Kman decided to buy a pressure washer prior to the weekend. We have a clean driveway. It took all weekend. We could no doubt eat off of it. But I would be a little concerned about the groundclear chemicals I dumped on the weeds leeching onto the cement/aggregate. That would make us sick.

So I think we'll not eat on the driveway after all. Silly idea, really.

There really isn't much else going on- had to hit work early yesterday to prep for a meeting. Had one go catastrophically wrong last week, and was all jumpy. But all is well, and no one brought up the disaster. They appear to have forgotten. It probably helped that I didn't sit there and cringe, but was all brave and up in it. Something about keeping eye contact and not showing that a significant part of me was dying inside right at that moment- I suspect it was my pancreas. But I could be wrong, it might have been my spleen. Probably my spleen, upon reflection- I think you can function pretty well without a spleen, and I doubt you can without your pancreas. But my anatomy is a little sketchy- probably got them mixed up. It wouldn't surprise me a bit.

Ok, gotta go. Time for more of the work vibe. It happens, people. Until Kman wins the lotto. And I don't believe he plays often enough. He keeps after me to buy a ticket, but I won't- no luck there, folks. None whatsoever. He's the meal ticket in the lotto pool, I just know it.

NOW who's the ignoramus?

Well, that would indeed be me.

I heard that it is a military kind of holiday. On the NPR. So that mystery is solved.
I guess I would prefer to carry my dead around with me inside...forever.

Now for another mystery.

What are people around here going to do on July 1st when it becomes illegal to speak on the hand-held cell phone whilst driving? It might make for some heads exploding. I am just guessing here.

Pardon my ignorance...

Is Memorial Day just for veterans and war dead? Just wondering, because I remember it being the annual day when we visited the family at the cemetery. We would take annuals out and plant these little planters, and I would inevitably get bored and run around reading headstones. It was generally nice out, and didn't take an entire afternoon or anything. Usually we went for a car drive afterwards. I wish that those car rides made more of an impact- all I really remember is sun in the car, lots of trees and dirt roads. I couldn't take you to those places today. I couldn't tell you if there was anything unique. Just dirt roads and trees. Sometimes water. Not vast stretches of water, just creeks mostly.

It just never seemed like a big deal overall. I am seeing all kinds of articles in the papers about veterans. And it made me wonder. I suppose I really should know the answer to my question- but was never that into American history- it was the European stuff that I fixated on. And I thought that we had the whole war/dead/fallen heroes thing covered on Veteran's day. But I have no problem with giving them more than one day, god knows they deserve it.

I just wonder if anyone in the family still goes to the cemetery and plants annuals in those little planters anymore. I live a bit too far away to jump in the car and check.

From MSNBC.

Am I the only one who totally cringes when I see this image? (and doesn't it look like Betsy Brainiac misspelled Hillary initially???)

Sweet Jebus. No wonder the woman is doomed. Fucking chuckleheads.

And they gave us the right to vote, why exactly???

Time for more wine.

Heroclitus= misspelled Heraclitus

WTF, people!

If you haven't noticed, I have gotten all high tech- it appears to have rubbed off or something. And there was assistance- thanks Alex!

So I am looking at the reports of who is trawling through my site, and there is the strangest thing. The majority of people who traipse through without having me bookmarked either are searching for me specifically (Goggle search term- couchkitten), thank you. Or they have run a Google search on...hold on....wait....wait...Heroclitus. Yup. I mentioned the dead Greek guy many moons ago- after a discussion with Kman in the car. And it comes up as the #1 entry for Heroclitus on Google. That fucking weirds me out big time.

So all of these searches come back with me in them. Man. I feel the need for more coffee. Stat. Because the net is a very strange place, and my position in it is a little odd.

Heroclitus...

And I am betting that because I am mentioning it so much right now, this post will enter the pantheon of hits for Heroclitus. Take that, Google!

Now I gotta get back to work- am working "remotely" today. So no, I'm not dressed yet, and yes, I am eating candy. Before noon even. And yes, the tv is on. But it's the news, so I'm not totally fucking off. Just background noise.

Last night I proved once and for all (as if that was necessary) that Kman is a saint. Lovely, lovely man.

I dragged him to Third Place Books across the water and north (in rush hour traffic, no less) to a book signing by Jen Lancaster. I did placate him a bit with a Dick's burger and fries, but it was not what he originally wanted to do after work.

But Jen is one of my heroes. I don't often succumb to chick lit, but make an exception in her case. Because she is mean and funny. And in real life, appears to be just the same. Not that it would be easy to have her in a daily dose, but her blog and her books make me happy. Mainly because I read the first one Bitter is the New Black when I was unemployed and very, very low. It fit nicely into the firmament of what was going on. That book actually went on permanent loan when I gave it to a contractor at work who never came back one day. But that is good, because I suspect she needed the book too.

The reading was fun, Kman even laughed a few times, and I was near the front of the line, so we were able to leave early. I overheard a woman talking about me- she was happy that I was speedy with my hellos, and didn't take a ton of time getting my book signed. Had a quick chat with Jen, and then left. That was all. My entire being didn't rest upon meeting her, like I suspect some did. There were some pretty happy ladies present, and a smattering of very nice men.

And now I owe Kman an evening at the brew pub of his choice. Because, like I said before, he is a saint, and I really want to keep him happy. Oh, just for the record- he was going to clean the garage last night. I kept him from cleaning his mancave. Sigh....

Stepping away from the mundane on the outside, to face the mundane on the inside.

Just a quick commentary on things I wish I had done.

I wish that when I was younger and sillier, I had made more of an effort to take road trips.
I didn't have money for gas, but it would've been nice.

I wish that when I was younger and dumber, I had made more friends who led me astray.
Looking back, it all seems pretty tidy, overall.

I wish that when I was younger and prettier, I had been less concerned with the boys.
That was the biggest mistake of all, they weren't worth the effort.

It wasn't exactly a profitable venture overall, but then I am not Warren Buffet, and have never conducted myself like that. But I do think that there was a significant amount of risk aversion that really did temper my experiences and provided a self-imposed lack of adventure.

And that's all the mundane I can handle for now.

There are a set of songs that I listen to sometimes,
and try to hear echoes of what he would have heard.
I try to imagine what the lyrics evoked
I try to imagine if he was comforted by them.
I am guessing that overall he was just stoned at the time,
and the songs sounded really good, man.
But I have hope that he was a little deeper than that.
I do know that he took things very much to heart.
That his life was determined and dictated by hurt.
That he was defined by low expectations, and little oversight.
That in the end, it was easier to slip away in the night than
to visit the pain and fix things.
Because fixing meant changing, and finding the strength wasn't
a choice he saw as viable.
But then again, that is no doubt me talking and interpreting.
Because he did slip away, and can't answer my questions
and accusations.
I get to carry them around.
And listen to the songs that I think might have had some meaning to him.

Welcome to the mundane.

Today was all about the yard.
And probably too boring to tell.
Suffice it to say that some order came of chaos.
Some weeds died.
Some flowers were planted.
The sun was shining.

Not to brag, but...

had a free lunch with a friend, then a free spa afternoon, including pedicure, and went to a boutique beer tasting.

Life is looking very, very good right now. Mazel tov.

Today we have sun. And record temperatures.

I will kill weeds.
I will plant container gardens.
I will get charged up on vitamin D.
I will wear sunblock.
I will wear short pants.
I will open the windows and let the air in.
I will wash the car.

It's all open to possibility.

For the record, the Kman had the time of his life yesterday. Didn't do anything rash or silly, and came out of it with more enthusiasm than ever...sigh...

He didn't wad up the motorcycle, but saw a few of those. He was just so happy. I can't deny him anything when it makes him that happy.

And today, he is a little sore. Not that he's in bad shape- he shames me with his fitness level. But it was an unusual way of using those muscles. I don't think he minds. He does have a couple of very oddly placed bruises...

So there you have it. Next up, he'll be running with the other lunatics on the Isle of Mann. Crikey. And I will be drinking myself into oblivion to cope...

Major anxiety producing issue of the day (and tomorrow):

Kman is going to participate in a motorcycle track day. Not a race, mind you, but a track day. Which means that he is taking my car with trailer attached, and driving to the track and then riding his motorcycle with a bunch of other guys (I would presume), and hopefully not wadding it up.

He purchased full leathers some time ago, and has also gotten body armor, and has a very expensive and light helmet. He rides daily to work, which should probably be more of a concern, given the general stupidity of most of the drivers we encounter around here. But this just makes me...nervous.

I just need to get the fuck over it. Today.

Additional lurkers out there....
you know who you are.
I heard about a couple of you.
It is nice to know that I am on the radar.
But it is kind of hard, in that I don't know how my words resonate.
I don't know how my words get interpreted.
Is it serious?
Is it literal?
Are my opinions, sometimes transitory in nature going to bite me in the ass
in my personal life?
Even my husband ignores this place.
He hears my voice enough, he said.
Only comes here when I make him, just to show off a clever piece of wording.
And then he goes away.
Just not that interested.
Sometimes I wish it was universal.
I am growing more and more fond of being under the radar.
Never want to be the main event.
Too much pressure.
Too much worry.
Too much resultant diplomacy required.
The message about the newly acquired lurkers- be careful.
Don't embarrass your family.
Don't embarrass your friends.
No pressure, really.
But not exactly what most would consider freedom of expression.
Gotta really think about this one.
Don't know if I'm all that interested in the constrictions provided.
Don't know if it's worth it to me.
Too many narrow lines to tread, and I have always been clumsy.
No doubt I have already crossed plenty of those, without knowing.
Without being told.
My ears should burn.
My nose should itch.
There are ghosts walking on my grave.
Or was it geese?

I had lunch yesterday with an old friend from work. I don't currently work in the same group with him, but haven't lost touch, because he is wonderful.

