don't call anyone, as I said earlier; but at times like these, the last thing I wanna do is call my guy when I am in the midst of freaking. It can be very disorienting for anyone to get a call from someone in the grips of panic; it tends to spawn panic. It involves too much effort for me to calm someone else when I cannot even calm myself.
So for now, this format will do. As long as it works. And right now, it is. Much better, thanks.
This week has been a very strange week for me, because I have been able to not worry about going anywhere, or meeting any deadlines (like, omg, Christmas! 5 hats done, 27 to go, loom, girl loom!). I think that I have probably been feeling a little delayed anxiety, cuz I've been having lots of heart palpitations (which I've had palps before, and often enough that I know when and why and what has contributed; I'm pretty in tune with me, ya know?); these are more like squiggles and wiggles.
It's as if you were holding a cat or a puppy, too tightly to your chest. Ok, now for an even longer time. Wait for it. Tighter. Longer. Now, that's it, that critter is trying desperately to squirm away from you. Ok, now imagine that squiggling wiggling critter is inside your chest instead of clasped to it. That's what I mean by I've been having heart palpitations.
I went thru my little (ok, it's lengthy) checklist that includes (but is not limited to) things like: medication? caffeine? topics of worry? period? sleep? sugar? exercise? food? fluids? You get the picture. Last year, when Walt was accessible, I'd IM with him lots. And I knew that if I was wigging out, that I could let him know and that he wouldn't freak and make it worse. And sometimes, just letting him know that I was skittering about would help me to defuse a bit and feel somewhat more safe and ok with the moment. Walt's not accessible anymore (he died last April, big adjustments all the way around, and selfishly, I miss him most at times like these). I cannot even imagine the depths to which his best friend, his wife, his love must miss his presence. Since Bonnie doesn't use the net, and I don't use the phone (especially during times when I can't speak for crying, it's very frustrating for me and confusing and worrisome for the other party); we keep in touch via snail-mail.
Most of the time, I don't call anyone, as I said earlier; but at times like these, the last thing I wanna do is call my guy when I am in the midst of freaking. It can be very disorienting for anyone to get a call from someone in the grips of panic; it tends to spawn panic. It involves too much effort for me to calm someone else when I cannot even calm myself.
So for now, this format will do. As long as it works. And right now, it is. Much better, thanks.
08 January 2008
political parties' primaries
The below is an excerpt from an eMail I sent to my mum.
I've been reading some about the primaries and New Hampshire's resulted with Hilary Clinton taking the Dem seat, closely followed by Barack Obama. I wonder if they aren't gonna buddy up for the presidency, the one choosing the other for vice-president candidacy. I hope they do, and stitch up this next term.
It's gonna take more than four years to get us outta these messes, but it'll be a start and maybe they can get elected again in '12. I know, I know, let's get this one under way first. Don't count the chickens before the eggs hatch. But I can count the eggs, can't I?
Super Tuesday is Feb 5, with many states' primaries that day. Mississippi's isn't til Mar 11th. Kentucky, Guam, Indiana, Montana, Nebraska, Oregon, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Puerto Rico, South Dakota, and West Virginia are after March (mostly in May, a few in June) for the Dems. What I don't get is that some states have two separate days for the primaries for the Dems and republicans. Some, like Montana, are months apart. There is an awful lot I don't get about the process.
John Edwards sorta looks like John Ritter. That's not important, just an observation. McCain sorta looks like Nixon in the jowls. That's not important either. Are Huckabee and McCain related? Huckabee's wife is Janet McCain. That may be important, but probably not.
I've been reading some about the primaries and New Hampshire's resulted with Hilary Clinton taking the Dem seat, closely followed by Barack Obama. I wonder if they aren't gonna buddy up for the presidency, the one choosing the other for vice-president candidacy. I hope they do, and stitch up this next term.
It's gonna take more than four years to get us outta these messes, but it'll be a start and maybe they can get elected again in '12. I know, I know, let's get this one under way first. Don't count the chickens before the eggs hatch. But I can count the eggs, can't I?
Super Tuesday is Feb 5, with many states' primaries that day. Mississippi's isn't til Mar 11th. Kentucky, Guam, Indiana, Montana, Nebraska, Oregon, North Carolina, Pennsylvania, Puerto Rico, South Dakota, and West Virginia are after March (mostly in May, a few in June) for the Dems. What I don't get is that some states have two separate days for the primaries for the Dems and republicans. Some, like Montana, are months apart. There is an awful lot I don't get about the process.
John Edwards sorta looks like John Ritter. That's not important, just an observation. McCain sorta looks like Nixon in the jowls. That's not important either. Are Huckabee and McCain related? Huckabee's wife is Janet McCain. That may be important, but probably not.
Rival Sandwich Maker
Remember last September (or was it October, c'mon you should know this, wink) when I bought a featherbed (queensized, $20; i am awesome!), a blender (a very good one for about ten bucks; i rock!), and a sandwich maker (2 bucks! i awesomely rock!)? For some reason, I've not used it for all those months. A big reason is cuz I don't buy bread; very rarely my guy will buy a loaf. When it goes bad, with mold, I give it to Shaddow (she loves moldy bread and I think it helps her doggie-immunity. cuz i need to tell myself something that makes me feel better about giving her moldy bread, her favorite).
Well, since I've been making my own bread, I have bread (funny how it works that way). Yesterday, I sliced some up (of the very last of the very last loaf) and stuck it into the Rival and then some provolone and some smoked turkey and voila! mmmmmmmm. it was so good, i made another today. Tomorrow, I may try making an egg pocket.
Cuz I'm outta bread.
Well, since I've been making my own bread, I have bread (funny how it works that way). Yesterday, I sliced some up (of the very last of the very last loaf) and stuck it into the Rival and then some provolone and some smoked turkey and voila! mmmmmmmm. it was so good, i made another today. Tomorrow, I may try making an egg pocket.
Cuz I'm outta bread.07 January 2008
Operation Oven Cleaning 2008
Well, there was no putting it off any longer. So I donned my do-rag, my gas mask, my extra tank (and really what good is just one tank?) of oxygen, and my pink panties (just seeing if you were paying attention) and armed myself with the degreasing foam and paper towels and sponges and rags and scrubbies. Too bad I forgot to use the latex gloves that I had purchased expressly for this task, but my how soft my hands are now!
And set about to cleaning the oven.
Now, I'd never cleaned an oven before (well, ya know, I clean my microwave oven on a regular ~~ some say excess ~~ basis), but I knew that it'd be a messy job. Cuz any job I do gets messy, but oven cleaning is deemed messy by all. I have a very old oven (so old that none of the dial digits are readable past 200) that might be the original appliance for this very old trailer. It is that olive green that was oh so popular during the 50s, 60s, and early 70s.
I like my oven; it's gas. I don't have lots of criteria for favored ovens. It also is wide enough to hold most regulation/standard-sized pans, sheets, and the such. Altho it only has one wire rack now (I'm certain it had at least another in years gone by), I am but a solitary being and how many racks do I need at any one time? So it suits my needs quite well.
