Gonna go play in a different sandbox

Well, my lovelies, I am preparing for a roadtrip. One of our friends is getting married in Bozeman, and we will be attending. Then on Sunday, we watch a race with our old F1 crew (Viva Minardi- always 1st in Last Place!) and then a reunion of my darling former co-workers. Ah. Can you feel the love? It's like being dipped in a chocolate fountain and then licked off by Johnny Depp. As a pirate. Arg. Because he was one hellofa sexy ass pirate. Not an "ass pirate". But a sexy ass pirate. Ass as in adjectival usage. Getting hung up on grammar- not a good sign- must let it go...

So, won't be adding my voice that is the cacophony of Blogger until Monday or Tuesday. So sorry. Miss Otis regrets, etc. (and if you don't get the last one, sit your ass down immediately and listen to some Cole Porter. It's that important.)

Loves and kisses!

Well, shiver me timbers

Just read that Olbermann got a death threat with white powder attached. And that it was covered in scurrolous depth by a Murdoch publication. Sounds like shake down-silencer time to me.

Hope they used softish bristles in the decontamination shower- because the ones that I inventoried last summer weren't looking too attractive. Like it would leave a mark. I'm just sayin.

Oh- and two very foolish men are arguing over the patrimony of Anna Nicole Smith's baby. Like that's not a train wreck in the making...

Crackofy me up

I got to attend a trade show for people in my particular bidness. All revolving around planning events. And such.

Plenty of free food. Some swag. I got a pen with the space needle in it- and a moving elevator. From the space needle people. Imagine that. I ate a date that was stuffed with marzipan. It was almost a religious experience. Then I had another.

The funny part.

There were several "high end" businesses there. Namely a florist and a caterer and a locale. Funny thing about it. Rather than be the good sales crew, and look at my nametag, not my shoes, they totally chilled me. Totally. Must be the converses. It was funny. Because plenty of others saw the nametag and the dollar signs and were just wonderful. I like to think that some of them are just plain nice people, to boot.

Gee- guess who I won't be calling- ever- to host or participate in events in my group? I dunno- the fuckers who live in snobsville.

Seriously- don't they clue in that where I work doesn't have a dress code, per se? Seriously. How would they treat the Dev guys? Some of whom don't exactly "dress" in a fashion that is recognizably dressing. (today I rode in the elevator with a guy in his GREEN outfit- Green Nikes, Green sweat pants, Green sweat shirt. GREEN, I tell you.)

Kenga works across the street from the florist. I should have him leave a bag of burning cat crap on their doorstep. That would be funny. And would no doubt wreak havoc on their Gucci loafers.

The saddest lady was the baloon lady. At the booth with all of the scary baloon sculptures. She was in costume. She was a lady pirate. She was having one of the worst days of her life. No one stopped. She made me sad. But I hated her baloon sculptures. They freaked me the fuck out.

Online interests

Yesterday I was reading Keith Olbermann's online meltdown about the Bush Administration. It's pretty good, I guess, for what it is.

Then on the ride home from work, I was listening to an NPR piece about a NY Times journalist who was vocally critical of the government (with specifics) at a Harvard event.

And I wondered about all of this. The voices are growing in volume and prominence. So what gives? I thought that journalists were supposed to be behind the smoke and mirrors of their words. I thought that there were ethical issues associated with voicing opinions anywhere but the Oped page. I never went to journalism school, but these are the assumptions that I am working with.

Not that I don't agree with both of these people. But it makes me a little uncomfortable. Because if they agree with me this week, when will they lockstep with another group? Is this kind of like when Cronkite turned against the war in Vietnam? Will it have even close to the same effect? Or is it just a couple of lone voices in the wilderness- about to be slammed to the pavement by corporate interests beyond their ken?

I hesitate to call their openly expressed stances brave. Because it's kind of johnny-come-lately in Olbermann's case, and the other lady just seems like she's been mouthy all along. One hell of a journalist by all accounts- but not the most wallflowery of the bunch. Is this the beginning of a backlash against the corporate hacks at Fox, et al?

Dunno. It'll be interesting to watch. I just wonder when they'll get fired. Because I'm paranoid that way.

Crank up the paranoia

There was an article on the Wall Street Journal web site last week that gave me pause. I get a subscription via work, and exercise my right to read it. Several times per day if it's a tad slow.

They were discussing the lack of privacy in the workplace. That it's an illusion. Something like over half of all employers are keeping track of emails and web usage. What they're doing with that information wasn't specified. Just that there is no privacy.