We were dishing about mutual acquaintances. One has cancer. One is a really vile human being. It is all interesting. Overall it makes me ponder a bit.

Where I work, competitive people congregate and freely screw eachother over on a daily basis. It is one big game for them. And the consequences are pretty dire for some. It takes me aback when I hear about new examples. Mainly because I can't really fathom being dim enough to behave like that. Not only is it careless to be an ass and forget that people have long memories, and love to wreak revenge when given an opportunity, but it's also just such bad manners. And I know that the manners argument makes me sound kind of priggish. But it really is true. This is it. This is our only opportunity to play this game, and if you're a dick about it, you lose. That's it. You fucking lose. Because not only did you not make a positive difference in the world, you added to the bad shit that's out there. You fucking lose, chief.

Whereas if you weren't a dick about it, and stumbled on occasion, there is redemption. But it's those people who see it as merely a game, and don't understand how deep it really goes- those are the ones who make me...sad. They are stupid. And one of them has cancer, and the other is a really vile human being (whose vileness is readily on display, and getting a bit of attention). And those are the ones who won't be missed by many when they go. They lose.

Go see "Iron Man". It is good. Now I have a serious thing for Robert Downey, Jr. Which kind of sucks, since it pulls attention away from Jack White and Michael Schumacher. What's a girl to do?

Roundup of the weekend: Saw above movie. Had sun yesterday, so weeded some- until shoulder revolted, and had to stop and watch a movie on tv. Watched "Duel in the Sun." Hated "Duel in the Sun." Fast forwarded through large parts of "Duel in the Sun" to make it stop. Think that Jennifer Jones was horribly miscast in "Duel in the Sun." But still think that Gregory Peck was really, really beautiful.
Back to weekend roundup: Spoke with many family members. Things are good. Settling down, really- the people in the family (actually person) who was all winky/crazy has seen the error of his ways, and gotten a nice fresh breath of sanity. All is well. Drama averted for now.
Kman got his car back together, and appears to have rebuilt the engine to the point where the aged oil leaks are historic, rather than current. Now he will prepare for track day for his motorcycle. Not sure how I feel about this...
Bought books at the bookstore- written by people I know via MySpace. Because they are my friends, dammit, and I owe them allegiance as such...right?
Actually cooked. Which was a nice return to being a normal person.
Drank too much coffee. Ate things with MSG in them at a party and got a nasty headache and hangover from it on Sunday morning. Thus the too much coffee.
Did the rest of the typical and normal weekend stuff- with the addition of wrote about 20 pages of the project that has started to consume my life around the edges. And I gotta say I kind of like it. So far. We'll see....

Kman was singing to himself this morning- not an uncommon occurrence, and a nice one at that. He reminded me of my favorite Neil Diamond song. "Cracklin Rosie." It's not the most dramatic of the Neil oeuvre, nor is it the most singable. But it is my Christmas song.

When I was probably 3 (could have been 4), we were at my grandparent's house. We were celebrating Christmas, and had a fire going in the fireplace. The presents had been opened, and everyone was happy. My father picked me up, and was dancing with me. That was the song that was playing. I hear it now, and remember the warmth, and the love and the security. It is by far one of the happiest moments of my life, and one that I have trotted out on occasion when needed to get through something worse. Funny, I don't invoke the song often. Don't even own it, actually. It's like if I did, it would lose some of its potent firepower. Kind of like if I think about that time too much it might go away. Funny how that works. Because in actuality, it will go away some day. For sure.

("for sure" is part of an elaborate F1 based drinking game in our house now- though we watch the races too early to actually make it a drinking game- currently it's in production, and theory mode- to be unleashed at a later date.)

Been quiet again, I know. It's just a phase in the moon. Or maybe something I ate. Still with the whole not anything to share period- just don't think of myself as all that interesting, and not up for ranting about anything. I read enough of those at work on the message boards- mostly about cars and racing. And it is a bit self-serving to complain- I did put myself on the boards, intentionally. And sometimes enjoy it. But there you have it.

Yesterday was my final PT for my shoulder. It is done. I have most of my mobility back, and what I don't have yet, I will get soon, or never- not all is necessary for fully functioning. I probably won't be spending much time doing sideplank position in Yoga, so there you have it, again. And yes, it bloody well did hurt. But it's like that. If it hurts, I did more of it. Because I thought it necessary. And it appeared to work. I am done a month early. Ha.

Kman had a road trip last weekend. He went on a drive with a passel of other BMW enthusiasts. He didn't take his old girl- she is currently disassembled in the garage- appears she has a slight oil leak. For a couple of decades. And my honey is nothing but a man for Sisyphean efforts. Stick a finger in that dike, son, it might slow the flow a bit.

And my current writing project is slowly taking over my life. I should be happy, but am a bit perplexed. There are characters in it who suddenly appeared, and one came back from the dead (where I put her in the last draft- seems she didn't want to die, after all.) Since when do they have a bloody choice? Appears when I write fiction, they get free range like the chickens. They say, "fuck you, we do what we want." And I oblige by recording it all. Fine. Be that way, then. And it it sucks, it won't be my fault.

And now I go to work. It's like that.

All right then. Because it has been difficult to drum up enthusiasm lately for my usual rantn and ravin, I might have to resort to just confessin.

I've been working on a project. I was supposed to remain in phase 2 of my new me development process (if you remember, phase 1 was the job). Phase 2 is very close, actually. Less than 20 pounds to go, and the pounds that remain are configured very differently. So that's all good, and I had always intended to remain free of the "weight loss blog" kind of thing. So that's that.

Phase 3 has started prematurely. But I think that's how things work. No clean boundaries, really. The project is writing in nature, and I am knee deep in research. What is is about? Sssshhhhhhh.....that might not get told quite yet. But it isn't autobiographical so much as just...different. I've been re-reading a bunch of books, though. Things that got me thinking back in the day. And I do mean back in the day. I found a book that spurred my interest in the subject I studied in grad school. I found a book that scared me so badly that I took it back to the library unfinished. But had to check it out again to find out what happened- and then read it again and again. But only during the day. There's really something incredible happening as I dive into these stories again- it's bringing back my internal voice- the one I used to use all the time to play and tell stories to myself when I was bored. And that's not a bad thing, I suspect.

No, the voices aren't telling me to DO things, or anything like that. Not to worry, Holmes. I am fine. Just getting in touch with some elements that have been neglected for far, far too long. And not entirely sure what is going to come out. But the long-postponed project that I was working on a couple of years ago is still in there, and a couple of elements that I couldn't figure out have resolved themselves very nicely in the past week.

And that is what I am doing in my head lately. That and singing along to the music in my car. Because that stops me from hating other drivers. No way I can be screaming at them if I am singing along to the fabulous and dreamy Jack White. So there. Don't be hating.

Ah, the joy of discovering that some days all I encounter is the incessant OPINIONIZING of one collection of experts after another. All fucking day. Not my people- they are fine. It's others at the company. Who CANNOT and WILL NOT leave a sentence untouched. Because it is IMPORTANT to have the best and most highly intellectual opinion about it. Regardless of what it is. And regardless of how high they rank on the jackassery scale when they express that opinion. It just does.not.stop.

Ah, it fucking kills me. And I am constantly amazed. But then I grow jaded. And thankful that I don't have to deal with these horse's asses daily. Only via email. Which is sufficient, thank you.

And it also explains why I would surmise the majority of these particular fellows never, ever get laid. I wonder how many men at my company own Realdolls?

Ah, the Monday morning post. Sort of a summation of the weekend, what I remember, at least, and avoidance of going to work.

Well, not today. Nothing of true note happened this weekend- mainly some snow (yes. Snow.), visits with friends, calls with family, some shopping, some driving around, and cleaning of the house.

So the problem with this forum is that it is always by necessity at this point a soliloquy. And I've never been all that into the speechifying...well, maybe a bit. But sometimes I just get tired of listening to my own voice. I prefer to have conversations. I prefer to not dive so deeply into my own head. Just because I really don't think there's much in there that anyone else would find interesting.

But I will admit that the idea that others might not find my every word fascinating came with age. Once upon a time, there was a princess. She thought that she was unique. She knew that she was special. She also figured that since she was unique and special, that everyone knew it, and would be interested in everything she said. And so it was. On and on. No one ever told her that she was a pedantic bore. No one really wanted to face her wrath. Because the wrath was very evident right under the surface. So they put up with her, until they didn't.

The end.

But it did end, and there is a happy ending, after all. Because she grew up, got her head out of her ass, and realized that other people have limits of what they find interesting. And a lot of the garbage that passes for mental activity is merely that- potato chips and soda of the mind.

So. And onward. We saw a documentary on BBC America last night about Realdolls. And the men who love them. Oh my. God. It was an hour of very disturbing things. And I can only imagine that all of the men in question live in homes with a certain...funk about them...

And that is my gift to you on Monday morning. Realdoll documentary. Heh.

"Marie Antoinette" was on last night. I have to say I hate that movie. Costumes, check. Sets, check. Emptiness, check. And it's not just the sappy moviemaking. I have always hated the story. Hated it like I hate the story of the Russian Revolution. And it is personal. No, I am not claiming to be the reincarnated Anastasia. Nothing of the sort.

I have always sympathized with both sides, and fully understand why neither family could be allowed to live. They HAD to be wiped off the globe by the revolutionaries not only to legitimize the movement and finalize the victory, but also to ensure that there were no happy returns. It still boggles my mind that they didn't do the same to Napoleon. Seems a tad...naive.

But the human destruction causes me grief. I hate that Marie and family were slaughtered because they were stupid. And rich. And the basic end-game genetically. Now how much of this was their own personal fault is one thing. But being thrust into roles for which they were neither prepared nor suited wasn't necessarily their fault. And that's the crowning bloody tragedy of it all. Ditto the silly Romanovs. The whole culture that they perpetuated and relished of being so detached from humanity as a whole, and the excesses just make it more of a sad display.

