Just pretend I'm not here, bumping around in the dark, trying to find my words that I stuffed under a sofa cushion, how many months ago??? Dammit, where did I put them??
I have been painting more, since I stopped blogging, so I haven't been totally mind-sucked into Facebook, and if all goes well, I am hoping to be in the planning stages of a bonafide show very soon. I've never really done a show - I've never really thought I was professional enough to warrant one, but I'm almost 50 and dammit, I'd like to be able to say I had at least one damn show to my name before it's all over. Besides, after a few trips up to Asheville, where we looked at tons of art, I realized that I don't suck nearly as much as I thought I did - high praise, no? And it's time to carpe diem baby!
So with that in mind, I'm going to be using this space for the next few months, to try and organize both my thoughts and my painting body of work, so when September rolls around, I will hopefully have not only my paintings ready to show, but that I'll be able to articulate some kind of thought process or inspiration about how they came to be. You know, the bullshit blah-blah, yappity-yap that artists expound on the opening night - yeah, I don't know shit about it either, so I'm going to have to practice, on you guys.
The idea of doing a show is thrilling and definitely a good thing to be fixating my OC ass on, but there are many unseen forces pulling me in several directions right now; some are the predictably unpredictable, like my boys - the Professor has recently informed me that he can only eat humanely raised meat now, and preferably, he would prefer to eat none at all - I swear he's my sister's changeling child!!! Other things chumming the waters of my mind right now are murkier and not publicly known yet, so I'll have to promise to divulge when I can, later on.
Showing posts with label all about ME. Show all posts
Showing posts with label all about ME. Show all posts
Tuesday, April 24, 2012
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Mission Statement For ME
It has been a dark vista for some time, here at the Edge of Reason. The mental weather has been overcast and drizzly for far too long and frankly, my feet are webbing from prolonged exposure to mud puddles of deepest despair. My raincoat of support is old and tattered - more misery gets in than is kept out anymore, and my umbrella of love has been turned inside out - I am drenched to the skin with profound sadness.
The obvious solution, in terms of metaphors, is to get a new umbrella and raincoat, isn't it? But I am used to my raincoat and fond of my umbrella, which makes it hard to know whether I should patch and repair or just replace them. And a metaphor cannot possibly illustrate the nature of the damage done to that raincoat or umbrella.
It's easy to tell someone to snap out of a dark funk - it is far more difficult to actually do the snapping. It's really more like a dragging of oneself out of the pit (of despair) and commencing to dredging the muddy misery out of your clothes, your hair, your soul, while the storm rages on all around, pelting you with more.
I know I can only change myself, I know I need to leave certain pieces of myself behind in order to do that. It is far easier to say it than it is to do it, however, if you consider that it might be necessary to cut out 20 years or more of your life and throw it away.
I wonder sometimes if I had amnesia, if it would make it easier for me to be who I really am. I would no longer bend under the negative opinions and influence of my family, because they would no longer exist. I could discover who I am without their prejudice of who they need me to be. I might actually believe I have some worth if I was out from under the thumb of misogyny and selfishness that is my familial inheritance. This is what I struggle against daily. This is what silences my words, my voice, my soul - people who say they care while they crush me underfoot, and seek to discredit what I say because it reflects badly upon them to have the truth put out there for the world to see. I have offered love and support to my family for as long as I have been alive, and I have received in return their apathy, and the lies they tell to take the weight of responsibility for their damaged lives off of themselves.
I am done. I am divorcing myself from these people, for the sake of ME. I think I have earned the right to not be involved, to not be held culpable for the poor choices of others. To finally live my life as I see fit.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Paranoid Reflections
Autumn blows in, sharp and cold,
and bitter is the remembered taste
of Autumns past, shrouded in mold.
I hide in my bed, I cannot face
a world turned grey by wind and rain-
sweet Summer's youth is laid to waste.
Wat'ry-eyed November, the days days trickle away,
I lie abed, smelling Winter's dank breath
and hear his knife-like fingers rattling my windowpane.
A torturous game the seasons play, on me and on the Earth,
I hear them now, outside my door, chuckling in their mirth.
Untitled
Autumn blows in-
cold,
sharp
and bitter is the remembered taste
of Autumns past-
the sure knowledge of loss and sorrow.
How is it, I come to this season
always empty-handed
and purposeless?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Groundhog Syndrome?
Is it Spring yet? Can I come out of the hole I've been hunkering down in for the last quarter of a year, consuming mass amounts of carbohydrates?
I've been having this internal conversation lately, about whether I should continue to blog or not. It certainly is more creative than playing Vampire Wars in Facebook, but let's not poke that bear quite yet. I kind of felt that I was becoming stale in what I was posting, that it ran in a cyclical format. Post about my life, my kids, the cats, drinking on a Sunday, and the ubiquitous photo -op post when all words had dried up and blown away. These are all things I am interested in, but are they things worth writing about, and more saliently, self-publishing? I don't have the kind of egocentric personality to think, unquestioningly, "Why yes, they are! Who doesn't want to read about ME?" Rather, I shrink inwardly, thinking of the exposed, winter-white underbelly I'm exposing. Granted, my ego is unrealistic enough to have thought, at the outset of blogging, that I would become a famous celebrity blogger, doing talk shows, writing a book, and somehow transcending the mundane.
Yeah, not so much, and most of the time that's okay with me. I don't really want to be accountable to thousands of readers, who are going to take issue with me every time I take a stance on something. There is less pressure in knowing that virtually no one will read this, but it does raise the question of why do it at all, and I don't really have an answer for that right now, because I'm waffling as it is.
I'm disappointed with myself, and a little angry as well. I start projects only to never finish them, and the biggest unfinished project I have is Who Am I? At 47 years old you would think I'd have that answer, but nope - nopety, nope - I'm clueless. I'd like to be able to place the blame elsewhere, but ultimately it's all on my head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's been a busy period, despite the self-imposed hibernation: I took in another stray cat I found wandering the streets during a snow storm. I thought she might be terminally ill, with something horribly contagious like Leukemia or FIV, but upon observing her I discovered she couldn't chew the dry food that the neighbors had left out for her. she would bolt it whole and then vomit it back up, which was causing her to dehydrate and slowly starve. I took her in, fed her soft food, and kept an eye on her. She was covered in fleas, even in January, so I bathed her. The water ran so red I thought I had opened a wound on her body somewhere, but it was only from the flea castings. When I took her down to see Doc after about two weeks, she was stable but still fragile. He told me that she had suffered a broken pelvis and jaw, and was anemic from the flea infestation, but other than that was healthy and disease-free. And that is how Miss Willow came to be among the chosen few here at the Temple of Bast.
But wait, there's more: I discovered on Monday that Pooh Bear, named for his prodigious eating habits, had an abcess on the side of his face. I cleaned it, dosed him with Amoxicillan and put him in solitary to rest. When I checked on him later I discovered he had another abcess a little further down his neck. Apparently he was bitten by one of the feral and intact males who roam our neighborhood. Luckily, he has had his shots, and I am an old hand at abcesses, so two days later, he's looking much better.
On the family front, my son, The Professor, came down with Strep for the very first time, at 12 and a half. It was the damnedest thing I've ever seen. He came home from school on a Friday, complaining of a sore throat and a headache. Saturday morning I looked in his mouth and there were the tell-tale pustules on his tonsils. We decided to wait and go to his regular doctor on Monday, since I don't trust the doc-in-the-box and he wasn't that severe, symptomatically speaking. Sunday morning, his throat had less white lesions, but it still hurt a bit. By Monday morning he had a clear throat, albeit a bit red and puffy. I took him to the doctor, he tested positive for Strep and he started his antibiotics. He's fine now, but I wonder: would he have recovered from the strep without any antibiotics? I've never seen anyone come down with Strep and two days later, be on the mend, but it sure looked like that was the case with him. I just wish I could bounce back like that!
I've been having this internal conversation lately, about whether I should continue to blog or not. It certainly is more creative than playing Vampire Wars in Facebook, but let's not poke that bear quite yet. I kind of felt that I was becoming stale in what I was posting, that it ran in a cyclical format. Post about my life, my kids, the cats, drinking on a Sunday, and the ubiquitous photo -op post when all words had dried up and blown away. These are all things I am interested in, but are they things worth writing about, and more saliently, self-publishing? I don't have the kind of egocentric personality to think, unquestioningly, "Why yes, they are! Who doesn't want to read about ME?" Rather, I shrink inwardly, thinking of the exposed, winter-white underbelly I'm exposing. Granted, my ego is unrealistic enough to have thought, at the outset of blogging, that I would become a famous celebrity blogger, doing talk shows, writing a book, and somehow transcending the mundane.
Yeah, not so much, and most of the time that's okay with me. I don't really want to be accountable to thousands of readers, who are going to take issue with me every time I take a stance on something. There is less pressure in knowing that virtually no one will read this, but it does raise the question of why do it at all, and I don't really have an answer for that right now, because I'm waffling as it is.