This is why I don't visit blogs or any of my favorite sites (with a couple of singular exceptions) while I'm at work. And I never use my corporate email account for personal things if I can avoid it. Too scaredy pants. I really don't think that I would get fired for buying say, an orchid, online. But for blogging? Depends. I just don't want to lead a trail back home. Not of breadcrumbs or nanowhatevers. When rabbit goes to ground, rabbit wants to stay grounded.

I know for a fact that there was an IT person at the bank I worked at who monitored online usage. My boss heard about my eBay use. She didn't have a problem, though. Reportedly saying, "if she gets her work done, I don't give a damn." And that's why I loved her. Well, that and she was one of the last of a breed of banker that has pretty much died out. The handshake, and your word is good, kind of banker. The kind who used to be a fixture of smaller towns everywhere. The kind who made the Merican dream something accessable to more people than the kind who depend on paper and numbers to make the call. She had the most refined bullshit meter that I have EVER seen. And given a couple of amazing practitioners in my family, that is really saying something.

Anyway, remember. Someone is likely watching. It's just the way it is. And I guarantee it where I work. Because if it weren't the case, I would be absolutely boondoggled.

Confidential to P3

Save yourself some sanity and please, learn how to stop asking "why" when it comes to other people. It'll just fuck you up. There is no answer. Because other people are stupid. And asking that kind of question just leaves you open to their bullshit.

Just working this out

Crisp outside, but sunny-

Like eating a particularly crunchy apple.

The skin gives sharply against your teeth-

and the bite of the tart juice hits your tongue

and it's just a little bit sweet.

Because I cannot leave well enough alone

And because I figured out the scanner, you get to see my sixth birthday. And my little sister. And the Oly beer in the background. Because nothing accentuates a sixth birthday party like Oly.

And in this picture I AM wearing pants. You just can't see them.

No fish were harmed in the making of this image.

The end.

These are my first two fish. That I caught all myself. And yes, I'm not wearing pants. That's now how I caught the fish. I was wearing pants then. But they got very wet, because when I tagged the fish, I ran backwards in the water rather than reeling it in. And somehow I still caught the fish. And then I ate them.

The end.

Snapshot- Detailed edition

My mother and I spent a couple of hours going through old photo albums. I was looking for one particular picture.

And found another.

It is of me in another lifetime. When I was skeletal skinny. No- no health problems, the old metabolism hadn't hit the rock wall of age yet. And I ate like...well...like the metabolism would never hit the rock wall. (that did bite me in the expanding ass a few years later when I discovered Ben and Jerry's.)

It was all there. In the picture. In my mind, the thinness was hot. And the, shall we put it, more rounded curves acquired later are not. But I'll look again.

The thinness was brittle. The eye makeup- a mask. The smile- not shared by the eyes. The hair, very, very Princess Di. Not a bad picture, really- but I've never enjoyed having my picture taken. That hasn't changed a bit.

It was Christmas. Probably around 1986. And no doubt I was waiting for some kind of grandfatherly explosion. Because he always came through with one of those on holidays. Like snow in the winter. Predictable, and a force of nature. Dangerous too.

It's very funny though- looking at the picture- knowing that since then I've gained so much...not just pounds, but also experience. And happiness. And sadness. None of it to be recycled. Nor to be rejected.

Sitting on the table next to me was a Coke, and a very large Toblerone candy bar. And on the floor is a sweater that I have happily forgotten. We'll call those ghosts of Christmas past, and move on from there.

And the photo I was searching for? I'll scan and post later. Because I think it's pretty damned funny.

quote du jour

"You felt they had experienced everything. Their eyes were shocked and dead and alive and glowing like coals at the same time. And I think that was through experience, using your life as a tool. That's the way I wanted to conduct myself."

Surprisingly- Rupert Everett said that. About Brando, et. al. But I think it's interesting. And Everett comes across as a bit of a pratt. But that's enough, I suppose- he is famous, after all.

And doesn't fame conquer all?

Snapshot- exhibit A

It was late. On a schoolnight. But I was there. In his room. I couldn't stop shaking. I felt like I would blow apart. My teeth were actually chattering. I didn't know why. I didn't stop to ask. And nothing was going to get in the way.

I can't really remember why I wanted this so badly. In retrospect it didn't really make much sense. It would only make the situations in my life murkier. And more dishonest.