I honestly don't know which side I would've fallen on. Probably the revolution's. As no doubt, I would've been a peasant, and heartily pissed at the expense and quality of footwear. And food. And seeing those saps living la vida would've brought out the pike skewering rage in me right quicklike, y'all.

But I still hate the stories and hate the movie, and can definitely be happy that I don't HAVE to either teach the topics or read about them. Not without a large bucket of wine to drown my sorrows at the stupid fucking human condition.

While I have a kitty making biscuits on my lap, I can breathe for a minute. I'm not going anywhere.
Not for a bit.

Lately those moments aren't as common as I would like. Not the kitty part, just the silence. Internally and externally. Feels like nothing but running around endlessly. Point a to point b. Over and under and through again.

Endless repetition and then some more. Again! And the thing that is funny about it is that the repetition doesn't just become ritual. Nothing that profound. Just busywork. Not infused with splendor or meaning. Just busy. Not even with the necessity of a squirrel gathering nuts. Just busy.

And there you have it. The cat has left, and I must commence with the busy.

Context:
They were very young. Probably too young to handle fully the experiences and responsibilities that they seized so willingly. But they had their reasons. History played a role. As did emotion. And escape.

Narrative:
Not your typical fairy tale. In fact, not a fairy tale at all. No real villains, just well-meaning, but at times ineffectual people. A couple of fools. And in the end fine people who made some questionable and at times bad choices.

Summation:
Yes, indeed, time heals all wounds- if you let it. And there might be scars. These aren't removed by silicone bandages (have you seen these?). They are forever. But they become less important.

Reality:
Taking the time to transition from bitterness to sadness to something beyond all of these choices can cause a ruckus internally. But it isn't the hardest part. And it isn't something that is easily shared. Not with the causes, and not with the effects. It's an internal game, really.

Conclusion:
Watching the cat eat a spider is more interesting on a good day than pondering the imponderables of the past, and more fulfilling ultimately.

If it's not raining it's bloody foggy outside. Once upon a time, I thought it would be wonderful to live in England. Well, most of my childhood, actually. Always wanted it. Ever since I ran across a children's biography of Queen Elizabeth I. Then I read everything I could find about England. And being English. But Montana is a long way from England. Like that's not obvious. And my family is a far cry from English. We speak the language, and that's about it. Most of the rest of it is as foreign as the Galapagos. We have wonderful teeth (for the most part). We drink our beer cold (if we drink beer). We don't particularly cotton to cricket- it bores us. As does soccer. We prefer American Football. We don't drive British cars- the electronics are too sketchy. And there's no one in town to service them. And growing up, I don't remember having tea in the house. That particular fact really bothered me. Because tea seemed important. A cornerstone really. And we were so very unBritish. And I wanted it to be different. I wanted tea.

I remember my mother went out of her way to buy me tea. It was the Lipton kind. And I overbrewed it. It was the nastiest stuff I had consumed, with the exception of the vodka I sipped one time (wanted to see what the fuss was about- still can't drink it- appears aversion therapy works sometimes). So I thought tea was nasty, and the English were a tad odd.

But this weather thing. Nothing romantic about it, really. Just moist. And too cold for things to grow properly yet. I used to love foggy days, mainly because I can count on one hand how often they occurred. But now I have lost count, and the romantic aspects of it are vanishing quickly. Because all it really means is that the drive to work will be slower, and the windows at work will be all pearly, and dark.

But it's not all bad. I didn't grow up English, but I did grow up with a fondness for Mary Poppins. And for Ian Fleming. And for Arthur Conan Doyle. And for Virginia Woolf. There are others on the list, I am just getting bored.

Cheerio.

General update now:

Nothing to rant about. But I did make an excellent discovery yesterday. I have been verging on road ragey for weeks. Mainly because I commute amongst idiots and arseholes. Trust me. They are. So, I hate who I become when I am driving. It perplexes me, as I can't figure out where that aggression is coming from. So yesterday. Instead of NPR, because it is begweek, and I already gave for the year, I opted for CDs. And it was good. I sang along like a goofus. And it was good. No rage. Perhaps I have found a solution. Or unbeknownst to me, I had the right chemical mix of coffee in the blood for once.

Shoulder progress is steady, unpleasant at times, and overall encouraging. Still never gonna see complete mobility, but it'll not hurt. And the PT is now officially kicking my ass twice a week. And I love her for it. But not in an S & M way, just know that she's doing her job well. And it's not in a $2Million dollar flat in Chelsea.

Job is fine. Not much to report there. Just the usual fire drills, hijinks, and petty annoyances that take up time during the day. I still maintain that a hefty number of people who work at my company are stark raving lunatics, but there you have it. At this point, I can probably count myself in their ranks- see above, about the driving...

It is, of course, as I write, raining again. Not much to say about that either, suffice it to say it is dreadfully depressing. There was a garden growing in our street gutter. A layer of mud had sprouted 6" of grass and weeds. It was frightening, and confirmed what those tv shows about the end of humanity have to say. Once we are gone, the blackberries, ivy and weeds take over. There is a camaro down the street that I need to take a pic of and post here- it has been on blocks for years. It is covered with green mold. God knows what the interior looks and smells like. But the exterior is something to behold.

Nothing else to report at this point. Just wanted to give the update for those of you who might be interested. Now on to work.

Changing gears

I was going to write about the wonders of our new Dyson vacuum cleaner. Amazing. Simply awesome. We lived in absolute filth, people, and were totally unaware.

But I got sidetracked by my response to another person's blog. And need to vent. Go figure.

In F1, currently, there is a bit of a scandal. Seems the FIA (governing body of the racing series) President, Max Mosley (yes, son of Sir Oswald Mosley and Diana Mitford- Wiki them, bloody fascinating but scary-ass family) was caught in a sting operation cavorting with 5 hookers in a rough trade afternoon. What is nice about this is that he is 67, and apparently in very FINE health. What is not so nice about this is that the News of the World in Britain has labeled the ladies Nazi re creators for pay. Now I (in the spirit of intellectual inquiry) watched bits of the film. And I didn't see Nazi symbolism anywhere. Just some high end call girls dressed in domi outfits, and some prison garb. (Oh, you bad, bad boy Max!). And some bottom spanking.

According to the news, the video goes on for five hours. Impressive. But for such a seemingly spendy venture, if indeed Max's fetish goes towards Naziism, it was a waste of his money. Because that was just not there. Not there.

So. My point. The F1 community and the press are reacting in the most deer in headlights alarmist fashion. They are pillorying the man. In public. Despite the fact that he hasn't been accused of a crime. And the Nazi thing hasn't been proven. And the video was taped illegally (and I suspect as part of a blackmail scheme-there are at least 5 different cameras involved). He has been set up. Obviously. No question. And still. The press (ie. Murdoch's establishment in England) is hammering him. And he is suing the pants off of them. And rather than take a moment, be calm about it, and insist that the allegations be fully proven, most of the teams have chosen to condemn the man.

What really chaps my ass, besides the unfairness of being condemned without a trial, is that I feel sorry for Max. I don't like Max. Never have. And I feel that I must defend the man. Ick. Feh.

I just overwhelmingly hate that people attribute the press with some kind of magical power of truth. That if it is written down, it is automatically true. That pisses me off beyond extreme. And I want to start calling out instances of the media being manipulated. And in this instance the media clamoring for one man's blood is more than I can bear.

Looks like someone's got a case of the...

Sometimes I just don't know what the hell people expect. It astounds me. Like when they act surprised when I do something clever. Or astounded when I create a new process that works well with some heretofore muddled situation.

What the hell do they think I have done with my life?

What the hell do they think I did before getting this job?

I just don't get it. And it's hard not to let their underestimation slip into my pores. And keep a cheerful and happy face on it. No place to go but up, right?

But the patronizing extent of it all... "thank you (redacted) for being so proactive on this!" Fuck you, you tool- it's only my JOB. Fucking ass. And I've been "proactive" about this for about, oh, I dunno, a year now. At least the ones who bother me the most aren't the ones I work that closely with. Like the bossman. He is cool as hell.

But then, I probably need to step off a bit. All this hostility is no doubt personal and hormonal in nature, and needs a better outlet. Like a nap, a funny movie from the 30's, some quality time with Kman, and a raise. I'll start holding my breath for all of the above right about ...... now.

In the meantime, whilst I turn blue, I will go get ready for work. But a nap would be nice. I wonder if I can convince Kman to call in sick with me today.....

Life as a fairy tale

I was addicted to fairy tales as a kid. My aunt and uncle bought me a wonderful set of Grimm's and Anderson's fairy tales when I was too young to read them. I still have them. The challenge of finding out what was between their covers was one of the reasons I learned to read. Ditto the copy of "The Little Prince" that my other uncle gave me when I was 4. Age appropriate? Probably not. But a challenge, you betcha.

So, my life as a fairy tale. It is, you know. Whether I like it or not, the way I structure my own story in my head always follows that pattern. And it keeps me going. Something fresh about the never ending saga. Not like one of the epic poems- nothing that convoluted. More of a small thing, really.

There is always a heroine. That would be me. And there is always a villain. That would be someone else, most of the time. Some times that is also me. And there is the prince. You know him from previous appearances hereabouts. And there is the plot. Pretty unvarying. Adversity/the challenge. The quest. The conquest. The iron core of determination. The triumph. Moving on to the next challenge. The pattern repeats.