And! it is the first oven I have ever owned (or ya know, rented, cuz I don't own the trailer; but that's just semantics) that is right about chest height (my chest, though for some it might be head height). This is awesome! Cuz it makes it so much easier to check on items, and so much better for me to get roasters out. This cuts down on severe burns and trips to the ER. Trust me, this is an ideal feature for me.
Generally, I google everything. I mean, ev.ree.thing. But it didn't even occur to me to google, "clean oven" or "oven cleaning" or any other sort of combination of phrasing that might pertain (such as "huffing degreaser", "mainlining easy-off fumes"). Shocking, I know; but it's a vital step to my development.
Since I doubt there is even a self-cleaning option on my antiquidated oven, I set about spraying foam. And wiping down. And spraying foam. And then scrubbing with an old toothbrush (cuz I can be extremely anal about details that way). And wiping down. And spraying foam. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat til squeaky clean.
I even removed the floor of the oven, and enlisted the bathroom tub as well as the kitchen sink. Then I rinsed with clear warm water (which is not an easy task without a hose that would reach to the oven. which may be a very good reason that hoses are not accessible to me). I laid out fresh aluminum foil on the floor of the oven, because this is something that has helped me to not need to clean ovens in the past. It's just that this time, well ya know, exploding marshmallow and burnt chocolate. Need I say more? I think not.
The oven is so sparkling clean that I'd crawl in there for a nap; if it weren't for the fact that now I'm too dirty and would soil the freshly scented oven. And ya know, it's not wise to stick your head into a gas oven for a prolonged period of time. I feel so dirty; I need a cold shower.
Cuz I used all the hot water.
And set about to cleaning the oven.
Now, I'd never cleaned an oven before (well, ya know, I clean my microwave oven on a regular ~~ some say excess ~~ basis), but I knew that it'd be a messy job. Cuz any job I do gets messy, but oven cleaning is deemed messy by all. I have a very old oven (so old that none of the dial digits are readable past 200) that might be the original appliance for this very old trailer. It is that olive green that was oh so popular during the 50s, 60s, and early 70s.
I like my oven; it's gas. I don't have lots of criteria for favored ovens. It also is wide enough to hold most regulation/standard-sized pans, sheets, and the such. Altho it only has one wire rack now (I'm certain it had at least another in years gone by), I am but a solitary being and how many racks do I need at any one time? So it suits my needs quite well.
And! it is the first oven I have ever owned (or ya know, rented, cuz I don't own the trailer; but that's just semantics) that is right about chest height (my chest, though for some it might be head height). This is awesome! Cuz it makes it so much easier to check on items, and so much better for me to get roasters out. This cuts down on severe burns and trips to the ER. Trust me, this is an ideal feature for me.
Generally, I google everything. I mean, ev.ree.thing. But it didn't even occur to me to google, "clean oven" or "oven cleaning" or any other sort of combination of phrasing that might pertain (such as "huffing degreaser", "mainlining easy-off fumes"). Shocking, I know; but it's a vital step to my development.
Since I doubt there is even a self-cleaning option on my antiquidated oven, I set about spraying foam. And wiping down. And spraying foam. And then scrubbing with an old toothbrush (cuz I can be extremely anal about details that way). And wiping down. And spraying foam. Rinse. Repeat. Rinse. Repeat til squeaky clean.
I even removed the floor of the oven, and enlisted the bathroom tub as well as the kitchen sink. Then I rinsed with clear warm water (which is not an easy task without a hose that would reach to the oven. which may be a very good reason that hoses are not accessible to me). I laid out fresh aluminum foil on the floor of the oven, because this is something that has helped me to not need to clean ovens in the past. It's just that this time, well ya know, exploding marshmallow and burnt chocolate. Need I say more? I think not.
The oven is so sparkling clean that I'd crawl in there for a nap; if it weren't for the fact that now I'm too dirty and would soil the freshly scented oven. And ya know, it's not wise to stick your head into a gas oven for a prolonged period of time. I feel so dirty; I need a cold shower.
Cuz I used all the hot water.
Beider update
Beider is more and more docile with me, altho he is not very social with the other furrbees. He doesn't fight them (except when he is eating; so I feed him outside while the others are inside, chowing down) but he isn't overly friendly with them either.
I see him hesitate on the fringes, watching the others play their reindeer games. Sometimes, it seems he starts to join in, but then I think the mere sheer joy of their enthusiasm confuses and scares him. I feel for him.
It's like he's Emo-dog.
I see him hesitate on the fringes, watching the others play their reindeer games. Sometimes, it seems he starts to join in, but then I think the mere sheer joy of their enthusiasm confuses and scares him. I feel for him.
It's like he's Emo-dog.
Tomorrow morning I have an appointment with my gp for all the lab work that I've been avoiding. It isn't that it should be such a big deal, and in truth, it really isn't. I've just made it so.
I used to have blood draws at least once every three months. It got to the point that my blown veins would pool under my skin for a good third of my arm every time. Usually by the time I'd leave the office, both of my arms would be shot. The meds I was taking made me slow to heal, so I would just be getting over the last of the bruises when the next blood draw rolled around and it would be blackened pools on the inner aspect all over again til the next time. The folks that would see me at the gym, the library, the coffee shop, the grocery store, the pharmacy, and around would sometimes give me wide berth. My sweat and my breath was acrid and no matter how many times I brushed my teeth and showered, I could smell myself. And if I could smell me, I knew that I must reek to other folks. That combined with my bruised appearance, with multiply layers of various browns, yellows, reds, and sick tans, the concentric circles that radiated out from punctured needle marks; well, I think that I must have look like I was a druggie. In truth, I was. Of sorts. Albeit the drugs were prescribed and I took them in the manner designated.
Eventually, we got it all sorted. We switched me over to some other drugs, because those that had stabilized me for the previous three years were now causing me to suffer more so from the side-effects. So we tried a few things til we hit on the right mixture that seemed to work, keep me fairly stabilized with minimal side-effects. Yes, there were drugs that would keep me more stabilized, but had horrible consequences that actually created more problems. And yes, there were drugs that have fewer side effects, but don't provide enough stabilization.
So I am now doing better than I had been. In lots of ways. Blood draws are not such a big deal anymore, I don't think. It's just I don't want to have to go thru anymore adjustments. I don't want to find out that some level is wrong somewhere. I know that doesn't make tons of sense, cuz it would be better for me to know, than not to know. And I know that they need to monitor the condition of my liver, my kidneys, and make sure that my thyroid levels andmy blood sugar levels are within range. I know that it isn't just for me, but for minimizing liability for the gp. I totally get all that, and I agree that those things are good and make sense. All that rationality doesn't change a thing about how I dread this. Feelings aren't informed by knowledge.
I used to have blood draws at least once every three months. It got to the point that my blown veins would pool under my skin for a good third of my arm every time. Usually by the time I'd leave the office, both of my arms would be shot. The meds I was taking made me slow to heal, so I would just be getting over the last of the bruises when the next blood draw rolled around and it would be blackened pools on the inner aspect all over again til the next time. The folks that would see me at the gym, the library, the coffee shop, the grocery store, the pharmacy, and around would sometimes give me wide berth. My sweat and my breath was acrid and no matter how many times I brushed my teeth and showered, I could smell myself. And if I could smell me, I knew that I must reek to other folks. That combined with my bruised appearance, with multiply layers of various browns, yellows, reds, and sick tans, the concentric circles that radiated out from punctured needle marks; well, I think that I must have look like I was a druggie. In truth, I was. Of sorts. Albeit the drugs were prescribed and I took them in the manner designated.
