Yikes, girlies! Juliet and Suzann both pounced me!
Be warned -- influenza is still giving me the rampant giggly Stoooooooopids, so this could be quite a ride.
Suzann's Tag:
The Middle Name Game!
These are the rules:-You must post the rules before you give your answers. You must list one fact about yourself for each letter of your middle name. Each fact must begin with that letter. If you don't have a middle name, just use your maiden name. After you've been tagged, you need to up-date your blog with your middle name and answers. At the end of your post, you need to tag one person for each letter of your middle name. (Be sure to leave them a comment telling them they've been tagged and need to read your blog for details.)
Melissa ... yeah. Could I steal my daughter's and use Siobhan instead?
M - Mother. I'm Mom to two daughters, five cats, one dog, and all of my children's friends. I get as many phone calls from the eldest's friends as she does.
E - Eccentric. Oh yeah, that's me all right.
L - Lazy, Listless, Loopy, Lethargic ... can you tell I'm sick?
I - cuz it's INFLUENZA bringing me down, oh yeah, oh yeah, bayyyyybeee....
S - Sick, STOOOPID, Silly ... right, this is getting too silly. Stop it!
S - Strength. Survival. Whatever it is, I've been told I have it in abundance to continue to cope with my poor health. Me, I call it Stubborn.
A - I love my Animals. There's something wonderfully unconditional about their affection, even from the cats.
Jules' Tag:
The rules for this meme are:
(1) Link to the person that tagged you.
(2) List the rules on your blog.
(3) Share six non-important things/habits/quirks about yourself.
(4) Tag 5 random people at the end of your post by linking to their blogs.
(5) Let each random person know they have been tagged.
Actually, this one is perfect right now, since fever makes me about as random as I can possibly get. You've been warned.
1 -- I have a habit of drumming my fingernails on any book I'm reading, driving my husband up the walls. I don't even notice I'm doing it.
2 -- My body may be a temple, but even goddesses feel the need to redecorate. I have no problems with body modification -- I've lost count of the number of tattoos that I have, I have 7 holes in my right ear, 2 in my left, and one in my nose.
3 -- I collect Techniques. I want to know HOW to do things. New techniques and skills thrill me, but then I have a habit of getting bored after I learn them and wander on to the next new thing. Thus, you'll often see spurts of one thing, then nothing on it for a while.
4 -- This is why I have a huge selection of Tools. I own 2 enkle looms, one of which I turned into a small tapestry loom, quilling tools, soldering iron, butane torches, propane torches, die cut machines, tatting tools, two sewing machines, knitting needles, drop spindles, felting needles, crochet hooks ... etc. I have tools in abundance, so many that I need a separate room JUST for my tools.
5 -- I can sleep when I'm dead. I've had chronic insomnia since I was 12. I turn 40 this year. That's a LONG time to not sleep properly.
6 -- My hair is currently Fire Engine red. Because.
NOW .... those who are to be tagged, I salute you!
Amyrantha, my Moonrose!
Cindy -- the Moonie One's partner in crime
Bev -- the Grannie with the mostest, who never posts enough anyway
Tanis -- twisted minds must stick together, bayyyybe -- for the monsters! Think of the monsters!
La Stephanie! I'm glad I found ya, lady. You're neat!
And I am SO not tagging one for Every Single Letter of my middle name -- that's my parent's fault, no one else should take the heat for that! :D
Showing posts with label stray thoughts. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stray thoughts. Show all posts
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Random Babble-0-tron
So, for those of you that have spouses on the road, be warned. My husband works out on oil rigs, and apparently he's exposed to influenza strains that are not Strain of the Year in the flu shots. Cough. Hack. Wheeze. Whimper.
Despite the cold, my dog is out in the backyard trying to herd squirrels. You can't tell a Corgi that squirrels aren't herdable. She just won't listen.
First thunderstorm of the year last night, so spring in Tornado Alley looks to be a real doozy. Felimid is usually oblivious to thunder, but last night, he crawled up into my arms and whimpered. It was LOUD.
The new kitten is fitting in well -- perhaps too well. Last night, he even had my anti-social Siamese playing tag with him around the house. When all four of the boys got going, I considered locking myself in the bathroom. That's a LOT of feline weight for them to throw around, since Oz is a huge huge cat, and Felimid is Jabba the Butt. Everyone but the crotchety "Scrappy Squirrel" Manx plays with him -- and she hates everybody. Cranky old girl.
I know, I know, another post from me without pictures? I'll fix that.
Tag swap at Scrapbook.com. The collar tags on the central cats are done in shrink plastic (and have a cat face on them, natch). The additional faces added are cut from a large cat collage stamp, and attached with foam strips.
More tag swap stuff. I need to get pictures of the last two sets.
Any "No Reservations" fans out there? I adore Anthony Bourdain (perhaps it could be called an obsession, after all, I own all his books, including the Mafia fiction), and he's way too entertaining on TV.
Last night, however, the show was rather emotional. Tony visited New Orleans, discussing the aftermath of Katrina. The only other show that had been this tense before was the Beirut episode. Even seeing Tony finally sit down to talk to Emeril, who has been the butt of SO many of Tony's jokes, wasn't as entertainingly fun as expected. Very serious show, but worth a watch.
Despite the cold, my dog is out in the backyard trying to herd squirrels. You can't tell a Corgi that squirrels aren't herdable. She just won't listen.
First thunderstorm of the year last night, so spring in Tornado Alley looks to be a real doozy. Felimid is usually oblivious to thunder, but last night, he crawled up into my arms and whimpered. It was LOUD.
The new kitten is fitting in well -- perhaps too well. Last night, he even had my anti-social Siamese playing tag with him around the house. When all four of the boys got going, I considered locking myself in the bathroom. That's a LOT of feline weight for them to throw around, since Oz is a huge huge cat, and Felimid is Jabba the Butt. Everyone but the crotchety "Scrappy Squirrel" Manx plays with him -- and she hates everybody. Cranky old girl.
I know, I know, another post from me without pictures? I'll fix that.
Tag swap at Scrapbook.com. The collar tags on the central cats are done in shrink plastic (and have a cat face on them, natch). The additional faces added are cut from a large cat collage stamp, and attached with foam strips.
More tag swap stuff. I need to get pictures of the last two sets.Any "No Reservations" fans out there? I adore Anthony Bourdain (perhaps it could be called an obsession, after all, I own all his books, including the Mafia fiction), and he's way too entertaining on TV.
Last night, however, the show was rather emotional. Tony visited New Orleans, discussing the aftermath of Katrina. The only other show that had been this tense before was the Beirut episode. Even seeing Tony finally sit down to talk to Emeril, who has been the butt of SO many of Tony's jokes, wasn't as entertainingly fun as expected. Very serious show, but worth a watch.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Questioning ...
I know I don't have a lot of readers -- okay, I have maybe one or two reading this blog, but hey, it's really for myself anyway (that's my excuse, and I'm sticking with it).
However, I was thinking about doing a Weekender thing: every weekend, post a technique/project, complete with materials needed, and pictures.
Are the one or two people that actually read this thing interested at all in this?
However, I was thinking about doing a Weekender thing: every weekend, post a technique/project, complete with materials needed, and pictures.
Are the one or two people that actually read this thing interested at all in this?
Friday, October 26, 2007
Wubba wubba wubba -- what?
DG is off and running to a rig again. While the timing wasn't great for kid reasons, we need the money desperately, so it's copacetic. Of course, he got the phone call while he was cooking dinner, and was told to leave Now. They gave him an hour to finish up and get repacked.
Thing 1 just turned 15 this Monday. Who's feeling old? Yes, yes, that's me (and probably a dozen or so folks that knew her when she was a baby). Today was Goblin Day at her school, and thus full costumes were allowed (barring the usual Bible Belt rules of no cross-play (no guys dressing as girls -- but of course, if a girl dressed as a male character, they wouldn't say a bloody thing -- UGH), had to stay in school dress code, if you wanted to wear a hat or partial mask you had to pay for the privilege, etc. Those of you with weak hearts don't want to see the pics when I get them posted. Trust me.