I'm disappointed with myself, and a little angry as well. I start projects only to never finish them, and the biggest unfinished project I have is Who Am I? At 47 years old you would think I'd have that answer, but nope - nopety, nope - I'm clueless. I'd like to be able to place the blame elsewhere, but ultimately it's all on my head.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It's been a busy period, despite the self-imposed hibernation: I took in another stray cat I found wandering the streets during a snow storm. I thought she might be terminally ill, with something horribly contagious like Leukemia or FIV, but upon observing her I discovered she couldn't chew the dry food that the neighbors had left out for her. she would bolt it whole and then vomit it back up, which was causing her to dehydrate and slowly starve. I took her in, fed her soft food, and kept an eye on her. She was covered in fleas, even in January, so I bathed her. The water ran so red I thought I had opened a wound on her body somewhere, but it was only from the flea castings. When I took her down to see Doc after about two weeks, she was stable but still fragile. He told me that she had suffered a broken pelvis and jaw, and was anemic from the flea infestation, but other than that was healthy and disease-free. And that is how Miss Willow came to be among the chosen few here at the Temple of Bast.
But wait, there's more: I discovered on Monday that Pooh Bear, named for his prodigious eating habits, had an abcess on the side of his face. I cleaned it, dosed him with Amoxicillan and put him in solitary to rest. When I checked on him later I discovered he had another abcess a little further down his neck. Apparently he was bitten by one of the feral and intact males who roam our neighborhood. Luckily, he has had his shots, and I am an old hand at abcesses, so two days later, he's looking much better.
On the family front, my son, The Professor, came down with Strep for the very first time, at 12 and a half. It was the damnedest thing I've ever seen. He came home from school on a Friday, complaining of a sore throat and a headache. Saturday morning I looked in his mouth and there were the tell-tale pustules on his tonsils. We decided to wait and go to his regular doctor on Monday, since I don't trust the doc-in-the-box and he wasn't that severe, symptomatically speaking. Sunday morning, his throat had less white lesions, but it still hurt a bit. By Monday morning he had a clear throat, albeit a bit red and puffy. I took him to the doctor, he tested positive for Strep and he started his antibiotics. He's fine now, but I wonder: would he have recovered from the strep without any antibiotics? I've never seen anyone come down with Strep and two days later, be on the mend, but it sure looked like that was the case with him. I just wish I could bounce back like that!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Didn't the Tapdancer Look Good, Last Time We Saw Her?
Hello, my name is Tapdancer and I am a Facebook junkie.
I know - I was just in here, a few months back, touting my oh-so-virtuous offline time, and now I'm addicted again, and it's not even remotely intelligent, the time I spend. I could make the excuse that January is a month of hibernation, so where's the harm, etc, but um, what about the three months before now?
I'm telling myself that when I reach the 70th level of the Vampire Wars, and you either have to have 500 clan members or get eaten alive, that I'll quit then. And then I go and add 15 more total strangers to my friends list. Granted, I'm really careful of who I pick, but still - who am I and what has happened to the old Tapdancer?
Is there a twelve-step program for Facebook junkies, and if so, do I need neighbors or clan members to play, uh, join?
I know - I was just in here, a few months back, touting my oh-so-virtuous offline time, and now I'm addicted again, and it's not even remotely intelligent, the time I spend. I could make the excuse that January is a month of hibernation, so where's the harm, etc, but um, what about the three months before now?
I'm telling myself that when I reach the 70th level of the Vampire Wars, and you either have to have 500 clan members or get eaten alive, that I'll quit then. And then I go and add 15 more total strangers to my friends list. Granted, I'm really careful of who I pick, but still - who am I and what has happened to the old Tapdancer?
Is there a twelve-step program for Facebook junkies, and if so, do I need neighbors or clan members to play, uh, join?
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Oh Girl, It's Been One Of THOSE Weeks!
Hi, it's me, your slack-assed blog-buddy.
So, Soap Opera Update: the big birthday party went off beautifully; the birthday girl had a fabulous time being fussed over and sung to by (possibly) the loudest gang of miscreants assembled. I did NOT go gently into that liquid state I was dreaming of; there was too much to do, and I wanted it all to go smoothly. So no drunk hostess, which is probably for the best - less calories to work off at the gym, right?
Monday night I attempted to upgrade my browser to Windows Explorer 8, which apparently is TOTALLY incompatible with my aging, almost 5 year-old computer (and doesn't that piss you off, that expensive shit like a computer is obsolete in less than 5 years? Can you see my middle finger raised aloft, Mr. Gates? What, is it hard to see for the forest of middle fingers?). After installing the IE8, my computer promptly did it's finest James Brown Breaking Down imitation: ("I can't do no more!") there was no internets to be had, and all her inner workings were Gorilla Glue gunked-up. Neat, huh? I dragged my moronic behunkus off to bed at 1 AM, only to rise at 7:30 to escort the herd to school (well, ok, part of the herd - one calf leaves at 7:00 now - the steer sees him off. Not sure how or why I'm calling my family cows - I could be a little punchy yet.), and get back to the business of trying to fix my mess.
After 3 fruitless hours on the phone with my internet provider, Hewlett Packard, and Microsoft (where the guy hung up on me), and three System Restores which didn't restore much, I knew it was time to wipe the slate clean (oh Christ, another metaphor!), and send the computer back in a time warp to it's beginning. Also known as System Recovery, and it means a lot of re-installing headaches, because after 5 years, where have all those Registration numbers and passwords, etc. gotten to? Luckily (in this case), I'm a bit of a packrat, albeit an organized one, and the whole caboodle was tucked in a bag that I'd stuck in the desk, so not too bad of a headache, but the bundled BS that came back up on the System Recovery made up for that!
Long story short, I spent all day yesterday getting the Portal of Internet Goodness back up and looking reasonably normal. It only took 12 hours of un-installing, re-installing, re-booting, etc. to get there, but at least Santa can do his shopping for Christmas now, and the kids won't miss out on their Saturday morning "Dino Run" game. Life is good.
Tomorrow, Bea and I head for the coast, on our tri-yearly (is that right? No, more like quarterly, only maybe not that often. Are you with me?) trek to Newport to see Doc and get assorted cats their shots, meds, what have you. It's an all day thing, but we save a LOT of money on the vet bills, and the care is superior. So suck on that Academy East Animal Hospital - the people who thought it might be good idea to check a cat for FeLv when he was presented with obvious poisoning symptoms. Because god forbid they would get their "piddies" dirty looking into the scary cat's mouth. You would think with a Vet School right up the road in Raleigh, at NCSU, you could get good care around here, but nope, nopety, nope. All they want to do is run a million expensive tests, and then waffle over the diagnosis, presumably so they can run some more tests. Bastards. I can guarantee, that even if one of my cats has some surprise issue tomorrow, it will still cost me less, for both cats, than if I had take just one of them to a local vet. And it's a road trip with Bea, with a lovely lunch in either Beaufort (a very cute town), or at the Sanitary Restaurant, a horrid name for a place everyone eats at; David Sedaris talks about going there in his book, "Dress Your Family In Corduroy And Denim" - I'm sure you can imagine the fun he had with a name like that!
So how the hell are you guys? I'm terribly out of the loop, though HALLELUJAH!!!!! the kitchen is finally painted, and the big party is past me, so now all I have to freak out about is getting my Christmas shopping done - piece of cake, comparatively speaking!
So, Soap Opera Update: the big birthday party went off beautifully; the birthday girl had a fabulous time being fussed over and sung to by (possibly) the loudest gang of miscreants assembled. I did NOT go gently into that liquid state I was dreaming of; there was too much to do, and I wanted it all to go smoothly. So no drunk hostess, which is probably for the best - less calories to work off at the gym, right?
Monday night I attempted to upgrade my browser to Windows Explorer 8, which apparently is TOTALLY incompatible with my aging, almost 5 year-old computer (and doesn't that piss you off, that expensive shit like a computer is obsolete in less than 5 years? Can you see my middle finger raised aloft, Mr. Gates? What, is it hard to see for the forest of middle fingers?). After installing the IE8, my computer promptly did it's finest James Brown Breaking Down imitation: ("I can't do no more!") there was no internets to be had, and all her inner workings were Gorilla Glue gunked-up. Neat, huh? I dragged my moronic behunkus off to bed at 1 AM, only to rise at 7:30 to escort the herd to school (well, ok, part of the herd - one calf leaves at 7:00 now - the steer sees him off. Not sure how or why I'm calling my family cows - I could be a little punchy yet.), and get back to the business of trying to fix my mess.
