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Joe (my son) informed me yesterday that the story about a movie (I can never remember the title, Aphia and Jen know) having scenes cut from it because Colin Farrell's massive, fully revealed penis was so big that members of the test audience were "disturbed" was a hoax.
>:<
Why do people have to pique my interest only to dash it down yet again?
So I guess it's back to Milton Berle now. Supposedly, according to The Wiseguys on Sirius radio, the biggest dicks in show business still belong to Milton Berle (Uncle Milty was packin, it seems),
Forrest Tucker (youngsters may not know this F-Troop and major western star)
and Walter Pidgeon.
It's not like I think the size of Colin Farrell's dick will ever impact me in any way. It isn't as though he's playing Cinderella, looking for the perfect sized cooter to sheath that mighty sword and I'm the best fit. He's not going to google himself (sounding remotely dirty), find what I've written for him and suddenly get a hankering for a middle aged mountain-dwelling diva.
There is something that happens with the knowledge that a guy has a big cock. Whether you will ever use it or not, just that information changes the way you look at them. Intrinsically, their value goes up. It would be nice and neat if we could go with the urban legend/old wives tale that size doesn't matter. Sadly, having had sufficient experience (i'm telling you, children I birthed should stop reading right here if you ignored my previous warning) to give a qualified, evaluative and definitive opinion, I can say that size definitely, absolutely matters. The idea that "it's not the size, it's what you do with it" is definitely a myth made popular by men with small cocks. Doing other things is definitely a bonus, but girth and length make up for a multitude of sins of lacking.
Foreskin is a real plus too. It's a very underrated toy. I was a strong advocate for not circumcizing long before I ever reaped any personal benefits, but having being with someone who was not circumcized, I have to say, that little bit of skin is definitely there for a reason. It just comes alive in there. Hell-llooooooo.
In my younger, more adventurous and curious days, I, like so many other young women, toyed with the idea of lesbianism. Sex is fun... nearly all kinds of sex is fun (so sorry, my butt is an exit)and why not play with people who want to play. Although I never actually got into same-sex experimentation, through lack of opportunity more than lack of interest, I knew that I was far too hetero to ever make it a lifestyle. There's some sense of completion that comes with joining with a man, tab A to slot B. If that isn't there, it's like having salad for dinner with no main course. If I ever experimented with a woman (which I do not foresee at all), there'd have to be a guy in there as well. Cocks = good and damned near essential.
Since I was an older teen, sex has always been a major part of my interest and personality. I went through a period of time of using it to fulfill other emotional deficits, but overall, I just really, really like sex. It's not about getting the attention and love my daddy didn't give me. It's not about sex being a compulsive act to fill the emptiness inside, metaphorically and literally speaking, it's more that sex is FUN. Sex is GREAT. Great sex is even greater!
My Diva-hood brought up huge hormonal changes and whereas I had pretty much deadened myself to sex for years and years, my interest came back with full force when I turned forty. It was like I went to sleep a virtual nun and woke up terminally horny. I look at men and see them as delicious now, whereas before, they were just guys. Now they are this amazing male lifeforce. I have incredible appreciation for them as the the primal male energy force. I adore them. It's as though some switch was thrown in me that appreciates the alpha male on a purely instinctual, ancient level. It's lovely, really.
I am in a wonderfully monogamous relationship, so my appreciation of those alpha males does not venture outside of my marriage. Sometimes, I miss the days (and nights) of being promiscuous and "extremely sexually advantaged." It would be great to explore these intense (raging), Diva Hormone feelings to their fullest, but between conflicting schedules, conflicting libidos, conflicting moods, it just doesn't usually work out. No wonder older women tend to seek out younger men. Those sexual peaks should definitely be coordinated. And younger men just have so... much.... energy.
Sex is my main motivator in weight loss, toning and endurance raising. It has been a powerful ally lately. That way, when it does happen, I'll be ready. (insert whip sound here) Next Beltane should be outstanding.
-- K
PS: I still think that Colin Farrel is loaded.Current Mood:  contemplating the cock issue |
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Dec. 4th, 2004 @ 08:47 pm
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Low energy, low... everything.
I can't pinpoint what is wrong. Yesterday was out of sorts, but today is more into full on depression. no idea completely what it is about. I've been all around the usual subjects and sure, they sting, but there's no resounding pain when I touch them. They're in the yadda yadda yadda category.
I do need sleep. I need nurturing. I need fun. I need intelligent, loving company. I need money (lots of money). I need peace. I need my joy back. I need good food that someone else cooked. I need a nanny who is loving and fun. I need Merry Maids. I need a massage. I need awesome, mind rocking sex. I need to be courted. I need a mentor. I need "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" to be brought back to TV with new episodes. I need "Dead Like Me" and "The Sopranos" to get into their new seaons early, just for me. I need good, fun pinocle players. I need some nice new cats. I need Christmas to already be bought, wrapped and cleverly hidden away until the moment it's needed. I need a good cry. I need a shift in... something.
I have so much to be joyful about and grateful for. None of that ever, ever escapes my awareness. I just get weary sometimes. I want to be wise and holy and sacred and alluring and mysterious and it just ain't happening lately.
Gotta get my act together somehow.
Where are my damned candles?Current Mood:  depressed |
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I hate when I have something like 400 people on my buddy list and there's still no one to talk to. Kids home today; Eric gone. Tired of the kids' voices already (sad, huh?). Needing adult time. None coming until weekend unless something happens tomorrow.
Most days, I love the stay at home mom gig and I wouldn't trade it for anything, but wow, some days, I just miss getting together with friends and having some fun. I miss adult interaction, but it comes part and parcel with the life I live and living it on a remote mountain top. Fortunately, it doesn't hit too often. Today just happens to be one of the days.
Ah!
Time for Chicago Hope. I think I'll go hide in my room for a while and watch TV.
Thank God for no babies. My kids are very self-sufficient most of the time and I'm so grateful for that. It's good to have really great kids, especially on days like this.
Going into my cave now...Current Mood:  Blah-ish Current Music: some shit from sister act |
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At long last, Katrina Uncensored. I think it is boredom that is motivating me. Not just this morning, at 6am when I am awake like every other morning, still dark, the mischief afoot and feeling verbose.
I do have another journal in which I write on quite a prolific basis, at least 3-4 times a week. I find it to be quite purging and cathartic, getting my deep thoughts out there when I'm high on this mountain top with no one to talk over 12-years-old.
It's my sweet journal, where I write the good stuff and it's real. I asked someone last night if she thought I misrepresented myself in that journal or if it aptly reflected who I really am. She felt it was absolutely me (bwahahaha, my ruse is a success!) and honestly, it is. It's not all that I am, but it is a good bit of who I am.
This journal, with no pretty websets or falling rain or joyful missives will be the other side, the shadow side.
If anyone is linking to this and doesn't want to see that side (as in, I gave birth to you), fair warning. I don't MIND if you stick around, but know that I plan to write completely without censoring myself. In my other journal, I try to be mindful of the fact that little old ladies and those of a sensitive nature might be reading it. Here, my plan is to not much give a fuck about that. This will be the missing piece of the pie that I am sure you all knew was there.
The gamble aspect of LiveJournal is a rush. You never know who will find it, who will read it and who will know intimate things about you based on what you've written. God knows Eric (the husband) will never read it. He never reads anything I write unless he gets a vibe that I've written something about him. Now that Eye on Soaps (www.eyeonsoaps.com) has a search function, it's easy for him to get to ANYthing I've written about him. There's seldom if ever anything I'd write bad about him. He's an incredibly awesome husband and I'm the luckiest woman on earth to have him.
Having had the other journal for what, easily 4 years now, I've gotten used to complete strangers knowing more about me than my mother did (when she was alive). Now, it doesn't even phase me when a person I never heard of writes to tell me that they feel like they've known me my whole life. Since I tend to vomit out nearly my every thought, why wouldn't they? I think most people who meet me having read my journal for a while first aren't particularly surprised. Pretty much what you see/read is what you get.
Regardless, I'm grateful for another, more open and uncensored outlet for my writing.
I was talking about Tara's Tit, however.
First, my level of hell. Dante did right by me and I am perfectly comfy with my level of hell and how I related to the other levels of hell. Pretty much nailed me dead on (see previous entry).
Tara's Tit. Is she not glowing in that picture? Getting past the horrid scarring around this woman's areola from implants, the burning question (and I'm sure her tit has been splashed over a few thousand LiveJournals already) is how does one have their tit exposed for A WHILE and not realize it? Talk about your wardrobe malfunction. I tend to be fairly aware of what my skin is doing and when it hits air, it commands a bit of attention. Evidently, according to son, Joe, it was on the loose for a while before some kindly soul offered to help her "adjust her dress."
My tit comes out and I'm on it right away.
Tara, evidently, let hers escape without notice.
Silly fuckin blondes.
I have been friended, LJ-speakingly, by chaplain_bareus, a very cool name, I must point out. I know who it is, just didn't know he had a journal and I'm glad to see it there. I'm curious to see what will come out of that one. Makes me think of a chaplain at a base where we used to be stationed. I was Pagan and went to church just to look at him.
His name wasn't Bareus though.
"The Thornbirds" was on this weekend and I scoffed, "What a bunch of girlly shit." I watched it a couple of times (yes, the whole mini series, SHUT UP!) years and years ago. This time, I only caught one episode and I was marveling at A) What a fine actress Barbara Stanwick is (I never gave her her due before) and B) What a horribly directed and produced movie "The Thornbirds" really is. I watched it anyway and within about 20 minutes I was up to my eyes in a freaky insane priest/Richard Chamberlain fetish once again. Shit. Like I need one more thing to think about. Since I hit 40, the sex tapes roll in my head nonstop ANYway, thanks to the raging hormones. Sexual peak has arrived. Pity I have less sex now than at any other time in my life (excepting the year of celibacy after my last divorce). I'm grateful for the other wonderful things in my life, but damn.
"The Thornbirds." Yes indeedy.
Here is the screenplay as I heard it:
"Father Ralph" blah blah blah blah "Father Ralph" blah blah blah blah blah "Oooh, Father Ralph!" blah blah blah
I can tell I'm getting old because no way would I live in Australia's shitty dustbowl to fuck Father Ralph.
I want great sex, but I shan't be inconvenienced to have great sex.Current Mood: Fer Sure |
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The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Second Level of Hell!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:
Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test
Nov. 11th, 2004 @ 06:01 am
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I'm trying something different. It's old different since I used this format before and I acknowledge that there are some things about it that suck (long load time to open and sometimes the thing won't open at all), but right now, I'm trying to A) Feel some change, somewhere in my life and B) Find an easier way to write in my journal since the usual way involves opening about three different programs and copying here and posting there and uploading here and checking there and I hope that with this, which just lets me write and click a button to post that I'll have more journal entries. Like I've said before, I write entries in my head to you guys all day long, but most of the time, they never get around to hitting the air.
Although I've had some funny little things happen to me this week that I want to share, mainly, this entry will probably be a great deal of bitching since I'm in a pretty dark place right now and I'm trying to find handholds and footholds out of it. One of the best ways for me to figure stuff out is to write it out or talk it out and since talking it out isn't really an option due to limited venue, writing it out is about all that's left, so just bear with me or skip over the bitching parts. I said before I was tired of whining, so I have reverted to bitching.