I have little skin left on my fingers from finishing her wings. At least now they're definitely asbestos-skinned towards heat. I so love a good glue gun. Or even a crappy one. Mmm, adhesive!!
![[image]](http://www.totheegress.com/pooka/gothfaerie.jpg)
My computer is definitely temporarily D-E-D. Half Life 2 was not its friend, and the video card has gone kaboom. Unless anyone out there has a spare PCI-E video card they aren't using and don't mind sending along, I'm stuck without a machine for quite a while.
The fridge, which had croaked, I managed to kick (and had the bruise to show for it) back into something resembling function, but not function that I would trust. However, our doctor neighbor that has saved my butt a few times on weekends with meds is moving (and this makes me not happy) and was getting rid of everything she could. Networking is your friend. So I asked about the side-by-side fridge in their garage.
It's now sitting in my garage, waiting for some muscle to help me switch them out. Free. Frankly, it's much nicer than ours EVER was. Free.
I also managed to get bunk beds from them, and while they don't have mattresses, there's at least one set of box springs, and they're old sturdy hardwood bunk beds that can be assembled separately. Both Things have decided they no longer want to sleep on futons, so this was good timing. Just have to figure out a sleeping surface before we put them in their rooms.
The weather has been nice, finally. 50s or so at night. I finally needed something other than just a sheet last night for the first time, and the AC wasn't even on. About time, considering our electric bills. It's actually 60* out there right now, at 11 am. Shiny. Of course, this led to DG leaving windows open, which led to me and tubby cat not being able to breathe. This fresh air stuff, clearly, it's not good for you.
Still out of ridiculous amounts of medication, which isn't good for me either. At least I still have some Lidoderm patches, and my seizure meds, and my bp drugs finally, but everything else -- newp. And of course none of the ones I need are on WalMart's $4 formulary. Figures, huh?
Ah, the familiar sounds of annoyed barking in the backyard. Zoe's after the squirrels again. She LOOOOOVES chasing squirrels. The squirrels? Not so much love. We tried to tell her about the mob of Russian squirrels mauling that other dog, but she didn't seem to care too much. The dog is also much happier now that the weather is cooler, and no longer minds going outside. She's like me, she hates heat. It's odd, because it's not like she has long fur to deal with -- she's got the sleek Heeler coat, on that Corgi body -- but even the idea of going outside when it was 100* made her whimper and try to refuse. Now, she'll stay outside for hours, just to get to chase the squirrels as they race back and forth above her head.
Thing 1 just turned 15 this Monday. Who's feeling old? Yes, yes, that's me (and probably a dozen or so folks that knew her when she was a baby). Today was Goblin Day at her school, and thus full costumes were allowed (barring the usual Bible Belt rules of no cross-play (no guys dressing as girls -- but of course, if a girl dressed as a male character, they wouldn't say a bloody thing -- UGH), had to stay in school dress code, if you wanted to wear a hat or partial mask you had to pay for the privilege, etc. Those of you with weak hearts don't want to see the pics when I get them posted. Trust me.
I have little skin left on my fingers from finishing her wings. At least now they're definitely asbestos-skinned towards heat. I so love a good glue gun. Or even a crappy one. Mmm, adhesive!!
And the dd with her wings for her Halloween costume.
My computer is definitely temporarily D-E-D. Half Life 2 was not its friend, and the video card has gone kaboom. Unless anyone out there has a spare PCI-E video card they aren't using and don't mind sending along, I'm stuck without a machine for quite a while.
The fridge, which had croaked, I managed to kick (and had the bruise to show for it) back into something resembling function, but not function that I would trust. However, our doctor neighbor that has saved my butt a few times on weekends with meds is moving (and this makes me not happy) and was getting rid of everything she could. Networking is your friend. So I asked about the side-by-side fridge in their garage.
It's now sitting in my garage, waiting for some muscle to help me switch them out. Free. Frankly, it's much nicer than ours EVER was. Free.
I also managed to get bunk beds from them, and while they don't have mattresses, there's at least one set of box springs, and they're old sturdy hardwood bunk beds that can be assembled separately. Both Things have decided they no longer want to sleep on futons, so this was good timing. Just have to figure out a sleeping surface before we put them in their rooms.
The weather has been nice, finally. 50s or so at night. I finally needed something other than just a sheet last night for the first time, and the AC wasn't even on. About time, considering our electric bills. It's actually 60* out there right now, at 11 am. Shiny. Of course, this led to DG leaving windows open, which led to me and tubby cat not being able to breathe. This fresh air stuff, clearly, it's not good for you.
Still out of ridiculous amounts of medication, which isn't good for me either. At least I still have some Lidoderm patches, and my seizure meds, and my bp drugs finally, but everything else -- newp. And of course none of the ones I need are on WalMart's $4 formulary. Figures, huh?
Ah, the familiar sounds of annoyed barking in the backyard. Zoe's after the squirrels again. She LOOOOOVES chasing squirrels. The squirrels? Not so much love. We tried to tell her about the mob of Russian squirrels mauling that other dog, but she didn't seem to care too much. The dog is also much happier now that the weather is cooler, and no longer minds going outside. She's like me, she hates heat. It's odd, because it's not like she has long fur to deal with -- she's got the sleek Heeler coat, on that Corgi body -- but even the idea of going outside when it was 100* made her whimper and try to refuse. Now, she'll stay outside for hours, just to get to chase the squirrels as they race back and forth above her head.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
T.M.S.
Not TMI, TMS -- or Too Much Shit.
So, I was looking in my purse of holding (just ask Jon -- and yes, Jon, I'm still using that same brown stressed-leather purse I had in DC), trying to find ... well, something, that completely escapes me now like most thoughts do these days.
Now, keep things in mind. In DC, my purse not only held all my vacation need stuff, but all of Jon's while we were out as well, with room to spare.
On the way to Houston for Christmas, knowing we had to go through some Really Bad Places to reach my parent's house, this same purse, along with all my necessary road trip stuff, held the Beretta, along with 3 full clips.
The asides done, as I went in, just digging and not looking (hey, we females usually don't have to look, we know what's in there) and my hand kept hitting metal. A lot of it -- and it wasn't the same thing, over and over. Curious.
So, in the spirit of "What the hell", I dumped my purse out for a regular cleaning. And found:
-- my mini-Swiss army knife
-- my Mini Pal punch blade
-- a 4" hooked Fury serrated knife
-- 4" serrated Gerber knife
-- and that I was missing my actual Gerber multi-tool.
I have four knives in my purse. Why in the name of screaming sweet baby Jesus do I have four knives in my purse? I could not tell you.
There's also a blow-torch lighter, my metal credit card Bill of Rights, an LED flashlight, and a bottle opener. Two pens, a notebook, copy of "Get a Grip on Physics", bottle of meds, 4 shooter's earplugs, bandaids, hairbrush, dental floss, powder compact, lip balm, packet of tissues. And a purple crayon.
Yes, not just any crayon, but a single lonely purple crayon in my purse.
Huh. So, I examine my bedside table, where I'm sitting.
-- 7 bottles of meds
-- three candles, two lit
-- 2 bottles of eardrops for chronic swimmer's ear
-- EIGHT tubes of lip balm
-- 2 bottles of moisturizer
-- scissors and hemostats
-- resin 'goblet' with half a dozen orphan jewelry bits
-- an uber powerful Sylvania Dot It LED light for emergencies
-- Oh, yes, and a fully loaded Beretta.
This makes me really not want to look at my desk.
1 am. Happy Birthday to me. I'm going to clean up my mess as a present to myself.
Now where the hell is my Gerber?
So, I was looking in my purse of holding (just ask Jon -- and yes, Jon, I'm still using that same brown stressed-leather purse I had in DC), trying to find ... well, something, that completely escapes me now like most thoughts do these days.
Now, keep things in mind. In DC, my purse not only held all my vacation need stuff, but all of Jon's while we were out as well, with room to spare.
On the way to Houston for Christmas, knowing we had to go through some Really Bad Places to reach my parent's house, this same purse, along with all my necessary road trip stuff, held the Beretta, along with 3 full clips.
The asides done, as I went in, just digging and not looking (hey, we females usually don't have to look, we know what's in there) and my hand kept hitting metal. A lot of it -- and it wasn't the same thing, over and over. Curious.