Eventually, we got it all sorted. We switched me over to some other drugs, because those that had stabilized me for the previous three years were now causing me to suffer more so from the side-effects. So we tried a few things til we hit on the right mixture that seemed to work, keep me fairly stabilized with minimal side-effects. Yes, there were drugs that would keep me more stabilized, but had horrible consequences that actually created more problems. And yes, there were drugs that have fewer side effects, but don't provide enough stabilization.
So I am now doing better than I had been. In lots of ways. Blood draws are not such a big deal anymore, I don't think. It's just I don't want to have to go thru anymore adjustments. I don't want to find out that some level is wrong somewhere. I know that doesn't make tons of sense, cuz it would be better for me to know, than not to know. And I know that they need to monitor the condition of my liver, my kidneys, and make sure that my thyroid levels andmy blood sugar levels are within range. I know that it isn't just for me, but for minimizing liability for the gp. I totally get all that, and I agree that those things are good and make sense. All that rationality doesn't change a thing about how I dread this. Feelings aren't informed by knowledge.
06 January 2008
There are certain things that I don't usually write about much. There are all sorts of reasons, one main one is that I appreciate the respect that folks show by not sharing my information with others without my permission. I would like to think that I extend this same courtesy to others. If it is his story to tell, his information to share; then let him do so. That's the general idea.
But I've come to realize that seldom is a story entirely your own. Other people play roles in even the most solitary of stories. Or maybe that is the justification that I need to tell myself so that I feel less awkward about sharing something that is predominately my guy's (and not mine) to share.
It is mine too, though. Because so many things about one you love do affect you, are your concern; their stories and yours become interwoven. Just as my own complex set of idiosyncrasies and conditions affect my guy, so too do his own struggles affect me. Our relationship demands much from us both, just as we both benefit so very much from each other.
All that is a very long intro (and feels exaggerated~like I am creating a mountain from an anthill of coffee grounds; altho I know that I haven't misrepresented anything) for what I'd like to share now. More often than not, I do not know how to be supportive and loving and accepting (and all those other qualities that I just know I am capable of feeling and demonstrating) of the man I do love and want to love completely. My guy has taught me, encouraged me, supported me, loved me in the very ways of being human, a good loving person; and he's done this the very best way possible, through example.
My guy struggles every day, every moment with his own set of complex conditions that affect his self esteem, his sense of self-worth, his feelings of inadequacy, and so much more. His own depression taints his every thought, dousing doubt over everything. He also has an inattentive subtype of ADHD. Yet he is the most loving, most encouraging, most supportive partner any one could want. He is absolutely wonderful with me, for me, to me; never browbeats me, or makes me feel stupid, or berates me when I am so very less than wonderful (wink) myself. But he is the most self-loathing man I've ever known, while being the best man I've ever known.
It shames me that I do not extend the same assurances and patience to him that he does to me. Please do not rush to reassure me; I know that no one is a saint, and I do not expect that of myself. What I do want of myself, is that I not snap at him impatiently when he so obviously does not deserve my caustic snipes. I wish I knew how to respond to his self-loathing. I wish I knew how to be supportive when my capacities are tried.
How do I demonstrate my love for him, when he hates himself?
But I've come to realize that seldom is a story entirely your own. Other people play roles in even the most solitary of stories. Or maybe that is the justification that I need to tell myself so that I feel less awkward about sharing something that is predominately my guy's (and not mine) to share.
It is mine too, though. Because so many things about one you love do affect you, are your concern; their stories and yours become interwoven. Just as my own complex set of idiosyncrasies and conditions affect my guy, so too do his own struggles affect me. Our relationship demands much from us both, just as we both benefit so very much from each other.
All that is a very long intro (and feels exaggerated~like I am creating a mountain from an anthill of coffee grounds; altho I know that I haven't misrepresented anything) for what I'd like to share now. More often than not, I do not know how to be supportive and loving and accepting (and all those other qualities that I just know I am capable of feeling and demonstrating) of the man I do love and want to love completely. My guy has taught me, encouraged me, supported me, loved me in the very ways of being human, a good loving person; and he's done this the very best way possible, through example.
My guy struggles every day, every moment with his own set of complex conditions that affect his self esteem, his sense of self-worth, his feelings of inadequacy, and so much more. His own depression taints his every thought, dousing doubt over everything. He also has an inattentive subtype of ADHD. Yet he is the most loving, most encouraging, most supportive partner any one could want. He is absolutely wonderful with me, for me, to me; never browbeats me, or makes me feel stupid, or berates me when I am so very less than wonderful (wink) myself. But he is the most self-loathing man I've ever known, while being the best man I've ever known.
It shames me that I do not extend the same assurances and patience to him that he does to me. Please do not rush to reassure me; I know that no one is a saint, and I do not expect that of myself. What I do want of myself, is that I not snap at him impatiently when he so obviously does not deserve my caustic snipes. I wish I knew how to respond to his self-loathing. I wish I knew how to be supportive when my capacities are tried.
How do I demonstrate my love for him, when he hates himself?
education: get it, use it
Our local FOX affiliate (I know, cringe, sorry) has been airing a call for participation in a contest they are holding. They are asking folks (students) to make their own 30 second commercial to get students to stay in school. What are they calling this contest?
"The Drop-Out of School Campaign"
That makes as much sense as the town's banner that reads:
Celebrate
CHILD ABUSE
prevention
Month
"The Drop-Out of School Campaign"
That makes as much sense as the town's banner that reads:
Celebrate
CHILD ABUSE
prevention
Month
05 January 2008
And the ads just keep on coming
The other night, just before my guy left, he drew my attention to a commercial on TV for SunSetter Awnings. He said to look at their hair styles, their clothes, and then said that he thought it was a showing of a late-70s ad. It's the John Ritter look-a-like that clinched it for me. Harry, in a polo. shudder.
And to think I too could call right now, in the next five minutes, and get my $200 discount certificate that I can apply toward the cost of a $1000 awning that I can lower in just sixty seconds!
And to think I too could call right now, in the next five minutes, and get my $200 discount certificate that I can apply toward the cost of a $1000 awning that I can lower in just sixty seconds!
oh my bleeding eyes
i want to be encouraging to everyone who expresses their creativity. really, i want to. but this? this is not the piece to that should have been selected to represent crochet, in all its "slink sophistication" &/or "funky fun" glory.Sharing more stupidity
Cuz this year has started with a BANG (I set my oven on fire, it's gas, and marshmallow burns, explodes actually, at very high temperatures; don't try this kiddies, just take my word for it); I thought I would continue to share my stupidity. I managed to slit open my thumb. Hand wounds gush blood, much like head wounds, or foot wounds. Or any of my wounds, come to think of it.
The thing about thumb wounds is that trying to clean, then bandage while applying pressure gets to be tricky (and sticky). It also means that you are reminded of just how much you use that appendage. Lest you forget that you've damaged it, it will let you know anew with a freshet of blood while sending all sorts of blaring screaming signals to your brain. Which had you been using your brain in the first place, you might have not slit your thumb in the first place. Or used your oven as an incinerator.