I was fascinated by Jung, and his archetypes- especially when applied to fairy tales and tarot cards. Mainly I enjoy seeing that some of what I experience is universal. Only the details are individual. But what I also enjoy is the pattern. The repetition is comforting. It is how I function. By casting myself in a play or a structure like that I can step outside for a moment and see the plot for what it is- temporary, and part of a larger whole. Each step appears random, but the underlying pattern emerges with a little emotional distance. It's like when Kman and I play rock, paper, scissors. He always knows that I will start with scissors, followed by rock. Because I used to always start with rock, and he pointed it out to me, so I switched to scissors. And that pattern means I don't usually win unless he lets me. Because creature of habit.

I don't know if anyone else feels like they are part of some kind of personal play in process. But I kind of imagine it's pretty common. Like those who pattern themselves after Nancy Drew. Or who fell deeply in love with horse books, and have always wanted to be National Velvet. And for the boys, I dunno- never been one. But it's probably more of a recognition of aspirations in a sports figure or something like that.

And do I like being in a fairy tale? Hard to say. Some days, not really. I would rather be more concrete and pragmatic. But on days when the snow soddenly drapes the plum tree across the street in a blanket of white, and the city grows silent, and the night is bright white from the reflected light in the snow, and all grows still, it is just fine. Just fine, indeed.

And now a memory. When I was 5 my uncle (the "Little Prince" one) stayed with us for a while. It was winter. Our kitchen window faced the mountains to the north. Including the Sleeping Giant- the one I wanted so badly to see rise and become real- and was very disappointed to find was only rock and dirt. My uncle woke me in the middle of the night once. He took me to the kitchen window and pointed north. "Look and watch." There were lights dancing in the sky. Colored sheets of light. Reflecting off of the snow in our yard. We stood there watching for a while, and then he put me back to bed. I haven't seen the Northern Lights since, even though it's not an uncommon occurrence. I just haven't looked. Because that magic moment only strikes once. And it's like seeing Disney Land as an adult- it robs the magic from the early time in an incremental way. And I'm not willing to lose that.

Am getting a cold and feeling like ass, so will keep it brief.

No stories from the girl-child today (much to some people's relief, it seems). Just me.

Nothing really happening of note, just sunshine and kitty diabetes (big kitty has a little problem). It's being handled, no real trauma- the hardest part is getting him to eat his special diet- for such a large cat, he is a very picky eater, and is being a tad divaesque. The needles are very small, and he doesn't notice them.

Didn't go to Eugene with Kman over the weekend- to visit the sister in law and family. Stayed at home injecting the cat at 12 hour intervals and watching my very own Joan Crawford film festival. And racing. Always racing.

And now I am getting the cold that everyone has at work. Gotta love the irony of taking a day off over the weekend, and not minding being sick over the weekend, and getting it now.

Other than that nothing. Not in my world anyway. Others have news to report, but let them blog about it themselves, I am feeling lazy. And ill-equipped.

Tagged

Six word memoir (now that's a challenge to the long-winded one, indeed)

Get on with it, she said.

Instructions:
1. Write your own six word memoir
2. Post it on your blog and include a visual illustration if you’d like
3. Link to the person that tagged you in your post and to this original post if possible so we can track it as it travels across the blogosphere
4 Tag five more blogs with links
5. And don’t forget to leave a comment on the tagged blogs with an invitation to play!

Came from the Good Doctor-http://zombieswan.blogspot.com/ (don't know how to embed tags yet. It happens)


I'll get around to tagging some people in a bit- not up to it this morning.

And the photo? It was Easter Dinner at my Great-Grandmother's house circa 1960. I would've scanned something special, but again, not up to it this morning. Think bunny cake, and be happy. (or HOPPY!!! I crack myself up....)

Probably the best part of being little was running. Running fast. All the time. It felt good. Usually bare foot. In the summer wearing only a swimsuit most of the time.

She wondered as an adult where all that energy went. Where was the ability to just play all day long. Where the ability to run all day and not breathe hard went. When all the aches and pains arrived. When she had really grown up and gotten old.

But while it lasted, the running was perfect.

The little girl had a collection of books that she carried around with her. When the collection grew too large, she had to choose only a few to take along. That was torture. Would she pick the one about the birds? Certainly. But then what about the one with the frog and the princess? And then the one about the pretty rock? And then the one about Santa with the best pictures ever? That process, of choice, probably took up more time than finding matching socks. Because matching socks were never a real priority. And she hated the way clean cotton socks felt on her feet anyway. She preferred to be barefoot if given the choice. Nothing was as delicious as the feeling of soft green grass under her toes in the twilight- when the grass was still slightly warm and slightly cool- and the green had turned to black.

She also liked to bury her feet in the sand box, under the warm, dry sand. Down to where the sand was wet and cold. It felt nice. So did the dirt in the garden. But that was forbidden. Because if she uprooted vegetables by mistake, she would get in trouble.

Her favorite time of day was early morning before anyone else was up. She would run into the back yard in her nighty and wait for people to be ready to play. She learned quickly that it wasn't a good idea to visit her friends too early- their parents didn't like it. And she didn't like seeing other people's parents in their robes and slippers. It felt wrong somehow.

She liked Sunday mornings best, because she could hear the bells of the Cathedral in her back yard. When she was really little, that meant that they would be going to church soon. This wasn't a whole lot of fun, and entailed pinchy shoes and scratchy dresses. But it did feel special somehow. And afterwards was usually an opportunity to show off her purse with the favored books and maybe a doll inside.

As for the actual religion, it pretty much escaped her. She could recite some of the stories, but was more interested in the colors of the windows and the statues on the walls. Those were her favorites. She always dreamed of them opening their eyes and talking to her. She wanted that more than anything, and was disappointed when it never happened.

The little girl was overall very happy in these early days. Very happy indeed. Things were going her way, with a certainty.

Once upon a time. All good stories begin with "Once upon a time." There was a girl. And she wants me to tell her story. Really, I have tried to avoid this for years. But she is insistent. Just won't let it rest. She always did love a good story.

So it begins. And damn the consequences. And there are consequences. The truth hurts if you avoid it for too long. Essentially bites you in the ass.

But then you can hedge your bets by getting all philosophical about it. Just start talking about perceptions of truth, and objectivity. Turn it into an intellectual discussion rather than an emotional one. Much safer. Theory is always safer than practice.

But those voices. They won't be silenced. And that girl is most strident. So is the older boy. He wants to be heard.

So, I think it's time to let them tell the tales. Those of the fathers, and the mothers, and the little children. All through the viewfinder of an odd camera obscura. Upside down and backwards. Not through the looking glass- that was another teller. But with plenty of scratches on the negatives, and room for interpretation. And the light is fitful and dim. Dreamy with bits of fog in the intervals between notes. And the times between times. And the efforts leading to tears.

Once upon a time, my friends, there was a little girl. And she was most important. In her mind she was an Indian Princess. Like the ones in her Peter Pan book. She had long braids, and loved to wear her grandmother's nightgown and jump on the bed. Her braids would fly in the air, and the nightgown would balloon around her hips. It was pink and blue. Her braids were brown. She was happy. Her grandfather quoted Shakespeare when she left for the evening to go home.

"Goodnight, goodnight. Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say goodnight till it be morrow."

She always giggled at his silliness. And when the grandmother died, and he stopped quoting Shakespeare, and she realized that she was no longer the Indian Princess, the loss was deafening. And irrevocable.

Her favorite game was Cowboys and Indians. She liked to be tied up, only to escape in a dramatic and dynamic fashion. She read Wonder Woman comic books, and linked the two together somehow. She liked to have her back scratched. She liked to eat candy. She liked orange pop the best. She wanted to read her own books by herself more than anything else in the world. She loved cartoons and the Walt Disney show on Sunday nights.

There is more. Only later. Later.

You take what you can get, right?
I mean what happiness.
In between the rest of it all.
It's just an interlude, right?
Because no one can be happy all the time.
Only idiots and fools.
And maybe Englishmen.
But even the songs indicate that, right?
They seem to be divided up evenly.
Johnny Cash versus Paul McCartney.
Never thought I would see their names in the same sentence.
Kind of a negative/positive thing, right?
But back to happiness.
Not the kind of crap in the movies.
The real thing, that disappears overnight sometimes.
But it can come back in the most surprising ways, right?
Like the day that you walk in the rain, and smile at a stranger.
And the child in the stroller holds your gaze.
And smiles back at you without guile.
Something to that, right?
Lack of judgment.
Or just stupid kid.
But still, happiness.
And probably no soundtrack playing in his or her head, right?
No need.
No intent.
No lie.
Right.

So been dealing with those damned boxes of papers again. Not getting easier- sorting and deciding. Do I need the title to the house I used to own? Is that like taxes- need to keep for 7 years to guard against bad luck, or something?

But the fun thing- found a trove of Kman's stuff. We had a great time trawling through it all- he is a very funny man, who once was a very funny boy. I am trying to convince him to let me share. But he is shy. In that way.

Also found my own trove of high school and grade school ribbons, play bills, awards, etc. What a lot of stuff. And all of the meaning pretty much faded. Stripped. Just a book of stuff.

And then I took a pill and went to bed. The end.

Overall she feels good most days.
It's hard to tell through the grey.
Everything is dulled by a scrim of grey.
Before, the colors were bright.
Before, the sky was blue.
Before, her feet could carry her across the globe.

Now she sits.
And feels good most days.
But the memory of the brightness is fading.
And she doesn't really notice.
It's part of the end.
And she didn't get a chance to read the last chapter.
It was written without her.

Why I love (not in a physical sense) my surgeon. He said my arm is improving like it should. He said the intensity of the pain is normal. He gave me Ambien. And more super strength Ibuprofen.

Why I am not fond of morning today. I took the Ambien. The end.

And now, my friends, I will go and prepare for work. Luckily it has kicked my ass again, with lots of extra hours babysitting problems into the evening. So I will have lunch with a mentor, and then leave. Ha HA, I say.

And perhaps, Peaky Beaky will be in my mailbox when I get home. Ah, the bliss. The total bliss.

Ah, now the refrain- the pain, the pain, lord help us, the pain.