So, in the spirit of "What the hell", I dumped my purse out for a regular cleaning. And found:
-- my mini-Swiss army knife
-- my Mini Pal punch blade
-- a 4" hooked Fury serrated knife
-- 4" serrated Gerber knife
-- and that I was missing my actual Gerber multi-tool.
I have four knives in my purse. Why in the name of screaming sweet baby Jesus do I have four knives in my purse? I could not tell you.
There's also a blow-torch lighter, my metal credit card Bill of Rights, an LED flashlight, and a bottle opener. Two pens, a notebook, copy of "Get a Grip on Physics", bottle of meds, 4 shooter's earplugs, bandaids, hairbrush, dental floss, powder compact, lip balm, packet of tissues. And a purple crayon.
Yes, not just any crayon, but a single lonely purple crayon in my purse.
Huh. So, I examine my bedside table, where I'm sitting.
-- 7 bottles of meds
-- three candles, two lit
-- 2 bottles of eardrops for chronic swimmer's ear
-- EIGHT tubes of lip balm
-- 2 bottles of moisturizer
-- scissors and hemostats
-- resin 'goblet' with half a dozen orphan jewelry bits
-- an uber powerful Sylvania Dot It LED light for emergencies
-- Oh, yes, and a fully loaded Beretta.
This makes me really not want to look at my desk.
1 am. Happy Birthday to me. I'm going to clean up my mess as a present to myself.
Now where the hell is my Gerber?
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Ruminations of an Insomniac
Stray thoughts ahead. You were warned.
Why is the library or a bookstore so amazingly sexy? What is it about real paper, about the scent of the pages, the sound they make when turned or ruffled, that makes electronic media feel so flat?
I'm a book junkie, I admit it.
I have an intense predilection for hardbacks. They just feel so right, they read more comfortably: after all, you have no risk of bending the covers, they're easier to support during the process of devouring the book. Paperbacks are a weak and poor shadow of the reading pleasure, and yet my budget hardly allows me to buy hardcovers. The library makes a nearly acceptable substitute, and even though I won't own the books that way, there's always the joy of renewing what I've checked out previously.
Chronicles of the Lensmen: E.E."Doc" Smith. For hard sci-fi started in 1948, they still manage to hold my rapt attention, and I can see reflections of it in many more current works.
The bookcase purchased for my birthday is a black leviathan near my bed. A blank slate, shelves awaiting books, and the sides like a 2001 obelisk begging to be painted. Sorcha suggested silver knotwork, and I think it might just be the way I go unless there are other creative suggestions. The unrelieved BLACKNESS of it is so very formal, but it's crying out for More.
Of course, it's hardly a bookcase. That would be a misnomer of grand proportions. What it truly is, or rather has become, is a Dedicated Feline Napping Appliance. I've found cats happily sleeping on three of the deep shelves. I fear the bottom shelf lost forever to the four-legged interlopers.
Candle flames and lava lamps, the light of the laptop monitor, with old old X Files rumbling on the TV in the background as my only light. An oversized feline curled tightly against my leg as I type, purring like a motorboat and gently pawing at my leg for attention, then more insistently until I have to stop typing and adore him before the claws come out in a Demand For Attention NOW.
Rambling onwards. Uh-Oh Oreos. Uh-oh is right, the damned things are temptation enough for me, who isn't supposed to partake of the evils of refined sugar, but denying them is impossible. Damn you, DG. Now bring me more. Or better yet, cinnamon glazed almonds, which I have found a lovely online source for and will be begging to order quite soon, oh yes.
I want to kidnap my Trained Attack Wenches and run away for the weekend. Or a week. Just get away with the girls for a while. It doesn't matter if we do anything, if we just lie around, or if we pile into the car and aim for a random road trip. So what if it's more like "Thelma and Louise" meets "The Blues Brothers." We can do this. We must do this. I need the relief, I need my wenches, I need to get away and escape.
Am I escaping from something in particular, or just from myself? I don't think it matters. I'm pushing 40 with a stick now, I've lost all the horrible weight that dragged me down, and it's time I remembered how to live again.
Spent Saturday with my aunt and uncle. My aunt, sister to the Momster from Hell, and so totally different in every way possible. To know that she also has difficulties with the Momster was quite refreshing and comforting, to discover that I'm not the only one that thinks the woman is not only the poster child for Valium, but a dreadfully neurotic prude "in serious need of a good fuck," end quote. Endless wave pool, skinny dipping with my hippy relatives (who also pointed out the locations of all the N TX nudist colonies) in their indoor endless wave pool, or outdoors in the hot tub. This was the first time in many many years I've been able to spend time with them without the Momster around, and I think we were all a little nervous at first, wondering if we could just relax and be ourselves. It didn't take long to find many mutually compatible areas, and everyone relaxed and enjoyed themselves.
It wasn't a complete escape, but for a while it was another world.
A sound in the background, a guitar singing away, surprisingly melodic, to look up and see little tiny Thing 2 perched in a chair before the Wall of Guitars (including the ones signed by B.B. King and ... was it Eric Clapton, DG?), guitar in her arms. It was my 8 year old playing. DG got a few pics with his camera phone, but the Luddite has yet to figure out how to get them from the phone to anything else so they can be shared. My uncle also sent her home with two new sets of drumsticks. Yes, music runs deep in this family.
Some nights, I don't think there's enough Ambien in the world to still my mind and put me to sleep. I've been out of sleep aids for months, and for a chronic insomniac with 20 + years experience in the utter lack of sleep, I suppose it isn't so bad to go back to the dramatic cycles of sleeplessness, but damn what I wouldn't give for a night or two of perfectly normal sleep patterns. Such is my life, which at least I'm not sleeping through.
Found a vanilla scented candle that isn't disgusting. I didn't think they existed, and fake vanilla smells make me gag, all plasticy and unnatural. This is rather mellow with a whisper of cigar store vanilla pipe tobacco smoothness, instead of sharp and biting, and is missing the cloying sweetness of other vanilla attempts. I suppose I'm as pleased as I can be, but of course they were on dramatic clearance and will probably be impossible to find after this.
Damn Illuminations anyway. First they go and candle the Sacred Spaces candles that I utterly adored, then they discontinued my Tomato Vine candles, and now they've bloody well gone too far by pulling Every Single Illuminations Store out of the state of TX. You people are FIRED! The young Empress to Be is as displeased as her Mama. Bastards.
Wild Cherry Diet Pepsi is my friend, but the evil Pepsi company that does not provide said cold tasty beverage in a convenient 6 pack of BOTTLES instead of cans needs to be soundly thrashed. I don't do cans. I can TASTE the metal, and it's foul. And then there's the nose thing, which provides friends and family alike with a great deal of entertainment as Pooka comes away with a bruised schnoze because the Irish nose just isn't designed to be slugging any beverage out of a can.
You can all stop laughing now, thank you. I have stale pistachios, and I'm not afraid to use them.
Yep, I've got the 3 am blues.
Why is the library or a bookstore so amazingly sexy? What is it about real paper, about the scent of the pages, the sound they make when turned or ruffled, that makes electronic media feel so flat?
I'm a book junkie, I admit it.
I have an intense predilection for hardbacks. They just feel so right, they read more comfortably: after all, you have no risk of bending the covers, they're easier to support during the process of devouring the book. Paperbacks are a weak and poor shadow of the reading pleasure, and yet my budget hardly allows me to buy hardcovers. The library makes a nearly acceptable substitute, and even though I won't own the books that way, there's always the joy of renewing what I've checked out previously.
Chronicles of the Lensmen: E.E."Doc" Smith. For hard sci-fi started in 1948, they still manage to hold my rapt attention, and I can see reflections of it in many more current works.
The bookcase purchased for my birthday is a black leviathan near my bed. A blank slate, shelves awaiting books, and the sides like a 2001 obelisk begging to be painted. Sorcha suggested silver knotwork, and I think it might just be the way I go unless there are other creative suggestions. The unrelieved BLACKNESS of it is so very formal, but it's crying out for More.