But back in the room, I was waiting for his move. And once it came, I was able to push it along. To the foregone conclusion. And then some.

I remember being on an adrenaline high for a day after. Despite the shitstorm that waited at my apartment. Because some things weren't all the way over. Just kicking the corpse around the room to finish it off. Because there are no instruction manuals for that kind of thing. And the dying had been going on for over a year.

The crying shame of the entire thing - I hesitate to call it an affair- is that for once, and for all time, I did the stupid thing. I didn't listen to the voice inside that always was right- about who liked whom more, and about if it mattered. And this time I was so far off as to be an idiot. And to this day, it still has a little sting to it when I remember. Myself in that room. Shivering with anticipation- or fear. Not realizing that for him it was just an opportunity. For one thing. And I saw it as an escape. From another.

In case you were wondering

There were over 300 emails waiting for me at work. Fuckity fuck fuck, I say. But at least it all made me feel wanted. And I suppose that's a good thing.

From my window

I can see the water.

Today it's like a mirror- not reflective, but silver.
And it fades into the sky.
And there are no mountains.
And there are no trees.

And soon, from the appearance of the clouds, there will be no water. Just a cold pillow of damp.

From my window.

(and I always wanted to live in England. From what I hear this is close. And on days like today- it bloody well sucks.)

Blogger appears to be kind of broken

Which makes for an interesting day.

Nevertheless, I will try. I am out of bed before noon. I am still in bathrobe and jammies, but this should change soon.

I will try. To fix what appears to be broken. I will try to go to work for a while- if nothing else than to clean out the email box of doom.

I will try.

And if I fail, then I will feebly flop back into bed knowing that my failure isn't likely permanent.

Damn.

So I took some over the counter thera flu stuff last night. Went to bed around 9ish. Probably fell asleep before 10. Just woke up and got out of bed 20 minutes ago. Didn't even get up to pee. No accidents, though. Just slept like I was some kind of corpse.

Had dreams.

1. there was this woman who turned into a bear to help a guy escape a dragon. This one involved stealing a pizza delivery boy's little red car. And breaking into a hotel room.

2. I was working at an enviromental agency in Missoula, and the office was in disarray. It took me plenty of effort to put everything to rights. And my boss was hot.

3. There were sword-fighting people like in Crouching Tiger flinging themselves about. Don't remember much else from that one.

And now I am pretty disoriented- having some difficulty finding the keys. But I have eaten a bit, and yes, peed. And all should be better. I just have what I think are some kind of dream images stuck in my head, and am hoping that they fade quickly. Too creepy to wander around the house with shadows in there, doncha know.

Overnight the trees turned

Like a lightswitch.

And I'll bet good money that analogy has been made before.
By someone far craftier with words than I.

But it's still the truth.
And it rains in Seattle.
Another truth.

And my eyes turned green when I was 11. From clear, light blue.
Now they're clear, light green.
And I suspect that they'll stay this way til the end.

But what they see- not necessarily anything unique or particularly original.
It just feels that way.
On a good day.

Shakedown

Seems that the Turkish GP organizers have been fined $5 million for their audacity at putting the Northern Cypriot leader on the podium after the race. Seems that it's the largest fine in motor sport history, and all truth be told, that they're damned lucky not to have lost the race.

Seems that there's some kind of military shakedown going on right now, as we speak in Thailand. I was under the impression that there was plenty of political stability there. Disabuse me of that notion, I say.

Seems that my primary focus in life right now is producing copious amounts of mucous. All night long. Who the fuck needs sleep when there are fluids to produce from my head? That's what I thought. Thank the dieties above that K was insightful enough to buy the kleenix with the lotion in it.

Do feverish dreams revolve around sleep

I have this fantasy that's percolating pretty heavily in my mind.

I'm in a far away place. Surrounded by cold, dark and forests as far as you can see.

I'm in a warm room, with books and blankets. It's so far that no one can reach me. But I'm safe and secure. I'm alone, and like it that way. It's important.

Being cut off from everyone seems so attractive in this fantasy. Alaska, Norway, Finland, doesn't matter. Any would do in a pinch. Just to be away. In a safe, warm, secluded place. Where no one can find me.

Betcha it's just a fever dream. I'll promise not to make any travel plans. Yet.

Now REALLY

I just can't wrap my head around the situation at hand. I have the flu. Once again- another occurrance in a long line of flu-related illnesses. I am producing volumes of media from my sinuses and lungs, and had a fever for most of the weekend.