After 3 fruitless hours on the phone with my internet provider, Hewlett Packard, and Microsoft (where the guy hung up on me), and three System Restores which didn't restore much, I knew it was time to wipe the slate clean (oh Christ, another metaphor!), and send the computer back in a time warp to it's beginning. Also known as System Recovery, and it means a lot of re-installing headaches, because after 5 years, where have all those Registration numbers and passwords, etc. gotten to? Luckily (in this case), I'm a bit of a packrat, albeit an organized one, and the whole caboodle was tucked in a bag that I'd stuck in the desk, so not too bad of a headache, but the bundled BS that came back up on the System Recovery made up for that!
Long story short, I spent all day yesterday getting the Portal of Internet Goodness back up and looking reasonably normal. It only took 12 hours of un-installing, re-installing, re-booting, etc. to get there, but at least Santa can do his shopping for Christmas now, and the kids won't miss out on their Saturday morning "Dino Run" game. Life is good.
Tomorrow, Bea and I head for the coast, on our tri-yearly (is that right? No, more like quarterly, only maybe not that often. Are you with me?) trek to Newport to see Doc and get assorted cats their shots, meds, what have you. It's an all day thing, but we save a LOT of money on the vet bills, and the care is superior. So suck on that Academy East Animal Hospital - the people who thought it might be good idea to check a cat for FeLv when he was presented with obvious poisoning symptoms. Because god forbid they would get their "piddies" dirty looking into the scary cat's mouth. You would think with a Vet School right up the road in Raleigh, at NCSU, you could get good care around here, but nope, nopety, nope. All they want to do is run a million expensive tests, and then waffle over the diagnosis, presumably so they can run some more tests. Bastards. I can guarantee, that even if one of my cats has some surprise issue tomorrow, it will still cost me less, for both cats, than if I had take just one of them to a local vet. And it's a road trip with Bea, with a lovely lunch in either Beaufort (a very cute town), or at the Sanitary Restaurant, a horrid name for a place everyone eats at; David Sedaris talks about going there in his book, "Dress Your Family In Corduroy And Denim" - I'm sure you can imagine the fun he had with a name like that!
So how the hell are you guys? I'm terribly out of the loop, though HALLELUJAH!!!!! the kitchen is finally painted, and the big party is past me, so now all I have to freak out about is getting my Christmas shopping done - piece of cake, comparatively speaking!
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Procrastination - It's not just for breakfast anymore
Two weeks until the big party at my house - the one for my mom's 70th birthday. Oh hell yes, it's total mayhem, so what else is new? But at least no one has the swine flu (currently) (knock on wood). also, nothing like having a two week deadline to get that damn kitchen painted! It's actually kind of peaceful painting - it's something I can control, unlike all the douchebags (did I say that outloud?) who have yet to RSVP my invitation. They aren't my friends, but apparently they aren't my mother's friends either - grrr, assholes do vex me! Kind of hard to know how much seafood to order when you still have 20 invitations outstanding. Can I just yell "ASSHOLES" once? Thanks, I feel better now.
Well, okay, maybe not.
I had a hormonal meltdown last week - didn't hurt that the husband was an ass on our anniversary weekend - he has that kind of timing - but I went mental. It was kind of scary, even to me. I was fingering sharp blades and thinking dark, dark thoughts, which is what not sleeping for three weeks will get you, my lads.
I talked to my sister and she thought I might need to get on board with some progesterone and hydroxy-triptifan (it makes serotonin, which makes you sleepy), since it sounded like I was knee-deep in the glamourous world of peri-menopause. Because it's such affirming thing to be a woman, as it is, right? She's probably right, and a little research confirmed it, so now I'm smearing progesterone cream on myself eery night and popping hydroxy-triptifan capsules before bedtime, and guess what? I still can't sleep at night. I think I might be hard-wired to be a vampire. I think I might also be stressing over getting this party off the ground - it's how I roll - I haven't hit the Jimmy Crack Corn portion of the program yet, but I'm sure I will soon.
Oh crap, and it's Halloween this Saturday. I love Halloween, but I just don't have time for it this year. I told Chanda that I wished we could just hide out at her house, watch movies and eat all the candy we're supposed to give out. She was jiggy with that, but I don't think the guys will be!
Ah well, I guess it's back to work now - I can only procrastinate for so long, right?
Well, okay, maybe not.
I had a hormonal meltdown last week - didn't hurt that the husband was an ass on our anniversary weekend - he has that kind of timing - but I went mental. It was kind of scary, even to me. I was fingering sharp blades and thinking dark, dark thoughts, which is what not sleeping for three weeks will get you, my lads.
I talked to my sister and she thought I might need to get on board with some progesterone and hydroxy-triptifan (it makes serotonin, which makes you sleepy), since it sounded like I was knee-deep in the glamourous world of peri-menopause. Because it's such affirming thing to be a woman, as it is, right? She's probably right, and a little research confirmed it, so now I'm smearing progesterone cream on myself eery night and popping hydroxy-triptifan capsules before bedtime, and guess what? I still can't sleep at night. I think I might be hard-wired to be a vampire. I think I might also be stressing over getting this party off the ground - it's how I roll - I haven't hit the Jimmy Crack Corn portion of the program yet, but I'm sure I will soon.
Oh crap, and it's Halloween this Saturday. I love Halloween, but I just don't have time for it this year. I told Chanda that I wished we could just hide out at her house, watch movies and eat all the candy we're supposed to give out. She was jiggy with that, but I don't think the guys will be!
Ah well, I guess it's back to work now - I can only procrastinate for so long, right?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Invasion of the Bodysnatchers (and a few recipes)
In a week's time, I've been to the gym 7 times, an hour each time. I only lost about 5 pounds, because we ate Italian at Piccola Italia's (my stomach's spiritual Mecca) on Saturday, and my younger brother threw a cookout on Sunday. At least I didn't gain, right? My older brother made these incredible drinks on Sunday that I didn't even try to resist, they were that freakin' good. He called them "Mighty Good", and I'm inclined to agree!
A Mighty Good Drink
large glass w/ice
2 oz orange vodka (I think he might have added more)
a splash of triple sec
fill about three quarters with Tropicana Strawberry-Orange juice
top off with orange juice
garnish with either a giant strawberry or an orange slice.
At our parties everybody brings something to share, which makes the food more eclectic, and helps keep the cost down. Our host provided the ubiquitous burgers and dogs, my "Mighty Good" brother made a bean salad, another guest, Mrs. M. made her famous potato salad, and my mom made strawberry shortcake for dessert. My contribution was a Whore-d'oeuvre, as we like to call them: Caprese Salad. It's an easy thing to whip together, and it's glamour lies in using the best ingredients.
Caprese Salad
On a large platter arrange thin slices of fresh mozzarella
top with thin slices of ripe tomatoes
distribute evenly a generous helping of coarsely chopped fresh basil
sprinkle a bit of garlic powder, salt and pepper over all of it,
then pour very good olive oil over all, and sprinkle a bit of balsamic vinegar over that.
serve with fresh crusty Italian bread
So you can see why I didn't lose much weight this week, although as Bea put it, "think of what we would have gained if we hadn't worked out all week". so it's back to the gym this week, and a diet of salad and more salad. I'm trying to drop enough poundage in the next three weeks, that I can go on vacation and not worry about dieting.
Oh my effing god - what is happening to me? I'm writing about going to the gym! How is that good reading material? Who am I and where did the aliens put my real self? Aaughh!
A Mighty Good Drink
large glass w/ice
2 oz orange vodka (I think he might have added more)
a splash of triple sec
fill about three quarters with Tropicana Strawberry-Orange juice
top off with orange juice
garnish with either a giant strawberry or an orange slice.
At our parties everybody brings something to share, which makes the food more eclectic, and helps keep the cost down. Our host provided the ubiquitous burgers and dogs, my "Mighty Good" brother made a bean salad, another guest, Mrs. M. made her famous potato salad, and my mom made strawberry shortcake for dessert. My contribution was a Whore-d'oeuvre, as we like to call them: Caprese Salad. It's an easy thing to whip together, and it's glamour lies in using the best ingredients.
Caprese Salad
On a large platter arrange thin slices of fresh mozzarella
top with thin slices of ripe tomatoes
distribute evenly a generous helping of coarsely chopped fresh basil
sprinkle a bit of garlic powder, salt and pepper over all of it,
then pour very good olive oil over all, and sprinkle a bit of balsamic vinegar over that.
serve with fresh crusty Italian bread
So you can see why I didn't lose much weight this week, although as Bea put it, "think of what we would have gained if we hadn't worked out all week". so it's back to the gym this week, and a diet of salad and more salad. I'm trying to drop enough poundage in the next three weeks, that I can go on vacation and not worry about dieting.
Oh my effing god - what is happening to me? I'm writing about going to the gym! How is that good reading material? Who am I and where did the aliens put my real self? Aaughh!
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
As The Pendulum Swings
Well hello!
I'm up out of the cellar today, the black funk having passed tornado-like, leaving flotsam and destruction, but everything important is intact. The husband person has been very supportive and kind lately; I think I might have scared him. I know I scared myself.