The kid news has been up and down this week. Nathan started peeing in the toilet, which is a really big deal. The pooping still isn't working, but he stays dry at night without a diaper and goes on his own most of the time through the day. An effortless potty-training was a miracle I did not expect. I figured my last child would punish me...which he does, just not in that department. I can sum up his week by telling you one event that pretty much typifies everything else. Don't get me wrong. He's a very, very sweet little boy and I adore him, but my goodness! He is definite creative in his "busy" nature. I wanted to clean my room. Nothing big, just make the bed, vacuum, wipe down the bathroom. Delena and the two boys were on the boys' bed (I am praying hard for a set of bunk beds to come my way because they are getting too big to sleep end to end in the twin as they do) watching TV, so I told Delena that I had the child gate up to the rest of the house and needed her to let me know if Nathan broke through it so I could keep him out of trouble if need be. About 10 minutes later, I came through to get some Pledge to kiss the dresser with, passed Delena still on the bed sucking her thumb and watching Nick Jr and found Nathan through the gate, standing on a chair in the dining room over the turtle tank (semi-aquatic) with an empty bottle of chili powder in one hand and an empty bottle of rubbing alcohol in the other. Needless to say, I did not have happy turtles.
My turtles are rescue beasts. I bought one at a yard sale for $5 because they had him in a tiny tank (we're talking about 6" x 10" - one of those plastic jobs) with no water. He was pretty big already, maybe about 5" across the shell. At the next yard sale, I found a gigantic aquarium for $20, so I bought it for him and set him up. I named him God because of some story by Descartes or Dante or Terry Pratchett or someone who speculated that the God was a turtle. I toyed with "Clothahump" after the turtle wizard in the only fantasy series I have ever enjoyed, "Spellsinger" by Alan Dean Foster. Deciding that Clothahump was too cumbersome, God it was. A few months later, a co-worker called me up, knowing I had God (I had a lot of fun telling people who knew I was Pagan that I'd found God, but that's another story), told me she had found a big turtle in her yard and that her husband was going to kill it if she didn't find a place for it. (nice guy) So she brought turtle #2 over in a Fed Ex box and I introduced them. Being a Star Trek NG fan, I stayed with the whole omniscient turtle them and called him Q. Q didn't respond well to having his access to the world limited and began storming back and forth over the tank, trampling the docile God in his wake, so I had to put Q in turtle jail (the small take God had been born in, evidently) until he chilled the hell out. I did, of course, verify that Q was a semi-aquatic turtle as well, so I knew his storming was a tantrum rather than the more ominous "drowning." He stayed in turtle jail for about 2 days, then was opened into the wide expanse of the big tank and the presence of God. He was much more cooperative by this time and in a matter of months, God had made Q his bitch (they are both males, I believe, so it's best not discussed further). They have been buddies ever since. I would have given the turtles to a school or other notable facility some time ago except that Joe made me promise to take care of them for when he returns to the states, so here they stay and I do my best to take care of them. When Nathan was 9 months old, he was pulling up on a dining room chair, it lost footing and smashed into the big turtle tank, wrecking it. That had to go into a little 10 gallon aquarium, where they have been for about a year and a half. They had room to move around and visit and such, but it was a bit cramped once you got the giant rock in there that they need to climb up onto to get dry (hence the "semi" part of semi-aquatic). My friend, Shelli, wuvs my turtles (despite me illustrating what vile, horrible creatures they are as pets with the stankiness of turtle poop in the water and having to change the water once a week) and if Joe were not so into them, they'd live with Shelli in nothing flat. So on Saturday night when we celebrated Full Moon, Shelli came in with his big honkin aquarium for the turtles!! I think it was their reward for surviving the chili powder and rubbing alcohol dowsing. Fortunately, I caught Nathan just after the act, swiped the turtles out of the horribly acerbic water, showered them extensively in the sink and scrubbed out the tank. I didn't see any evidence of harm to them (plenty of fear, tho) and they seem to have weathered it. They were quite active for a day or so afterwards, though. I have learned from this that turtles are capable of expressing fear AND happiness. When I got them into the big tank, they both thought they were Busby Berkeley swimmers.
The other weird thing that happened is that I went to the post office on Saturday and was positioned in line behind a very angry old German man. He was very tall, had only a few teeth, not a lot of wrinkles, so I would not have guessed his age accurately (he told me about 4 times that he was 64) and beautiful blonde hair. He persisted in bitching about everything from the cost of postage going up again (I asserted that I still felt 37 cents was a bargain for schlepping my letter across the country and he was not pleased that I disagreed with his wrath) to the post office daring to only be opened for 4 hours on Saturday and have only 2 clerks working. He ranted in a combination of heavily accented German and English, mostly at me for having the advantage of being right behind him. His breath was about 90 proof (this was around noon and no one can smell like that by taking a shot or two in the car on the way into the post office, so I'm guessing we not only had a drinking/driving/anger-management issue, but also a morning drinking (or continued drinking) binge going on. Maybe he walked. He then started to cry a lot about leaving Germany when he was 9 in 1943 (and since his math isn't adding up, something there is suspect and 1943 would indicate FLEEING Germany rather than just leaving it, I'm betting) with his mother and father who, I have been told, are now 90 and 88 and live in a home (more tears) and he remembered crossing the bridge into Zurich (Germany was referred to as Deutschland and I was grateful to have somehow acquired a knowledge of what that was) and he was sad that he would never see his beloved Deutschland again. Then it was time for him to mail his stuff and he was on his way.
Another really disheartening thing happened this morning and I'm going to do something I've almost never done and take advantage of someone not having a computer or computer access to rant about them. A friend of mine that I have known for many, many years and only recently (well, a year or so ago) reconnected with after losing touch for a while and I were talking by phone this morning and she mentioned that she was starting to explore her bi-sexuality. I was intrigued because it was about the fourth conversation in a week's time that concerned bi-sexuality or lesbianism and I told her so. As the conversation went on, she asked me if I felt I was bi-sexual and I told her no, that while I could recognize a woman as nice looking and had opinions about what a beautiful woman looked like, I had never been particularly attracted to a woman and figured I was 100% heterosexual. She went off on this tangent about how I, like all people who considered themselves to be heterosexual, was just in denial and working to suppress my natural bi-sexuality. I pulled back for a second because I am very aware that I'm in a really hormonal state right now and I'm overreacting to a LOT of stuff, so I didn't want to take wrong what she was saying. I calmly told her that I had thought about this quite a bit and had no inclination to suppress any particular sexual urgings, but mine all ran directly toward the male of the species. She kind of "harumphed" and said that it was "classic denial." I assured her it was classic heterosexuality and that I found it insulting that she would presume to know more about my sexuality than I do. I also suggested to Ms Politically Correct that it would be the height of insensitivity to insist to a totally gay man that he was secretly suppressing his desire to be with women, but for her to tell me that I am only heterosexually expressing myself because I'm afraid to be bi-sexual (her actual words) was OK. I did my best to be kind and to understand that she's probably feeling a little defensive of her new frontier, but I really found myself getting a little pissed off about this. When she heard this in my voice, she immediately suggested that I was getting upset because she was hitting a little too close to the truth for my comfort. (??!!)
For whatever reason, I am serious inviting conflict and freaky interpersonal challenges lately. Like the good student of life, I'm trying to figure out the lesson behind it all, but I'm stymied, I'll confess.
I have got to figure out whether to fight or flight on the issue of expectations of others. I have long ago leaped the stumbling stone of needing people to fulfill unspoken expectation. What an exercise in futility and frustration THAT is. I try to be very direct with people now about what I expect from them and overall, not to expect much from them unless I have directly asked something of them and they have agreed to do it or if they offer it. For some reason, I've felt absolutely bombarded by instances of people telling me they will do something and not following through. [Disclaimer: The last time I posted about not following through, a lot of my friends and readers got super paranoid that I was remembering something they mentioned in an obscure e-mail and hastily wrote to apologize for whatever they forgot to do. I'll guarantee that if you are reading this, you probably aren't who I'm talking about since most of the offenders don't really give enough of a shit to read anything I write. It ain't you.]
Example: Yesterday, I had made plans to go out to lunch with my buddy, Georgia. We do so about once every two weeks and always have a good time. Since I'm stranded here at the house with kids the whole week (Eric takes our car when he leaves for work for the week and doesn't get home until Friday), I particular enjoy getting out and breathing nonkid air with a good friend, good food and good conversation. We're usually only gone for about an hour or two, but it really cleans my brain out and puts me in a good place. I was looking forward to this for about a week and made arrangements with Josh to baby sit. I even paid him up front for it so he could buy some things he wanted and reminded him of it on Sunday. Since he always, always goes to bed at the crack of dawn, I didn't bother waking him to watch the kids until about 15 minutes before Georgia was due to arrive. When I went to get him...no Josh. In fact, no Josh anywhere in the house. He hadn't told anyone he was leaving, which he usually does, so I was a little alarmed. I called his girlfriend, who lives about 20 minutes from here and left a message. Sure enough, he called back about 10 minutes later and said he'd gone to her house the night before so he could visit her. (?!) When I asked him about the babysitting, he said he "forgot." He wasn't particularly apologetic, even when he apologized, but was actually kind of pissy that I could blame him for something totally not his fault like "forgetting." *slow burn*
Eric smokes. That is a fact. It was a fact when we met, although more of a pack a day fact than a 2-3 a day fact like it is now. Personally, I'd prefer he didn't smoke, primarily because I am a prior smoker (is there anything more pious?), I don't like the smell and I don't like the example it sets for the kids. I also don't like the physical effects it has on him. All that aside, I'm at peace with him smoking because he did so when I met him and I didn't really set out to change him. I'm definitely over it. What I'm NOT over is a few of the side effects. One is that he is desperately angst-ridden about smoking. He very, very much doesn't want to do it, beats himself up about it and repeated fails at quitting. I've never seen a human self-flagellate over something to such a degree. I really, really feel badly about him beating himself up so badly about it. What hits me wrong is that the only thing I've ever asked him in regard to the smoking was 1) Don't do it around the kids or let the kids know and 2) Don't leave butts around. I KEEP finding cigarette butts in my herb garden right by where he smokes. His brand? Yep. I do have it on authority that it's NOT him, so it must be those pesky CIGARETTE GREMLINS WHO LEAVE BUTTS ALL AROUND.
Ha! I've already run out of steam. There are so many more injustices to bitch about, but I'm just...tired. I need... Wow. I can think of about 50 or so endings to that sentence beginning. I'll shake this off and figure it out. Right now, I'm just tired.
Apr. 2nd, 2002 @ 12:42 pm
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If you have linked directly to my NonSoapy Journal, I have moved it. You can reach it by going to www.eyeonsoaps.com/nonsoapy.htm.
See you there!
Katrina
Aug. 25th, 2001 @ 10:37 am
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Grrrr. If it's the hormones, I can accept it, but I'm in a wicked bad mood today and a lot of things on the soaps hit me wrong. First, I had that commercial ringing in my head about how "they can fluctuate as early as your 30's" and "it might not be the kids wearing you out." It feels like everything is mocking me. Even now, when I lean back in my (resin garden cheap) desk chair and gaze at the light above me, I see the bulb wattage: 40 = A constant reminder that I will be 40 this year. Choices: replace it with a 25 watt bulb and go blind, replace it with a 60 and get even more depressed, go within and master the knowledge that a stupid lightbulb is NOT the sum of my value, nor are the 40 years that I have attached some kind of arbitrary cut off to for my successes. My birthday is just another day and I NEVER thought I'd be small enough to become depressed over something as petty as a number on the calendar.