Of course, it's hardly a bookcase. That would be a misnomer of grand proportions. What it truly is, or rather has become, is a Dedicated Feline Napping Appliance. I've found cats happily sleeping on three of the deep shelves. I fear the bottom shelf lost forever to the four-legged interlopers.
Candle flames and lava lamps, the light of the laptop monitor, with old old X Files rumbling on the TV in the background as my only light. An oversized feline curled tightly against my leg as I type, purring like a motorboat and gently pawing at my leg for attention, then more insistently until I have to stop typing and adore him before the claws come out in a Demand For Attention NOW.
Rambling onwards. Uh-Oh Oreos. Uh-oh is right, the damned things are temptation enough for me, who isn't supposed to partake of the evils of refined sugar, but denying them is impossible. Damn you, DG. Now bring me more. Or better yet, cinnamon glazed almonds, which I have found a lovely online source for and will be begging to order quite soon, oh yes.
I want to kidnap my Trained Attack Wenches and run away for the weekend. Or a week. Just get away with the girls for a while. It doesn't matter if we do anything, if we just lie around, or if we pile into the car and aim for a random road trip. So what if it's more like "Thelma and Louise" meets "The Blues Brothers." We can do this. We must do this. I need the relief, I need my wenches, I need to get away and escape.
Am I escaping from something in particular, or just from myself? I don't think it matters. I'm pushing 40 with a stick now, I've lost all the horrible weight that dragged me down, and it's time I remembered how to live again.
Spent Saturday with my aunt and uncle. My aunt, sister to the Momster from Hell, and so totally different in every way possible. To know that she also has difficulties with the Momster was quite refreshing and comforting, to discover that I'm not the only one that thinks the woman is not only the poster child for Valium, but a dreadfully neurotic prude "in serious need of a good fuck," end quote. Endless wave pool, skinny dipping with my hippy relatives (who also pointed out the locations of all the N TX nudist colonies) in their indoor endless wave pool, or outdoors in the hot tub. This was the first time in many many years I've been able to spend time with them without the Momster around, and I think we were all a little nervous at first, wondering if we could just relax and be ourselves. It didn't take long to find many mutually compatible areas, and everyone relaxed and enjoyed themselves.
It wasn't a complete escape, but for a while it was another world.
A sound in the background, a guitar singing away, surprisingly melodic, to look up and see little tiny Thing 2 perched in a chair before the Wall of Guitars (including the ones signed by B.B. King and ... was it Eric Clapton, DG?), guitar in her arms. It was my 8 year old playing. DG got a few pics with his camera phone, but the Luddite has yet to figure out how to get them from the phone to anything else so they can be shared. My uncle also sent her home with two new sets of drumsticks. Yes, music runs deep in this family.
Some nights, I don't think there's enough Ambien in the world to still my mind and put me to sleep. I've been out of sleep aids for months, and for a chronic insomniac with 20 + years experience in the utter lack of sleep, I suppose it isn't so bad to go back to the dramatic cycles of sleeplessness, but damn what I wouldn't give for a night or two of perfectly normal sleep patterns. Such is my life, which at least I'm not sleeping through.
Found a vanilla scented candle that isn't disgusting. I didn't think they existed, and fake vanilla smells make me gag, all plasticy and unnatural. This is rather mellow with a whisper of cigar store vanilla pipe tobacco smoothness, instead of sharp and biting, and is missing the cloying sweetness of other vanilla attempts. I suppose I'm as pleased as I can be, but of course they were on dramatic clearance and will probably be impossible to find after this.
Damn Illuminations anyway. First they go and candle the Sacred Spaces candles that I utterly adored, then they discontinued my Tomato Vine candles, and now they've bloody well gone too far by pulling Every Single Illuminations Store out of the state of TX. You people are FIRED! The young Empress to Be is as displeased as her Mama. Bastards.
Wild Cherry Diet Pepsi is my friend, but the evil Pepsi company that does not provide said cold tasty beverage in a convenient 6 pack of BOTTLES instead of cans needs to be soundly thrashed. I don't do cans. I can TASTE the metal, and it's foul. And then there's the nose thing, which provides friends and family alike with a great deal of entertainment as Pooka comes away with a bruised schnoze because the Irish nose just isn't designed to be slugging any beverage out of a can.
You can all stop laughing now, thank you. I have stale pistachios, and I'm not afraid to use them.
Yep, I've got the 3 am blues.
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
Stray Wheeeee
Note to self: Do not take Lortab with Testosterone before bedtime.
Hydrocodone makes Pooka hyper.
Hyper is not conducive to sleep.
Had to leave bed before DG tried to smother me with a pillow.
I'm talking to the big purple Cheshire Cat on my monitor ... and I think it's answering me.
Can't sleep, clowns will eat me.
Hair has finally gotten longer again. Makes trying to brush or wash it with my shoulder all hose a real bitch. Had the temptation to hack it off again, but after some of the reactions I got last time ... I may just shave it all off, hah!
Harley has assassinated Batgirl again. Out of all the action figures and toys on the shelf above my desk, Harley has singled Batgirl out for termination.
Giger is doing ... things in his cage. I think it's the rodent version of Tai Chi from what I can see of it. Man, he's tall when he stretches up on his hind legs.
.
.
.
.
Black hole.
Dammit, out of all the injuries from the fall, my knee is the only one that looks cool. Still haven't seen a bruise come up on my arm (apparently they're hiding deep inside the muscles so they can taunt me), and only mild bruising on my face. I mean, what the hell? Here I go and do this great fall, only to not get anything usuable out of the damage pics.
Mark ... finally got your email about the project. As I am a doofus, I'd been forgetting to check that one. Yes, I'm interested. Sounds fun. I like fun. Let's talk.
My new client for the second album cover is a riot. I swear, if this guy perks and bounces anymore, I'm going to be very very scared. I mean, with "Antipathy" as the band name, he's entirely too excited. :) They're wanting t-shirts out of whatever designs I come up with for them. Must get to work there.
Though can you see my fat wounded ass in their mosh pit? Don't think so.
Why is it 4:30 in the morning?
I'd like to go to sleep now. Can someone please page the Sandman? He missed part of this house.
Still no word from Compaq. Tommorow I call and the blood-feast will begin.
Hydrocodone makes Pooka hyper.
Hyper is not conducive to sleep.
Had to leave bed before DG tried to smother me with a pillow.
I'm talking to the big purple Cheshire Cat on my monitor ... and I think it's answering me.
Can't sleep, clowns will eat me.
Hair has finally gotten longer again. Makes trying to brush or wash it with my shoulder all hose a real bitch. Had the temptation to hack it off again, but after some of the reactions I got last time ... I may just shave it all off, hah!
Harley has assassinated Batgirl again. Out of all the action figures and toys on the shelf above my desk, Harley has singled Batgirl out for termination.
Giger is doing ... things in his cage. I think it's the rodent version of Tai Chi from what I can see of it. Man, he's tall when he stretches up on his hind legs.
.
.
.
.
Black hole.
Dammit, out of all the injuries from the fall, my knee is the only one that looks cool. Still haven't seen a bruise come up on my arm (apparently they're hiding deep inside the muscles so they can taunt me), and only mild bruising on my face. I mean, what the hell? Here I go and do this great fall, only to not get anything usuable out of the damage pics.
Mark ... finally got your email about the project. As I am a doofus, I'd been forgetting to check that one. Yes, I'm interested. Sounds fun. I like fun. Let's talk.
My new client for the second album cover is a riot. I swear, if this guy perks and bounces anymore, I'm going to be very very scared. I mean, with "Antipathy" as the band name, he's entirely too excited. :) They're wanting t-shirts out of whatever designs I come up with for them. Must get to work there.
Though can you see my fat wounded ass in their mosh pit? Don't think so.
Why is it 4:30 in the morning?
I'd like to go to sleep now. Can someone please page the Sandman? He missed part of this house.
Still no word from Compaq. Tommorow I call and the blood-feast will begin.
Tuesday, September 10, 2002
Total Recall
How do you remember? What does it take for a moment to sear itself into your memory? Pain, joy, grief?
How clear is your recall?