And by you, I mean me.
The thing about thumb wounds is that trying to clean, then bandage while applying pressure gets to be tricky (and sticky). It also means that you are reminded of just how much you use that appendage. Lest you forget that you've damaged it, it will let you know anew with a freshet of blood while sending all sorts of blaring screaming signals to your brain. Which had you been using your brain in the first place, you might have not slit your thumb in the first place. Or used your oven as an incinerator.
And by you, I mean me.
talkin bout my guy
Today was my guy's interviews in Little Rock. And rock they did! I spoke with him just a few hours ago and he said that he felt good about the place, the peeps, and the position. wahoo! In fact, he was so stoked that he drove all the way back home to Oxford tonight. Which means he gets to spend the night in his very own bed. Tomorrow he heads out to Knoxville (it's about an 8 hr drive, will use Sunday as a rest day to prep for the interview on Monday).
Way to go, babe!
Way to go, babe!
tit bits
ok, i wasn't gonna confess this, but i gotta share the stupidity. the other day when my guy was leaving, i went out to wave him off and see him on his way. beider, the newest dog, was feeling very needy and so i was scritching him while my guy was backing the truck up. i took my attention away from the damned dog and the damned dog didn't want my attention to stray, so he scrabbled at me. the doggie equivalent of waving for the stupid human's attention. so i realized what was gonna happen, as it happened. his paws have claws, the claws are not trimmed. those nails are sharp and they shredded my skin in whip-time. unfortunately, the skin shredded was located on my breast and ohmifuckingawd, did that hurt. yes, yes it did. i swear i've not felt that particular sort of sensation since i got my nipples pierced (for a scant few months in spring 2003, see a pattern here?). in fact, i checked to see if the damned dog drew blood.
my landlord honked his horn as he drove past. just add flashing him to my list of faux pas.
my landlord honked his horn as he drove past. just add flashing him to my list of faux pas.
04 January 2008
03 January 2008
is tat you?
Mary Jo (Ms. Malaguti GRrrl, wink) commented that trees are special to her. I can so get behind that. In fact, you might say that I have already and will forever more. You could even go so far as to say that it's a monkey on my back.
Well, that wouldn't be entirely true. There is no monkey on my back. But there is a tree. A huge tree that represents oh so much. It took me about five years to find the right person to plant it. But let me back up some.
At this point, I should tell you that since this is lengthy, if you want to skip to the end to read about the actual Tree Lady, then do so. What I write below is my attempt to be fairly clear and I cover lots of aspects of tattooing for the beginner. In no way is this authoritative, and in no way do I represent the be all, end all. These are based on my experiences and while I am not exhaustive of my knowledge, I do offer thoughts that may not always be as clear as I would like. So, if you do have any questions, please ask. If I can't answer, then I hope I can point in the right direction. Perhaps I can clarify something that I've said.
A portion of the back-story: having been around folks with tats all my life, I knew that eventually I'd have one. Or two. Or a huge rambling one that continues to grow as I do. I wasn't in a rush. There are some serious considerations that don't justify a rash decision. Just cuz folks can do something, doesn't mean they should. I wanted to wait til I had the right idea in mind and then knew the right artist to put it in place and get the vine to growing. I've put more thought into the work on my body than most people put into decided for what work they are training.
The first ink I got was when I was 23. I had given the gift of a tattoo to a very dear friend for her graduation present (college). She was scared and I had already visited the shop, gotten to know the artist (who drew out my idea and thus started my habit), and showed her that there's nothing to it, grin.
Since then, I've come to know quite a few artists. Have engaged in much discussion. Learned lots. And have some words to the wise. The foolish are goingto do what they want anyway, so there is no use in talking with them.
First off, this is permanent people. It deserves the consideration which reflects that it is a body modification that will become a part of you, forever. Please don't gush into your first shop and pick a pansy off the wall of flash. If you do, well, the choice of a pansy is fitting. While there is some great preexisting art, do feel free to investigate your own artistic side.
All my work is original, no preconceived/predrawn flash. If you are like me and have an idea (or two or more) that you can't draw, but that you would really like to see; then ask for an artist's rendition. A quick sketch can give you some idea if the person is able to see what you mean. A more detailed drawing can then be done. You'll be infinitely more satisfied with your very own work instead of mass produced flash. Unless that's your thing. And some folks are into very specialized movements, like traditional Japanese or Sailor Joe.
A word on Kanji, unless you know that what those uberkewl symbols mean and the artist is schooled in the written expression of which ever Asian language you think is so bad-ass this year; then please do not mess with another culture's beauty and dignity. Each stroke is meaningful and a slight mishap can completely change the meaning. Don't be a schmuck when you mean to be smart.
Women are truly the stronger sex. We tend to choose the most painful places of our bodies while men tend to go for the most showy. Whenever I see brawny football players sporting a 3/4 band on their bulging upper arm, I think wuss. Cuz it usually is more of a sign of trendy popularity, a barbed wire or tribal. Trite, trite, trite. And they chickened out of getting the complete band, circling through some of the tenderest (thus more painful) flesh.
Flesh that is exposed, constantly under assault and pressure, is likely to be more tough and the nerve endings are generally not as dense as those places that are more hidden. The skin that covers bone near the surface is a barrier which sends our brains danger signals when breeched. Ankle, hip, neck, face, skull, and ribs are more sensitive than fleshier thighs, arms, butts, and sides of the calf (shins are more painful). As a general rule, genitals have tons of densely packed nerve endings that can send lots of mixed signals. Just ask a guy who has had an overly enthusiastic blow-job (teeth, watch the damn teeth) or a woman whose lover confuses her nipples with screwheads (honestly, don't need socket wrenches dudes!).
The exception to the pressure principle is the palm of our hands and soles of our feet. Yes, they are constantly exposed and under pressure. They are also a thicker skin surface that is replenished at a higher rate then the skin on other surfaces. Because of this, you might want to reconsider these sites as potential spots for tattoos. Chances are very good that you will need frequent touch-ups. Part of my tat branches down onto the top of my left foot. It was painful (bones) but it won't need touch-up cuz there is relatively little friction which might shed skin cells rapidly, like that of the bottom of my left foot.
About pain, there is a reason our bodies have that capacity to signal when damage is being done. Pain and pleasure are often the same sensation, but experienced differently depending on context. Just ask anyone into BDSM. Or anyone who loves massage, it hurts so good.
Pain and blood don't always coincide; this is because nerves are more likely to be present in the skin's surface than in the deeper layers of flesh. At no time should the needle be driven so deep as to draw blood; and certainly not continuously. As always, there are exceptions. There are some forms of tattooing which involve a hammer and a spike and is full of ritualistic import. Those are the rare exceptions and if you are considering those then chances are very good that you know everything here and way way more.
Tattooing a clean wound, but a wound nonetheless. It requires proper after-care. You shouldn't need to disinfect it, because it is not infected. Or shouldn't be if you were smart about choosing the shop and the artist. More on that later. Proper after-care means that you should give yourself time to heal, before subjecting the area to assault. This means that sun exposure should be avoided, as well as soaking in tubs (or pools) and direct shower spray. Keep the area clean, but don't scour it!