As a result, I've been thinking a lot about death. My father died, flat out, cardiac arrest, exploding ventricle, at 51?11 years older than me, having accomplished little more than pissing off my mother for many years. I know I'm going to live into my 90's but still, that means I'm almost half way over AND my younger days (because I'm not officially middle aged and might as well get my colostomy belt, flowered dress and old woman shoes) are long slipped past. My youngest older child is leaving home, I think, anyway. Since January, I've been hearing that he's going to be gone in 2-3 weeks. Every time we get a time, it's 2-3 weeks. He's gone through all of the nonaquatic branches of the military and is now back with the Army, waiting for his package to be kissed by several chains of commands. How long will that take? (Sing it, children) 2-3 weeks. I cried when I knew he was leaving in January. My little boy, going out into the world. He doesn't have a drivers' license. He took the written test once and failed it and refused to go back again. He's never had a job. He's 19, if you're wondering. He's a good kid who had a bad 2-3 year stretch with drugs, alcohol and policemen and his having to pay for it four years later. Meanwhile, I've been in permanent, brace-yourself-he's-leaving-in-2-3-weeks grief mode for 8 months now. I can't get over letting him go because he won't go.
I had a weirdness when the older two left in the same month, Joe and David. Joe is now living in Canada with his wonderful wife, Sandra. I only get to see them maybe once a year, but we talk daily. David lives here in town and works at Radio Shack. I'm comfortable with them being on their own, but I miss Joe terribly. We are very alike in sense of humor and interests and I miss my friend. When they left, I had this funky time where my head figured my children were leaving the nest and started the croning process of turning inwards, being selfish and starting my own life, just like I always wanted to do when I croned. Unfortunately, due to my generational children, I still had children who were 6, 2 and newborn. Yikes! I had to force myself to focus back into mother mode and it was a wacky kind of postpartum depression where your body has to do what your head isn't getting. I felt like I was living two lives. Now, I can still feel myself often catching the phrase, "I'm just too old for this" running through my head when the boys are being challenging, which is most days. Dylan is a VERY well behaved child, but he's enthralled with all the things that Nathan can think of to do to feed his tactile and cause and effect needs, so he joins in. Dylan is 4 and Nathan is 2 in three weeks. They are a tag team that can't be beaten, especially by an old woman like myself. Nathan is really smart and really determined and Dyl just likes to have fun. Delena (8) is still consumed with the angst only female of that age can feel, couple with extreme laziness inherited from my side of the family and extreme willfulness inherited from the family of her sperm donor.
Poor Eric doesn't know what to do. He questions (privately, of course) why our kids are so "bad." He doesn't understand why raising children should have to be so hard. I don't think many 24-year-olds DO understand why raising children or LIFE should be so hard. It just is. I've gotten him the books, "Parenting Isn't for Sissies" and such. I don't think he read any at all. We don't have any friends, so he has no basis of comparison since he avoided kids at all cost before we married and he and his twin brother were the youngest in the family. My old woman frustrations and his young man frustrations do not a happy parenting team make sometimes. J
I don't regret my decision to have kids at an older age by any means. If I had known in advance that it would be this challenging, I would have changed nothing, except to have gone into it with a less glamorized view. I would not have planned to have written a great novel by 40 or own my own home or be independently wealthy by then. I would have taken better care of my body and not have gained so much weight. I would have listened more and talked less. I would have given greater consideration of my friends' feelings and less about ego, jealousy and some of the other fairly worthless emotions that are around. I would have spent less time doubting my gut feelings and more time standing up for me and the kids I already had. I would have controlled my temper a lot more. A LOT more. I would have stopped and smelled many, many more roses.
Enough of that. I didn't start this to turn into an Andy Roony post.
This is one of those journal entries that is simply a purge. There's an emptiness inside today that nothing seems to fill. I've had a run of bad luck and I'm feeling it. I've used my deepest resources of patience to try and keep the kids safe from my frustration today. Of course, they feel the disturbance in the force, but I've been able to stay fairly levelheaded with them. It's not their fault that their mom is old and tired and gray like a chewed up piece of gum. They deserve vibrancy, joy, and love and that's what they'll get. I'm here to feed them, not the other way around. As a sidebar, I've got to figure out what I need to fill that empty spot or even what has caused it? Josh leaving? Josh not leaving? Some weird deficiency of self-esteem or some self-love token that should be embraced? Is it a mid-life crisis? Do I have to become a remifeminist to live in this world without madness ensuing? God forbid. Maybe I just need more sleep or exercise than I'm getting. Maybe I need donuts. I'll find my groove and tap my chi and all will be well again. I have faith in that. No worries, friends?just let me vent. Meanwhile, I'm going to see if some rum will fill that empty spot. I hear liquids conform to almost any shape.
Stay coool.
Aug. 20th, 2001 @ 07:29 pm
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| » Personal Challenge #469875-2 |
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Never let it be said that I refuse to even attempt a challenge. When Eric and I were driving away from his Gram's house almost two weeks ago, he commented, "I was really impressed that you didn't swear the whole time you were at Gram's."
Long silence.
"What?" I asked. (wanted to be sure I heard him correctly)
He repeated himself and I was a little stunned.
"Um, did you think I'd swear around your GRANDMOTHER, Eric?"
"Well, you do swear a lot." It's true. I do. And I'm very, very good at it. But I do have some couth and discretion.
"Well, yes, but not when I'm on the phone to my mother or talking to loan officers or in parent-teacher conferences or when I'm making funeral arrangements, what's WRONG with you?"
"It's just that this was for a long time. You were there for a week and you were flawless."
"Well, yeah. Like I said, I have some degree of class."
That was all of that conversation, but it dug at me for a week and then this past Sunday, I tentatively brought it up again. This time, it all came around to how he feels I swear too much and that the kids won't respect me (I very seldom swear around the kids and then only when I'm at the very, frayed, psychotic end of my rope) and that's it's very trailer trashy.
This coming from a man who uses the "F" word more than he uses the word "and." I stilled my natural response to be defensive and comparative and considered what he was saying. I also considered that he was having a serious Madonna-Mother complex issue. I found myself wondering if his mother had breastfed him and decided she most likely had not since he was a twin and it was 1976 when they were born and the world was not boob-friendly back then. I wondered if Thai chicken was really served in Thailand or if they made it up just to sell to the MSG addicts in the West. I tried to think of the name of the guy who was in Swordfish with John Travolta (Hugh Jackman - who I always want to call "Jack Hughman").
A little history on my swearing. I never, ever used to swear. I was a Bible-thumper up until age 16 and swearing was something I never really got around to doing. My first husband was a seasoned and colorful swearer. It was quite a change for me. My father had said the more mild swears, but nothing like the "k's" that Paul had in his vocabulary. Spending time with him, I slowly began to pick it up.
I'll never forget the first time I swore at my mother. It was an unfortunate time, actually and I'm not particularly proud of it. I don't go back to Kentucky much, as my pal CatCat and attest. I last went there in 1995 and prior to that, my most previous social visit had been in 1985. Before that it was in 1982, then in 1981, then in 1979. Those are all of my trips to Kentucky, place o' my birth and raisin', in the time since I left home in 1978. Except for one other time. In 1986, my dad died very unexpectedly. I got a call saying he had been admitted to the hospital for chest pains and was going to have a heart catheterization in a couple of days, then I got a call saying he'd died. He sat up in bed, said, "My chest hurts" and was dead before he hit the pillow when he fell back. Ka-pow, 51-year-old obese white male with wirey gray hair gets an obit and an autopsy.
I'm strange about funerals. I just *don't do them*. I've had husbands in the Air Force for 22 years, right up until last winter, excepting a few straggling, prefer-to-forget, struggling years here and there as a single parent. We were always far from home and poor. Not a good combination for funeral going. I don't appreciate the Western take on mourning and death in any way shape or form. I think it is sadistic to force people, who are in the heat of mourning, to have to stay at a funeral home, ten hours a day for at least two days straight, pressing hands and being civil and accepting sympathies from people who would not have given the deceased a glass of water if he was on fire this time last week. I hate that tons and tons of living flowers have to die to cover the metal box that houses the shell of flesh that someone you love used to drive around. The "viewing" is presumably so people can come by and see you dolled up one last time and DEAD. I have trouble with people seeing me when I'm SICK, much less when I'm DEAD. When I look at a dead person, the person I knew just isn't there. The flesh of the hands that used to cradle my face and carve doll beds for me, that proudly accepted his associates degree in business administration, worked on ANYthing electronic with the care and precision of a master watch maker, goosed my mom and made her grin, woke me up by slapping me across the face, put my hand in the hand of my future husband on our wedding day, held his first grandchild and refused to wear a wedding ring were now cold and hard and immobile. He was?gone. I went to my father's funeral because I didn't want people to talk about me like a dog for the next hundred years and because I knew my mother would be worthless at handling any of the arrangements.
I loved my father, don't get me wrong. It was a weird relationship, but I loved him. He was a tortured man and he was an artist of automobile paint. A Master Technician with General Motors for twenty years and a master at air brushing, auto detailing and body work that you would not believe. His wedding ring was not all he refused to wear. He also refused to wear a mask when he painted and twenty some years of lead based paint accumulating in your lungs will make you crazier than a (wait, I'll be back to talking about the swearing in a minute, so I guess my usual 'feces-domiciled rodent' remark is a little inappropriate right here) hatter. And well he was. Without going into it, a humble, loving, gentle man was quite a bit of hell to live with the last twenty years he was alive. Big lay-offs in the auto industry left him totally jobless at 45. He went to work as a night watchman for Green Coal Company during the strikes in 1976 (right about the time my husband was being born) and started making big money for the first time in his life. I remember his first check was $267 for a week's work. That was a virtual fortune to us. He was laid off from the coal company a year before he died and the week before his unemployment benefits ran out, he died. He was angry. He was bitter. He was scared and that, combined with the lead in his system, didn't do a friendly dance in a man.
The last time I spoke to him, he called as I was heading out the door, late for a coveted gyn appointment that I'd waited months to get. Paps were tough to get in military hospitals for a while there due to a provider shortage. "Gotta go, Dad. I'll talk to you later." I never got that chance. My mother told me that he died because I had literally broken his heart. Thanks, Ma.
I wasn't excited about going to the funeral, to say the least. I wanted to be with my husband during this time, but we couldn't afford my ticket, much less the whole family. We took out a loan from the Red Cross, which, while interest free, was still more than we could ever afford. Mom was destroyed. She'd really, really actively hated my dad for about the past 10 years they'd been together but divorce just isn't done in our family and now she says he'd threatened to kill her and my brothers if she left. I war between knowing that he really was nuts versus the fact that my mom has an enormous capacity for exaggeration and fabrication, so who really knows? To suddenly be free of this man through no effort on her own part was more than she could absorb and she was hysterical with grief and fear and guilt and a lot of other intense emotions. My dad left no will, no insurance and everything, absolutely everything was in his name. What a mess. His parents were still living and no humans should ever have to bury their own child, regardless of their age, so they were sequestered in their own grief. My brothers were teenagers and not able to be of much help, so I had to step in. When I got in from the airport and asked mom what arrangements had been made (he'd been dead for almost 2 days by the time I was able to get there), I got the response I expected. "None." I got my beloved uncle, patriarch of our family, to go to the funeral parlor with me (since this was his town, not mine any more, not to mention that I'd never done anything remotely like this) to guide me. Mom insisted on going. I begged her not to. Pleaded with her to just stay with Aunt Betty and drink some tea and let us handle it. "I married him, I'll damned well barry him." *sigh* So I drove mom to the funeral parlor in her car and Uncle Delmar met us there in his truck. It was a disaster. Mom wanted the most expensive coffin they had. I bagged a decent economy model that I think was in their section of "barely used." On our way back up in the elevator (the coffin store was in a heretofore unseen lower floor of the funeral parlor and I don't want to THINK about what was in the basement), my mom passed out and fell on me, all three hundred plus pounds of her. I weighed all of 125 dripping wet then and felt my bones snap like sticks. The funeral director (who looked like Chuck E. Cheese in a good suit) deftly whipped out some smelling salts on her and she was back in nothing flat (me being the nothing that was flat). We went up to his office to negotiate the details (which reminded me of buying a car and going into the dealer's office to be forced to pay more than you can afford). By using my other uncle's black Lincoln instead of a family limo, taking advantage of my dad's rights to a grave marker from the VA, losing a few hundred flower arrangements, cutting the viewing down to two days instead of three (good lord!) and such things, we were able to take a $4000 funeral and knock it back to about $1300. That got dad a decent lead in and well planted in the ground. Two long hours later, we left Chuck's office ("We'll only need half down now and you have a full ninety days to pay the rest!" = "Write the man a check, Mama." "But I don't have?" "(gritted teeth) Write. The. Man. A. Check. Mama.") and all I could think of was getting home and crying for about a week. I wanted my husband. I wanted my kids. I wanted to not be surrounded by death any more. I wanted my daddy (the real one from when I was little, not the nutjob he'd become later). I wanted a bath because I felt dirty. I wanted?something that wasn't this.