I remember the day the Challenger exploded. I was in my computer math class, with the scary bug-eyed bleached blonde teacher. We had a TV on in the room while we worked. We couldn't believe what we saw. Surely ... The loudspeaker came on. The principal, a definite hard-ass, was crying.
I remember the day that DG proposed. I remember what I was wearing (and I still have the skirt, though it stopped fitting me years ago). I remember the car he was driving. I remember when he pulled over to the side of the narrow country road, and I gave him the "what the hell?" look as he stopped. Not a lot of passing room. He shushed me, got out of the car, picked a handful of wild flowers (including some black-eyed Susans), opened my door, got down on one knee, and asked me to marry him.
I remember the night that my paternal grandfather died. I was in bed, it was late. The phone rang. I heard my father start to sob. I've never heard him cry like that. My dread of late night phone calls started then. My father sounded broken.
I remember the day DG came home, with that hesitant little smile. I met him at the door, since he didn't come further inside. He took my hand, and slid the ring on my finger. A silver band of roses from James Avery. My engagement ring. So I would always have fresh roses, no matter the season. It all started with a rose, after all.
I remember the day we went to pick up my baby sister from the adoption agency. I was only 3 and a half at the time. I remember, because as we were getting back into the car, I cut my hand on something on the seat. A deep slice, between the webbing of my fingers.
I remember the phone call from Sabrina. I was getting ready for a date, Charlie was already at the house. She was crying, and as she tried to explain, the news show finished the story. We'd heard sirens maybe half an hour before. Two of our graduating seniors, two of the most popular and friendliest guys in the class, had an accident only a few blocks from our house. A drunk driver ran a light. One was killed instantly, thrown through the windshield. He wasn't wearing his seat belt. His passenger was critical for weeks, and suffered permanent brain damage. Graduation was only two weeks away. I always wear my seat belt, have from that moment on. And when we pass the cross erected where the accident occurs, I still tear up.
I still remember falling/jumping out of the persimmon tree that was in the field behind our house, knowing fully that my grandfather was there below. I knew that I would be safe, even if I couldn't fly.
I remember "falling" into the lake with my sister. "Don't get wet," my mother would scowl as we left with my grandfather. "Oh no, we won't," we'd tell her. And every time, we "accidentally" managed to fall in. And since we were already wet ....
Blackberries. I remember trip after trip with my grandfather, many times with me on his back. "No, THAT one, Poppie!" And he'd bend and pick that very one. We'd go out with bags and buckets, and every time we'd come back with only half full, and me stained utterly purple from lips to fingertips, scratches from brambles on us both. They never tasted so sweet. I had to pay for blackberries this year. It hurt. And they just weren't as good.
I remember seeing the look on DG's face the day Thing 1 was born, the day he thought he was going to lose us both. The day he almost did. I remember feeling like I was floating (blood loss isn't such a bad way to go), and my only worries were for DG, and for the baby that wasn't breathing.
I remember playing Danny's Game Boy (Tetris) while I was in labour with her, and the doctor coming in, scowling, and asking me if I knew I was having a contraction. I told him to hush, I was about to get a high score.
I remember Danny showing up right before visiting hours were over and after we'd both been dragged back from death, with food, with a huge chocolate milkshake. I hadn't eaten in two days before that. Milkshakes haven't tasted as good since then.
I remember ... GRRR ... that because Thing 1 was two weeks late, that DG and Roy used MY tickets to Jethro Tull and WENT WITHOUT ME to the concert while I sat in the hospital and sulked. Damn them! :P (Yes, I told them to go. We'd paid for the tickets anyway, no use in wasting them. The bastards.)
I remember getting the phone call saying that my great-grandmother was in the ER and that it didn't look good. We rushed to Tomball, and then SAT and sat, waiting. She had still been alive when we got there. By the time they talked to us, she was gone. They let us into the room to see her. She was still on the table in the triage room. I remember the towels over her throat to cover the emergency trach that failed. And I was Angry. Furious. I fled. Ran out of the room, out of the ER, down the halls ... I remember stopping when I couldn't breathe anymore. A nurse came over, gentle, with a clucking scold that I was bleeding on her floor. Somehow, in my flight, I'd ripped open the back of my hand.
I still have the scar.
I remember the absolute ROAR that Thing 2 gave out when she was born. The doctor and nurses were startled. No butt-spanking for this kid. She was out and ready to take over. I remember the words: "Oh, she has a birthmark" and utterly panicking. Imagination took over fast, but it turned out to be a relatively cute round brown "witchmark" under her right arm on the side. Talk about foreshadowing against the future.
I remember the utter shock at having my name called out after our UIL One-Act play performance for All-Star Cast. I remember my father, chasing me down after we were through to hand me an enormous bouquet of pink roses. I remember power-barfing in the bathroom AFTER we were done. I always let stress go afterwards. Before, I was the rock. I remember, in my shock at being named to All-Star, seeing an old boyfriend in the crowd that I hadn't seen in years. Jeff smiling, and giving me the thumbs up.
It is amazing how we remember, and the clarity that surrounds some moments and yet is absent from others. The human brain is an amazing thing, and it frightens me now that many of those pathways are being closed off or severed as my illness progresses.
Still, I think that, no matter what happens, there are some things that will never be forgotten. There is always paper, there is always my journal to record those moments that might slip away.
I will hold them to my heart forever. No matter how painful, or how full of joy they might be. It is my past, my history, my future, and they are parts of what has made me who I am.
just me, pretending to be
How clear is your recall?
I remember the day the Challenger exploded. I was in my computer math class, with the scary bug-eyed bleached blonde teacher. We had a TV on in the room while we worked. We couldn't believe what we saw. Surely ... The loudspeaker came on. The principal, a definite hard-ass, was crying.
I remember the day that DG proposed. I remember what I was wearing (and I still have the skirt, though it stopped fitting me years ago). I remember the car he was driving. I remember when he pulled over to the side of the narrow country road, and I gave him the "what the hell?" look as he stopped. Not a lot of passing room. He shushed me, got out of the car, picked a handful of wild flowers (including some black-eyed Susans), opened my door, got down on one knee, and asked me to marry him.
I remember the night that my paternal grandfather died. I was in bed, it was late. The phone rang. I heard my father start to sob. I've never heard him cry like that. My dread of late night phone calls started then. My father sounded broken.
I remember the day DG came home, with that hesitant little smile. I met him at the door, since he didn't come further inside. He took my hand, and slid the ring on my finger. A silver band of roses from James Avery. My engagement ring. So I would always have fresh roses, no matter the season. It all started with a rose, after all.
I remember the day we went to pick up my baby sister from the adoption agency. I was only 3 and a half at the time. I remember, because as we were getting back into the car, I cut my hand on something on the seat. A deep slice, between the webbing of my fingers.
I remember the phone call from Sabrina. I was getting ready for a date, Charlie was already at the house. She was crying, and as she tried to explain, the news show finished the story. We'd heard sirens maybe half an hour before. Two of our graduating seniors, two of the most popular and friendliest guys in the class, had an accident only a few blocks from our house. A drunk driver ran a light. One was killed instantly, thrown through the windshield. He wasn't wearing his seat belt. His passenger was critical for weeks, and suffered permanent brain damage. Graduation was only two weeks away. I always wear my seat belt, have from that moment on. And when we pass the cross erected where the accident occurs, I still tear up.
I still remember falling/jumping out of the persimmon tree that was in the field behind our house, knowing fully that my grandfather was there below. I knew that I would be safe, even if I couldn't fly.
I remember "falling" into the lake with my sister. "Don't get wet," my mother would scowl as we left with my grandfather. "Oh no, we won't," we'd tell her. And every time, we "accidentally" managed to fall in. And since we were already wet ....
Blackberries. I remember trip after trip with my grandfather, many times with me on his back. "No, THAT one, Poppie!" And he'd bend and pick that very one. We'd go out with bags and buckets, and every time we'd come back with only half full, and me stained utterly purple from lips to fingertips, scratches from brambles on us both. They never tasted so sweet. I had to pay for blackberries this year. It hurt. And they just weren't as good.
I remember seeing the look on DG's face the day Thing 1 was born, the day he thought he was going to lose us both. The day he almost did. I remember feeling like I was floating (blood loss isn't such a bad way to go), and my only worries were for DG, and for the baby that wasn't breathing.