Now the issue that I have is that I seem to get sick all the bloody time. And it's not like I'm some frail little thing. I cannot fathom this. People make fun of me. Hell, I make fun of me. It's just blasted pitiful. ehhhhhhhhh....(as she feebly bats away the imaginary hands)

I am going to ensconce myself on the couch and watch tivo. Then I will sleep. And in the meantime, there will be plenty of fluids to cough up and snort out. Because I am a fluid producing machine! At least some parts of my body are being productive.

Postscript- buying frenzy

It was a shockingly restrained affair, all told. I did NOT buy the 6' Ginger plant for $10. Mainly because I called Kenga, and he said NO. Pick something else out. We have to move in a year or so, and there might be no home for a 6' Ginger plant.

So I purchased about a dozen bromeliads (same family as the pineapple, if you were wondering). The orchids were a disappointment- very common types with inflated prices. SSnnniiiiifffff. For those who don't know- I'm a huge orchid collector, with over 200 plants to my name. So I'm a leetle selective round about now, as I have limited space, and really want the best for the buck.

And the book sale that the Friends of the Library puts on was almost a bust. But I found the catalog to a Byzantine art exhibition at the Metropolitan (out of print and over $60 on half.com) for $20. So that was good. The place was amok with hundreds of rabid book-loving people. Kind of scary, really. All buying shopping bags of crap. I don't get it. I guess I've worked in too many bookstores, and am just selective. And I've hauled around dozens of boxes of books for too damned long to want more...just...crappy...cheap...books.

And now I'm home. All shopped out. Ready to tackle Russian cinema. Interesting factoid- the hero of Alexander Nevsky is the same guy as the lead actor in Ivan the Terrible- I thought he looked very familiar, and his general wooden acting with the piercing stare (very dramatic, I must say) was the same. I love Imdb.com. And the heroine in the movie has birthin hips and a double chin. I LOVE Eisenstein! (and Einstein).

Saturday in the park

Now see if that phrase doesn't conjure up a horn section, and cheesy 70's FM rock. Bwah bwah. So there is a plant sale at the Volunteer Park Conservatory. And I am so there.

That's Saturday for me.

That and not thinking about the various fire drills of last week. Because they don't matter anymore. Just makes me wonder who the hell handled that kind of crap before I came along. Or is it just magically springing up like toadstools in the forest. Filling the void, so to speak- because nature hates a vacuum. Much like I hate vacuuming. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Will basically do anything - anything, I say- to avoid it.

I've also been hearing bad buzz about Black Dahlia. I'm not fabulous at handling really violent films, and da Palma has really gotten under my skin in the past. But I loved the book. One of my sickish delights is James Ellroy. Can't help myself, and frankly, don't care to try. But it sounds like one that I'll wait and see on DVD. I doubt that I could handle it in the theaters anyway. The first time I saw a picture of the Elizabeth Short murder scene, it haunted me for days. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her in the grass. Very nasty business. And I'm not sure I can handle it on a big screen.

So bonus points if someone out there can explain the ending of Kiss Me Deadly (1955) to me. Watched it last night and not only was it a pretty crappy old movie, but the inexplicable ending was just plain insulting. I haven't read the Spillaine book- and might have to- just to get the answers. But this pisses me off. It reminded me of Repo Man and Pulp Fiction- both of which were no doubt referencing it. Stupid movie. So then I watched the first hour of Alexander Nevsky, until Eisenstein had me cross-eyed with fatigue. So that's on the list of things to finish today. After I dedicate some disposable income and kitchen real-estate to plants.

And the good news rolls on

So, I got somewhat of a promotion today. After 3 months. And that makes me very, very happy. Seems I am no longer to consider myself merely an Admin. I am a "Marketing Coordinator." For the entire department. And they are extending my duties to include jr. marketing kinds of stuff. And this makes me very happy. Like I said before.

And now I drink Jasmine IPA. Because I am happy.

Just go away

That's what I hate about this country. The attitude of put up or shut up. Which is totalitarian bullshit, if not just plain rudeness.

I was listening to NPR whilst waking up this morning, and reminded of that particular regretful attitude. And anger slammed into my chest like a couple of hefty fists.