I'm reading "Reflections on the Art of Living - A Joseph Campbell Companion" this week, while I wait for my super groovy history book, "Albion's Seed", to arrive. I figured I could use a little perspective refresher, and Joseph Campbell is my kind of guy, having arrived at his personal philosophy via a life-long study of world mythology, and just following his muse. This particular book has an emphasis on the Grail Quest, as it pertains to finding meaning in your individual life. I love the fact that he never talks like some high-falutin' guru, trying to sell you on his version of snake tonic/ spiritual perfection. That always raises my suspicion, along with my hackles. He says things like, "doing what someone else wants you to do, is slave morality", and "if you can see the path you're on, then it isn't your path, it's someone else's". A man who tells us that getting lost is the first step to finding your way - how could I NOT love him?
And speaking of following the crowd, I up and joined a gym today. I know - ME??? Join a gym? After that spiel of going "el solo lobo"? I woke up this morning, pushing maximum density, and thought about going to join a gym. My first reaction was claustrophobic - "I'll be trapped! I'll be joining the crowd, etc." Then my rational, used-to-be-a-slim-girl voice spoke up: "And sitting on your ass, in the house, all during the hot, humid summer, doing Ho-ho curls, is going to do what??"
So I went and joined, and in true Ms. Q fashion, I immediately wanted to go out to lunch for a cheeseburger, because as the Buddha of Juicy Rationalizations (Ms. Q) would say: "I joined the gym, I'm paying the money, won't the weight just come off now?" And I've always laughed at her, but now, now "I'm looking down, Shrek", and I can't see my feet, and it isn't quite as funny. (okay, it's still a little funny, especially when she says it, but then she is a comic genius, or is it just me who thinks that?)
So now I'm a gym-rat. Imagine that, and then let me know how big my ass looks in that work-out gear, or even more likely, how scared the others will be when I show up in bag-lady gear (ass still pushing the boundaries of our neighboring countries), because I'm too cheap to buy sparkly new, perky work-out clothes, replete with matching scrunchy?
Stay tuned...
I'm up out of the cellar today, the black funk having passed tornado-like, leaving flotsam and destruction, but everything important is intact. The husband person has been very supportive and kind lately; I think I might have scared him. I know I scared myself.
I'm reading "Reflections on the Art of Living - A Joseph Campbell Companion" this week, while I wait for my super groovy history book, "Albion's Seed", to arrive. I figured I could use a little perspective refresher, and Joseph Campbell is my kind of guy, having arrived at his personal philosophy via a life-long study of world mythology, and just following his muse. This particular book has an emphasis on the Grail Quest, as it pertains to finding meaning in your individual life. I love the fact that he never talks like some high-falutin' guru, trying to sell you on his version of snake tonic/ spiritual perfection. That always raises my suspicion, along with my hackles. He says things like, "doing what someone else wants you to do, is slave morality", and "if you can see the path you're on, then it isn't your path, it's someone else's". A man who tells us that getting lost is the first step to finding your way - how could I NOT love him?
And speaking of following the crowd, I up and joined a gym today. I know - ME??? Join a gym? After that spiel of going "el solo lobo"? I woke up this morning, pushing maximum density, and thought about going to join a gym. My first reaction was claustrophobic - "I'll be trapped! I'll be joining the crowd, etc." Then my rational, used-to-be-a-slim-girl voice spoke up: "And sitting on your ass, in the house, all during the hot, humid summer, doing Ho-ho curls, is going to do what??"
So I went and joined, and in true Ms. Q fashion, I immediately wanted to go out to lunch for a cheeseburger, because as the Buddha of Juicy Rationalizations (Ms. Q) would say: "I joined the gym, I'm paying the money, won't the weight just come off now?" And I've always laughed at her, but now, now "I'm looking down, Shrek", and I can't see my feet, and it isn't quite as funny. (okay, it's still a little funny, especially when she says it, but then she is a comic genius, or is it just me who thinks that?)
So now I'm a gym-rat. Imagine that, and then let me know how big my ass looks in that work-out gear, or even more likely, how scared the others will be when I show up in bag-lady gear (ass still pushing the boundaries of our neighboring countries), because I'm too cheap to buy sparkly new, perky work-out clothes, replete with matching scrunchy?
Stay tuned...
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Emo Ranting (And now I'm going to go sulk in my room)
I'm lying here, in a puddle of my own self pity. I can't seem to drag myself out of this funk, shower off the self-indulgent wallowing residue and DO something about all this apathy. My apathy, my husband's apathy, my children's apathy - I can't take it all on, and I don't want to. But neither do they, and the effort of making them just take care of their own pile of stuff to do wears me out, leaves me angry and desolate at the same time.
Don't tell me what to do, even if you mean well. I have enough people telling me what to do right now, and that isn't really helping. I'm introspective enough to figure out what's going on, eventually anyway, and phoenix-like, I'll rise again. But will they? It's hard to fly when someone's hanging onto your wings, crying, "But what'll we have for dinner? Where are my underwear?"
See, need isn't the same thing as love. Need is grasping, clawing, selfish. Love is nurturing, unselfish, giving. We might need to be needed, but it doesn't take the place of love. Love replenishes us, need sucks us dry. Need often tries to pass itself off as love, but it's perpetual hunger always kills what would have thrived with love.
(Wow, was that vague and rambling enough? Dead giveaway that I'm teetering on Batsa right now, isn't it? I wish I could be more concise, more philosophical, more like the duck's back of Buddha, letting all the shit roll off and going "Ohm", but it ain't happening, not right now.)
Don't tell me what to do, even if you mean well. I have enough people telling me what to do right now, and that isn't really helping. I'm introspective enough to figure out what's going on, eventually anyway, and phoenix-like, I'll rise again. But will they? It's hard to fly when someone's hanging onto your wings, crying, "But what'll we have for dinner? Where are my underwear?"
See, need isn't the same thing as love. Need is grasping, clawing, selfish. Love is nurturing, unselfish, giving. We might need to be needed, but it doesn't take the place of love. Love replenishes us, need sucks us dry. Need often tries to pass itself off as love, but it's perpetual hunger always kills what would have thrived with love.
(Wow, was that vague and rambling enough? Dead giveaway that I'm teetering on Batsa right now, isn't it? I wish I could be more concise, more philosophical, more like the duck's back of Buddha, letting all the shit roll off and going "Ohm", but it ain't happening, not right now.)
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Work? On a day like today?
It's way too nice to spend my day indoors, painting, (Ah Juicy Rationalization, how my procrastinating heart doth love thee!) so gardening was the order of the day. I'm really just tickled that we even have anything other than chickweed in the beds this year, so a lovely Tropicana rose is pretty exciting.
We planted this bed on Jasper's final resting place. We thought the "Jappernese" maple was a nice touch, not only for it's name, but because it's short, scrappy, and red, just like Jasper was. She would have loved posing in among these flowers, no doubt. Alas, poor Chubby.
The stray who showed up last spring and decided to stay is doing well. I named him Simon, but his whole name, at this point, is Simon Snowshoe Ohyeah Fatboy. Also known as Mr. Fuzzy, he is a welcome addition to our declining numbers (ahahahaha! Sorry, I couldn't help it).
Jezebel and Mrs. Puff share a little girl talk on the back fence, because who doesn't love the smell of compost in the morning?
I think this beauty is a Mr. Lincoln. Contrary to the old 70s song, my honey DID promise me a rose garden. It's just a lot harder to deliver when full sun is at a premium in your yard.
I'm working on something right now - I don't know how well you'll like it. My head is already 600 miles away from my body, what with our annual pilgrimage to Pennsylvania coming up, and I thought it might be fun to take advantage of that fixation, combine it with my obsession for historical data and use it to write something fantastical.
We planted this bed on Jasper's final resting place. We thought the "Jappernese" maple was a nice touch, not only for it's name, but because it's short, scrappy, and red, just like Jasper was. She would have loved posing in among these flowers, no doubt. Alas, poor Chubby.
The stray who showed up last spring and decided to stay is doing well. I named him Simon, but his whole name, at this point, is Simon Snowshoe Ohyeah Fatboy. Also known as Mr. Fuzzy, he is a welcome addition to our declining numbers (ahahahaha! Sorry, I couldn't help it).
Jezebel and Mrs. Puff share a little girl talk on the back fence, because who doesn't love the smell of compost in the morning?
I think this beauty is a Mr. Lincoln. Contrary to the old 70s song, my honey DID promise me a rose garden. It's just a lot harder to deliver when full sun is at a premium in your yard.