I remember playing Danny's Game Boy (Tetris) while I was in labour with her, and the doctor coming in, scowling, and asking me if I knew I was having a contraction. I told him to hush, I was about to get a high score.
I remember Danny showing up right before visiting hours were over and after we'd both been dragged back from death, with food, with a huge chocolate milkshake. I hadn't eaten in two days before that. Milkshakes haven't tasted as good since then.
I remember ... GRRR ... that because Thing 1 was two weeks late, that DG and Roy used MY tickets to Jethro Tull and WENT WITHOUT ME to the concert while I sat in the hospital and sulked. Damn them! :P (Yes, I told them to go. We'd paid for the tickets anyway, no use in wasting them. The bastards.)
I remember getting the phone call saying that my great-grandmother was in the ER and that it didn't look good. We rushed to Tomball, and then SAT and sat, waiting. She had still been alive when we got there. By the time they talked to us, she was gone. They let us into the room to see her. She was still on the table in the triage room. I remember the towels over her throat to cover the emergency trach that failed. And I was Angry. Furious. I fled. Ran out of the room, out of the ER, down the halls ... I remember stopping when I couldn't breathe anymore. A nurse came over, gentle, with a clucking scold that I was bleeding on her floor. Somehow, in my flight, I'd ripped open the back of my hand.
I still have the scar.
I remember the absolute ROAR that Thing 2 gave out when she was born. The doctor and nurses were startled. No butt-spanking for this kid. She was out and ready to take over. I remember the words: "Oh, she has a birthmark" and utterly panicking. Imagination took over fast, but it turned out to be a relatively cute round brown "witchmark" under her right arm on the side. Talk about foreshadowing against the future.
I remember the utter shock at having my name called out after our UIL One-Act play performance for All-Star Cast. I remember my father, chasing me down after we were through to hand me an enormous bouquet of pink roses. I remember power-barfing in the bathroom AFTER we were done. I always let stress go afterwards. Before, I was the rock. I remember, in my shock at being named to All-Star, seeing an old boyfriend in the crowd that I hadn't seen in years. Jeff smiling, and giving me the thumbs up.
It is amazing how we remember, and the clarity that surrounds some moments and yet is absent from others. The human brain is an amazing thing, and it frightens me now that many of those pathways are being closed off or severed as my illness progresses.
Still, I think that, no matter what happens, there are some things that will never be forgotten. There is always paper, there is always my journal to record those moments that might slip away.
I will hold them to my heart forever. No matter how painful, or how full of joy they might be. It is my past, my history, my future, and they are parts of what has made me who I am.
just me, pretending to be
Monday, September 09, 2002
Random Wisdom
-- First impressions are important, but not as important as to whether or not you maintain it.
-- If your track record is public, don't be surprised if the public knows about it. And discusses it. Often.
-- Physical pain can be forgotten, otherwise women would never have a second child. Emotional wounds take longer to heal. If ever.
-- Never do yourself what you can delegate. Then be prepared to do it yourself anyway.
-- Never light a cigarette with a blowtorch. It may look cool, but it takes your eyebrows forever to grow back in.
-- If you have a gut instinct about something, you probably had bad pizza. If you haven't had pizza, pay attention to it. It's rarely wrong.
-- To err is human: to forgive yourself, impossible.
-- The RED wire. Always cut the RED wire. Unless it's blue.
-- There is a reason why hair dryers come with a warning label about not using them in the bathtub -- people are stupid.
-- If you can't find anyone else to blame, it probably IS your fault.
-- Cold pizza and hot beer are only safe breakfasts if you're in college. After that, they just give you ulcers.
-- A cat will always decide to lay down on you at precisely the moment you need to move.
-- Your fart might be funny, but trust me, we don't want you to describe it in depth. Same goes for what you just did in the bathroom. We've already suffered enough.
-- If your track record is public, don't be surprised if the public knows about it. And discusses it. Often.
-- Physical pain can be forgotten, otherwise women would never have a second child. Emotional wounds take longer to heal. If ever.
-- Never do yourself what you can delegate. Then be prepared to do it yourself anyway.
-- Never light a cigarette with a blowtorch. It may look cool, but it takes your eyebrows forever to grow back in.
-- If you have a gut instinct about something, you probably had bad pizza. If you haven't had pizza, pay attention to it. It's rarely wrong.
-- To err is human: to forgive yourself, impossible.
-- The RED wire. Always cut the RED wire. Unless it's blue.
-- There is a reason why hair dryers come with a warning label about not using them in the bathtub -- people are stupid.
-- If you can't find anyone else to blame, it probably IS your fault.
-- Cold pizza and hot beer are only safe breakfasts if you're in college. After that, they just give you ulcers.
-- A cat will always decide to lay down on you at precisely the moment you need to move.
-- Your fart might be funny, but trust me, we don't want you to describe it in depth. Same goes for what you just did in the bathroom. We've already suffered enough.
Monday, August 26, 2002
Stray Thoughts
Why, yes, yes I am STILL awake.
Spent most of the weekend with the Esoteric one. Lots of running around (okay, they ran, I limped and staggered and trudged a lot), food, movies, computer babbles.
Harley keeps leaping onto the back of the futon and staring at the back of my head. I don't really want to know.
Wow. I could actually hear the vacuum sucking the last remaining brain cells out in a glorious eruption of Brain Fartitis. Whooooosh!
Harley thinks it's fun to leap onto the table, then leap to my computer tray, then leap past me to the futon. She's also staring at the ceiiling again.
Things are up. They ain't awake, but they're up.
So why is everyone but me eating breakfast? I need a better slave, mine seems to be broken.
There goes Harley again. Boingy. Boingy. Boingy. The world is freaking Harley out.
Boingy! Almost right into the syrupy waffle plate of Thing 1. That would have been Bad.
WHOOOSH BOINGY BOINGY. Christ, Harley's turned into a gas molecule.
Thing 2 is sitting, um, mostly upside down in the computer chair. I seriously doubt that's going to help her wake up.
BOINGY! Ceiling looked at Harley funny, now she has to Make It Dead. I keep picturing the cartoon where the dog keeps sneaking up on the cat and barking, and then they have to pry poor Claude out of the ceiling. Instantaneous cat levitation. Harley is practicing it now.
Thing 2 is still upside down.
Black hole.
.
.
.
Dude, what is this "morning" crap and why the hell am I experiencing it from the wrong side of consciousness?
Boingy. That one almost clipped my ear, kinda like the arrows and Elrond at the beginning of LotR. WHOOSH.
Oh look, breakfast. I guess I'll keep him after all.
Zamboni is staring wistfully at the place where Thing 1's waffle plate used to be. We've had that experience, and I have no urge to repeat it. Cat looked like a feckin cactus, his tail and butt all covered with syrup bits and EVERYTHING else he came in contact with. Coulda used him as flypaper. And boy, did he yowl when DG had to bathe him.
MREeeeoooooOOOoowwwwowowowowowwwww!
He burned the toast. What is up with that?
Moooom, Harley's doing it again!!!!!!!
Whaff fis? Wha ... whaff fis? Fere is food in my mouf. Whaf fis?
No. I mean it. No. Okay, well, maybe.
Brraaaaaaaap! Guilty!
Spent most of the weekend with the Esoteric one. Lots of running around (okay, they ran, I limped and staggered and trudged a lot), food, movies, computer babbles.
Harley keeps leaping onto the back of the futon and staring at the back of my head. I don't really want to know.
Wow. I could actually hear the vacuum sucking the last remaining brain cells out in a glorious eruption of Brain Fartitis. Whooooosh!
Harley thinks it's fun to leap onto the table, then leap to my computer tray, then leap past me to the futon. She's also staring at the ceiiling again.
Things are up. They ain't awake, but they're up.
So why is everyone but me eating breakfast? I need a better slave, mine seems to be broken.
There goes Harley again. Boingy. Boingy. Boingy. The world is freaking Harley out.
Boingy! Almost right into the syrupy waffle plate of Thing 1. That would have been Bad.
WHOOOSH BOINGY BOINGY. Christ, Harley's turned into a gas molecule.