Some woman was upset because on 9/11 NPR allowed some American Muslims to share the airwaves. Seems they didn't get the memo that 9/11 is only for flag-waving patriots, and never for different voices from different AMERICANS. That somehow, being Muslim isn't enough marginalization. If you also express opinions that don't fit these intolerant assholes' agendas, you should just leave. Fuck that. That's like saying that blacks in the civil rights movement should've just returned to Africa- rather than challenge and overcome intolerance. That's like saying that Messrs Washington, Jefferson, et. al. had no right to challenge authority, because they should've just left instead- perhaps to form their own perfect union elsewhere. Because those with the strong hand basically do not want to have to think differently.

The sickest thing about this whole attitude is that it encourages a culture of exclusivity. That because I shut out your voice, I don't have to admit that it even exists. I can basically decide not to have any kind of dialogue at all- and therefore never have to change. I can comfortably exist in the knowledge that I alone am in the right- and shut the gate behind me in my exclusive gated community- far from the unpleasantness of reality.

Well, guess what- that doesn't work so well! Because change is inevitable. And those American Muslims weren't on the planes. And they weren't dancing in the streets. They were among the dead. They were among the aggrieved. They are ours. And I love them too. So fuck those who would try to marginalize them. I will always march in their support. I would do it for the Poles, the Jews, the Latinos, et. al. Because I am AMERICAN, and I believe that everyone has a right to a voice and an opinion. And I would face a firing squad to ensure that right for them. (like that would ever happen). Yeah- that makes me some kind of bloody saint, I know. I just have my dander up and all.

And then to hear that Ann Richards has died- really makes me sadder. What a lady. Google her if you don't know who she was.

Not nothing

Today I have plenty to say, but bone-deep fatigue prevents.

Off sites at work that drain the stuffing right out of me. Big puddle of gravy left over.

Late night drinking mojitos last night with the work folks. Good, good, good. But tiring.

So. More later.

Like tomorrow. Which is another day.

Got basically nothin

I just don't have anything to say today. Nothing.

I know it's a shock. Just breathe. Put your head between your knees if you get woozy. We'll all get through this.

Maybe tomorrow...

I stole this from the Married to the Sea comic blog.

Mainly because I am running late this morning and not feeling horribly inspired.

And because it made me larf.

To pure terror!

Salut!

I gots the pain

It is with a heavy heart that I report that Michael Schumacher announced his retirement today. I have been crying. Seriously. This really gets me. I am a fan. I am Fucosi.

For those requiring a refresher course- Michael is the winningest Formula 1 driver of all time, with a total of 7 world championships under his belt, and likely an 8th this year. And I adore him beyond reason. I won a $10 bet that he would announce retirement- a bet that I would've been happier losing. But I just knew that it would happen.

He is 37. With more money than god. And it'll be interesting to see what happens. He's being replaced at Ferrari by Kimi Raikonnen- who is an amazing driver, apparently solely lacking in personality. So. That oughta be interesting.

I realize that the vast majority of people out there don't give a rat's ass. But it matters to me. I'm just very glad I got at least one chance to see him race in person.

Now I will go. It's time to water my plants (which takes about 2.5 hours- they're orchids.) And hopefully that will cheer me up a bit.

Mooseek review

The concert. Was divine. Doo da, Doo da.

We did have to stand for about 6 hours all told. That sucked. As did the first band. But the Dandys were delishious. And made me dance like a fool. Which given the state of my feet at that point was pretty damned foolish. But I will recover. And live to tell the cats the tale of hearing "Bohemian like you" live and even without the ear plugs.

But the absolute alpha and omega of the show was The Brian Jonestown Massacre. Lovely, lovely, lovely. They kicked all asses in the place, handed them to us on a platter and proceeded to rhyme about it. Seriously- there is a documentary about them and the Dandys, and the Joneses come across as a bunch of disfunctional narcicist drug addicts who should be dead by now. I gotta say that Anton Newcombe- the lead guy- looked a little like shit on shingle (maybe just needed a bath- hard to tell), but the boy was dead on. And very, very good. The rest of his fellers also were good. It was all good. Now I will find another word to overuse.

We were also graced with the honor of watching a large number of fellow concert-goers getting 86'd for extreeeme inebriation. And other things, which remained mysterious. We stood near some forbidden stairs, which beaconed to the drunkards, who were flashed with lights and shooed off. That was entertaining. We saw the skeeviest assortment of humanity that we have seen in many a day. We saw some sad, pitiful little girls who just wanted someone to take them home and bone the shit out of them so that they could feel important for a few minutes. (though if you fall for that, you deserve the demonic psycho drama that would happen the next day, sunshine). We saw the Rock Queen in her tight red dress, sans knickers, get her sad little assets on the stage, delude herself into thinking that she was a star, and then get escorted out of the place. It was all a spectacle.