I'm working on something right now - I don't know how well you'll like it. My head is already 600 miles away from my body, what with our annual pilgrimage to Pennsylvania coming up, and I thought it might be fun to take advantage of that fixation, combine it with my obsession for historical data and use it to write something fantastical.Yeeeaahhh, I know - I'm having a hard time picturing that description on the back of a paperback too. But who knows - "could be lunch meat, could be peaches" - Look Who's Talking
Monday, May 11, 2009
Because This Is How Lazy I Am These Days
Hi, this is me, the laziest blogger ever. How lazy can it get, you might ask? I'm posting a letter, fer crying out loud! Granted, I'm going to be a lot perkier when writing the Cuz, because, well, she brings it out in me, kind of like how I desperately need a beer after visiting my deeply religious, teetotalling relatives, or the way I tend to utter random swear words, when passing a particularly large and pompous church. What? Everybody doesn't do that! Seriously?
Anyway, my thanks to the Velveeta Wingnut for her inspiring presence! Oh, and I cut out the parts where I was talking about animals, nudity, sex, and food, in a sort of food processor kind of amalgamation. Because I care.
Hey Woman,
I don't know what the hell my problem is these days - the kitchen is coming along, though I think we're going to hold off on the counter tops until next year, when we can afford to do solid granite, vs trying to lay granite tile. More money, but less bullshit, ya know? But the painting is coming along - about halfway done - the humid weather makes it hard to paint walls, so this week will be another big push to finishing that part. House updates - yikes - I know you
know what I'm saying!
But yeah, I've been in this funk for awhile now. Partly the whole losing several cats this past winter, partly I'm just feeling like a damn ancient whale - fat and old!!! WTF? How does this kind of shit happen? I'm thinking of joining a gym, that's how desperate I am - and I've NEVER joined a gym before. Film at 11.
We're going to be up in PA June 14th-21st, Sunday to Sunday. I want to go up to Buffalo on the 19th of that week, to see my aunt, and take the kids to the Allbright-Knox Art Museum (and hit the grocery store/ butcher shop while I'm there. Oh bright and shining TOPS MARKET, what siren call your aisles sing to me! Oh FEDERAL MEAT MARKET, how I long to stand in silent wonder, gazing at your dazzling array of beautiful meat, to smell your homemade kielbasa and hot dogs!)
BUT I digress -
So when do you want to get together that week? Do you want to go to Kittanning or should we try Butler this time? I've never been to the Butler Historical Society - don't even know if there is one, actually! What are you looking for?
Oh, I knew I had something for you. I found a reference to a Jeremiah Bonner, who was a blacksmith in the Armstrong County area, in the James Whisker book on PA gunsmiths. Isn't he one of your ancestors, or is he just a relative? Either way, I thought it was interesting, and thought it might be pertinent.I'll bring the book with me. I admit, I have a thing for blacksmiths!
By the by, nope, never received the Bowser book. I do remember you ordering it. If your desk is like my desk, it might just have gone to the black hole. I was thinking of dropping into Mechling Books, since they're near Butler. I want to ask them about prices for publishing a couple of different things, about family bible restoration, and maybe pick up a few books from them, if they sell them out of their store, as well as ship them. So if you can't find it, I can
always get a copy from them - I don't think it was a pricey book.
I don't have a ton of research to do this trip, although I could go to Kittanning again. The Snyders I'm tracking seem to have been in Armstrong county by 1800; a Valentine Snyder (nickname, "Felty") in Buffalo Twp (1800 census), and then him and two younger guys in Toby Twp, in 1810, one of which is Peter Snider, which was my grandmother's great great grandfather. So I've tracked back to her 3x great grandfather so far, and then the trail goes to Prussia, which apparently is one of the provinces of the Palatine region. Did you know that? I
sure as hell didn't!
I received an email from a guy in Franklin, PA who actually read the TOY family compilation - go figure! His SIL's grandmother was a first cousin to my grandfather, and she had some info I didn't have. Groovy, even groovier that anybody read and found something in that massive tome! But the goocher is, this guy's last name is SNYDER, which, while it's a lot like SMITH, in terms of commonality, still, he's in the right place to possibly be related. He did sign off with a
"God Bless You", which always puts my pagan neck hairs up, but he might have some useful links, who knows?
Anyway!!!
Just let me know when and where you want to meet up, m'kay? We just have the parental units going with us this year, so I might even be able to leave the kids with them, unless you WANT me to bring the whole circus, 'cuz your mom's going and she wants to see everybody, or something like that! I'm squeezy either way.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know - I'm supposed to be out in the kitchen, painting right now, dammit! All right, fine - I'm going!
Sheesh!
(So do you feel kind of voyeuristic now, dear reader, from getting a peek into my personal correspondence? I feel positively nekkid now - which isn't really as titillating as it sounds, sadly! But I'm working on it!)
Anyway, my thanks to the Velveeta Wingnut for her inspiring presence! Oh, and I cut out the parts where I was talking about animals, nudity, sex, and food, in a sort of food processor kind of amalgamation. Because I care.
Hey Woman,
I don't know what the hell my problem is these days - the kitchen is coming along, though I think we're going to hold off on the counter tops until next year, when we can afford to do solid granite, vs trying to lay granite tile. More money, but less bullshit, ya know? But the painting is coming along - about halfway done - the humid weather makes it hard to paint walls, so this week will be another big push to finishing that part. House updates - yikes - I know you
know what I'm saying!
But yeah, I've been in this funk for awhile now. Partly the whole losing several cats this past winter, partly I'm just feeling like a damn ancient whale - fat and old!!! WTF? How does this kind of shit happen? I'm thinking of joining a gym, that's how desperate I am - and I've NEVER joined a gym before. Film at 11.
We're going to be up in PA June 14th-21st, Sunday to Sunday. I want to go up to Buffalo on the 19th of that week, to see my aunt, and take the kids to the Allbright-Knox Art Museum (and hit the grocery store/ butcher shop while I'm there. Oh bright and shining TOPS MARKET, what siren call your aisles sing to me! Oh FEDERAL MEAT MARKET, how I long to stand in silent wonder, gazing at your dazzling array of beautiful meat, to smell your homemade kielbasa and hot dogs!)
BUT I digress -
So when do you want to get together that week? Do you want to go to Kittanning or should we try Butler this time? I've never been to the Butler Historical Society - don't even know if there is one, actually! What are you looking for?
Oh, I knew I had something for you. I found a reference to a Jeremiah Bonner, who was a blacksmith in the Armstrong County area, in the James Whisker book on PA gunsmiths. Isn't he one of your ancestors, or is he just a relative? Either way, I thought it was interesting, and thought it might be pertinent.I'll bring the book with me. I admit, I have a thing for blacksmiths!
By the by, nope, never received the Bowser book. I do remember you ordering it. If your desk is like my desk, it might just have gone to the black hole. I was thinking of dropping into Mechling Books, since they're near Butler. I want to ask them about prices for publishing a couple of different things, about family bible restoration, and maybe pick up a few books from them, if they sell them out of their store, as well as ship them. So if you can't find it, I can
always get a copy from them - I don't think it was a pricey book.
I don't have a ton of research to do this trip, although I could go to Kittanning again. The Snyders I'm tracking seem to have been in Armstrong county by 1800; a Valentine Snyder (nickname, "Felty") in Buffalo Twp (1800 census), and then him and two younger guys in Toby Twp, in 1810, one of which is Peter Snider, which was my grandmother's great great grandfather. So I've tracked back to her 3x great grandfather so far, and then the trail goes to Prussia, which apparently is one of the provinces of the Palatine region. Did you know that? I
sure as hell didn't!
I received an email from a guy in Franklin, PA who actually read the TOY family compilation - go figure! His SIL's grandmother was a first cousin to my grandfather, and she had some info I didn't have. Groovy, even groovier that anybody read and found something in that massive tome! But the goocher is, this guy's last name is SNYDER, which, while it's a lot like SMITH, in terms of commonality, still, he's in the right place to possibly be related. He did sign off with a
"God Bless You", which always puts my pagan neck hairs up, but he might have some useful links, who knows?
Anyway!!!
Just let me know when and where you want to meet up, m'kay? We just have the parental units going with us this year, so I might even be able to leave the kids with them, unless you WANT me to bring the whole circus, 'cuz your mom's going and she wants to see everybody, or something like that! I'm squeezy either way.
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know - I'm supposed to be out in the kitchen, painting right now, dammit! All right, fine - I'm going!
Sheesh!
(So do you feel kind of voyeuristic now, dear reader, from getting a peek into my personal correspondence? I feel positively nekkid now - which isn't really as titillating as it sounds, sadly! But I'm working on it!)
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Letter to an Old Friend
(Because this is where my mind is at these days)
Dear _____,
It's funny, I was just getting ready to drop you a note, and here's one from you! I've been pondering the haiku, and wanting to write one, but my head is just not there right now. Jasper, my oldest cat at 18, is, I believe, in the last throes of dying right now. I'm mostly okay with it - she's ten days older than God, for crying out loud - but it's still the end of an era and kind of depressing, to watch her "go gently into that good night" before my eyes, leaking her life on towels laid in strategic spots. Not my best poetry writing kind of mood (although it's apparently good for prose!), unless I'm going for the teen angst type, ya know? So I'm going to owe you a haiku, as soon as the funk clears.