When the tat is done, you may notice that there is clear fluid seeping (this is plasma, your body's defense and aid to healing a wound). Sometimes the artist covers the area with gauze or an absorbent pad (much like the plastic diaper-like patch on the bottom of meat packs at the grocery store). Sometimes a light smear of petro or creme is applied. There are a few debates here. My best take is that a small packet of A&D (so called because vitamins A and D are added to a petro based product) is all that's necessary for most tats. Be careful not to use Neosporin (use a triple antibiotic but use care), this is because the peroxide acts as a bleaching agent and hello! you want the color to remain the same, not bleach it out with sun exposure, chemical exposure, etc.
After the first application immediately following a tat, you should not need to reapply A&D. You won't harm it tho, if you want to use it just to be on the safe side. It actually can slow the healing process tho, because it can saturate the skin when what you want is some amount of air exposure. You do want to keep the area moisturized (non-perfume, non-alcohol, non-additive) but don't slather it on. Too little moisture means scabbing and dry flaking, not good. Too much moisture means that healing is prolonged. Think of how tender and raw a wound is when you remove a band-aid. After air gets to it, it heals faster and is not so sensitive.
Don't be a picker. Do not scratch! Never scratch! If the tat is large and itches (itching is actually a good thing, it is a sign that wounds are healing!) and you absolutely must do something for relief, smack the area around it. It will stimulate the nerve endings of the larger area and your brain will be satisfied that some attention has been provided. It sounds odd, but try it sometime. Instead of scratching that itch, smack it. You might be surprised. Unless your a masochist. In which case, you may be wondering why this isn't more common knowledge.
Since I've been very random, and very lengthy, let me now address selection of who and what and where. I'm not talking about what tat you have placed where on your body, that's been done to death and I've had my say on that (ad nauseum, you might feel). I mean that you get to decide who places your tat. You should be concerned about the shop and so shop around!
Most places have very good standards. There are more and more health department regulations in place over the last ten years. This means that the autoclave in a tattoo shop (and for that matter most piercers) is tested every month and is much cleaner than your dentist's office is. Frightening, eh? Tattooists are not usually piercers, altho some are and most can be found in the same shop (at least here in the States). Never allow anyone with a plastic guy to pierce you (b'bye Wal-Mart and Piercing Pagoda), this is because plastic cannot be autoclaved (it would melt) and therefore not hygienic.
Most places have very good standards, yes. But you can and should be allowed to inspect things for yourself. Watch some one getting tattooed if possible. Watch the entire process (it can be in stages, and not all at once). If there are multiple booths or artists' rooms, you can see all stages in one visit. What I mean is that the set up is very important. The clean-up is even more important than the actual tattooing process from your perspective. The set up should involve a re-sanitization of all surfaces (the entire work area should have been sanitized during clean-up of the previous session). You want to see the artist wearing gloves (not just to protect them, but to protect YOU). The ink should be in individual caps, never should the needle be dipped into the bottle. Cross-contamination, people. Lots of disposable towels should be on hand (and used). You should see a red bio-hazmat container somewhere (for needles and razors). The nozzle of spray bottles should be covered in plastic (baggies or wrap). You want to see cleanliness and no obvious dirt. Most folks will spray down chairs, counter tops, set up fresh trays with ink caps and never dip into the communal pot.
If you've questions, ask! Most artists are happy that they get to talk about their work (there are exceptions, but as a general rule, I've found that most folks love to talk about their loves). If you have doubts, move on! There are plenty of places to choose!
Ok, now as far as whom to choose. My own preferences may or may not apply to you. I am particular about who does what to my person. I've had five artists work on me and each was chosen after careful consideration. I'm gonna be spending time with this person who is leaving lasting marks on me, I wanna be sure that we are somewhat compatible. We are not engaged in a lifelong love affair, and so we don't need to be soulmates. But I do feel more comfortable with someone whom I can chat with and feels at least somewhat accepting of my quirks (like I need to pee lots and often, so can sit for hours at a time, but do need to take a few seconds to trot off to the potty, hey it happens). Now if I were only getting something small and would only be setting with them for an hour, then it isn't so important that we can converse and be amiable. But all my stuff has been more involving and complex, so it's a priority for me, that's all I'm saying. Whatever is important to you, should also be a priority for them. If you don't care to chat, they should be open to being silent. You're the customer.
As far as ability goes, common sense says dude, pick someone whose work you like. Most artists have portfolios (braggin books) of their previous work. Some will show designs, some will show freshly done tats (some elect to photo work after it has healed tho; irritated swollen flesh is awfully shiny and hard to get a good pic with so much glare), some will show before/after cover-ups.
I've met some great artists whose work I admire, but whom I would never allow to touch me. This could be because while they have the skills to tattoo, I don't care for their preferred topic (some folks can do a fairy, but they really groove on alien rip-outs). I would rather have someone wield a many needled machine who has a passion for the type of tattoo than just someone who has the technical ability. That's just my preference.
TREE LADY SIGHTING to follow!!
The artist who tattooed my back has been tattooing for over 30 yrs. And he considers my back to be the best work he has done. He refers to me as the Tree Lady.
It took me five years to find him. Plenty of people said that they could do it, but not one person provided me with a draft, a quick sketch. Most folks, I passed on within a few minutes for various reasons. One of the artists who did some work for me, I didn't want him to be the one to do my back, because he was better with smaller designs and his own work ethic began to deteriorate with time. It was increasingly difficult for him to finish work, and there is nothing quite like not having a piece finished to satisfaction.
"Hippie" was sparked with enthusiasm when he and I discussed what I had in mind. He did do an initial sketch. I approved it. He thermofaxed it and transferred it onto me the first session. After that, we did some Sharpie work (or Bic penned right on my skin to give him and me an idea of what he was doing and where he was going with it) for a few sessions. Then, we just did a sort of free-form. I would caution that you do this only if you are very very comfortable with and confident in your artist. By that point, we had been working together on this for enough sessions for me to trust that he knew what he had in mind and that it was cohesive with my own vision. In total, the back-piece (which is actually a body-web, as it wraps around my torso, and extends down into my girdle ~~ a previously done tattoo which drapes about my hips, and extends down my thighs) is over 250 hours of work. We met two or three times a week, each session about three or four hours, for over six months. As he did more work, the more attached he got and the more he was absorbed. So I knew the quality was a given, he had much invested in this and took much pride in his masterpiece.
I didn't address cost of tattoos above, so let me take a few minutes right now to say that there are many ways folks price things. Some go with per piece, per color, per hour, per body area. Some go with a mix of all those things, while others have entirely other determinants. Chances are that if someone brags that they got work done cheaply, then the work is that: cheap and slipshod. Good work can be expensive. If you look at it in terms of what it is (work that will last forever and be exactly what you want), then maybe the quality is worth it to you. Hopefully.
My own work has been judged to be worth in excess of three thousand dollars. Did I pay that much? Hell no. I did lots of trade work. The most I paid was for the very first tattoo I had done. Mostly because I had nothing to offer. I did front-girl work, tutored, assisted with research and publication, etc. My situations have not been typical. As a general rule, you get what you pay for. If you pay nothing, you probably have nothing.