But the music was the best part, and I am happy. Because I want to. Saddest thing- I haven't been up that late downtown ...well...ever. Fuck all, I'm old.

Here is a gratuitous picture taken by K of my Sister-in-law's Russian (with a tattoo to prove it) dog Irma. Irma snuffles. Irma poops a little when she's relaxed. Irma will pee on your floor when she visits. Just to show who's boss.

Something to look forward to

Besides ending a sentence with a preposition. Because I want to. Repeatedly. Fuck you, grammarians!

Tonight we see the Dandy Warhols. And the added bonus of the Brian Jonestown Massacre. Life is good.

But first dinner with friends. I refuse to be a shut in any longer. A few nights sleep, and I'm ready to live. I WANT TO LIVE (that was a movie title in some old movie- I think it starred Susan Hayward (who went crazy later, I think) but am too lazy to hit IMDB and check).

Before that is work. Which has gotten interesting in a fun way. And busy as hell. Which is fine. Beats the hell out of clockwatching.

Right now, they are talking about an impending space shuttle launch on the CNN. Lotsa luck. Space program is broken. Terminal, I suspect. Which makes me sad. I remember staying home from school to watch launches when I was little. I also stayed home to watch the Watergate hearings, but that's another story entirely. (Dad was a tad interested in the whole Watergate shakedown. He has always had a healthy instinct for history.)

So, viva la Friday.

Images on my retinas

Flying eastward, with a view to the north- fields like a quilt (cliche, I know), with labrynthine patterns carved on them by industrious (and likely bored) farmers- fields as far as I can see. Nothing blocking the North Pole. Endless and deceptively inhospitable plains...

The view from above the hometown- shows the smelter in the east, with the blinking smokestack beacons that I watched as a child- and the small section of mature trees east of there where my dead sleep...

The skunks in the field across from my mother's house- eating something that came up when they cut the hay the day before- then seeing the same skunks eating the kitty food on the driveway...

The deer and her fawn bedding down in the yard, until I startle them by opening the blinds in my room...

Flying westward, with a northern view again- seeing an enormous forest fire in the Cascades- it was breeding weather- a large cumulus cloud rising above- and one further north- visible in the low-lying haze of smoke...

Viewing familiar landmarks from the air- work, highways, home neighborhood- as a way of re-establishing my ties...

An improvement

What a wonder sleeping in your own bed can be.

Getting off the plane and being absorbed by the smell of terrarium (that's what Seattle smells like), and washing off the smell of dust and sage.

Ritual cleansing...

Then sitting down and starting the spreadsheet that determines how long she can pay for her own care before she is penniless...the one think in life she feared the most. But luckily, there are family members with resources. We will always take care of her. She knows this now. She believes in us. She won't worry. And she will get better. Some. But not all the way. She will never mow the lawn again. She'll be lucky to actually leave the building again. But that could be me being a tad pessimistic.

Ritual cleansing...continued...

Now I don't have to lay awake worrying about what I'm going to encounter. We've seen the worst. And survived it. And even at her most mentally evasive, she knew me. She knew my mother. She didn't have a bloody clue where she was, didn't know anyone else, but she knew us. This was such a comfort- even if she was faking it.

Then two days later, she was back. Tired, but back. Back in a way I haven't seen in years. Seriously. I relayed to Kenga one of her thought trails, and he was astounded. She was able to actually formulate a very cogent argument. I guess that constant medical attention and eliminating her persistent infection/dehydration/ecletic diet/lack of sleep might be the best of all possible worlds. We just didn't know. Now comes the fight against personal recrimination...but I just have to remember- she's a cranky old bird who wasn't going to move.

Ah. remember the cleansing...

I've got to ring off and prepare for the actuality of my life. Today. Here. In the terrarium. Let the rest take care of itself for a day, because me toying with the ideas all day isn't going to make a damned bit of difference.

It really does smell funny here... maybe that's teen spirit. Maybe it's freedom...maybe it's just rotting green things.

This'll be short

Back from 4 day therapy boot camp. Raw on the inside. Like all of the skin was scraped off- exposing bare nerve endings. Eyes burning from the smoke of the forest fires, and from not sleeping. Lists of endless tasks to be accomplished running through my brain. Even now- 500+ miles away. Even now, after crisis is averted for today.