Thing 2 is sitting, um, mostly upside down in the computer chair. I seriously doubt that's going to help her wake up.
BOINGY! Ceiling looked at Harley funny, now she has to Make It Dead. I keep picturing the cartoon where the dog keeps sneaking up on the cat and barking, and then they have to pry poor Claude out of the ceiling. Instantaneous cat levitation. Harley is practicing it now.
Thing 2 is still upside down.
Black hole.
.
.
.
Dude, what is this "morning" crap and why the hell am I experiencing it from the wrong side of consciousness?
Boingy. That one almost clipped my ear, kinda like the arrows and Elrond at the beginning of LotR. WHOOSH.
Oh look, breakfast. I guess I'll keep him after all.
Zamboni is staring wistfully at the place where Thing 1's waffle plate used to be. We've had that experience, and I have no urge to repeat it. Cat looked like a feckin cactus, his tail and butt all covered with syrup bits and EVERYTHING else he came in contact with. Coulda used him as flypaper. And boy, did he yowl when DG had to bathe him.
MREeeeoooooOOOoowwwwowowowowowwwww!
He burned the toast. What is up with that?
Moooom, Harley's doing it again!!!!!!!
Whaff fis? Wha ... whaff fis? Fere is food in my mouf. Whaf fis?
No. I mean it. No. Okay, well, maybe.
Brraaaaaaaap! Guilty!
Tuesday, May 07, 2002
The Weird Kid
I was always a Weird Kid.
Frisco and I had this discussion once when I was arguing with Jon that Pooka was NOT cool, despite rumours started by the deranged. Frisky and I were both Weird Kids, the ones that were never ever cool at the time. The kids that thought and did and dreamed and wanted. The ones picked on by the "cool" kids because we'd rather read a book, or learn, or fiddle with figuring out how something worked. The ones generally shunned because we were, in the face of the endless masses of normal, Weird.
We were too old, too young. And now that age has caught up with us, the cool people now tend to look up to us and realize that somewhere, they might have just missed out on things that could have been pretty damn neat.
Hindsight is 20/20, and Irony is a Bitch that does not swallow.
Watching Scooby with Thing 2, and it all came back. It's rare that I get such clear memories of my past, so I had to pause and indulge.
I always wanted to be Velma. Yeah. The "weird" one of the Scooby gang. The brains. The smart ass. Maybe it was the glasses. I got glasses very early, and Velma was one hell of a role-model to a budding and repressed genius. No ego there, I'm the first one to admit that I've never been even half as clever as I thought I was. It just fit, so deal with it.
I used to write. A lot. I had notebooks filled with stories, most of which revolved around fantasies of BEING Someone Important, someone smart, someone that people liked and went to for answers.
It was definitely an escape from reality.
You have no idea how much I used to dread Class Pictures. Remember how they do that? They get everyone together, and arrange them by height, tallest in the rear, shortest in the target hollow next to the teacher.
Guess who was *always* standing next to the teacher, at least until puberty started and I went into 6th grade Normal in size for a change. Well, except for the breasts. I went from flat to a B right off the bat, and was one of only two fifth graders wearing a bra. By 6th I was already a C. It didn't help.
The "Incident" came in fifth grade. We'll get back to that.
Fourth grade, in retrospect, marked the largest mistake of my entire life. In 3rd, we were all subjected to a usual battery of tests. Mine apparently informed all involved that I was A Genius. As a Genius, I shouldn't be subjected to Normal schools.
And so I was shipped off every morning on a bus, all the way across town to River Oaks and the Rich Kids Smart School. While the Normal kids were practicing basic math and handwriting skills, I was playing on computers and learning foreign languages and reading Real Books and doing expansive projects, including one where I (with the help of my grandfather), did a visual tour of the entire Houston underground system.
I was no longer the Weird Kid. I was surrounded by Weird Kids, thus making us all Normal to the other. I had REAL friends. I was home. I was comfortable. I learned.
I really had a chance to escape.
See where I'm going with this?
Yeah. I went back to Normal School the next year. My choice. The details of Why are somewhat hazy, I think that knowing it was an amazing mistake and enduring hell afterwards have made the circumstances deliberately absent from memory. I know a lot had to do with the god awful bus ride, but again in retrospect, it wasn't so bad. I even learned on the bus, and interacted.
A futile tickle of memory says that I whined about missing my "friends" from the Normal School. Yeah. Right. Who the hell was I trying to kid? I had a total of two, tops. If that.
But I went back to Normal School, and that was the year I got put in a bra and got my period for the first time and was told that I had to have glasses. For a geek, none of this would have been bad. An early "bloomer" in Normal School was a target.
It didn't stop me from writing. Not at first. Not until one of the Perfect People got hold of one of my notebooks. And shared the stories. And it escalated into Hell.
All chances of a real escape were pretty much lost forever at that point. Going back to Normal told my monster that I wasn't fit to be a success. I was a quitter. I remember that clearly being the point where all support stopped. Oh, sure, band was initially taken when I hit 6th grade to mollify the parents that were determined that I was a destined loser. After that, I stayed in band for myself, at least through Middle and into High School until the Adult Part of my too old brain made me realize that nothing I did would matter to my parents anymore. I'm digressing.
We can stop most of the flashback right there before it gets too painful. Trust me.
Writing died damn near forever with the loss of my great aunt. "Harper" comes from her, the maiden name she kept until the cancer ate her away until she was little more than a shell, cracked and broken and in pain ... and still believing in me.
It was over 15 years before I started writing again. Oh, sure, I hacked out some really crappy poetry every now and then, did a few term papers that earned me lots of weird looks but high enough grades, but it wasn't the same.
Some people, knowing the situation with one of my writing partners who suddenly fell off the planet without a word wonder why the hell I started working with him again when he finally returned almost 2 years later.
He's the one that Woke Up that part of the Weird Kid all over again, the one that somehow managed to pick the lock that long ago rusted shut. The writing started again with him. It wasn't that he particularly inspired me. He just made it easy.
Now, when I write, the laughter comes for all of the right reasons. Most of the time, they're laughing with me now.
The Weird Kid is still here.
Embrace your inner geek, baby. It is never too late to have a happy childhood.
Frisco and I had this discussion once when I was arguing with Jon that Pooka was NOT cool, despite rumours started by the deranged. Frisky and I were both Weird Kids, the ones that were never ever cool at the time. The kids that thought and did and dreamed and wanted. The ones picked on by the "cool" kids because we'd rather read a book, or learn, or fiddle with figuring out how something worked. The ones generally shunned because we were, in the face of the endless masses of normal, Weird.
We were too old, too young. And now that age has caught up with us, the cool people now tend to look up to us and realize that somewhere, they might have just missed out on things that could have been pretty damn neat.
Hindsight is 20/20, and Irony is a Bitch that does not swallow.
Watching Scooby with Thing 2, and it all came back. It's rare that I get such clear memories of my past, so I had to pause and indulge.
I always wanted to be Velma. Yeah. The "weird" one of the Scooby gang. The brains. The smart ass. Maybe it was the glasses. I got glasses very early, and Velma was one hell of a role-model to a budding and repressed genius. No ego there, I'm the first one to admit that I've never been even half as clever as I thought I was. It just fit, so deal with it.
I used to write. A lot. I had notebooks filled with stories, most of which revolved around fantasies of BEING Someone Important, someone smart, someone that people liked and went to for answers.
It was definitely an escape from reality.
You have no idea how much I used to dread Class Pictures. Remember how they do that? They get everyone together, and arrange them by height, tallest in the rear, shortest in the target hollow next to the teacher.
Guess who was *always* standing next to the teacher, at least until puberty started and I went into 6th grade Normal in size for a change. Well, except for the breasts. I went from flat to a B right off the bat, and was one of only two fifth graders wearing a bra. By 6th I was already a C. It didn't help.
The "Incident" came in fifth grade. We'll get back to that.
Fourth grade, in retrospect, marked the largest mistake of my entire life. In 3rd, we were all subjected to a usual battery of tests. Mine apparently informed all involved that I was A Genius. As a Genius, I shouldn't be subjected to Normal schools.