Given my record with pix, I don't have any recent photos that are both complete and clear. I keep meaning to take some but I don't usually think about it when the means are available. My body is me and I am accustomed to my own skin; so I don't usually think, "oh hey, i wanna a picture of that!" We recently found the disk that enables the software to support my guy's webcam (and I can take stills with it, as well as short video clips), so if I remember to get his cam from his apartment in Oxford, then you might get a posting with a better pic.
For now, these will have to do:
(incomplete when this pic was taken in April '03)
(this is a close up of the central portion pictured above)
{{** edit Thur 13 Jan 11: just realized pix's links are not working}}
The lower limbs are barren, winter. The right hand side represents spring, then summer in the middle, moving to fall on the left. The reason I wanted the seasons to go counter clockwise in progression was because the sun's passage appears to be right to left, east to west. The woman whose body forms the trunk, whose hair and arms/fingers form the branches is the mother of all life. Her mouth is open, in expression of labor; bearing life is a taxing task, even as it provides enormous pleasure.
The branches wrap around my ribs, extending to just under my breasts. The spring limbs and fall leaves wrap around my shoulders and descend the front of me, covering my breasts. There was much work to do yet, after these pix were taken. There is the branch work that is outlined, yes. And there is a depth to the work that increased in volume from the time of the pix to the last session. The leaves have an amazing detail and shadow work that is truly painstaking. The wind is caught playing with the leaves, tossing about the spring sprigs. The piece ties into the rest of the theme of the work that already graces my body and the following work continues that theme.
Spot the cunning bear?
Thanks for bearing with me in this very long entry. Tonight was my first night alone in about a month. It was difficult but made easier with this composition. Have a wonderful week's ending for the first week of the newest year!
Well, that wouldn't be entirely true. There is no monkey on my back. But there is a tree. A huge tree that represents oh so much. It took me about five years to find the right person to plant it. But let me back up some.
At this point, I should tell you that since this is lengthy, if you want to skip to the end to read about the actual Tree Lady, then do so. What I write below is my attempt to be fairly clear and I cover lots of aspects of tattooing for the beginner. In no way is this authoritative, and in no way do I represent the be all, end all. These are based on my experiences and while I am not exhaustive of my knowledge, I do offer thoughts that may not always be as clear as I would like. So, if you do have any questions, please ask. If I can't answer, then I hope I can point in the right direction. Perhaps I can clarify something that I've said.
A portion of the back-story: having been around folks with tats all my life, I knew that eventually I'd have one. Or two. Or a huge rambling one that continues to grow as I do. I wasn't in a rush. There are some serious considerations that don't justify a rash decision. Just cuz folks can do something, doesn't mean they should. I wanted to wait til I had the right idea in mind and then knew the right artist to put it in place and get the vine to growing. I've put more thought into the work on my body than most people put into decided for what work they are training.
The first ink I got was when I was 23. I had given the gift of a tattoo to a very dear friend for her graduation present (college). She was scared and I had already visited the shop, gotten to know the artist (who drew out my idea and thus started my habit), and showed her that there's nothing to it, grin.Since then, I've come to know quite a few artists. Have engaged in much discussion. Learned lots. And have some words to the wise. The foolish are goingto do what they want anyway, so there is no use in talking with them.
First off, this is permanent people. It deserves the consideration which reflects that it is a body modification that will become a part of you, forever. Please don't gush into your first shop and pick a pansy off the wall of flash. If you do, well, the choice of a pansy is fitting. While there is some great preexisting art, do feel free to investigate your own artistic side.
All my work is original, no preconceived/predrawn flash. If you are like me and have an idea (or two or more) that you can't draw, but that you would really like to see; then ask for an artist's rendition. A quick sketch can give you some idea if the person is able to see what you mean. A more detailed drawing can then be done. You'll be infinitely more satisfied with your very own work instead of mass produced flash. Unless that's your thing. And some folks are into very specialized movements, like traditional Japanese or Sailor Joe.
A word on Kanji, unless you know that what those uberkewl symbols mean and the artist is schooled in the written expression of which ever Asian language you think is so bad-ass this year; then please do not mess with another culture's beauty and dignity. Each stroke is meaningful and a slight mishap can completely change the meaning. Don't be a schmuck when you mean to be smart.
Women are truly the stronger sex. We tend to choose the most painful places of our bodies while men tend to go for the most showy. Whenever I see brawny football players sporting a 3/4 band on their bulging upper arm, I think wuss. Cuz it usually is more of a sign of trendy popularity, a barbed wire or tribal. Trite, trite, trite. And they chickened out of getting the complete band, circling through some of the tenderest (thus more painful) flesh.
Flesh that is exposed, constantly under assault and pressure, is likely to be more tough and the nerve endings are generally not as dense as those places that are more hidden. The skin that covers bone near the surface is a barrier which sends our brains danger signals when breeched. Ankle, hip, neck, face, skull, and ribs are more sensitive than fleshier thighs, arms, butts, and sides of the calf (shins are more painful). As a general rule, genitals have tons of densely packed nerve endings that can send lots of mixed signals. Just ask a guy who has had an overly enthusiastic blow-job (teeth, watch the damn teeth) or a woman whose lover confuses her nipples with screwheads (honestly, don't need socket wrenches dudes!).
The exception to the pressure principle is the palm of our hands and soles of our feet. Yes, they are constantly exposed and under pressure. They are also a thicker skin surface that is replenished at a higher rate then the skin on other surfaces. Because of this, you might want to reconsider these sites as potential spots for tattoos. Chances are very good that you will need frequent touch-ups. Part of my tat branches down onto the top of my left foot. It was painful (bones) but it won't need touch-up cuz there is relatively little friction which might shed skin cells rapidly, like that of the bottom of my left foot.
About pain, there is a reason our bodies have that capacity to signal when damage is being done. Pain and pleasure are often the same sensation, but experienced differently depending on context. Just ask anyone into BDSM. Or anyone who loves massage, it hurts so good.
Pain and blood don't always coincide; this is because nerves are more likely to be present in the skin's surface than in the deeper layers of flesh. At no time should the needle be driven so deep as to draw blood; and certainly not continuously. As always, there are exceptions. There are some forms of tattooing which involve a hammer and a spike and is full of ritualistic import. Those are the rare exceptions and if you are considering those then chances are very good that you know everything here and way way more.
Tattooing a clean wound, but a wound nonetheless. It requires proper after-care. You shouldn't need to disinfect it, because it is not infected. Or shouldn't be if you were smart about choosing the shop and the artist. More on that later. Proper after-care means that you should give yourself time to heal, before subjecting the area to assault. This means that sun exposure should be avoided, as well as soaking in tubs (or pools) and direct shower spray. Keep the area clean, but don't scour it!
When the tat is done, you may notice that there is clear fluid seeping (this is plasma, your body's defense and aid to healing a wound). Sometimes the artist covers the area with gauze or an absorbent pad (much like the plastic diaper-like patch on the bottom of meat packs at the grocery store). Sometimes a light smear of petro or creme is applied. There are a few debates here. My best take is that a small packet of A&D (so called because vitamins A and D are added to a petro based product) is all that's necessary for most tats. Be careful not to use Neosporin (use a triple antibiotic but use care), this is because the peroxide acts as a bleaching agent and hello! you want the color to remain the same, not bleach it out with sun exposure, chemical exposure, etc.