Mom and I hashing out everything that we can think of to talk about. Grandma. The past. The present. The potential future. The hazards of family. What they will do, think, say...how to prevent worst case scenarios...how to make good cookies...how to drive through Wolf Creek Canyon without causing mom to have a coronary (but she is the one who bought the car with the turbo... I'm just sayin)

Seeing my grandmother's life on the table out of context- seeing her precious things caked with dirt, and knowing that she might never see them again. Seeing the empty look in her vacant blue eyes. Seeing the opressive vulnerability. Seeing the lady in the wheelchair- "help me please" she moans to every person who enters the place. Seeing grandma in a bed. Never saw that before in my life. Finding the room filled with the smell of piss. Finding the source of the smell. Washing hands feverishly, trying to forget experiencing the smell. Trying to forget the present. Trying to wash back to the past.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Going to the fridge. Time for something to make the blood slow down in my veins. Something to shut off some of the endless lists. Something to take away the smell. And the sight. Something to soothe that sad, savage little beast that just keeps circling the pillow- trying to find the right place to lie down and rest for a while.

K is playing the guitar. He is playing an acoustic version of "Man Who Sold the World." I must go listen. Goodbye cruel world. Hello oblivion. For the brief moment. I'll climb aboard tomorrow...

And now it's time to say it...

I go to the great white north (which isn't white right now, but has the potential) in a few hours. I have dial up access (shudder) because in the town my mother lives there are fewer than 1000 people, and more cows. So I will not be writing until Tuesday at the earliest. Then I'm sure the stories will flow. Or not if I am tired. I'll do my best.

I go to get on my grandmother's boat. And see where it takes me. No heavy lifting. But plenty of packing. And plenty of eating (it's mom's place, that's a given). And some lovely stiff martinis- because that's mom's specialty. Or a g & t or two. And given the altitude, they will have more of an effect than normal. Loverly.

So adieu all- I won't be able to see other sites for shit, since they take too damned long to load up there. Maybe email if I have the patience of a saint. But not any of my sites...unless I visit my dad (who has wireless and lives in another town). But that would be rude, no? "Hi dad! Haven't seen you in a long time. Gotta go check out the internet! Talk to you in a bit!!" No, not a likely scenario. I am too much of a pleaser and too prone to guilt to pull that out of my hat.

So. Until next week!!!

The most fucked up stories of the day- Wed.

I am late getting these up- because I didn't feel like writing yesterday. Too tired. I had catered a baby shower with 48 hours advance notice (with rave reviews, mind you), and I hate catering. Too nervous. Too creepy about hanging around listening for reactions. So I left after setting up. And came home to inlaws overnight. Fun, but tiring overall.

So. Wednesday was a banner day for fucked up stories in Seattle.

#1- a car crash south near Burien (and the airport). Seems the driver of the Mercedes was driving approx. 125 mph when he lost control and swiped into a truck. A large truck. Put the car up under the truck. Both passengers and the driver are all in hospital in pretty rough shape. 125 mph. Fuuuuucccckkkk.

#2- a lady is standing downtown on 3rd by Macy's waiting to cross the street. She gets bumped by a bicyclist, and loses her balance. She falls into the street and is immediately crushed to death by an articulated bus. The bus driver is taken to the hospital to be sedated. The bicyclist is being charged with manslaughter. He had pedaled off and was found by witnesses hiding behind a dumpster. They suspect that he was drunk. Crushed to death by a bus. Fuuucccckkkk.

F1 world relevance

Ok- maybe I'm stretching a bit. But not really.

Seems that at the Turkey GP last weekend, they allowed the leader of North Cyprus to present the winner's trophy on the podium. This was despite an agreement with the FIA to always remain politically neutral. This after spending countless millions building the Autodrome. This despite later protests by the governments of Cyprus and Greece. Leading to a shitstorm for Max Mosley to fix (almost, but not quite, feel sorry for the cranky old git). The Turkish GP folks openly admitted to this as a piece of protest, stating something to the effect that Turkey embraces the cause of North Cyprus. Lovely.

So the Turkish GP organizers are being called to a meeting. I fully expect there to be a ban on the Turkish GP forever. They did it to Spain for a much more minor infraction (the mayor of a contested area showed up uninvited on the podium). But since this is the kind of thing to spark hefty tensions in a scary place, I can't see them being very lenient.

And there you have it. F1 being relevant for one brief, shining moment.