We got into the car and Uncle Delmar told us to call if we needed anything. We were getting onto the East 60 bypass to hit 231 to go home when mom, out of nowhere, spat, "Why aren't you crying?" I don't mean she asked like a concerned mom, she was vicious about it.
"What?" I asked. Confused didn't start to cover it.
"How come you're not crying. You just made arrangements to bury your daddy."
"Mama, I'll cry when I get home. When my husband can hold me and rub my hair and make me feel better, I'll be crying like a beast. Right now, there're things to be done and you aren't able to do them." I tried to be nice because I knew she was in a freaky place where no one should ever have to be.
That's when it happened. OH, of all the unfortunate things for her to say. "Well," she says, "I guess you just don't feel grief like me 'n' the boys do because you haven't lived here for so long. *sniff*"
That was it. I slammed on the brakes and fishtailed the car off to the nonexistent side of the road. I looked at her and thought of her life of constantly being in and out of the hospital. I thought of having to take over raising her family at the age of ten because she was never well enough to do it. I thought of her husband, the one we were burying, berating me like a dog because I'd been busy doing homework and had burned the bacon for his breakfast that I had to make before I went to school. I thought about how she would lie to my father about things I'd supposedly said or done to her during the day so that when he'd get home from the night watchman job at 2am, he'd be waking me up by 3am, whacking me in the face and asking me why I'd done X, Y or Z to my mother and not waiting for the answer (which was "huh?"). The fury was tangible.
"Get the f*%# out." I ordered her out of her own car. And she went. I don't know which event surprised me more: me saying it or her doing it. I think she saw somewhere in my eyes that I was serious. I barreled away, leaving my mom on the East 60 bypass. I, of course, took the exit that was thirty seconds down the road and got back on and picked her up again with a couple of minutes of driving away, but it's true. I swore at my mom and left her on the bypass, cars whizzing by.
After I picked her up, needless to say, we didn't speak. I dropped her off and got her safely inside. I told her I was taking the car for a while and she told me to be careful. I imagine that she went to the phone immediately to call all of her 8 sisters and tell them what I'd done and maybe even to call Jim Thorpe at the Sheriff's Office to tell him I'd stolen the car. The good news was that if she did, I knew Jim'd had the hots for me since middle school and I wouldn't get arrested. I drove to Ruby Tuesday's, a bar I had not seen before. Score! Behind the bar was another guy who'd gone to my school and always been really nice. The only thing I'd ever had to drink in my life was a grasshopper when I was 16 (the NCO club never checked my ID even though I looked 12) and a bottle of peppermint schnaaps that made me sick as a dog when I was 20. I didn't know what to order, but it would NOT be mint based. Randy at the bar (the bartender, not my emotional state) suggested something called a Long Island Iced Tea. I like iced tea, so I told him I'd take one and he told me it was two-for-one happy hour and set me up with two that were about 16 ounces each. I got totally lit, went home with Randy from the Bar and slept on his couch. (Nope, nothing like that, you guys) The next morning, Randy from the Bar took me to K-Mart to get some appropriate mourning clothes and back to Ruby's to pick up the car. I spruced up and went to the funeral home, right on time at 10am and Uncle Delmar already had mom there in full mourning status. Nothing was ever said to my face, although I'm surprised I didn't get the business from Uncle Delmar. He cut me a look, but that was it. I had called Paul (the Goat) and told him that mom and I had argued and I'd be staying with a friend that night. He didn't question it at all and, knowing what I know now, I imagine he was too busy feeling up the neighbors to much care.
The funeral went on the next day without incident. The local pastor did the eulogy and the nicest thing he could find to say about my dad was, "Guy Allen was an intense man?" My grandma was a mess. My grandpa was holding himself and her up well, but kept tearing and it made my heart break because he was such a wonderful, loyal, strong, good man and my grandma was such a hard person to be around. People kept pushing money into my hand when they'd shake and give their regrets. I reluctantly gave it to mom to cover the check she wrote. Before I knew it, I was back in Victorville and didn't do the crying I'd promised my mom until Father's Day (he died in May) when I automatically went to buy him a card (it was always a struggle to do so because none of the affectionate ones really were right for me) and realized that I'd never do that again. I fell apart in the Base Exchange and barely made it home where I cried for a couple of days. The man I had envisioned rubbing my hair and holding me while I grieved told me to get over it. That was just one of a million times that I thought he was something he wasn't.
So that is the story of the first time I swore in front of my mother.
Back to swearing. I LOVE words. I love all words. I love their sound, their texture, their varied usages. I hate when I have to categorize words as "good" or "bad" or treat one as though it is more powerful than another. Of course, I'm NOT referring to racial slurs and tacky ethnic words used to inflict discrimination upon people. That's a different story. To me, words are tools for conveyance of thought, emotion or a good story (I hope). To censor or limit myself in that expression feels like a sin. To use the word "duck" but not be able to use its brother just because it had the misfortune to be born with an "F" instead of a "D" seems absurd. To be able to say "bowel movement" but not the "S" word (which I feel is much cuter than "bowel movement"), seems strange to me. I don't like empowering one word over others. I can't imagine being so tight that you get all huffed up and rigid because "a" particular word was said that is not racially or otherwise discriminatory. I also am not particularly wrapped up (maybe you guessed this) in what other people think. I march to my own drummer and everyone else can have his or her own parade.
The thought of not including my word friends in my vocabulary was like the thought of no longer speaking English (and I have NO talent for foreign language beyond babyspeak).
But
As many of you know, I've been on this quest this year to lose the excess weight I've been dragging around for almost 10 years. While on that journey, I've done a lot of self-learning exploration and have opened some pretty heavy mental doors. One of the things that I have found is that it's not just my weight that is out of control. A LOT of my life is out of control. My house has never really been as clean as it should, for one thing. My laundry is never under control. My kids don't get as much gentle discipline as they should. I'm lazy in a lot of areas. My plan right now is, although not directly aggressive on diet and exercise, to get control of some of the areas of my life and micromanage them. If I can feel successful about obvious things in my life, like my house being clean, my laundry being done, then that feeling of confidence can spread over into other things, including the weight loss. I can have success osmosis. Therefore, I've been really working this week to keep the house nearly perfect. I have been primarily successful at this. At the same time, I decided that I would work very, very hard not to swear. It's not for anyone but me that I am trying this. It's an exercise of self-control and self-mastery. I may or may not stick to it, but I'm going to work hard at it for a month and see what happens. I have slipped an average of three times a day, which, as much as I routinely swear, isn't bad at all. I find myself becoming MUCH more thoughtful of what I'm saying because I have to stop and edit out the swear words before I speak. I find myself having to work to find other ways of expressing my emotions rather than with the force of swearing. I can feel gears that haven't turned in a while (swearing is just so?effective!) trying to squeak into motion, albeit reluctantly. I find myself much more aware of when someone else swears. It's as though it stands out in red letters in the conversation. I did not for a second think that censoring myself would have such and effect. It's?bizarre. It's a heady sense of power, control and self mastery.
It's not for Eric. It's not for the kids. It's not for society. It's for me to prove that I can. If I can't, f*&% it.
Aug. 10th, 2001 @ 11:15 am
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| » Rule 47: Know it, Live it, Eat it |
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Yesterday, for the first time in months, I went out to lunch with someone who was not my husband or someone I personally birthed. I have a friend who lives in my town, but I seldom see. She and I e-mail frequently to keep in touch, but even though she only lives a few streets away, we seldom see one another. I've known her for 11 years (we met in Victorville in the Dark Times) and we are both very dedicated to our families and it's a mutual understanding that neither of us has much time (or energy) to nurture anyone on an ongoing basis. Knowing how valuable our time is to each other, we tend to get together every 3-4 months, have a good time, then go back to e-mails. We seldom even phone, preferring the gentler, less intrusive cyber world where you don't have to talk over little voices that are louder than yours and you can answer at your leisure. The phone is reserved for immediate needs and rants that require volume beyond typing in all caps. At this point in my life, this is about the only kind of real life friendship my world can handle and I am grateful to have someone in my life who says, "Yeah. Me too. Let's go to Marie Callendars."
One thing that I love about this friend that she, I think, sees as a character flaw, is that she is all over the place with her attention span duration. I'm not saying that she can't focus on a sentence or anything. What I mean is that she finds something new that intrigues her, throws herself into it with the full force of Aries passion and then gets bored with it and moves on. She has said to me on a couple of occasions that she is frustrated that she never sees her projects through and doesn't stay with any one thing for very long. Personally, I think it's GREAT because that means that every time I see her, we are going to have something new that she can talk about with great enthusiasm AND it makes her a very multi-layered individual because she has done so many things that she can talk about almost anything with panache. I think it's really cool that she is treating life as this incredible salad bar with so many delicious things on it that you don't want to get a big heap of macaroni salad and plop back down in your booth. She samples a little of this and a little of that and some of this and oooh, what's that? The cool thing is that I get to ride along and experience it by proxy. When we have so little time together so infrequently, it would be a bore if all she ever did was write her book or read to old people or sell real estate. Then our conversations would be under threat of sounding like this:
Me: So, are you still reading to the old people?
Her: Yes, I just finished James Michener's Hawaii and was awed by his descriptions of how the land plates shifted from the heat of the earth's inner core as they built magnificent projectile earthbreasts from which hot lava spewed until Pele's ruffled feathers were smoothed by the sacrificing of several Neanderthal virgins. I also think Muriel's pacemaker is acting up because she was flushed during chapter 14.
Me: Alrighty, then.
This way, every time I meet her, there is a new *thing* to explore. Now she's doing the Frugal Moms thing (http://www.frugal-moms.com/) and was telling me about her quest to save as much money as possible via shopping for specials at different groceries, buying in bulk, cooking ahead, etc. Although it's not my thing (I look at a coupon and think, you couldn't PAY me 25 cents to cut that thing out and lug it around for three months until it expires and I throw it away), I was totally fascinated by all the stuff she's doing to save money. I'm not saying my grocery bill couldn't use some help, laws no, but I'm just not there yet.