After the first application immediately following a tat, you should not need to reapply A&D. You won't harm it tho, if you want to use it just to be on the safe side. It actually can slow the healing process tho, because it can saturate the skin when what you want is some amount of air exposure. You do want to keep the area moisturized (non-perfume, non-alcohol, non-additive) but don't slather it on. Too little moisture means scabbing and dry flaking, not good. Too much moisture means that healing is prolonged. Think of how tender and raw a wound is when you remove a band-aid. After air gets to it, it heals faster and is not so sensitive.
Don't be a picker. Do not scratch! Never scratch! If the tat is large and itches (itching is actually a good thing, it is a sign that wounds are healing!) and you absolutely must do something for relief, smack the area around it. It will stimulate the nerve endings of the larger area and your brain will be satisfied that some attention has been provided. It sounds odd, but try it sometime. Instead of scratching that itch, smack it. You might be surprised. Unless your a masochist. In which case, you may be wondering why this isn't more common knowledge.
Since I've been very random, and very lengthy, let me now address selection of who and what and where. I'm not talking about what tat you have placed where on your body, that's been done to death and I've had my say on that (ad nauseum, you might feel). I mean that you get to decide who places your tat. You should be concerned about the shop and so shop around!
Most places have very good standards. There are more and more health department regulations in place over the last ten years. This means that the autoclave in a tattoo shop (and for that matter most piercers) is tested every month and is much cleaner than your dentist's office is. Frightening, eh? Tattooists are not usually piercers, altho some are and most can be found in the same shop (at least here in the States). Never allow anyone with a plastic guy to pierce you (b'bye Wal-Mart and Piercing Pagoda), this is because plastic cannot be autoclaved (it would melt) and therefore not hygienic.
Most places have very good standards, yes. But you can and should be allowed to inspect things for yourself. Watch some one getting tattooed if possible. Watch the entire process (it can be in stages, and not all at once). If there are multiple booths or artists' rooms, you can see all stages in one visit. What I mean is that the set up is very important. The clean-up is even more important than the actual tattooing process from your perspective. The set up should involve a re-sanitization of all surfaces (the entire work area should have been sanitized during clean-up of the previous session). You want to see the artist wearing gloves (not just to protect them, but to protect YOU). The ink should be in individual caps, never should the needle be dipped into the bottle. Cross-contamination, people. Lots of disposable towels should be on hand (and used). You should see a red bio-hazmat container somewhere (for needles and razors). The nozzle of spray bottles should be covered in plastic (baggies or wrap). You want to see cleanliness and no obvious dirt. Most folks will spray down chairs, counter tops, set up fresh trays with ink caps and never dip into the communal pot.
If you've questions, ask! Most artists are happy that they get to talk about their work (there are exceptions, but as a general rule, I've found that most folks love to talk about their loves). If you have doubts, move on! There are plenty of places to choose!
Ok, now as far as whom to choose. My own preferences may or may not apply to you. I am particular about who does what to my person. I've had five artists work on me and each was chosen after careful consideration. I'm gonna be spending time with this person who is leaving lasting marks on me, I wanna be sure that we are somewhat compatible. We are not engaged in a lifelong love affair, and so we don't need to be soulmates. But I do feel more comfortable with someone whom I can chat with and feels at least somewhat accepting of my quirks (like I need to pee lots and often, so can sit for hours at a time, but do need to take a few seconds to trot off to the potty, hey it happens). Now if I were only getting something small and would only be setting with them for an hour, then it isn't so important that we can converse and be amiable. But all my stuff has been more involving and complex, so it's a priority for me, that's all I'm saying. Whatever is important to you, should also be a priority for them. If you don't care to chat, they should be open to being silent. You're the customer.
As far as ability goes, common sense says dude, pick someone whose work you like. Most artists have portfolios (braggin books) of their previous work. Some will show designs, some will show freshly done tats (some elect to photo work after it has healed tho; irritated swollen flesh is awfully shiny and hard to get a good pic with so much glare), some will show before/after cover-ups.
I've met some great artists whose work I admire, but whom I would never allow to touch me. This could be because while they have the skills to tattoo, I don't care for their preferred topic (some folks can do a fairy, but they really groove on alien rip-outs). I would rather have someone wield a many needled machine who has a passion for the type of tattoo than just someone who has the technical ability. That's just my preference.
TREE LADY SIGHTING to follow!!
The artist who tattooed my back has been tattooing for over 30 yrs. And he considers my back to be the best work he has done. He refers to me as the Tree Lady.
It took me five years to find him. Plenty of people said that they could do it, but not one person provided me with a draft, a quick sketch. Most folks, I passed on within a few minutes for various reasons. One of the artists who did some work for me, I didn't want him to be the one to do my back, because he was better with smaller designs and his own work ethic began to deteriorate with time. It was increasingly difficult for him to finish work, and there is nothing quite like not having a piece finished to satisfaction.
"Hippie" was sparked with enthusiasm when he and I discussed what I had in mind. He did do an initial sketch. I approved it. He thermofaxed it and transferred it onto me the first session. After that, we did some Sharpie work (or Bic penned right on my skin to give him and me an idea of what he was doing and where he was going with it) for a few sessions. Then, we just did a sort of free-form. I would caution that you do this only if you are very very comfortable with and confident in your artist. By that point, we had been working together on this for enough sessions for me to trust that he knew what he had in mind and that it was cohesive with my own vision. In total, the back-piece (which is actually a body-web, as it wraps around my torso, and extends down into my girdle ~~ a previously done tattoo which drapes about my hips, and extends down my thighs) is over 250 hours of work. We met two or three times a week, each session about three or four hours, for over six months. As he did more work, the more attached he got and the more he was absorbed. So I knew the quality was a given, he had much invested in this and took much pride in his masterpiece.
I didn't address cost of tattoos above, so let me take a few minutes right now to say that there are many ways folks price things. Some go with per piece, per color, per hour, per body area. Some go with a mix of all those things, while others have entirely other determinants. Chances are that if someone brags that they got work done cheaply, then the work is that: cheap and slipshod. Good work can be expensive. If you look at it in terms of what it is (work that will last forever and be exactly what you want), then maybe the quality is worth it to you. Hopefully.
My own work has been judged to be worth in excess of three thousand dollars. Did I pay that much? Hell no. I did lots of trade work. The most I paid was for the very first tattoo I had done. Mostly because I had nothing to offer. I did front-girl work, tutored, assisted with research and publication, etc. My situations have not been typical. As a general rule, you get what you pay for. If you pay nothing, you probably have nothing.
Given my record with pix, I don't have any recent photos that are both complete and clear. I keep meaning to take some but I don't usually think about it when the means are available. My body is me and I am accustomed to my own skin; so I don't usually think, "oh hey, i wanna a picture of that!" We recently found the disk that enables the software to support my guy's webcam (and I can take stills with it, as well as short video clips), so if I remember to get his cam from his apartment in Oxford, then you might get a posting with a better pic.