And sleep, sleep, ah, the little whore sleep won't visit anymore.

And no, I didn't buy any Girl Scout Cookies for Kman- he loves him the Thin Mints. If I'd known that we would have to visit every grocery store in the area on a quest once he found out they were on sale right now, I would've bought him every blasted box of the fucking things. But I didn't. I don't buy cookies. Not part of the diet plan, son. And the Girl Scouts are out of the Thin Mints. And Kman is sad. And for some reason, I DO feel like it's all my fault...I know, quit owning shit like that. But he is good.

Been in training for a couple of days, then hammered with all of the crap I didn't cope with whilst in training. And there you go. Not bad, really, but not great either.

I did have a moment of fun- and this will probably be an indicator that I am over the top insane, so confirmation, of what most have likely suspected.

There is a book that I loved when I was little. It was about birds. It had a yellow cover. It was really wonderful. And I couldn't remember the title, but have been on the lookout for it for over a decade at thrift shops and antique stores. I knew the publisher. But sure as hell wouldn't burden a book store employee with that very vague request- I remember having to try and figure those ones out (I am looking for a book about a dog, with a blue cover....right.). So the other day, when I was fiddle fucking around on the net, I found it. And I bought it. Spendy, a little. But it's wending its way to me right now.

PEAKY BEAKY. Fucking Peaky Beaky. I remember chanting that name because I thought it was funny when I was little. I remember loving that book beyond all others. And now it will be mine again! Cue the evil laughter....mwahahahahahahaha

Kman suggested that we turn our spare bedroom into a replica of my childhood bedroom, and fill it full of stuff I had when I was little. I told him we could likely get most of the furniture from my parents. So heave off. Then he laughed. My mother thought this was hilarious too. Feh. It's just a book. And it's the end of a decade-long quest. And I didn't lose my mind, the book did exist. And I didn't make an ass of myself in a bookstore looking for it. Only here. Always here.

Was contemplating aging. Mainly because it's kind of what is going on for me. Whether I admit it or not.

So, regrets. Basically the only one I use to pummel myself at this point is that I was SUCH a dumbass for so long. It took me eons to get my shit together. And I could've accomplished so damned much if I had been more together earlier. And don't tell me that it isn't too late. That's not the point. Of course I am still alive, and have this opportunity, etc., etc.

I still regret time lost. Time wasted. And I AM the judge of that. No one else is quite as qualified. It really bugs the hell out of me.

Years, really. Of fruitless flinging myself at problems that were never mine to solve. Of aching over things that didn't belong to me. Of wanting certain relationships to be far richer than they could ever be, for reasons beyond my control. Of suffering under the illusion that I had any real control of elements beyond myself. Of being far too keyed up for my own good. Of being a general busybody, while neglecting my own shit. Of not understanding fully the ramifications of choices I made on a whim and a prayer. Of confusing reaction with choice. Of confusing emotion with reason.

I'm pretty sure I can make the list a hell of a lot longer. But I think you get it. I sure do. But the good news is that I think I have more of a handle on it all than I ever had before. Not to claim some kind of superiority or implacable sense of emotional maturity- but I do think I have more of a sense of clarity. And deliberation. And just plain confidence in my ability to parse it out.

But hell. Bloody hell. What a lot of wasted motion. And emotion. And time. That's the kicker, eh?

Not to complain, but anyway, I think I'll complain.

Whilst feeling groovy on the drugs, I had some fabulous ideas. Things I really wanted to write about. But was feeling tooooo....numb to get out of bed. And then they were gone. Making my empathy for Coleridge that much stronger. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan.....

Not that anything that I write would necessarily compare...but I thought it was pretty profound in my head.

And now I'm off the drug. Except for the Ibuprofen- and that is strictly reduced. Seems I do want my liver and kidneys to function fully. Might seem silly, but I think it's recommended.

Been having the most challenges with the sleeping. Gets uncomfortable in the middle of the night, when the drugs wear off and the aching starts. Positioning is fine- the PT helped with that- she's full of good suggestions. But the pain is still ready and waiting. Hot baths help. But the pain is still waiting. Ice helps. But the pain is still waiting.

And yes, probably being somewhat of a baby. But this is the most lingering ailment/injury that I have ever had. And it's quite remarkable, really. Something that's less than 3 square inches can cause such a tremendous ruckus. But then I suppose that could be said of a mouse. Or a bed bug. Why not a shoulder?

So, one of the major things I was thinking all about had to do with work, and career. Seems that most of the people I work among and with are a tad obsessive about work and career. Something about being over-achievers and all that. It rubs off. I don't think I can go back to being a slacker. Not easily. They are like that with almost everything you can imagine. Work, recreation, family...everything. Competitive. And it does rub off.

But I have made some different choices from them. And continue to do so. And am ok with that. The parts that rub off have more to do with pushing myself personally in a direction that I can really succeed in. Not allowing myself to bog down where I am at, despite it being very comfortable. Knowing up front that it is not forever. And that is not a bad thing. I've been using that collective energy to research and learn. Not done with that process yet by a long shot. And that's fine- one thing I have in my corner is time.

I've also been using that energy to rethink myself physically. Now I'm down 30 pounds for those of you who were keeping track. Got derailed on the momentum with the surgery, but was in the gym after PT on Tuesday (kicked my ass), and have permission to carry on with that. Didn't gain whilst laying around the house. Maintained. Good enough for me right now. But there is more to go. So that's that.

The energy is kind of bubbling up in other, unexpected ways. Like writing projects hitting me in the brain at work. Taking feverish notes to myself. Putting it on a backburner to simmer for a little longer. The best one is a project with Kman. And we are going to discuss more later today, whether he knows it or not. It has everything to do with a conversation about design that we had. And a manifesto. Because as Montanans, we are supposed to pen at least one manifesto in our lifetimes. Part of the contract.

Other than being preoccupied by shiny, sparkly things for a couple of percocet filled weeks, not much happened in my mind of import. For some reason, pain pills make me kind of itchy, unable to sleep, and seriously jonesing for sparkly, pretty things. No lie. All I wanted was to go shopping at Claire's. For sparkly pink bracelets. And sparkly pretty barrettes. And all I could think was, "what, am I 12??? WTF???" This effect was NOT listed in the side effects sheet. And I didn't act on it. Mainly because it didn't really occur until around 3:00AM. And the mall is closed.

This afternoon we visit the tax man. Think happy thoughts about refund checks, please.

Over and out.

So this week has been another one of having my ass handed to me. Physically and mentally. I was involved in planning and running a team offsite- late nights/very early mornings/being on call constantly. It was great fun, but those things just wipe me out.

During all that, PT intensified. So the shoulder was quite cranky on Wednesday. I had to take the vicodin that night. Which meant that I really didn't sleep. But whatever. It's all part of this particular process. Suck it up.

I have been paying attention to my online friends, though. Just silently. Understand- lots going on = little energy for everything else. Apologies.

Other than that, am taking a Career Day today- enjoying all of these internal career planning tools, and prepping for my mid year career discussion with the very nice bossman. Just want to strike the right tone and make sure I don't waste his time. And there you have it.

Tomorrow is tax day. Not much to say there. Send happy thoughts. And inspirational ideas for deductions.

Mystery solved. It was the arugula.

If you are wondering what I am talking about- I'll fill you in.

A while back, I had a lovely mixed greens salad. I thought that the friend who made the salad had poisoned me- because I was sick for 3 days afterwards with what appeared to be severe food poisoning. But she didn't get sick. Hmmmmm. But seriously, the way that relationship turned out, she would've poisoned me...she was the type.

So about 3 months later I had a nice mixed greens salad during a business lunch. By the time I got to the office, I realized what a horrible mistake I had made. I had about 20 minutes to get home before I got sick, and was out for 4 days and required a prescription to shut down my body's violent antipathy towards the salad.

My dad suggested that I try and figure out what the exact culprit was. Good idea in theory, but I was never quite open to employing the scientific method and being sick for the better part of a week. Even though it is a remarkable diet plan.

Spinach and regular lettuce are fine in moderation. But must be eaten with other things. And cooked greens are no issue whatever.

So last night we were at a charity auction, and this salad appeared. It looked like spinach, so I took a bite- about 2 pieces of green. And discovered that it was definitely not spinach, but arugula. I didn't think much about it, as it was a minuscule amount, and I ate a pretty hefty dinner around it. But then....those distinctive "I am your tummy and not very happy with you right now" feelings started to kick in... So I drank more wine. Which had a lovely effect after 3 weeks of stone cold alcohol sobriety.

Nothing untoward happened at the auction. We had a pleasant time, but the experience didn't go away. About 2:00 AM, the message was more of a "now, seriously, I am displeased, and going to express that displeasure dramatically for a while" feeling.

And there you have it. It was the arugula. Mystery solved.

The end.

So the PT wasn't as bad as I feared. I actually have more mobility and strength than is the norm- probably because I am such a cussed nasty-natured thing, and get all pissy about not being able to do something. So I do it. As well as I can. And it hurts. So what. It is supposed to hurt. Grrrrrrr. But it appears to have an advantageous effect in this situation.

I will admit that this week at work, despite being a tad slow, has thoroughly kicked my ass. But I also attribute that to lack of sleep. The PT lady gave me some suggestions that really helped in that dept. last night. So there is hope. And glory.

Not to make this a blog about my shoulder though. That is boring. How about the strangest dream ever? I know, I have promised on occasion never to share those- but broken that promise on occasion. And this one is blasted odd. So, it's about 30 years ago, and Snoop Dog is having a threesome with my parents in the basement. And I am all pissed off because I want him for myself (not the 30 years ago me, but the now me- PARADOX!). I woke up from that one.....man....don't know what the FUCK that one is all about. Between the parents thing, the Snoop thing, and the strange time differential, I am totally boggled. In the head. And no, there were no naughty goings on witnessed when I was a child. Very well protected there, thank you. This was just about strangeness. Probably the Krispy Kreme doghnut that I ate in the late afternoon (Bismark- officially their fattest doghnut at 350 calories- looked it up after I ate it). I'll blame that. And shudder when I remember the rest....the things in my head are awfully Boschlike of late. And I'm even off of the really effective drugs now. Riddle me that.