So that was interesting to learn about and right there, in the middle of our nice lunch and talking about cooking huge amounts of chicken, somewhere between the cheesy potato soup and the roasted turkey, I sensed a disturbance in the gynecological force and thought, "No, *that* is still a week away because I was WICKED late last month, scaring everyone to death." Well, scaring everyone but ME, that is. Even though I had my tubes tied a year and a half ago, people around me live in terror that I will procreate again. It's true that I have uncanny reproductive powers (One child was born the one time I had sex in two years' time, despite a condom AND a sponge - ah, remember sponges? - on the last day of my period. Another was born despite a condom and more jelly than in a Welch's factory), but I'm NOT going to spontaneously erupt into pregnancy with my fallopian tubes reduced down to little nubby nubs and the great sperm highway forever under construction. I figured it was more likely due to Nathan still nursing and my body dealing with fluctuating hormones as a result. I carried on with lunch and when I got home, immediately did the check and sure enough, Aunt Mennie had come to call and brought a couple of friends to play bridge, from the looks of it. It, fortunately, was not totally out of control and I'd worn dark clothes, so I was safe. It was as I was leaving the bathroom that it dawned on me that I could actually, for the first time in years, invoke Rule 47!!!
For those of you who don't know, Rule 47 is a little used right of womanhood that provides appropriate compensation for unruly menstrual activity. According to The Handbook of Woman, Article 12, Chapter 22, Line 47 (hence, the name):
Any woman who is subject to an unscheduled menstrual event that takes place in a public arena with no adequate feminine protection available will have all caloric intake, particularly that resulting from, but not limited to, high carbohydrate or high saturated fat foods nullified for a period not to exceed twenty-four hours from said menstrual event.
??!! Cool!! Rule 47 it is! So last night, when I went to bed at midnight, it was without visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, but with Dr Pepper, chocolate chip cookies, Crunch & Munch and red licorice dancing in my belly. I only have about five hours left before Rule 47 turns into a pumpkin and I'm left lying in a sugar coma, but in the meantime, I'm a Pepper.
Aug. 10th, 2001 @ 08:58 am
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| » MAKEOVER!! |
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I finally got to meet Sage! We live basically in the same town, although the house he lives in with him mom is actually outside of Sacramento where it stops looking like town (Eric calls it the California-Kentucky border), but we only just got together. He came over on Saturday and when I met him at the door, he did this little excited little squeal and said, "Makeover!" He whipped out this makeup case that was bigger than my suitcase and started cutting hair and trying out makeup and got me all dolled up. It was great fun because this guy can talk soaps NONSTOP. We were chattering like magpies the whole time. He is EXACTLY like you picture him. Lots of wonderful swish and yakking and laughing. My sides were aching and my mascara was running from tears of laughter. It was such a great time. So here is the before picture. My hair was actually a lot longer, down to the middle of my back, but I basically looked the same:
[ Error: Irreparable invalid markup ('<img [...] <br>') in entry. Owner must fix manually. Raw contents below.] I finally got to meet Sage! We live basically in the same town, although the house he lives in with him mom is actually outside of Sacramento where it stops looking like town (Eric calls it the California-Kentucky border), but we only just got together. He came over on Saturday and when I met him at the door, he did this little excited little squeal and said, "Makeover!" He whipped out this makeup case that was bigger than my suitcase and started cutting hair and trying out makeup and got me all dolled up. It was great fun because this guy can talk soaps NONSTOP. We were chattering like magpies the whole time. He is EXACTLY like you picture him. Lots of wonderful swish and yakking and laughing. My sides were aching and my mascara was running from tears of laughter. It was such a great time. So here is the before picture. My hair was actually a lot longer, down to the middle of my back, but I basically looked the same: <center><br><br><img src="http://www.eyeonsoaps.com/GH/mebefore.jpg"<br><br>And here's the new me:<br><br> <img src="http://www.eyeonsoaps.com/GH/KATRINAafter.jpg"></center>
So now I'm even more excited about going to the GH Fan Event next week because I'll look all purdy. :)
Jul. 17th, 2001 @ 08:55 am
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| » Got My Pig Back |
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Eric went and got it on Saturday and it was wrapped up in a piece of typing paper with "Save for Rasbold" on it. "Pig in a blanket" ran through my head. I cut him a look and he knew it best not happen again. I'm walking tonight with Dr Phil, "Relationship Rescue" this time, I think. I was considering Christianne Northrup, but I'm still leaning toward Dr Phil. If I can find the mysteriously missing #3 tape to Life Strategies, that will be the winner because I didn't get to listen to all of it and it has the good stuff on it.
Josh went job hunting today to no avail. The Army is still a go, but his paperwork is slow about making it up the chain of command. It feels like everything is locked in stasis these days. Time to just sit tight and await the future. It reminds me of being on Guam during a typhoon when we had to just close up the storm shutters, drink hot soda, cook on Coleman stoves and pass a joint for a few days until the storm was past and the electricity came on. I sure would not have guessed where I'd be twenty-three years after that. The idea of weighing 220 and having six kids and being an at home mom with no independent means of support save the love and devotion, financial and otherwise, of my darling husband, would have sent me screaming into the night (and I probably would have been beaned in the head by a coconut going 80 mph in the process). Just shows how much we change over the years. Not to mention that when I was sitting out those storms, my future husband was just trading in his Pampers for Superman Underroos. I'd love to go back to Guam sometime. I left in 1981 and never made it back. It was a really, really great place back then, a tropical paradise that blew Hawaii away. I've heard that it's really gone downhill since I was there, which is a shame.
Inside Edition has come on and that's my sign to get busy cleaning house while these kiddies are sleeping at the same time. Gotta savor these precious moments with Pinesol.
Have a great evening!
Jul. 9th, 2001 @ 03:45 pm
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| » I am becoming: |
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I used to be a real social butterfly. I had lots of people that I considered to be my friends, was always surrounded by activity, went out with "the girls," and had lots of fun. I talked on the phone throughout the day and always had things going on for the weekend. Somewhere in the neighborhood of the first divorce, when single parenthood of 4 young kids took hold and I was working three jobs to get by, I lost all that socializing. You just lose the angle of being much fun in the midst of all that. It didn't help that I had a giant chip on my shoulder from Paul bailing to the point that I was intolerable to be around (my poor kids). Life changed pretty abruptly and never really got back to where it was. That first divorce was in 92 and in the past 9 years, there has been some very detailed and painful self-evaluation, modification and evolution going on. It has taken me to this point, just getting ready to turn 40, where I'm finding that when it comes to the average person on the street, I'm developing a bad attitude. I've always been one of these silver lining people who try to not judge others based on their worst selves, always choosing to wonder instead about what might have brought them to the point to behave in such a way. My Gary Zukov-esque brotherhood of man energy expands in my chest and I find that I'm able to forgive them and wish them well. I've expounded many times in this journal about my random acts of senseless kindness approach where whenever I go out, I make a point to try and make at least one person's day better, whether with a smile, a flattering remark, a joke or a dollar when they are short at the cash register. I have practices this for a long time now and recent events have led me to believe that it just might be bullshit. The bloom is coming off my rose and I'm starting to feel the cool fingers of cynicism and judgmentalism grip at my insides. It has been a series of events that has brought me to this point where I am questioning the whole pushing of love and human support into the world in favor of squirreling myself away, emerging only for necessary provisions and entertainment.
First, some idiot has launched a series of attacks against me on the EOS OLTL message board, pushing the issue that I'm fat among other things. I guess that's all such a small mind had to work with. That shit doesn't really bother me, it's just a nuisance more than anything, but it really pains me that there are people out there, with whom I am forced to share the mantle of "human," who are that bitter and mean and nasty and evil. This person went to the OLTL and AMC boards posting really shitty comments about some of the actors with nothing productive to say at all, just bitching. When I called her on it and suggested that maybe there was something positive to say about the show as well, she figured the gauntlet was dropped and the attack was on. I don't get why people like that even bother coming to the site. There are a million other soap sites out there who are totally into relentlessly bashing the shows with no interest in the positive aspects. Why not just go with their own kind instead of harshing out the gig of people who want to have balanced and intelligent conversations, interlacing our bashing with some good stuff? I'm not so much pissed that they did this to me, but more that there are people out there like that. It besmirches the human race.
Next strike. I drove out to Wal-Mart, which is a ways from my house. It's one of my favorite stores and I could traipse it for hours. This time, I was just going for weed eater line and a little sprinkler. Got there and found that the Conair beard trimmer Eric wanted was on sale for $12.00 (sweet!), so I snagged that, got some Excedrin for Migraines for my Sweetie Daughter-In-Law who gets real brain busting headaches and lives in Canada where Excedrin for Migraines is not sold. Grabbed some potting soil for Delena to plant her late wild flowers and then the search began for the weed eater line for our weed eater, which Wal-Mart carries but did not have in stock. After about 20 minutes of digging, I finally found the replacement spool and was off. Only $5.95 on the box of spools, so that was great. The garden shop register was closed and the little greeter man said that it would reopen soon (guess the checker had to pee or something), so I walked alllll the way BACK down to the other end of the store for check out. Waited in a long-assed line and when the chick rang up the weed eater line, it was $15.95 (??!!) I was aghast and told her to take it off the ticket and I'd go back and get another one. Paid my $25, put the receipt in my purse and went back to gardening. I saw that the register was open again (hurray!), so I started looking at the packages that were just weed eater line off the spool. I asked one of the garden gnome guys if I could use any gauge of line and he said that it was specific to the machine. He called a conference with two of his little gnome friends and together they tried to figure out which line I should get. About 15 minutes after that, they decided on one, I got in line and paid for my crap, went to put my receipt in my purse, saw my other receipt in there with hoards of others and thought, "What a mess! I'm not going to add to that!" So I pulled the first receipt and put it in the bag with the other tiny bag and receipt and headed out the door. When I got to my car, I saw that there were two carts beside my car and, in my random acts of kindness mode (since I was not yet fully jaded, though jading was moments away), I took all three carts to the cart corral so that Johnny the Cart Wrangler wouldn't have to make an extra trip. Got in my car and split. I was literally about two minutes down the road when I was hit with the sudden realization that I DID NOT HAVE MY SHIT WITH ME!!! Holy cow!!! I whipped it around and hit all the right lights back, chanting and praying all the way for my stuff to still be in the cart where I had oh so stupidly left it after being such a nice guy. I brought up that I hadn't asked for anything in a long time, that I'd been doing a favor for some nameless, faceless cart jockey, that I'd been in a remote part of the parking lot, that there hadn't been many people around and sure as hell, you guessed it, all my stuff was just gone, in less than 5 minutes. I went to Customer Service, who had a good laugh and to the Courtesy Desk, who also joined in the merriment. I called Eric and cried at the pay phone, cursing all of humanity who would snake my shit. I hurried through the store and grabbed the things I could remember getting and left. As I drove, I realized that in such a tiny window of time, some jerk had watched me leave the stuff in the cart and then scurried over to steal it. I would think about starving people if it was food or clothing to keep somebody warm, but someone got weed eater line, Excedrin and a friggin ConAir beard trimmer! It's hard to wax altruistic about that. Not to mention, that because I had a moment of (not) clarity and put the friggin receipt IN THE BAG, they could walk right into the store, return it and get my money before Bank of America even processed by debit. Bastards.