I was thinking of the question you put to me, the other night - what do I do? I never feel like I answer that question very well, not because my life isn't full or busy or satisfying, but because it's hard to explain that money isn't part of my equation for happiness, especially since we as a culture have come to think that one equals the other. I don't deny that I blew my academic chance, that I shoulda coulda woulda done more with what potential I was given. I never had the tools necessary to do well in school - hell, I never did homework, never wrote a paper any sooner than the morning it was due, and what a chip my parents gave me about the educational system! Nonetheless, as an adult, and as a parent, I can see where I went wrong, and decide to not make that same mistake with my own kids. I always knew I would have children, even though I was ambivilent about having them. I think I was 34 when The Professor was born - not exactly a career mom, starting that late (and there are more than a few sagas to fill in that time). But I had always felt that if I was going to have kids I wanted to really be a full time mother. Art did take a back seat to mothering, but I've often thought that maybe I'm just not crazy, or self absorbed, or driven enough to really be a serious artist. I mean, doesn't it seem like a lot of the career ones are kind of wacked and unbalanced? My childhood was such a roller coaster ride that unbalanced doesn't really appeal to me.
So back to the question: what do I do? I am:
> a full time mother, who really loves being that to it's fullest sense.
> an educational volunteer with 2nd-5th grade children 6+ hours every week.
> a history researcher, family historian and history buff
> a writer, of both family history, and a blog, where I try to hone my literary skills in a forum with more accountability than journalling.
> an artist on hiatus, though that is changing as the kids get bigger and I have more time.
These are all things that make me happy doing them, but I understand, that to the corporate world, I am considered to be a failure; that working without monetary compensation equals failure. It bothers me sometimes, that I don't measure up, but I realize also that I've never wanted to measure myself by the same yardstick as the rest of the world, which does make it easier to thumb my nose at the negative nay-sayers.
I had a vision as a child. It was a dream, but it's portent has never left me. I wondered for years why a dream at the age of 4 would haunt me into my adult life, and then I read "Black Elk Speaks". Black Elk had a vision dream when he was a small child that defined, for him, his purpose for living, and upon reading his story I knew what my dream had meant. The things I do, the things that define who I am are all expressions, or fufillments of that dream. I might not measure up to the warped standards of a consumer-driven society, but I am whole.
Dear _____,
It's funny, I was just getting ready to drop you a note, and here's one from you! I've been pondering the haiku, and wanting to write one, but my head is just not there right now. Jasper, my oldest cat at 18, is, I believe, in the last throes of dying right now. I'm mostly okay with it - she's ten days older than God, for crying out loud - but it's still the end of an era and kind of depressing, to watch her "go gently into that good night" before my eyes, leaking her life on towels laid in strategic spots. Not my best poetry writing kind of mood (although it's apparently good for prose!), unless I'm going for the teen angst type, ya know? So I'm going to owe you a haiku, as soon as the funk clears.
I was thinking of the question you put to me, the other night - what do I do? I never feel like I answer that question very well, not because my life isn't full or busy or satisfying, but because it's hard to explain that money isn't part of my equation for happiness, especially since we as a culture have come to think that one equals the other. I don't deny that I blew my academic chance, that I shoulda coulda woulda done more with what potential I was given. I never had the tools necessary to do well in school - hell, I never did homework, never wrote a paper any sooner than the morning it was due, and what a chip my parents gave me about the educational system! Nonetheless, as an adult, and as a parent, I can see where I went wrong, and decide to not make that same mistake with my own kids. I always knew I would have children, even though I was ambivilent about having them. I think I was 34 when The Professor was born - not exactly a career mom, starting that late (and there are more than a few sagas to fill in that time). But I had always felt that if I was going to have kids I wanted to really be a full time mother. Art did take a back seat to mothering, but I've often thought that maybe I'm just not crazy, or self absorbed, or driven enough to really be a serious artist. I mean, doesn't it seem like a lot of the career ones are kind of wacked and unbalanced? My childhood was such a roller coaster ride that unbalanced doesn't really appeal to me.
So back to the question: what do I do? I am:
> a full time mother, who really loves being that to it's fullest sense.
> an educational volunteer with 2nd-5th grade children 6+ hours every week.
> a history researcher, family historian and history buff
> a writer, of both family history, and a blog, where I try to hone my literary skills in a forum with more accountability than journalling.
> an artist on hiatus, though that is changing as the kids get bigger and I have more time.
These are all things that make me happy doing them, but I understand, that to the corporate world, I am considered to be a failure; that working without monetary compensation equals failure. It bothers me sometimes, that I don't measure up, but I realize also that I've never wanted to measure myself by the same yardstick as the rest of the world, which does make it easier to thumb my nose at the negative nay-sayers.
I had a vision as a child. It was a dream, but it's portent has never left me. I wondered for years why a dream at the age of 4 would haunt me into my adult life, and then I read "Black Elk Speaks". Black Elk had a vision dream when he was a small child that defined, for him, his purpose for living, and upon reading his story I knew what my dream had meant. The things I do, the things that define who I am are all expressions, or fufillments of that dream. I might not measure up to the warped standards of a consumer-driven society, but I am whole.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Sowing Different Seeds
Maggie's new site dedicated to domestic violence has me looking down rabbit holes that go deep down into the past.
I don't really consider myself to be a victim of abuse, though I guess, technically, I am. I grew up in the days when it was considered perfectly okay to spank a child, or yell at them, presumably carte blanche. We were spanked, slapped across the face, told we were liars, even when we told the truth, told we were stupid, and none of that seemed excessive, compared to other kids we knew, and their family life. The thing that seemed really out of hand, really frightening, was the fighting between my parents.
My father was a walking powder keg of rage in those days, and my mother never bothered to read the signs before she jumped all over him, only to lie down in the face of his rage and allow one of us to bear the brunt. It was a toxic combination, and we learned early to disappear when they began their dance. Their fighting caused us to draw closer together, to depend on each other, and I think that was our salvation, but all that rage still took its toll on each of us individually. They crippled us with their words of worthlessness, they convinced us we could only fail at whatever we tried, so why try at all? Even worse, they pitted us against each other with their petty favoritism, undermining what little strength and comfort we had with the lure of being that exception, the favorite.
As a child of eight or nine, I would quietly escape into the silent dark of night, and looking up to the stars, I would pray earnestly for my real people to come back and find me, to rescue me from this place that surely, I didn't belong in.
It was a different flavor of teen angst to realize that this was where I came from, where I belonged, what I was destined for. Might as well indulge in teen-aged drinking, and hey, it's the 70s, let's experiment with a few drugs. Who cares if you fail school? They sure didn't, so why should I?
For a really long time I screwed up everything I ever tried to do in my life, because that's what little self-fulfilling prophecies do. I can't say that I've turned my life around 100%, because I don't think I'll ever feel like that's the case, but I did make a conscious choice to not emulate my parents' disastrous dynamic in my own marriage. And when I became a parent, the shoe, so to speak, was on my foot, and I was damned if my children were going to grow up feeling only conditionally loved, or lacking in potential, or frightened of their parents. I know I'm not a perfect parent - is there really such a thing? I lose control of my temper, I yell at my kids, I make bad calls; but I also apologize when I'm in the wrong, and allow them to voice how they feel without censure. We have a rule in this house: no name calling, and it applies to everyone. Respect is a two-way street - I can't expect it from my children if I don't practice myself.
I can't change or rectify every mistake I've ever made in my life - there is no going back. I may never recover belief in myself, I may always be damaged internally, but I can refuse to inflict that same fate upon someone else. I can stop the cycle. I can't change my parents, but I can try to understand them, and recognize that they were once undamaged too. I can focus on their good qualities and ask them to recognize their negative ones when they surface. Sometimes they cling to their denial, but other times they surprise me with their open regret and desire to rectify. It's rare, I'll grant you, but it does happen, and there is great healing to be had from those moments.
There is a shift of power that comes, when your parents reach their geriatric years. In many ways we become the parent to their aging child. There is a temptation to pay back those childhood debts, in some sort of twisted tit for tat, but whatever karmic debt they have accrued, it is my hope that I will be a better, kinder parent than they were.
Appended to add: I thought about this post a lot; whether to write anything at all, how much to say, how others might react to this. I tossed and turned all night, fretting it. I'm not happy with how I've skimmed this topic, but I don't feel that I can be more in-depth; partly because it isn't just my traumatic childhood, partly because I have dealt with a lot of my anger, and I'm not estranged from my parents or family. Not yet. I sent this post to Bea, with the title, "Is This going To Ruin Christmas?" She agreed that there is a choppiness to this post, a series of omissions to the tale, a glossing over of the darker details, but she also agreed that there is good reason for that. It isn't just my tale, but more saliently, I don't consider myself to be a victim, primarily because what I have written here has been said aloud, to my parents, my siblings. We are not a family of well-kept secrets, rather, the dynamic might better be compared to running the gauntlet. My aim in writing this is not to dredge up a lot of past flotsam, but to point out that, just like Cary did, in the DV post, that abuse occurs everywhere, we all carry scars. It's what we do with those scars that makes the difference.