Am too tired to do much writing. Seriously, this week is kicking my ass. But I will start PT today, and only have one more day to suffer through tomorrow. Then I can sleep. Perchance to dream. And if those dreams are as interesting as the ones last night, it will be fitful sleep, indeed.

Gotta go. To work.

Am alive, reasonably well, but tired. Very, very tired. Probably a combo of being feeble still, not sleeping really well on vicodin, and just work in general.

The shoulder feels icky- deep burny itchiness.

PT starts on Thursday.

Over and out.

by request

Dirk Niewoehner was born in Helena, MT in 1945. His family was from White Sulfur Springs- a very small farming town kind of near Helena. His father was an attorney with a violent streak. Now here is where it gets interesting.

According to IMDB, Dirk's dad died when he was 18 and he took it very hard. Well, there were circumstances that would make it hard to take. Seems that the old man beat the shit out of the wife and kids on a regular basis. Seems that it got worse with time. Don't remember from the story I was told if he was a drinker- coulda been. Coulda just been mean as hell. Dunno. This was told many, many years ago. And second hand.

So, one day or night- you decide which atmosphere you prefer- dad is raising hell and pounding on mom. Dirk's brother had enough of these goings on, and shot dad to death. Probably with a well-used hunting rifle. And that was that. So yes, getting over that would be hard. Hard indeed.

But really, it is kind of a typical story. Plenty like it. The only unusual element is the life Dirk had later. Something to do with Hollywood. Something to do with Battlestar Gallactica. Something to do with a Team called A.

Remember though- the details on my end are sketchy, so don't sue me.

Ok- I am sort of back. They typing kind of hurts a bit, so most likely won't be long-winded.

Valentine's day sucked. Officially and on the record. They used a general anesthesia- which I really didn't expect. Much like the Spanish Inquisition. They also gave me a nerve block. That is a truly nasty experience. Having a guy digging in my neck for a nerve with a needle, then sending shocks down my arm...eck. But at least it kept my entire right arm lifeless and numb for 16 hours. That's something, right?

Felt sick and icky for at least 2 days after. Just because. And the drugs worked ok. But I discovered that like Codeine, I can't sleep very well on percocets. Alas. So I have been reading novels whilst doped up into the wee hours every night. Because it seems to help.

Overall, the good Dr. is happy with the progress- I have these little triumphs. I dried my hair properly yesterday. I was able to clean the cat box. I still can't use my right hand for some of the regular things, but it will happen.

I saw pictures of the inside of my shoulder. It was more of a mess than expected. I had somehow (and I just can't figure this one out) managed to eliminate the connection between the ligament and the front of my shoulder. Gone. So now it is back. And the prognosis is good. Seriously, though, I just can't remember originally injuring my shoulder that badly. This is kind of scary. Like I'm a replicant, and they didn't plant that particular memory. Bad scifi reference, but it has been a lonnnnnng week. Dude, I've got a lot of tables.

Other than that, nothing to report. Nothing. Just sitting. Or reading. Or napping. Or trying to shave my armpit. Or trying to wash my hair. Or taping plastic bags to my shoulder. Or talking soulfully to the cats. Or monitoring my email on the sly- and I will not succumb and log in! I will not!!!

Crikey. I go back to work on Monday. It ought to be....interesting.

And now I hurt. Bye bye.

Be out for a while. I'll try and report in from the trenches, but am not sure what kind of drugs I'll be on exactly. If my hands feel like oven mits, I won't type. If my arm ends up on the cutting room floor, I certainly won't write. But...I'll give it a try in a couple of days.

Think at least one happy thought, eat a cookie, pet a puppy, smile at a child in the checkout line, and be a decent person. That's all I ask in my absence.

If all else fails, just have a good beer. Or glass of wine. That would suffice.

My dad used to listen to a lot of Johnny Cash. On 8 track, if you will. We would take loooong roadtrips across the state to visit relatives, all to the backbeat of Johnny. We would drive to Utah, Arizona, Washington, all with Johnny in the car.

How high IS the water Mama? I don't know if that question ever got fully answered. But it was among the better songs of youth.

And it applies to my world at the moment. How high is the water? Well, it's 2 foot high, and rising. And there you have it. The floods are coming, and that's just the way it is. Almost wish I could go back to bed and sleep it off. But that's not on the agenda today. Not in the itinerary. Not in the powerpoint deck. (yes, people, a powerpoint presentation in my world is called a deck. Sigh.)

But not to worry. It's not really despair. Not really fear, just kind of an acceptance that the next few days will officially suck. But then it will be different. Might be worse, might be better. But it will be different.

And right now I have a buggy eyed cat staring at me, and must go chase him around the house. Because it makes me laugh, and that is of the utmost today.

The girl slumped against the picnic table. She was wearing her sexy top, the one she insisted her mother buy from Tempo. The effect was ruined by the blue workshirt that she wore over the little tank top. It was all because of her skin. It totally made being pretty impossible. And today was supposed to be the day they noticed her. She did her hair perfectly. But then noticed the line of acne on her right shoulder. Right where the sexy shirt stopped, and her skin began. It was so ugly. Just like everything else. So ugly. And there was nothing she could do about it. It just ruined the effect. And it was hot out. So the blue shirt had pit stains. Because she couldn't help that either.

Nothing was going to work, she realized. She was going to remain invisible. And no amount of hair preparation was going to make her pretty like Brooke Shields in the magazines. She could be tall, and she could have pretty hair, yes. But the rest didn't follow. And so she slumped against the picnic table and picked at the layer of brown paint covering words carved deeply into the wood.

She wouldn't tell her mother about the unsuccessful shirt. But she wouldn't wear it ever again, either.

I was thinking about all the things I collected as a child. Very young, I might add.

I collected:
pretty feathers
rocks- especially agates that my grandfather cut and polished (still have those)
funny dolls in Indian costumes
dolls in quasi-international costumes
paper dolls- including ones my mother drew (sure wish I had kept those)
pictures of pretty women in fashionable dresses that I drew (ditto above)
some stuffed animals- mainly teddy bears
and other strange assorted things that drew my attention- I still have most of those, too.

Funny- with all of that assorted crap in my life, a pretty large batch of it all is still with me. And my poor husband wonders where it all came from. Such a history.

My reasoning? Well the emotional attachment dwelled upon before.

But at the time, all of those things really got the synapses firing. I remember learning about rocks when my grandfather gave me a bunch of tumbled stones. And then I got a bunch of library books about art when I noticed the cover of one of them looked like my drawing (I believe it was a children's art history book about ancient Egypt). So there were causes and effects. Not a bad thing. Just need to divest of some of the accoutrements at this point. Because my bookshelves not only ache from the weight of books, but also look like a magpie roosted for a while.

And crikey, I almost forgot about Dawn and Barbie. They were important. Pivotal, really. When I wasn't on my bike, or running around in the back yard, I was concocting elaborate and endless dramas with them as the stars. I had a couple of treasured friends with whom I played these games. On and on and on. I still also wish that I had written these down. I'm pretty sure they would be full of insight into what an 8 year old considers important. But there again, the boat has floated.

I was just sharing in another forum. And what I disclosed is that for some reason (which I can guess), I have emerged as tech geek sugar. Now this is really, really funny. The cool side effect? I can get help desk geeks to assist in person when I ask the right one. If, for example, I IM my main tech guy and start making BBC America references, specifically about Top Gear, and if I start quoting Jeremy Clarkson, he is mine for the taking. It is a really cool superpower.

But only if used in small doses. I made the mistake of being overly (by his estimation) friendly to a tech geek in another building that I was in. He made very inappropriate comments after that. All because I said "Good Morning." Too much for him to handle, I guess.

I had a training class where I was one of only 3 women in the class. And boy, the ratio of tecchie to marketing/sales type was about 3:1. And I was very popular. It was cool. Until I realized that none of these fellows were a) my type, b) overly concerned about hygiene or clothing in general, and c) well socialized. Not to mention the whole I am married thing. But it's nice to dangle out there when Kman gets in a mood- hey, pal. I have options, don't you know! And they have some mighty earning power hereabouts. They can afford a Segway! (one of them does ride one in my neighborhood- he wears a gold bike helmet, lord help us all). Or a Prius. Or a really rockin gaming system. Heh.

And he responds with, "I'm not stoppin you." Which basically ends the discussion. Because I am stopping me. For all the right reasons. So, be free little tecchie boys! Be free. You will find her out there- somewhere....and she won't be me.

So last night there were 2 vivid dreams. Not VIVID dreams, like on the pay per view porn channel. But one involved saving my mother from gypsies. And the other involved F1 driver Fernando Alonso, and was actually quite funny.

So that's that. Something in the air.

And no, I don't choose to elaborate what I know about pay per view porn. It's not important.
(or imporntant...heh.heh.heh- I crack myself up)

So I am currently stocking up on movies on the DVR (Tivo broke, we are on to new technology), trashy novels and other things to distract me when the surgery happens. We have entered count down mode. And I have to train Kman to do my hair properly. And learn not to carry things with my right arm for a while. Hey, it'll be an adventure.

Next up, why the hell was Heath Ledger on Oxycontin???? What the fuck??? I thought that was reserved for cancer sufferers and Courtney Love. What a farce.

Other than that, I got nothin. Just gotta go to work and try and find meaning in it all. Some days more than others. I am suspecting that today is going to be one of those challenging days.