THEN Eric and I were having an innocent conversation about the movie, The Buddy Holly Story, starring Gary Busey, which is fantastic. We'd just bought and watched it, him for the first time. He loved it and I loved it again. I then recommended that he really must see "Man in the Moon" about Andy Kauffman, that it was a really great movie and I thought he'd enjoy it muchly. He spat, "I don't want to see it." I asked him why, since his response was pretty abrupt. He said he didn't like Andy Kauffman. I asked him what he knew of Andy Kauffman and he said, "He's the guy from Taxi." I said, "Is that it? Is that all you've ever seen him in?" He said it was and I told him that Taxi was a really small part of what Kauffman had done and was, in fact, a part of his career that he sorely hated. I re-emphasized that it was a really good movie. He again snapped that he didn't want to see it, that the subject matter didn't interest him and that he didn't want to watch Andy Kauffman act. I was puzzled, so I said, "You do know that Andy Kauffman is dead, right? And that it's Jim Carrey playing Andy Kauffman in a bio-movie." He said that he didn't know and didn't really care, he just wasn't interested. This flashed me back to an incident with Paul where I suggested we go see "Forrest Gump." He started slamming the movie (hard) and went on about what I stupid movie it was. He had never seen it, mind you. He had determined this strictly from the previews. On the topic of my disappointment with people, I've found that it really pisses me off when people just slam their doors closed on something that they basically don't know anything about and refuse to even hear a conflicting opinion. Movies are a big part of my life and I love a broad spectrum of them. AS A RULE, I don't like chick movies, westerns, war movies or movies that have a cutesy kid involved. I also don't like movies set up to make me cry. I've done enough of that in my life, thank you, without having to do it again during my "entertainment." I will summarily exclude movies that are in the above categories unless someone I trust really pushes that I should give it a try. I had no interest in seeing Eric Brockovich because I don't care for most Julia Roberts movies and I don't care of chick flicks. Joe pushed it, I watched it and I liked it very much. Same for the movie, "How Stella Got Her Groove Back." I loved "Boys in Company C," "Uncommon Valor," and "The Dirty Dozen." I loved "The Cowboys," all Clint Eastwood westerns, "Maverick," "Wyatt Earp" and "Tombstone." I wasn't going to see "The Sixth Sense" or "Pay It Forward" because of the cutesy kid effect and Joey said, "Mom, you have GOT to go and they were just great." I'm not trying to come off as all high and mighty, but it sure seems to close off a lot of the world to blackball huge parts of life, just because you've made a sweeping, blanket judgment. I know that I don't care for much opera or rap music, but there are a few I've enjoyed of both. I have developed quite a sore spot for people who form heated, uneducated biases and refuse to be open to alternate thoughts. I find that I'm moving beyond feeling sorry for people who arbitrarily denounce a whole genre of anything, and I'm heading dead on into disdain for them. Worse yet, there are the people who act as though you are stupid for having an opinion other than theirs about a movie or music or book or show or whatever. How insecure do people have to get in order to have to go on the attack because you did or didn't like a movie that they saw or a song they heard? Anyway, enough of THAT rant?
THEN, the AC went out on my baby?my favorite ever car, my 1999 Dodge Intrepid, dark red, that I've had for 7 months, 2 weeks and 3 days. I love that car. The AC went out and would cost just at $1000 to be repaired. It cost about a buck and a quarter to fix anything on the VW bus (which is still gutted and unfixed after my famous I-80 break down), but the Intrepid is another story. It's been about 110 degree in Sacramento lately, so Eric has been a little fusser bear about tooling around town (he drives from site to site a lot in his work day) with no AC. Then on Tuesday, we went out to get Dylan's birthday presents and my door refused to open. We poked around and found that the door panel had slipped and was catching. Then an odd burning smell started to come up from under the hood and the brakes were grinding a bit. Eric proposed that we might need to trade in the car (??!!). Since I do the budget, he conferred with me as to what we could afford. Easy. He just lost all of his overtime due to the communications field having little to no work right now and that was our fun money. We are now down to enough to get by on, basically. So I told him NO down payment and no more than the $350 a month we were paying on the Intrepid. If they couldn't do that, come home and mop his brow along the way. I also sent him to the Dodge dealer in hopes of another Intrepid. He called me from the dealership, saying they were fussing about a down payment, fussing about $460 a month. I stuck to my guns, then relented and said that we could do $400, but we'd have to cut back on some things. He came home with a white 2001 Intrepid (I hate white cars, forgot to tell him that?they show dirt fiercely). The number are $560 a month, come up with $200 NOW and $560 on the first of August (not only rent payday - unlike my friendly car payment that hits on the 23rd - but also the week that we come home from our LA vacation, during which Eric has NOT worked and therefore, as a contractor, NOT gotten paid! Yikes!). Plus?long time readers had better hold onto your hats for this one?when he was cleaning out the car to transfer over the personal belongings to the new car, HE LEFT MY F**KING PIG ON THE VISOR!!! I could not EVEN believe that!! My PIG!! HE went beyond MESSING with my pig and ABANDONED my pig!! What the hell? So he called the dealership and they are supposed to be holding it (god knows what else they're doing to it) until he goes up on Saturday. He offered to go get it that night (it was midnight), but I realized I was being kind of emotional about a beanie baby which just happens to symbolize my total joy, so I told him I would wait. If anything happens to that pig, there will be hell-to-pay PLUS we are officially poor again. It was really nice to have a little money to play with here and there and if the communications field takes off again, there may even be overtime again. For the meantime, we are poor folks driving a nice car that shows dirt and has no PIG on the visor. [Private note to Georgia and Sandra: Although this was unforgivable, you must under no circumstances chastise Eric in any way or even mention the above or he will be mortified. He has been appropriately punished and that should be that.]
So those things have combined with other little incidents to make me want to hide in my house and only come out for groceries, my thrift shop therapy and an occasional movie or dinner out with Eric. If you need me, I'll be out building a new fence around the property. It's really sad that all of you cool people who read my journal aren't here so we could start a cool people compound and not have to hang with the idiots who seem to be the status quo OUT THERE. The lunatics really have taken over the asylum.
Jul. 5th, 2001 @ 10:15 pm
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| » How I Learned How to Want |
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As usual, real world is keeping me from journaling as much as I would like and need to. The biggest obstacles are these guys:
Dylan is actually a very sweet, well-behaved little boy (he's on the right), but Nathan is proving to be hell on wheels! His latest is to pull out his dressed drawers and climb up them to get to the top. Unfortunately, he pulls them out too far and falls. I'm still looking for a way to secure them so that he can't get them open. Home Depot's drawer locks are not even a hindrance for him. I need some super industrial strength dead bolts. As a result, he's covered with bruises and if he actually ever gets around to breaking anything on his body, I'll be not journaling because there are no computers in Pentonville or Statesville or whatever facility they ship suspected child abusers off to. He's quite an adventurer and there's not a room in the house in which he's safe. The room he shares with Dylan has a bed, a toy box and the Dresser of Death. Even then, he finds way to hurt himself. I'm going to need a smaller co-pay on this kid, I can tell right now.
My walks with Dr Phil have not been as frequent as I would like due to time constraints, but I'll be making them more of a priority this week if all goes well. I really miss them. I finished Life Strategies again and this time, I'll be catching up on Relationship Rescue again. Even though we don't need to particularly be rescued, the book is so good for providing clarity on the nature of relationships, the partnerships we negotiate and how to improve intimacy. Eric and I have what I consider to be a closer relationship than most couples I've known, but there is always something here and there than can be tweaked into a better place, so I like to listen to the book a couple of times a year to stay on the right track.
One of the themes that Phil talk about in Life Strategies is the premise that you have to "name it to claim it," the "it" being your goal in life, where you want to be, what you want to do, etc. I was really surprised by how different my life is now from when I first read the book back in 1998. When I heard his words again, talking about naming it and claiming it, stepping up to bat and saying, "It's MY turn, it's MY time," I remembered with startling clarity how much that had terrified me the first time around. To add pressure to the situation, without even knowing that I was reading the book, Eric had, shortly before, reacted with complete disdain when he asked what my goals for my life were and I replied that I didn't really have any personal goals. I wanted my children to grow up healthy and happy. I wanted him to have a good life and be happy with me as his wife. He pressed on ask what would be required for me to be happy and I said that if those things were so, I'd be happy. There are a few things wrong with this. For starters, the goals are very vague. I mean, what is happy? Another problem is that the goals are all for other people, none for me personally. In my head at the time, this seemed like a great way to go. I felt I was being very altruistic by wanting other people to be happy. I thought that by generalizing, I was releasing myself from the possibility of being disappointed if specifics did not come my way. At the time, I could never have imagined what I would see in retrospect. Those goals were a cop out that kept me safe from failure. For the most part, I was creating my happiness based on the actions to others and if they did not come through, it wasn't my fault that I was unhappy. These goals required very nearly no contribution from me. If Eric didn't feel he was happy with me as a wife, it wouldn't be my fault, it would be his for not loving me enough. If my kids did not have a happy life, it was their fault for not taking advantage of the opportunities that came their way. None of these thought were in my conscious mind at the time, but I can see in hindsight how I protected myself.
As I was reading the book, it became clear to me that I didn't have a clue what I wanted in my life and I was terrified to try and think of anything. It had been so long since I had put my wants into words that I couldn't find them any more. If Eric and I were going out to dinner, he always knew that his question, "Where do you want to eat?" would be answered with, "I don't know, what are you in the mood for?" Then we would "decide together" where to go, on the surface at least, with the reality being that I managed to narrow down exactly where he wanted to go and there we'd go. If someone asked me what I wanted for my birthday or Christmas, I'd shyly say that they didn't have to get me anything. I really couldn't give a name to anything I wanted, but I was damned disappointed when I didn't get it. Reading this book put me on notice that my act needed some serious polishing. I'd spent so much time in a state of reaction that I'd forgotten how to take action. Circumstances and the actions, needs, wants or opinions of others had determined my behavior for so long that I had no clue how to initiate my own activity or an original thought. I was generous with my time and energy to a fault, always working hard to sacrifice myself to give my kids and husband what they wanted. All of this was, of course, a big old martyr complex that I had to set up because the only self worth I could muster up was in giving someone I loved what they wanted. I totally based my value on my ability to fulfill the wishes of others. Under the indirect scrutiny of Dr Phil, I had to take a good long look at the fact that I was going nowhere. *I* had gotten lost somewhere along the way. My first move, as the over-analyzing Virgo, was to try and figure out how I had gotten to this point. I began studying everything my parents had done, everything my first husband had done, everything anyone I had been wronged by had done. Then I came to one comment in the book that stopped my dead in my tracks. "Analysis is paralysis." I was doing it again, but this time, I was using Phil himself as a distraction and he was having none of that. If I sat and analyzed this for a good long time to figure how where it came from, I was protected from moving forward. I read that it didn't really matter how I'd gotten here, here was where I was and here was where I had to work from. If I need to get to Boise, Idaho and I'm in Tampa, Florida, it doesn't matter if I flew, walked, took a bus, train, bike or rickshaw to Tampa, I still have to start my journey there. It doesn't even matter WHY I went to Tampa, if I have to go to Boise, Tampa is where I have to start and if I sit and ponder why I'm in Tampa and how I got there, I may never make it to Boise. I can think about the particulars once I'm in Boise or on the way, but I'd better get moving if Boise is where I have to be. Anyway, enough about cross country travel. I was in one place and I needed to get to another, fast. I cried. I cried a lot for a long time and it was a really hard week. I had seldom felt so helpless in my life. I had to build me, or at least get to know me. I started out simply, beginning with the restaurant issue. I went slowly. I told myself that for one month, when Eric asked me where I wanted to eat, I'd narrow it down to three places and let him pick. After that month, I'd pick one as my preference right away. It worked and I never looked back. I can now say, "I'm not really in the mood for Mexican food," and not feel the oppressive guilt I once would have felt on the off chance that Eric was wanting to go to Luis'. When I listened to the book this time, I felt so much more on track and clearheaded than last time. I decided that I wanted a venue in which I could express myself through written word and to be in the company of like minded, intelligent people. After a number of seemingly unrelated steps, I got to my position as Soap Diva at Soap Opera Central and that brought me to creating Eye on Soap, where I have fulfilled my goal and enjoy the results daily. I wanted to stop working and be a stay at home mom, giving my kids the parental attention my older three didn't get. It was a wish I had harbored since the older boys were tiny and I had to feel my heart and uterus rip themselves free every time I went out the door to work, leaving them with a variety of faceless sitters until Joe was old enough to baby sit while on independent study. Even then, when I felt totally secure with his ability to care for them, I wanted to be with my babies. I pitched the idea to Eric with some degree of trepidation, since it would reduce our income by about 70%. To my surprise, he was into it and was willing to make some pretty drastic concessions to make it happen. That was when I began to understand that stepping forward to claim something did not always result in being slapped down or told no. Now, I've been at home with the kids for three years and love it, despite the insanity of it sometimes. I want a new computer desk. I want some RAM and an external CD burner for my computer. I want a futon for the back room when Josh is gone (if he's ever gone) and matching cushion for the two ratty papa san chairs I have. I want a new Tupperware dish scraper (looks like this:
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and I want to find my Topsy Tail pony tail flipper which seems to have disappeared yet again. I want a bottle of Everafter cologne by Avon which smells like wonderful, sweet old books and sandalwood, but isn't made any more, dammit. I want some cooler looking clothes. I want to get home to visit my mother and up to Canada to see Joe, both within the next year. I don't even blink when I rattle those things off any more because after a lot of reconditioning, I've learned that it's OK to want things. It's OK to spend money to get them and it's OK to let others occasionally sacrifice for me to get something I want. Like Phil says, "It's my time, it's my turn." Not every time, mind you, but sometimes.