And I'm still wondering if I've explained myself fully.
I don't really consider myself to be a victim of abuse, though I guess, technically, I am. I grew up in the days when it was considered perfectly okay to spank a child, or yell at them, presumably carte blanche. We were spanked, slapped across the face, told we were liars, even when we told the truth, told we were stupid, and none of that seemed excessive, compared to other kids we knew, and their family life. The thing that seemed really out of hand, really frightening, was the fighting between my parents.
My father was a walking powder keg of rage in those days, and my mother never bothered to read the signs before she jumped all over him, only to lie down in the face of his rage and allow one of us to bear the brunt. It was a toxic combination, and we learned early to disappear when they began their dance. Their fighting caused us to draw closer together, to depend on each other, and I think that was our salvation, but all that rage still took its toll on each of us individually. They crippled us with their words of worthlessness, they convinced us we could only fail at whatever we tried, so why try at all? Even worse, they pitted us against each other with their petty favoritism, undermining what little strength and comfort we had with the lure of being that exception, the favorite.
As a child of eight or nine, I would quietly escape into the silent dark of night, and looking up to the stars, I would pray earnestly for my real people to come back and find me, to rescue me from this place that surely, I didn't belong in.
It was a different flavor of teen angst to realize that this was where I came from, where I belonged, what I was destined for. Might as well indulge in teen-aged drinking, and hey, it's the 70s, let's experiment with a few drugs. Who cares if you fail school? They sure didn't, so why should I?
For a really long time I screwed up everything I ever tried to do in my life, because that's what little self-fulfilling prophecies do. I can't say that I've turned my life around 100%, because I don't think I'll ever feel like that's the case, but I did make a conscious choice to not emulate my parents' disastrous dynamic in my own marriage. And when I became a parent, the shoe, so to speak, was on my foot, and I was damned if my children were going to grow up feeling only conditionally loved, or lacking in potential, or frightened of their parents. I know I'm not a perfect parent - is there really such a thing? I lose control of my temper, I yell at my kids, I make bad calls; but I also apologize when I'm in the wrong, and allow them to voice how they feel without censure. We have a rule in this house: no name calling, and it applies to everyone. Respect is a two-way street - I can't expect it from my children if I don't practice myself.
I can't change or rectify every mistake I've ever made in my life - there is no going back. I may never recover belief in myself, I may always be damaged internally, but I can refuse to inflict that same fate upon someone else. I can stop the cycle. I can't change my parents, but I can try to understand them, and recognize that they were once undamaged too. I can focus on their good qualities and ask them to recognize their negative ones when they surface. Sometimes they cling to their denial, but other times they surprise me with their open regret and desire to rectify. It's rare, I'll grant you, but it does happen, and there is great healing to be had from those moments.
There is a shift of power that comes, when your parents reach their geriatric years. In many ways we become the parent to their aging child. There is a temptation to pay back those childhood debts, in some sort of twisted tit for tat, but whatever karmic debt they have accrued, it is my hope that I will be a better, kinder parent than they were.
Appended to add: I thought about this post a lot; whether to write anything at all, how much to say, how others might react to this. I tossed and turned all night, fretting it. I'm not happy with how I've skimmed this topic, but I don't feel that I can be more in-depth; partly because it isn't just my traumatic childhood, partly because I have dealt with a lot of my anger, and I'm not estranged from my parents or family. Not yet. I sent this post to Bea, with the title, "Is This going To Ruin Christmas?" She agreed that there is a choppiness to this post, a series of omissions to the tale, a glossing over of the darker details, but she also agreed that there is good reason for that. It isn't just my tale, but more saliently, I don't consider myself to be a victim, primarily because what I have written here has been said aloud, to my parents, my siblings. We are not a family of well-kept secrets, rather, the dynamic might better be compared to running the gauntlet. My aim in writing this is not to dredge up a lot of past flotsam, but to point out that, just like Cary did, in the DV post, that abuse occurs everywhere, we all carry scars. It's what we do with those scars that makes the difference.
And I'm still wondering if I've explained myself fully.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
You Think, You Worry
"You worry, you think - it's a vicious cycle." -Victor/Victoria
As my appointment with a real doctor gets closer (as opposed to the Doc-In-The-Box variety, which could well have been imaginary - I was hanging with both the Care and the Swear Bears that day, remember?) I find my stomach unexpectedly performing gymnastics routine, in spite of the fact that the Olympics were last winter. Dude!
I'm always afraid of going to the doctor's office. I'm paranoid that somehow they can look at me and see every bad thing I've ever done; at least the ones printed on my face, the rest are tattooed elsewhere, like on my ass, or in my lungs, and they know.
(I'm sorry, did I not mention I was completely insane today? My bad - yeah, uh, heads up, the girl is kind of batshit today, m'kay?)
I tell myself it's all going to be fine, even if it isn't fine. Bea tells me the same thing, when I'm on the phone with her, telling her how my stomach did a perfect split in it's routine the other day.
Bea: It's going to be fine, stop worrying.
Me: I know it's going to be fine, you don't have to reassure me that it's going to be fine. You don't have to say anything, you know.
Bea: Jesus! So, what am I supposed to say? Nothing? Just let the silence hang and fester?
Me: Yeah, something like that. Or tell me a joke - something!
She's so patient with my batsa crap, but then it is a two-way street, isn't it Bea?
Isn't it?
Bea?
(Damn, I forgot she was on hiatus from the blogosphere. I'm just in here, talking to myself. Neat. Does this post make my ass look nuts? And please, don't be honest!)
As my appointment with a real doctor gets closer (as opposed to the Doc-In-The-Box variety, which could well have been imaginary - I was hanging with both the Care and the Swear Bears that day, remember?) I find my stomach unexpectedly performing gymnastics routine, in spite of the fact that the Olympics were last winter. Dude!
I'm always afraid of going to the doctor's office. I'm paranoid that somehow they can look at me and see every bad thing I've ever done; at least the ones printed on my face, the rest are tattooed elsewhere, like on my ass, or in my lungs, and they know.
(I'm sorry, did I not mention I was completely insane today? My bad - yeah, uh, heads up, the girl is kind of batshit today, m'kay?)
I tell myself it's all going to be fine, even if it isn't fine. Bea tells me the same thing, when I'm on the phone with her, telling her how my stomach did a perfect split in it's routine the other day.
Bea: It's going to be fine, stop worrying.
Me: I know it's going to be fine, you don't have to reassure me that it's going to be fine. You don't have to say anything, you know.
Bea: Jesus! So, what am I supposed to say? Nothing? Just let the silence hang and fester?
Me: Yeah, something like that. Or tell me a joke - something!
She's so patient with my batsa crap, but then it is a two-way street, isn't it Bea?
Isn't it?
Bea?
(Damn, I forgot she was on hiatus from the blogosphere. I'm just in here, talking to myself. Neat. Does this post make my ass look nuts? And please, don't be honest!)
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Delicious Fishes
There are moments when I catch a wisp of wistfulness for a life less ordinary.
Don't get me wrong - I love my life. It's a full and happy life, when I consider and add up the sum of the parts, and divide that by the possibilities. Sure, we could have more money and things, but would they really make us any happier than we are right now? I don't believe it. I have the now-rare luxury of not only being at home with my children, but also having the time to pursue writing, painting, an obsession for historical research, as well as the surprising joy of working as a volunteer tutor. I am rich indeed, in things more vital than spending money and shiny cars.
But sometimes, when the bustle of the boys is off at school and work, and I'm here in the rippling pool of silence, glimmers of dreams from the bottom of my mind resurface. Old half-forgotten fantasies swim up and catch themselves upon a fishing line I didn't even realize I'd cast out. Reeling in these catches I see them for the sodden boot, or old tire they are, and throw them back with a rueful laugh at what swims in the depths of my mind. But looking deep into the pool I see, swimming at the bottom, an elusive silvery school of fish who glint and shimmer with delicious potential, and I'm suddenly, ravenously, hungry.
And yet, I have said I am happy, content, so why search and crave for something more that perhaps would ruin my desire for what already is? The answer lies deep within me, perhaps even within all of us: an innate dis-satisfaction with wholesome fare, a desire for piquancy to flavor our perceptions, even at the risk of upsetting our philosophical stomachs, and retching forth that which sustains us.
We are all so much more than we appear on the surface, the shoulda coulda wouldas layered like so many coats of lacquer; each a separate chapter, regret, or dream of our lives, our selves. They combine to create an outer shell that gives no hint to the diverse layers it's actually made up of. Here, on this page, I am the same as I would seem to you in person. I have no patience for subterfuge, to be other than I am. But I confess: I have a secret longing for the sweet meat of those dream fish, spread upon the cracker-like layers of my inner selves.