The dreams have been spectacularly vivid. And appear to center around unresolved things. I appear to be resolving them, albeit unconsciously. Or not. The magic 8 ball would be unclear.

There was one that was more sci fi than anything else. Cool as hell, unless you study the subtext too closely within the context of my head. Then you see the dilemma. And you see the cracks around the edges. She has...issues.

The next one was kind of a Natty Bumpo kind of thing. Only the heroes weren't the settlers- they weren't included. Only the Indians. And I was there. And it was another one of those unsettling unresolved things that wouldn't matter to anyone but myself.

And the latest installment was about escaping from a monster in the basement with my mother. Everyone else got out alive, for the most part. But when I woke up, I realized that the only other person who escaped with my mother and I is a ghost. Which is kind of upsetting, because I know him- there again within the context of the dream and my head.

Now why the hell am I sharing all of this? Very good question. No fucking clue. Kind of selfish of me, really. Inflicting this kind of crap upon people. But there you have it. There be monsters inside, and sometimes they cry to be released. And if that happens only in dreams, I don't see the enormity of the problem.

so, he was a small man. Smaller than you would expect, right? but with a huge head. Fucking huge. Surprising really, you'd think he'd be smarter with all of that real estate to be filled and all.

Huge head. And look at him now. Maybe he's just hydrocephalic, and the extra space is water. Or in his case, beer. Or something like that. But sweet Jesus, that was a huge head.

And then there was the girl with him. Dressed like a fucking whore. Some kind of fringy jackety thing. Not like she fit in or anything. shorts with heels. Always reminds me of hookers, that. shorts with heels. Not sad like shorts with nylons. That is pitiful. But shorts with heels.

The two of them. Made quite a spectacle of themselves. Only a few of the locals recognized them. And of those few, only one or two cared. The rest I think filed it away for later.

The boy died alone. In a crowd. But alone.
Probably more accurate to call him a man, but really he had the last
vestiges of youth. And a roll of hundreds attached to his belt.
The crowd howled. They wanted to see help. They wanted to see life.
They didn't bargain for death on a night out.
Neither did he.
Were his last thoughts of regret?
Or was he lonely?
Did he know what was happening?
Did he hear the flapping of wings...see grey mist...a bright white light?
Did he hear the crowd growing angry to see him lying in the puddle of blood
while the police kept them at bay?
Did he feel anger at their ineffectual protest?
Or was he so beyond caring about all of that?
And what of the police who were so jaded that it was
beyond any one of them to sit and hold his hand for the last few minutes he had left.
What of them.

A guy from work was telling me about his weekend yesterday. Seems he saw a shooting and witnessed the victim die. He was pretty shaken up- but his first impulse was to go out and buy a gun. Not where I would go. But whatever.

The story was grim. What bothered me, and I didn't follow up in questions, just because he was still pretty upset, was that the victim died without any human contact. He just bled to death behind a police cordon. There were probably aid workers on the scene- I can't imagine there not being any of those. But no one was there to hold his hand and say it would be ok. Not that it matters to the dead guy now. But I hate the idea of anyone, even a punk thug (and this guy was apparently one of those), dying on the pavement like that. Must've been a priest in a former life. Or something.

Other than that, bummer that I didn't buy a shitton of Yahoo stocks yesterday.

So we watched "Superbad" last night. I actually thought it was funny as hell, but probably didn't get the full experience since I grew up...a girl, and all. But here is the best part (in my opinion).

I was watching a high school movie starring (well, featuring) one of the people I went to high school with. Actually took some classes with her. For some reason her Hollywood career didn't take off like it should've- but she has been in a few things lately that I have been running across. Not in a stalky way, but by accident. Like the only time ever that I have seen "Law & Order", she was the perp. And there you have it.

But the movie was fun. And it had a nice edge to it- by that I mean, not horribly edgy, and just nice. Our thin hero reminds me of Kman. (notice, I have made the upgrade? Boyz to men and all that) Nice, and very, very funny. With those big brown eyes.....swoon.....
Kman, not the kid in the movie- I am not disturbed....seriously.

Other than that not much happening. Yet.

Yes, I am working remotely today. And there is a double meaning there. Remote and remote. Probably a triple meaning.

Suffice it to say that it is very quiet by comparison to my usual stew of noise and action.

And the cats aren't interested in a rousing chorus of "Spider Pig, spider pig, does whatever spider pig does." They just look at me and blink. Not team players.

Now I have to go nurse the email. It's what I do.

I thought that back in the day I made a rule about drunken blogging. Well, what do they say about rules and being broken? I have plenty of experience being broken.
But not brokeback. Never. Brokeback. Because, quite frankly, I can quit you. Anytime I want. Just ask anyone. It can happen.

And this isn't necessarily drunken. Not on a Monday night. Not at 7:00 PM. Just a couple of glasses of wine to appease the muse. Because today, quite frankly, coffee didn't do the trick. She was feeling....particular. Probably a tad out of sorts about being required to do her business elsewhere. Neglected around here, don't you see.

So in actuality no rules being broken. Nothing to see here, move along.

This weekend we tried to watch Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. It was too difficult. We gave up and went to bed. Even with the ever sparkly but cotton-candy haired Peter Frampton. He tried soooo hard. And Maurice died for your sins. You know it. Own it.

This weekend I tried so hard to burst the bounds. Professionally. I came up with a perfect paper. But it wasn't really. I found out today. And that's ok. But there is still something rotten in this state of Denmark, and I WILL discover what it is. Just haven't had enough water under that bridge. And don't know the right password. I will, though. That's a solemn oath. I don't take those lightly. Ask anybody.

Had a snow day. Until the afternoon, when it was possible to actually go to the store. But there was snow. Now ice. Later more snow. I am bored. More wine? No. Out of that. Forgot to stock up. Might have to drink Scotch. But not delighted about the prospect, because don't think I will enjoy as much as I should. So probably won't. Speaking in strange shorthanded fashion, and having some difficulty hitting right keys....perhaps rules are being broken. Know when to say when. Otherwise bad things happen. To good people. There was a book written. Not that I bought it- self-help lost its glamour when I tried to stomach A Road Less Traveled at the recommendation of a lunatic ex-boyfriend (Miji for those of you who know the code). Purer bullshit hath never been produced outside of the stockyards. Just plain not applicable. So fuck that noise.

And now I think I must depart, good night sweet prince, say hello to the wife and kids.

Things I have:

A firmed up date for surgery. Think Valentine's day. And pray for Kboy's sake that the pain pills are sufficient.

Crazy assed red chested woodpeckery birds pounding on my roof in the morning. Even on the weekends. To quote former President Clinton, "For Shame!"

A date with destiny in the form of a game designer on Monday. Less said about that right now, probably for the better- suffice it to say, I will be doing some major homework over the weekend.

An enduring and lingering dislike for Tom Cruise that was only intensified by reading the new unauthorized biography. Tom, you are dead to me. I still haven't seen "Top Gun." Don't think it's gonna happen now, either.

A husband who has currently gone missing. I could call and see where he is, but it's better this way. A touch of mystery. Actually, I suspect that he went to the book store for coffee and a magazine peruse. Because that's the way he rolls.

A new haircut. Because it was time. And when I start contemplating wearing a pony tail in public as a remedy to bad hair, it is a dire thing. Just like wearing workout togs in public. Not gonna fly, babycakes.

And that's all I can think of for right now. So it'll have to be enough.

"I think you can be clever without being crass."
"But I should push it."

"I still think it's possible."

"One of the examples was of a pair of Nikes with a graphic of a dildo going into some chick."

"Right. Crass. But I still think you are more clever than that."

"We're going for edgy."

Things we discuss over morning coffee.

Note to self: two large meals in one day, even if they do commemorate Kboy's birthday, are a bad idea. Especially after over 6 months of not eating like that. Ah, the pain.

And it is probably about time to stop calling him "the boy." He is 39. Perhaps time to come up with a more apt moniker.

Today is MRI Monday. I think it should be a new kind of game. Or something. Like Caturday. Or Naked Thursday.

I got a very strange email this weekend from some chick on a fishing expedition on Classmates.com. No, I won't share some of the particulars, except to say I am unclear as to her motives in seeking some of the people she's looking for, and I haven't seen one of them in over 20 years. The other more like 35. So gonna ignore it. Plus she used sketchy grammar and spelling, which is always a problem for me. Such a snob. It could be an elaborate hoax. I think that the one dude died, anyway.

On the complaints list, Kboy went to Anaheim this last week for a trade show, and brought back a couple of t shirts for me. That was nice. What sucks is that he was around bona fide rock stars and didn't stand in line for hours to get them to sign stuff. For me. To hang at my desk at work. He started this precedent by getting me a signed Peter Frampton picture. His fault that I have these expectations, really. But he had the lead singer from Yes at his booth, and didn't bother...sigh....I shall whine some more. And he was in the convention center with a couple of the more prominent members of Kiss. Which would be kind of a cool addition to Peter on my wall. I'm just saying. I guess the Yes guy is kind of a freak. And the line for the Kiss guys was a tad longish. But seriously, what the hell else did he have going on??? And it would be in the name of love and all that. Pay it forward, chump- I vacuumed the house yesterday in honor of your bloody birthday!

And to wrap this up, am currently watching a Korean soap opera on DVD. Hotelier is the honorable story of a young hotel manager in Seoul who is loved by two men. And has to make a decision. In 10 hours or less of rather tortured and very beige hotel goodness. Seriously. Beige and gold. The whole thing. Beige and gold. With very soft music. Reminds me of the spa at the gym. Only the lighting is better on the tv show.

Ah, just let the anger push you beyond that hurdle. Again and again.

An hour on a treadmill, climbing no where quickly.

The only way to endure is a combination of NPR news/weather and information. But at the very end, when it's become stupid difficult, break out the "Hell's Bells."