I wonder how many other people are stuck where I was to the point that they don't even realize that they've stopped knowing how to want things. The sad thing is that if you aren't clear and specific about what you want, you not only won't know how to go about getting it, you won't have a clue how to recognize it when it's within reach! How else will you grab it? *sigh* I want to go to Europe. When? How? What do you want to do when you get there? Make it attainable. Make it real. Set a time limit and then go for it. Who is telling you no? Is it your checkbook? Your partner? Yourself? Do you accept that no as valid just because or is it true? Have you checked out all the possibilities? Do you want to drive a nice new car? Is it the car you are wanting or is it really the financial security that it represents? Be clear, take aim and then go get it. Learn how to take a chance, how to want things again and you'll be surprised at how often the Universe says, "yes" instead of "no."
(stepping out of the pulpit)
Jul. 2nd, 2001 @ 02:39 pm
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| » I'm getting eager for July! |
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At long last, NonSoapy! I didn't feel like I was ever going to get back and even now, I'm writing amidst helping kiddies every 12 seconds. I sure do love'em, but most days it's next to impossible to do anything else, then the busy site work takes priority and soon, I'm not able to write the things I really want to write or purge my soul as I need and try to get some degree of linear thought going. When I'm into kids 24/7 my head turns into this weird, cartoon world of chatter and damage control and reactionary madness to the point that I can't transition out to big people land when I need to. They wake me up sometime between 5-6am, then tag team me on naps (if there is an overlap, I run around like mad trying to get at least *some* housework done before the next one wakes up) and finally get to sleep around 9pm. Nathan will wake up once around 2-3am and eventually go back to sleep. By the time the house is fairly decent and I've gotten to spend a few minutes with Eric, I'm falling into bed at 11pm exhausted, only to get up at 5-6am again the next day. Eric has been getting up with the kids on Sundays (he has to be up by 6:45 to get ready for work each morning) and letting me sleep in for a while and that's been great. I think if I could get a few 8-9 hour nights of sleep under my belt, I'd be up to 100% again.
I'm SO excited; one present excitement and one future excitement. The present excitement is that Nathan, my 21-month-old son, just brought in a five piece Postman Pat puzzle (for those who do not know, Postman Pat is an icon of British children's shows, a claymation masterpiece from way back on historical par with Lambchop and Gumby. "Postman Pat! Postman Pat! Postman Pat and his black and white cat!"), dumped it in the floor (Nathan dumping something is no rare event in and of itself) and then proceeded to work the puzzle! It was bizarre to watch his chubby little fingers manipulating those pieces until they would slide into place. Sometimes, I lose sight of him being an analytical, intelligent being and only see him as emotion and whirlwind activity. Seeing him intensely concentrating on a left-brain activity was a fairly intense experience. None of my other kids have done anything like this so early, so I'm hopeful that all of his "busy" activity is the sign of a genius who is bored by a baby life. Meanwhile, the genius' mom is worn out!
The other great excitement is that it's a mere four weeks until my vacation (Love that Connie Francis - V-A-C-A-T-I-O-N!!! In the summer sun!) in L damn A! I haven't been there in eight very long years! For me, LA is the perfect place that I love to visit but wouldn't want to live there. I was in Victorville (north-east of LA, just above San Bernardino and just south of Barstow - OH! Movie quote, "We were just south of Barstow, then the drugs kicked in.") for just over 8 years and visited the LA area pretty often. It was called going "down the hill," the "hill" being the Cajon Pass through the San Gabriel Mountains. There is so much to love about LA and the surrounding area. I won't bore you with Katrina's version of Fodor's Guide to LA, but I do have my vacation all laid out. We are staying with Eric's gram, who is just a great lady. She's turning 70 the week after we are there and is meeting her four daughters and several grandchildren in Vegas for the weekend to celebrate. We'd love to go, but Vegas and our kids would just not mix and it happens that the GH Fan Luncheon falls the weekend before, so we'll go down 4 days or so before the Luncheon, do the touristy thing by day (to keep the kids out of Grams' hair), then visit with her at night. It's a 6 hour drive from here, so we'll get there in 8 hours. (I'll be eating Dramamine like popcorn, you'd better know that) I like to leave early, like around 8am after a big breakfast, so we'll leave around 10am. That puts us in LA around 6pm, just in time to spend time with gram, get the kids to sleep, then nip down to Gram's Jacuzzi for a late night spa cuddle. The next day is one of my favorite days: Disneyland. I've been there a million times. I've gone lots with the older boys and Paul and I used to go every year alone for our anniversary. That was a really fun time. (I didn't realize there were SHOPS there for the longest time, I was so focused on kids and rides. : ? When Joe, Delena, Dylan and I went to Victorville to visit friends when Dylan was 3 months old, we went to Disneyland and Delena, who was 5, refused to go on any rides that had water. Another thing you don't notice until you focus on it is how many Disneyland rides have water. That was a kind of bummer trip because she was being such a butt-lick, but this time will be different. Dylan is TOTALLY fired up for it. He's never been that he'd remember, but he talks about seeing Pirates and Ghosts and Mickey Mouse every hour of every day. I found an old Disneyland promotional video and he's been watching it obsessively. He has almost no concept of time passage, so "four weeks" means nothing to him and every day he thinks we're going. My friend, Trish, who lives in the Victorville area, is going to meet us there and do Diz with us. That will be great fun. More Jacuzzi fun afterward.
Next day, we are going to do The Bodhi Tree, ONLY the world's FINEST metaphysical store with every incense, stone, book and Tarot deck in the world PLUS (this is the big drum roll) a USED book store attached to it. This place will set me back almost as much as Disneyland, I assure you. Eric has never been and he'll love it. We've never done Disneyland together either (he was in Saudi Arabia last time), so that is even more fun. I'd love to make it to Long Beach to Eye of the Cat, another great metaphysical store, but that's a bit of a drive. I'd like to do a few other touristy things. Friday is when things get fun for me personally. Friday night, we're having our Eye On Soaps Staff Bash when all of the gals who are going to the Luncheon, me, Tracey, Abbie, Katie, Leigh and Stephanie, are going to get together at a restaurant (a bar! It must have a bar!), meet for the first time and get outrageously silly. I'm looking forward to that as much as the Luncheon OR Disneyland! Saturday is Nancy Lee Grahn's Ice Cream Social (mmmm Ice Cream rrrrhhhggghhhh - Homer Simpson drool) where Constance Towers will also be and then the Real Andrews' event is that night. Then more Jacuzzi fun.
The next day, almost the whole day, is the GH Luncheon and I am so jazzed for this! I'll be there with my digital camera and a ton of disks, so you guys know you're going to see many, many pics.
We're going to take off to go back home the next day. Can't wait! I'm not only going to get out of this house, but out of this town! With the Dramamine, I won't get sick, so it should be great! One month away!
Jun. 27th, 2001 @ 01:57 pm
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| » Lived through Tahoe, barely |
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Good God! I didn't think I was ever going to get any computer time this week! I'm far behind on all of my site work and there's no light at the end of this tunnel, pallies! The boys are being super busy and by the time I sit down to the computer at night, I'm falling asleep at the keyboard. My e-mail is jacked up, so if anyone has sent me anything at an address other than Katrina@eyeonsoaps.com, I didn't get it yet.
Backing up to the weekend, Tahoe was OK for vacationing, but it is the worst for gambling. From now on, it's Reno all the way. I did learn fifteen valuable points on this trip:
1) Just because a place is 30-60 minutes closer to you by mileage, does not mean you are going to arrive 30-60 minutes early.
2) If, at noon, you give yourself $60 to play quarter and nickel slots and give your husband $60 to play the tables and your $80 of emergency money "in case something goes wrong," you will still have a huge bucket of change when your husband returns penniless (including having lost the emergency money) twenty minutes later.
3). When that happens, you will give up at least half of your funds so that husband can sit beside you and play slots. Score: Her - $30, Him - $170
4). IF you do not tell husband that the $80 "in case something goes wrong" was assuming that the something that goes wrong would be that he would blow the money and that you have already take his greed and fool-heartiness into account and secretly factored the money in as gone, you can milk the guilt for DAYS and stay on budget. Clink, cheers!
5). I think it's possible that the casinos are not set up for me to win money and actually hope that I don't.
6). Don't play slots until after dark when drunken people have been feeding them all day.
7). No matter how much you play, you will never, never have the lights, bells and sirens go off from one of your quarters (see #5).
8). Tahoe has more silicon in its collective breasts than Bill Gates has ever had used in his name.
9). There is a good reason why the buffet at Caesar's costs less than the buffet at Harrah's. Go to Harrah's. Pay the money.
10). Breathing in cheap perfume and cigarette smoke nonstop for 8 hours will give you a migraine.
11). When you are carsick, not only do trips seem hours longer than they actually are, but even subtle movements of the vehicle are groan-worthy.
12). The faster you drive, the more abrupt the movements of the vehicle will be.
13). A man really can swear all the way down a mountain if the drivers on a weaving, two lane highway are not going as fast as he would like.
14). To a man who really, really loves you, "Honey, I'm dyin' here and the movements of the car are making be want to puke. Please take it easy on the curves" translates out to "Please drive as fast as you can to get me home. Never mind my moaning and groaning. It's just my little way of saying, 'way to go!'" "F*cking slow DOWN" translates the exact same way.
15). Leaning back the car seat only helps marginally.
I also have a bonus pointer: If your husband decides to quit smoking, it is essential, and I do mean essential, that this NOT transpire until you are safely tucked away at a health spa in the Swiss Alps or Aspen or some equally remote, inaccessible place. Tell him to call you when it's done. Under no circumstances should you attempt to help, encourage, interact with, speak to or otherwise engage the victim. Any attempts to do so will result in the end of the marriage after the wife has personally purchased a carton of his favorite cigarettes and jammed them indiscriminately up, down and into every orifice in his body and lighting them with a blowtorch while screaming, "Smoke, SMOKE, damn you!" Moody? Edgy? Irritable? If severe PMS is a grain of sand, this is the Sahara.