Don't get me wrong - I love my life. It's a full and happy life, when I consider and add up the sum of the parts, and divide that by the possibilities. Sure, we could have more money and things, but would they really make us any happier than we are right now? I don't believe it. I have the now-rare luxury of not only being at home with my children, but also having the time to pursue writing, painting, an obsession for historical research, as well as the surprising joy of working as a volunteer tutor. I am rich indeed, in things more vital than spending money and shiny cars.
But sometimes, when the bustle of the boys is off at school and work, and I'm here in the rippling pool of silence, glimmers of dreams from the bottom of my mind resurface. Old half-forgotten fantasies swim up and catch themselves upon a fishing line I didn't even realize I'd cast out. Reeling in these catches I see them for the sodden boot, or old tire they are, and throw them back with a rueful laugh at what swims in the depths of my mind. But looking deep into the pool I see, swimming at the bottom, an elusive silvery school of fish who glint and shimmer with delicious potential, and I'm suddenly, ravenously, hungry.
And yet, I have said I am happy, content, so why search and crave for something more that perhaps would ruin my desire for what already is? The answer lies deep within me, perhaps even within all of us: an innate dis-satisfaction with wholesome fare, a desire for piquancy to flavor our perceptions, even at the risk of upsetting our philosophical stomachs, and retching forth that which sustains us.
We are all so much more than we appear on the surface, the shoulda coulda wouldas layered like so many coats of lacquer; each a separate chapter, regret, or dream of our lives, our selves. They combine to create an outer shell that gives no hint to the diverse layers it's actually made up of. Here, on this page, I am the same as I would seem to you in person. I have no patience for subterfuge, to be other than I am. But I confess: I have a secret longing for the sweet meat of those dream fish, spread upon the cracker-like layers of my inner selves.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Milk Carton Metaphor
January is my traditional, seasonal time of darkness, and true to form, I'm standing at the edge of the abyss. I have no good reason to be standing here, there's no string of recent tragedies spurring me towards the hurtle down the rabbit-hole, yet here I stand, looking down, thinking of jumping.
This is the part of me that is perpetually the Gothic teen, garbed in mourning, obsessing over death. She's been grounded for years, and rarely is allowed out of her room, but sometimes she sneaks out the window to smoke a cigarette with her bad influence friends, showing up at my door in the early morning light. Like any parent, I'm pissed at her disobedience, but I'm also pissed at myself, for my inability to control her.
Before the Mom Years it was easier to deal with her, give her room to vent, but now I keep her under wraps, fearing her influence over my children. The few occasions she showed up to babysit for me always ended with the kids emulating her extreme behavior, and god knows we don't need another child in this house of mostly men. So I've kept her shut up in her room, sulking, refusing food, and playing Evanescence at top volume, but today, she has escaped.
Have you seen this teen?
This is the part of me that is perpetually the Gothic teen, garbed in mourning, obsessing over death. She's been grounded for years, and rarely is allowed out of her room, but sometimes she sneaks out the window to smoke a cigarette with her bad influence friends, showing up at my door in the early morning light. Like any parent, I'm pissed at her disobedience, but I'm also pissed at myself, for my inability to control her.
Before the Mom Years it was easier to deal with her, give her room to vent, but now I keep her under wraps, fearing her influence over my children. The few occasions she showed up to babysit for me always ended with the kids emulating her extreme behavior, and god knows we don't need another child in this house of mostly men. So I've kept her shut up in her room, sulking, refusing food, and playing Evanescence at top volume, but today, she has escaped.
Have you seen this teen?
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Where Have I Been?
I am not sick, I am not in crisis; I am in the middle of a life, that includes at least three other people in it, and right now, they have to come first.
When I started this blog thing, a little over a year ago, I didn't know whether I would like it, stick with it, etc. It's been a learning experience, to say the least! I've found that I cycle through assorted emotions about blogging. Some days I could sit down and write two or three posts, other days I just want to walk away, and through it all I still have another job. I am a mom. A full-time, stay at home mom, and I take it seriously. There is no dropping the kids off at day care, or picking up take-out for dinner in my job. I make just about every meal we eat from scratch; I bake every cookie my family eats; I make and pack every lunch my kids eat; I check every page of homework, and help troubleshoot projects that are looming. I run our lives and it's my job to make sure everything goes smoothly.
So right now, I'm not here in the blogosphere, because I'm at work. This upcoming weekend we will be kicking off the holidays with a whirlwind trip to Richmond, to celebrate the 100th birthday of my husband's grandmother. She didn't make it to her 100th birthday - she died a week and a half ago - but her family stills wants to remember her and celebrate her life.
The very next day, we have to be back in Raleigh for my parents 50th anniversary. It is an occasion that has many gradations of emotion to it, and not all of them are happy emotions, but some of them are, and we will be there with our happy faces on.
The day after that, I'm throwing my annual Solstice party, which has become a family tradition over the years, and is usually quite jolly. This one promises to be the biggest Solstice party ever, due to the large number of out-of-town guests coming for the 50th bash. I'm a little frazzled - I've never hosted a sit-down dinner for 40 before - but so far (knock on wood) everything is getting done on schedule.
I have been cleaning, baking, wrapping, shopping, planning, for a month, on top of my usual job requirements. We lost a precious weekend of getting ready because we had to attend the funeral for my husband's grandmother, and I've had the dubious responsibility of assembling a pictoral slide show for the 50th bash as well.
So you see, as much as I love this blog, and all my blog-buds, I've had to put it all on the back burner for the time being. I'm wrestling with whether or not I want to continue as well - one cannot deny that blogging requires a fair chunk of time to do it well, and I have to decide whether or not it's worth spending the time on, and how to do that without shirking my real job. No doubt, I will be back, but how often remains to be seen.
When I started this blog thing, a little over a year ago, I didn't know whether I would like it, stick with it, etc. It's been a learning experience, to say the least! I've found that I cycle through assorted emotions about blogging. Some days I could sit down and write two or three posts, other days I just want to walk away, and through it all I still have another job. I am a mom. A full-time, stay at home mom, and I take it seriously. There is no dropping the kids off at day care, or picking up take-out for dinner in my job. I make just about every meal we eat from scratch; I bake every cookie my family eats; I make and pack every lunch my kids eat; I check every page of homework, and help troubleshoot projects that are looming. I run our lives and it's my job to make sure everything goes smoothly.
So right now, I'm not here in the blogosphere, because I'm at work. This upcoming weekend we will be kicking off the holidays with a whirlwind trip to Richmond, to celebrate the 100th birthday of my husband's grandmother. She didn't make it to her 100th birthday - she died a week and a half ago - but her family stills wants to remember her and celebrate her life.
The very next day, we have to be back in Raleigh for my parents 50th anniversary. It is an occasion that has many gradations of emotion to it, and not all of them are happy emotions, but some of them are, and we will be there with our happy faces on.
The day after that, I'm throwing my annual Solstice party, which has become a family tradition over the years, and is usually quite jolly. This one promises to be the biggest Solstice party ever, due to the large number of out-of-town guests coming for the 50th bash. I'm a little frazzled - I've never hosted a sit-down dinner for 40 before - but so far (knock on wood) everything is getting done on schedule.
I have been cleaning, baking, wrapping, shopping, planning, for a month, on top of my usual job requirements. We lost a precious weekend of getting ready because we had to attend the funeral for my husband's grandmother, and I've had the dubious responsibility of assembling a pictoral slide show for the 50th bash as well.
So you see, as much as I love this blog, and all my blog-buds, I've had to put it all on the back burner for the time being. I'm wrestling with whether or not I want to continue as well - one cannot deny that blogging requires a fair chunk of time to do it well, and I have to decide whether or not it's worth spending the time on, and how to do that without shirking my real job. No doubt, I will be back, but how often remains to be seen.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Busy, Busy, Busy
It's like gasoline on a flame-
I'm doing a week-long lecture on North Carolina pottery and the origins of the face jug, starting later today. Oh, and I'm giving my lecture to 4th graders who will be making their own face jug in the coming weeks. I'm just sick enough to be excited about it too.
I'll be in later this week and catch up with everyone on my blogroll. Hope everybody had a great weekend!
I'm doing a week-long lecture on North Carolina pottery and the origins of the face jug, starting later today. Oh, and I'm giving my lecture to 4th graders who will be making their own face jug in the coming weeks. I'm just sick enough to be excited about it too.
I'll be in later this week and catch up with everyone on my blogroll. Hope everybody had a great weekend!
A few of my babies (the pottery, not the books)Addendum: I guess I should have clarified - I'm giving a lecture on NC pottery and using pieces of my collection (and Bea's) to illustrate. I did not make these - I wish I did, but who has the space or money to build a groundhog kiln, much less burn one? Nope, they're just a part of my collection!
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