Because nothing is quite as motivating as the Australian screeching "Hell's Bells...Satan's coming for you..." to keep you moving on the treadmill. Because if you stop, guess who is coming for you?

Not the nice little Indian lady on the treadmill to your left.

Or the nice little farty Asian lady on the treadmill to your right (please, remember, we can smell those, nice little lady. And if there is something wrong, you should probably either be in a less enclosed room, or at home.)

But then maybe the farts are supposed to evoke Satan more thoroughly. Kind of a multi-media piece. But I don't think she knows I am listening to AC/DC. Or angry.

So follow that up with "Immigrant Song," and you have the perfect denouement for the most evil workout I can come up with. Call it self-punishment. Paying of the dues. Righting the wrongs.

Is it just me?

Or does anyone else have Christmas presents still in boxes sitting around the house? It could be that we are just overwhelmingly slothful. But I am looking at one. And it's cool. I just haven't taken the time to unpack and set it up. I have opened the box. But hell.

I still have boxes of stuff downstairs that I haven't gone through- papers mostly. I have this phobia about papers. And throwing them away. Wonder where that came from??? Without revealing too many sources, it is somewhat of a family trait.

So that might be the only resolution that I make. Belated and all. Go through the boxes. Throw away the crap I no longer need. Figure out a better storage plan for the crap that I do need. I am guessing that return address labels for West Seattle aren't in the second category. But that's the kind of crap I tend to keep.

And I'll set up the Christmas present thingy. Because yes, I feel the guilt. If you prick me, I will bleed. So please don't. It'll only piss me off.

Not much time to actually think and write- work stuff is going on. Full on politics. Sad co-workers. Mean co-workers. Stressed people.

I did get confirmation yesterday that the surgery will happen. The Dr was good- very confident that this can be fixed easily, and quickly. With a minimum of fuss. Which is his job. But the place was like a Seattle sports museum. With ballet dancers included. So I figure that my shoulder is much less of a challenge than re-building a pitcher's shoulder after it is destroyed. Cake walk, no doubt.

Next is my very first MRI. Next week.

In my dream I was singing Courtney Love again. And feeling like the rock star.
It's never really like that, though. I am made to understand on a daily basis that I
am not a rock star.
It's ok, really.

It's the time though, that I am beginning to see what my choices have made. And
how many of them are permanent. That sense of endless possibility is dying.
Probably not a huge problem- I hung onto that for too long, no doubt.
It's ok, really.

Because there's not a damned thing I can do about it. The relentlessness of the process
is revealing. And Revelling. Mainly because those of us about to die salute you.
And we're all in that club, and it's not a lonely place. It's what you make of it.
If you want loneliness, just think that you're not going to die someday. That'll do the
trick. Because all of the rest of us will be leaving on a jet plane. Don't know when
we'll be back again. Probably never.

So sod off, indeed. Sod is what it's really all about. Wouldn't it be interesting if global
warning was due to putting us in air-tight containers rather than just planting us in
an open ditch? I do know that it causes some kind of financial burden. But otherwise, can't
really pull much cause and effect out of the mix.

Only if you were to build on a cemetery, there would probably be some problems with
nasty chemical leakage. Enough said. Bad idea. Don't do it. Teenage Suicide- don't do it.
The song really does remain the same.

And in my dreams I am a rock star. Not iron man, but a rock star. It's bona fide.

Today the obsession is with sweaters. Not sure why, only that the strongest impulse I have is to crawl back in bed and be warm. I think it has to do with winter. And with politics. And with work. And with the combo package of the last two. Things are happening, and I am trying to ignore the whole blasted thing. Has no direct effect on me, and it's hard to give a shit.

So sweaters. Lots and lots of sweaters. They are in my thoughts. I have never knitted an adult-sized one. Only for a baby. It was fun. I should try. I should. I should.

Ok, distraction isn't working so well. Back to politics. And work. No escaping. Which figures. What did they tell us all about being careful about wishing for things? And something about wishing being horses and beggars riding, or something, something.

And the words are just flying off the shelf. Like water bottles with a hurricane coming. I haven't figured out why every time there is a storm warning here, people act like that. There is a run on things that make no sense to me. Like milk. If the power goes out, your milk will spoil in the fridge, Einstein. Or Eisenstein. (heh heh heh- now it's on to nonsense.) And the power doesn't make the water cease to come out of the faucets. I don't get it. Again.

And there is really nothing else to say. The words might be flying, but they aren't pertinent or particularly interesting. Just words. On a page. Signifying not a hell of a lot. Someone else no doubt said it better. Which is typical. And probably appropriate.

So when silence isn't necessarily golden- it might just be grumpy. And not feel like sharing.

It happens in the best of families, but probably occurs more frequently in the worst of families.

And that's why we hate Dickens. Too simple. The decision last night was that if he were writing today, he would be another Jerry Bruckheimer. No nuance, only action. And very simple messages. Ah, but knowing the audience- priceless, no? But seriously, the consistent and simply gratuitous use of coincidence? Come on.

And that's why we love Dostoevsky. Plenty of nuance there. And ambiguity. And the message might be blazing red hot obvious, but then again, maybe not. But definitely not an action hero kind of guy.

And we love Fitzgerald. And we love Capote. And we love Maugham.

This was all part of a discussion last night. Before going to sleep. Because when is there ever a better time to talk literature?

News of the day-

you know the shoulder, the one I keep hurting? Welll.........it seems that the answer isn't more wine. It's surgery. Cool, eh?

Really, really bums me out.

Only spin I can put on it is that at least there is a solution and the Dr didn't just gently tell me to fucking deal with it. She actually used the word "gimpy" in describing what can happen if I re-injure it and cause nerve damage. Gotta love a Dr who uses the word gimpy.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck.

I see the surgeon next Monday. More to follow.

My current read on this...thing

I have this friend, see. Or at least I thought that I did. Well, maybe not so much.

She was having professional problems. I listened. I offered up what wisdom I had. Then I got the cold shoulder. Seriously cold shoulder. Went from hearing from her via im or email or phone daily, to nothing. Well, two contacts in 3 weeks. Yes, there were holidays in there. But this is also the woman who wanted to look after our cats. Luckily for the cats we had someone else lined up. Because I suspect that they wouldn't have been horribly healthy if she were involved and in her silent, stealth mode.

Now the part of me that I like more says that it's totally her problem, whatever it is. Indeed. But the other part of me thinks that I must've screwed up somewhere. And then there's the denial princess who thinks that there might just be too much general business.

But seriously, from daily chats to nothing? Right. I thought so. Now comes the next step. I don't think I choose to take one. I don't want someone in my life who handles things so ... poorly. And can't even be relied upon to communicate if she has a problem with something. Not interested in reading that many tea leaves. And if she's a flake at this point, there's really not much hope for a future in the friendship. And there you have it.

Moving on.

Kboy cracked open the Maker's Mark last night. We even have a couple of official Maker's Mark glasses. So we had some, and it was good. I only sipped a touch- had overstayed my welcome in Whiskey city earlier in the week, and am trying to be good. And had nasty, and lovely food for lunch- too many calories to count...math hurts sometimes.

And this weekend, boxes await. It is finally time to start with the one kind-of resolution that Kboy and I share. We want to eliminate many of the assorted boxes in the basement. To be replaced in the future by boxes that currently live in Montana. Filled with our stuff. To be eliminated. Basically it has been easier to just shove crap in boxes and forget all about it. But that technique isn't conducive to moving a lot. And we tend to do that. So it's time. I think that I'll tackle books and ceramics first. Then we'll see about the boxes of papers. They are my bete noir. I have an absolute phobia about throwing out papers. See, there are likely very important things in there. Very important. So important that if I throw them out, we will suffer tremendously some day...you get the idea...

And now back to our feature film- work! And after a night of restlessness, courtesy of strained back muscles. And all because I went to the gym. Not part of a New Year's resolution, I remind you.

Suck it up, cowgirl. Take a handful of something and call me in the morning. Which has broken. Just like something somethinnnnng. Call that fool Cat, and you might get esploded real good.

Yesterday was all about the shopping. For new things to fit my shrinking self- tired of jeans that are now pull-ons. Tired of other tatty clothing items. All destined for the dumpster- not interested in sharing them a la the leg warmers. Sorry.

Sharp segue to Kenya. How's that for unhappy? And downright silly. Who throws a shoe, seriously? No, nothing funny there. Not at all. Just inhumanity of humanity. And overwhelming stupidity. Would love to think that it couldn't happen here, but then remember church bombings not too long ago...

Left turn at politics. Because it's where all the cool kids hang out. But not really. Just reporters. Hey, did I share that I got a new Zune for Christmas from work? Yeah, well I got to listen to NPR while working out last night! How fucking cool is that! Answer- not in the least, babycakes. Another nail in the coffin of cool. All Things Considered is the anti-cool.

Now it is time to go. Be well, do good work and keep in touch. And if I EVER quote Garrison again, you have my full permission to bitch slap me to oblivion. Hello oblivion, how are the wife and kids? Pa dump ump.

He says I'm funny and cute

When I'm drunk. Which is certainly more celebratory than saying that I am a mean drunk. But I keep replaying the tapes and thinking, "did I make a total ass out of myself?" I'm told not, but it's probably the dying brain cells in their death throes causing all of the ruckus.

I just remember announcing to all present that I have the prettiest toes in the room. And considering that I was the only girl there, it was likely true. Then I showed them. My toes. In all their red glittery splendor. Thankfully the polish wasn't all chipped and ratty looking- that would be embarrassing. Like exposing my bare feet isn't.... I guess I am lucky not to be more of a hussy- it could've devolved to exposing other...assets...and I would be cringing. Still. I guess feet aren't so bad- it's not the 17th century.

I am wondering if his funny and cute comment is just meant to butter me up...or if he really means it. Boys. Who can read them?