For now, these will have to do:
(incomplete when this pic was taken in April '03)
(this is a close up of the central portion pictured above)
{{** edit Thur 13 Jan 11: just realized pix's links are not working}}
The lower limbs are barren, winter. The right hand side represents spring, then summer in the middle, moving to fall on the left. The reason I wanted the seasons to go counter clockwise in progression was because the sun's passage appears to be right to left, east to west. The woman whose body forms the trunk, whose hair and arms/fingers form the branches is the mother of all life. Her mouth is open, in expression of labor; bearing life is a taxing task, even as it provides enormous pleasure.
The branches wrap around my ribs, extending to just under my breasts. The spring limbs and fall leaves wrap around my shoulders and descend the front of me, covering my breasts. There was much work to do yet, after these pix were taken. There is the branch work that is outlined, yes. And there is a depth to the work that increased in volume from the time of the pix to the last session. The leaves have an amazing detail and shadow work that is truly painstaking. The wind is caught playing with the leaves, tossing about the spring sprigs. The piece ties into the rest of the theme of the work that already graces my body and the following work continues that theme.
Spot the cunning bear?
Thanks for bearing with me in this very long entry. Tonight was my first night alone in about a month. It was difficult but made easier with this composition. Have a wonderful week's ending for the first week of the newest year!
02 January 2008
Bev Doolittle
Every now and then, I like to see what new work my favored artists and authors have done. Bev Doolittle is one such artist who can take my breath away and tickle my brain. Brain candy! yum. this particular print, fox haven, reminds me of some of the woman-centered creations of our very own Judi HeartSong.
And he's off!
Well, my guy left today. He is going home to Oxford, then tomorrow goes to Little Rock (Arkansas). Then, he goes to Knoxville (Tennessee). Then, Atlanta (Georgia). Then, Memphis (Tennessee). Then he gets a few days at home before heading to Biloxi (Mississippi). And then, the last interview for internship is in Togus (Maine). He is driving to all those places, but flying to Maine. The closest is Memphis, it is just over an hour from Oxford; even the just shy of three hours from here, it is still closest. Little Rock is about three hours from Memphis. Knoxville and Memphis are at opposite ends of the state; Memphis in the extreme south western corner while Knoxville is on the eastern edge, seven hours between the two. Atlanta and Knoxville are about four hours apart. Atlanta is about six hours from me, here. Biloxi is about five hours south of me, in state. It's all as clear as mud, isn't it?
feeling frigid
Here in Mississippi, in the deep south, the night air feels like fifteen degrees out here on the farm where open fields. That's cold temps no matter where you are. And tomorrow night is to be even more friggen freezen.
01 January 2008
making me tender
The other night as we drove home, my guy turned up the radio, "this song makes me think of us." As I listened, I caught his fingers in mine. He has a way with expressing his heartfelt thoughts in the music he hears and then plays for me, in the poems he reads then quotes for me, in the lyrics of the songs he draws my attention to. I love you, my guy, so very much. Thank you for sharing yourself this way.
Trouble...
Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble
Trouble been doggin' my soul since the day I was born
Worry...
Worry, worry, worry, worry
Worry just will not seem to leave my mind alone
We'll I've been...
Saved by a woman
I've been...
Saved by a woman
I've been...
Saved by a woman
She won't let me go
She won't let me go now
She won't let me go
She won't let me go now
Trouble...
Oh, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble
Feels like every time I get back on my feet
She come around and knock me down again
Worry...
Oh, worry, worry, worry, worry
Sometimes I swear it feels like this worry is my only friend
We'll I've been saved...
By a woman
I've been saved...
By a woman
I've been saved...
By a woman
She won't let me go
She won't let me go now
She won't let me go
She won't let me go now
Oh..., Ahhhh....
Ohhhh
She good to me now
She gave me love and affection
She good tell me now
She gave me love and affection
I Said I love her
Yes I love her
I said I love her
I said I love...
She good to me now
She's good to me
She's good to me
Trouble...
Trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble
Trouble been doggin' my soul since the day I was born
Worry...
Worry, worry, worry, worry
Worry just will not seem to leave my mind alone
We'll I've been...
Saved by a woman
I've been...
Saved by a woman
I've been...
Saved by a woman
She won't let me go
She won't let me go now
She won't let me go
She won't let me go now
Trouble...
Oh, trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble
Feels like every time I get back on my feet
She come around and knock me down again
Worry...
Oh, worry, worry, worry, worry
Sometimes I swear it feels like this worry is my only friend
We'll I've been saved...
By a woman
I've been saved...
By a woman
I've been saved...
By a woman
She won't let me go
She won't let me go now
She won't let me go
She won't let me go now
Oh..., Ahhhh....
Ohhhh
She good to me now
She gave me love and affection
She good tell me now
She gave me love and affection
I Said I love her
Yes I love her
I said I love her
I said I love...
She good to me now
She's good to me
She's good to me
2008, leap year
Russ, the doodling dude who's got inner and outer demons, starts his newest year off sharing warm well-wishes for everyone. May all your trouble leap from your shoulders, lightening your load. May Bush leap from office, leaving the smallest ripples possible. May joy and peace leap into your life, splashing laughter everywhere!
habe ich geschwiegen (i remained silent)
Anne, Saturday's Child, starts off the newest year sharing a few of her favorite quotes and some of her answers to her favorite questions. A flurry of my own favored quotes flew through my mind, the various voices gabbling at me, vying for my attention. The one that stayed as the others' squabbling died down was one that I had used to accompany an entry in my first journal; you can find that post here.
There have been many variations of the quote; the gist staying the same, even as it is adapted to fit whatever the situation may be. The general idea to me is that when we remain silent while others' rights are being violated, then no one is left to speak out when ours are trampled. Desecration somehow only applies to what we view as sacred, our own principles. Pastor Martin Niemoeller said it best, when he addressed political apathy and inactivity in this way:
In Germany, they came first for the Communist; and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist. And then they came for the trade unionists; and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. And then they came for the Jews; and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. And then...they came for me...and by that time, there was no one left to speak up.
There have been many variations of the quote; the gist staying the same, even as it is adapted to fit whatever the situation may be. The general idea to me is that when we remain silent while others' rights are being violated, then no one is left to speak out when ours are trampled. Desecration somehow only applies to what we view as sacred, our own principles. Pastor Martin Niemoeller said it best, when he addressed political apathy and inactivity in this way:
In Germany, they came first for the Communist; and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Communist. And then they came for the trade unionists; and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a trade unionist. And then they came for the Jews; and I didn't speak up because I wasn't a Jew. And then...they came for me...and by that time, there was no one left to speak up.
Happy Newest Year
My guy and I greeted the new year but I don't think it has really set in that it is indeed 2008. It doesn't seem right. I was looking at my face the other day and realized that in addition to the silver strands of head hair, I've also begun to sport little brackets creasing around my mouth. Aches and pains are more frequently felt and injuries heal at a slower rate. Weight is slower to lose and easier to gain and makes me feel portly, pudgy, plump, and downright porcine.
I'm thinking I want to skip the ham roll dinner with the 'in-laws'. ugh.
the good thing is that i'm here. yea!
and so is he.
I'm thinking I want to skip the ham roll dinner with the 'in-laws'. ugh.
the good thing is that i'm here. yea!
and so is he.
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