Jun. 19th, 2001 @ 11:11 am
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Well, it doesn't happen often, but I'm actually pissed off today. I used to happen more and there were times in my life when I lived in a constant state of anger and resentment. For many months, it has hit either very seldom or just a quick flash. I'll explain briefly.
I don't like it when people throw their spiritual crap my way, so I'll keep mine to a minimum and only include it because it pertains to the subject matter. On my spiritual path, we follow the agricultural seasons of the year to manifest long term goals in our lives. We believe that it takes a few months to integrate big changes into our lives, so each December, when the spark of light returns to the sky (read: the days get longer), we decide what we will "plant" in our lives in the coming year. It can be a new home, new car, something within ourselves, etc. Until Spring, we plot and plan and listen to the voice within to decide whether this is actually what we need or if we should redirect to something else. At Spring Equinox, we literally plant a bean for every goal we have set for the year. As the bean grows and we tend it (usually in a peat pot on a window sill, to be transplanted as it gets bigger), we also focus our energy on the goal we have set. It will then "harvest" in the fall between August 1st and October 31st, the harvest time of the agricultural year when crops are brought in and stored away for the coming Winter. Anyhoo, this year, I decided I would fix a lot of things in my life and planted 5 beans (feelin' a little like Jack here): lean, strong and healthy body; more positive and productive interaction with my kids; a cleaner, more organized house; better communication and understanding of one another between me and Eric and the ability to help my children along the path that they most need to trod. Planted my beans and they came up very quickly and vibrantly. I was surprised at how fast the little buggers sprouted. To show you how a redirect works, about three weeks after I planted my beans, they were growing like mad and I was terribly excited because the goals all meant a great deal to me. I was having success on the body issue and the other goals seemed to be falling into place nicely. Then, I went to the bathroom. Doesn't sound like much, but when I came out, nicely relieved, I saw that Nathan had climbed from the couch to the entertainment center up the built in shelves, BYPASSED ERIC'S PIDDLY LITTLE BEANS and grabbed mine, then ripped them not only out of the pot and soil, but had torn the big, glorious plants to shreds. He smiled happily at me when he saw me and held up a piece of bean intestines for my approval. I. Couldn't. Speak. That was the first thing that happened.
THEN, I think I remember telling you about my pig. Eric and I were driving once and he used a line from Platoon that I had never heard (never saw the movie). We had come to a four way stop and the guy to the right couldn't make up his mind whether he was going to go or sit there. Eric got flustered and said, "Dammit, this guy is messin' with my pig!" I guess the line from Platoon is "Hey man, don't mess with my pig" (referring to his gun). This cracked me up and sent us on a tangent about pigs that has lasted for over a year now. Whenever someone or something is disheartening us or irritating us, they/it are messing with our pigs. We have elaborated on the theme and got into, "How's your pig today?" "He's happy and rolling in the mud" or "He's got a full trough and is munching gleefully" or "The kid down the block is poking him with a stick" or "Someone left the gate open and my pig has run away." The pig became the symbol of our joy. That led to me collecting interesting and unique pigs. I have a very, very cool jade pig that Karen (my pal who started EOS with me) sent me. I have a cute little stuffed pig on my desk, a very pretty ceramic pig on my dresser and I used to have a really bitchin' pig creamer (one of the ones like a cow creamer where the cow throws up the milk into your coffee) but hurricane Nathan threw something at it and it broke into a bajillion pieces. I also have the most adorable little pig, my first pig, in fact, who is a beanie pig that rides in my car between the visor and the roof of the car and peeks out at me. He has been up there since we bought the car in April and prior to that, lived on the dash of my (fickle) 69 VW bus. A couple of days after the bean incident, I went out to go somewhere with Eric and found *gasp!!* that my pig was IN THE FLOOR of the CAR and had SOMEONE'S F**KING HOOFPRINTS ALL OVER IT!!!! To say the least, I was aghast. Not only was by bean crop destroyed by a fate WORSE than locusts, but SOMEONE WAS MESSIN' WITH MY PIG!! I questioned Eric, keeper of the car, about it and got the "I dunno" blank look response. Had I not been cuddling my pig at the time, I probably would have beaten the hell out of him with it.
Those were the first two things. Having become quite depressed over them, I decided to make a joy candle to brighten up my life. I melted down a lot of red candles that were bits and pieces and poured the wax into a little crock container. I then jammed three little candles into the semi-formed wax to become the wicks. I was thrilled with my accomplishment and spent a good amount of time purging my angst and filling myself with pure joy while holding that candle. When it was solid, the next day, I lit the candle and it burned beautifully. It also smelled like cinnamon, which is very invigorating from an aromatherapy standpoint. Perfect. Eric came home a bit later while I was in the back room with kids and my joy candle was burning merrily on the entertainment center (which is only about a 5' tall job, not a huge assembly, so it burned on top and out of harm's way - the Hurricane was with me, so no worries there, for the candle, at least). I came out of the back room because I'd heard Eric come in and walked into the living room just as Eric was cussing the candle and putting it out. He was complaining rather loudly that the candle had become an inferno and had to be put out or it would burn the house down. There was nothing singed or darkened in the area, so I'm not sure how inferno it got. All I knew is that he was not only squelching out my joy candle (whose effects I was really enjoying!), but BITCHING about it and claiming it would hurt the family. (I apologize for the recap on this, since most of it I already covered when it happened, but it's for the benefit of those who may have missed it and not have a clue what I'm talking about.)
Being the every analyzing Virgo that I am, I went to bed on it. Did a bed in for a couple of days and refused to move until something good happened. I emerged from it (nothing good happened, I just realized that no one noticed I wasn't around) and decided I had received quite a redirect on the bean planting and since it was still Spring, I did a replanting over top of the old beans' corpses and simply planted "Joy," deciding to embrace the joy that was inside me and fan the flame to make it grow.
The planting worked like a charm and my entire focus was redirected from a really dark place to a very joyful place. That was in late March and over the next month or so, I really, really felt my eyes and heart opening to the joy around me. I felt luminous for weeks and even when things were rough, I could still feel the foundation of joy beneath and let it support me while I experienced whatever challenges were afoot. The Joy bean grew really fast and once my Joy was in place, the bean was done and died.
Although I have felt a few brief slippages of it and caught myself before I went full force into the pool of eternal despair again. Today has been the first time that I have really felt the fall. I can't really go back and pick a point where it all started to slip. I think that mostly, I am just really, really tired. I've felt it to the extreme this week. On Tuesday, Eric came home for work and said, "You are really kid-stressed. I'll take them for the rest of the night after dinner and you do whatever you want to do. I could think of a million things I could do. Go for my walk with Dr Phil, which I haven't done in days. Take a hot bath, which has lost its appeal for some reason. Don't know if it's this house and the bright blue, uncomfortable bathtub or what, but when I take a bath any more, I feel like I'm going to come out of my own skin until I'm out of the tub. I could do my nails, which look like a crack whore's. I could read. I could do Tarot readings to get some clarity. I could watch a movie alone. I could go my FAVORITE thrift shop. Of all the fun things I could do, I ended up going to my bedroom, collapsing on the bed and sleeping for two hours. Night before last, I was sleeping when, then at 2am, Nathan climbed into our bed for his cuddle and quick nurse like he does every night. Eric and I sleep with our babies for the first year, then they go to a sleeping bag on the floor for the next year and at 2, go into their own room. As he was crawling up the end of our bed, he lost his footing and slipped and fell, hard. I scooped him up in the dark and cuddled and nursed him back to sleep, but he was really restless, so I put me between him and Eric and held him closely. I'll be damned if around 2:45 he didn't roll off the bed and whack his head on the nightstand. I grabbed him up again, put him back in the bed and nursed him back to sleep. About 3am, Eric woke up to go pee and when he turned on the bathroom light, I could see that what I thought was stray breast milk was blood and lots of it. (??!!) Checking him out, I saw he had a good whack to the head, sustained in one of the falls and a little divot in his head about the size of a pencil eraser that was oozing a bit. Pretty horrific in the near dark. I got him and me cleaned up, then Eric wanted to put him on the floor again so he (Eric) could sleep. I wasn't good with that, having a kid there with a head injury, so I took him out to the couch and he slept on my tummy so I could feel if he went all cold and stiff. His pulse was good and his breathing was normal. When I woke him up, he was pretty cognizant, but drowsy and I took that to be because it was 3am. He slept well, I didn't and was beat all day yesterday. Nathan was perfectly fine, just had a bit of a headache. He's great now, I'm wiped out.
Last night, Eric had an opportunity to work from 10-12pm and pull in some overtime. He had the option not to do it, but wanted to get the money for our vacation kitty. I had trouble sleeping without him there (he left around 9:30) and waited for him to come home so I could finally crash with ease. He finally called around 1:30 and said that he was on the front porch (he had his cell phone) and that the door was locked. Evidently, Josh had locked it when he got up in the night (he's a little security freak). When I opened the door, this big wave of tobacco hit and Eric said he'd been home since about 12:30, but had sat out front and smoked his pipe and thought deep thoughts and decompressed for a while. Meanwhile, I'm inside struggling to sleep. I let that go and asked him what time he wanted to get up. Regular time, 6:30. Fine. Needless to say, he was just too doggone tired to get up and go to work this morning. Mind you, *I* still had to get up and get Delena ready for school and take care of wakey kids, but he got to call his work and tell them he'd be in late and sleep. That makes me really, really angry. If I was a bigger person or a more rested one, I would be pleased for him and understand that each role in life comes with its challenges and its benefits. The small, angry part of me wants him to get up at 6:30 when he said he would just because he said he would. I want him to be responsible and go to work whether he's tired or not, just because he has to. I don't want him to have the option to just decide he's too tired and lay in bed and make one phone call to his boss to make that OK. I am actually angry with him for having choices that I don't.
I know this is still part of my self-mastery and I have to look inside myself and find out what I'm really upset about. It was so nice of him to offer to take the kids the other night. He is a very, very good husband and father. I am Jeanie. That's it. I'm Jeanie from Ferris Bueller's Day Off. (rent it if you've never seen it) I'm not angry with him for being able to sleep in, I'm angry that I can't. I'm not angry with him for having choices, I'm angry because I don't or don't perceive that I do. When I tried to talk to Eric about it as he was leaving, his sympathy pretty much extended to, "Sucks to be you." That didn't help much. I asked him if he would ever call into work so *I* could sleep in because I was too tired to get up and he looked at me like I was stupid and said, "No, that's ridiculous." He chastised me for bugging him about it and then went to work. He hasn't had much to say all day, when we usually talk all through the day. I know they are busy at MCI, so I'm not going to worry much about it. Tonight should be better. I need to get out of my self-pity mode before he gets home, shake it off and get back to my more generous nature. I'm sure sleep will help and maybe a good smack in the head.
I'm hoping the boys will nap so I can as well, but I have a feeling that Gillian, despite all denials, is going to get whacked today and I want to watch it. Maybe I can at least do another mini-bed-in for the day. I have to get groceries tonight because Eric and I are going to take a mini-honeymoon to Lake Tahoe tomorrow as his Father's Day surprise. Another good thing about living in California is that you aren't far from much of anything fun.
Ooops. Crashing sounds. Gotta go.
Jun. 15th, 2001 @ 12:52 pm
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