And so I was shipped off every morning on a bus, all the way across town to River Oaks and the Rich Kids Smart School. While the Normal kids were practicing basic math and handwriting skills, I was playing on computers and learning foreign languages and reading Real Books and doing expansive projects, including one where I (with the help of my grandfather), did a visual tour of the entire Houston underground system.
I was no longer the Weird Kid. I was surrounded by Weird Kids, thus making us all Normal to the other. I had REAL friends. I was home. I was comfortable. I learned.
I really had a chance to escape.
See where I'm going with this?
Yeah. I went back to Normal School the next year. My choice. The details of Why are somewhat hazy, I think that knowing it was an amazing mistake and enduring hell afterwards have made the circumstances deliberately absent from memory. I know a lot had to do with the god awful bus ride, but again in retrospect, it wasn't so bad. I even learned on the bus, and interacted.
A futile tickle of memory says that I whined about missing my "friends" from the Normal School. Yeah. Right. Who the hell was I trying to kid? I had a total of two, tops. If that.
But I went back to Normal School, and that was the year I got put in a bra and got my period for the first time and was told that I had to have glasses. For a geek, none of this would have been bad. An early "bloomer" in Normal School was a target.
It didn't stop me from writing. Not at first. Not until one of the Perfect People got hold of one of my notebooks. And shared the stories. And it escalated into Hell.
All chances of a real escape were pretty much lost forever at that point. Going back to Normal told my monster that I wasn't fit to be a success. I was a quitter. I remember that clearly being the point where all support stopped. Oh, sure, band was initially taken when I hit 6th grade to mollify the parents that were determined that I was a destined loser. After that, I stayed in band for myself, at least through Middle and into High School until the Adult Part of my too old brain made me realize that nothing I did would matter to my parents anymore. I'm digressing.
We can stop most of the flashback right there before it gets too painful. Trust me.
Writing died damn near forever with the loss of my great aunt. "Harper" comes from her, the maiden name she kept until the cancer ate her away until she was little more than a shell, cracked and broken and in pain ... and still believing in me.
It was over 15 years before I started writing again. Oh, sure, I hacked out some really crappy poetry every now and then, did a few term papers that earned me lots of weird looks but high enough grades, but it wasn't the same.
Some people, knowing the situation with one of my writing partners who suddenly fell off the planet without a word wonder why the hell I started working with him again when he finally returned almost 2 years later.
He's the one that Woke Up that part of the Weird Kid all over again, the one that somehow managed to pick the lock that long ago rusted shut. The writing started again with him. It wasn't that he particularly inspired me. He just made it easy.
Now, when I write, the laughter comes for all of the right reasons. Most of the time, they're laughing with me now.
The Weird Kid is still here.
Embrace your inner geek, baby. It is never too late to have a happy childhood.
Wednesday, April 10, 2002
Stray Thoughts
I feel very random today.
Trying to read and respond, but when I get the comment pages open, my mind blanks and I come to the conclusion that nothing I would come up with to say would be worth the waste of bandwidth, particularly in response to well-worded or deep thought posts. If you're looking for responses from me and I fail you today, o/` "Just remember I love you, and it'll be all right." o/`
I ... I ... feel a song coming on.
STOP IT, no singing!
Ha ha ha. My meds have played funny trick on Pooka. Pooka now goes to bed, sleeps, and gets up. Pooka is no longer able to try to sleep late. Pooka must crawl out of bed by a certain time or funny funny meds steam eject her fat white Irish ass. Ha ha. Very funny.
How can I lose my lighter when I haven't touched it and knew where it was when I sat down? I think the cats have opposable thumbs.
This is the sound of my soul. Unfortunately, the decibel level of the sound is so painful to human ears that if they were to listen closely, their brains would implode.
Jane, you ignorant slut! Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball!
So, this squid walks into a bar ...
Thing 2 is currently having conversations with people that are not there. Since she's doing their voices for them as well, you have to listen for the falsetto, the squeaky whisper, and the deep troll voice along with her own to tell them apart. This means I'm not as worried about her as I otherwise would be.
Thing 1 did this before, too. Unfortunately, I think one of her voices had more common sense than she does.
Didn't I tell you to put that in the sink before it festers?
You've currently entered a "No Thinking Zone." Please check all grey matter at the door. Management is not responsible for anything that might happen to personal articles left behind. Small children left in lieu of grey matter will be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
No surprise, we've lost our cable again. If you no longer see me online, assume that the modem hasn't been paid for either and I'm down for the count. Do Not Panic.
Gravity just isn't what it used to be.
Music. That's what today needs. Music.
Hey, didn't I warn you already about that singing thing?
Oh you shut up. No one asked you anway.
Trying to read and respond, but when I get the comment pages open, my mind blanks and I come to the conclusion that nothing I would come up with to say would be worth the waste of bandwidth, particularly in response to well-worded or deep thought posts. If you're looking for responses from me and I fail you today, o/` "Just remember I love you, and it'll be all right." o/`
I ... I ... feel a song coming on.
STOP IT, no singing!
Ha ha ha. My meds have played funny trick on Pooka. Pooka now goes to bed, sleeps, and gets up. Pooka is no longer able to try to sleep late. Pooka must crawl out of bed by a certain time or funny funny meds steam eject her fat white Irish ass. Ha ha. Very funny.
How can I lose my lighter when I haven't touched it and knew where it was when I sat down? I think the cats have opposable thumbs.
This is the sound of my soul. Unfortunately, the decibel level of the sound is so painful to human ears that if they were to listen closely, their brains would implode.
Jane, you ignorant slut! Do not taunt Happy Fun Ball!
So, this squid walks into a bar ...
Thing 2 is currently having conversations with people that are not there. Since she's doing their voices for them as well, you have to listen for the falsetto, the squeaky whisper, and the deep troll voice along with her own to tell them apart. This means I'm not as worried about her as I otherwise would be.
Thing 1 did this before, too. Unfortunately, I think one of her voices had more common sense than she does.
Didn't I tell you to put that in the sink before it festers?
You've currently entered a "No Thinking Zone." Please check all grey matter at the door. Management is not responsible for anything that might happen to personal articles left behind. Small children left in lieu of grey matter will be auctioned off to the highest bidder.
No surprise, we've lost our cable again. If you no longer see me online, assume that the modem hasn't been paid for either and I'm down for the count. Do Not Panic.
Gravity just isn't what it used to be.
Music. That's what today needs. Music.
Hey, didn't I warn you already about that singing thing?
Oh you shut up. No one asked you anway.
Sunday, March 17, 2002
If I leave here tomorrow...
"If I leave here tomorrow, will you still remember me?"
A question for the masses: If something were to happen to you, does any member of your family/immediate close-by circle of friends know to tell the friends you've made online?
Does your family even know about your circle of friends online? Your significant other? If you were in an accident, would we ever find out?
Missing persons, missing faces.
Do you have a "Just In Case" security net set up?
Now that the question has been posed, think on it a bit.
Despite the emotional attachment we have to friends we have made online, how much do we really know about them? A first name, maybe a last? A phone number? Maybe?
Could you, if asked, name both the first and last name of twenty of your online friends? Ten? Five?
If a story aired on the news, would you recognize the name? Their location? Or even a face?
Do you even know what most of your online friends look like?
The unfortunate reality is that there is still a line drawn between flesh and electronic. The media blasts us with the potential horrors of online stalkers and psychopaths while failing to acknowledge that the psychos would be there if you were offline as well.
One world only reflects the other. You're just as likely to be knifed in a dark alley by someone you meet in a nightclub as by someone you talk to online. You're just as likely to be raped by someone you've met in a bookstore as you are by someone you met online.
So why the fear? Why the line at all? What makes it so different if someone online asks for your phone number as opposed to someone in the flesh? Is it the immediacy of the judgement, seeing that person right there before you that you can judge worthy or not? Does the lack of a face and a voice make that great of a difference?
Or is it something simpler, that friendships made online are more disposable? You don't have to clean up after them if they come over, you don't have to throw them out if they stay too late or close the door in their faces at four a.m. You can just sign off. You don't have to get dressed up for them or wear makeup. You don't have to be dressed at all.
That convenience is a drawback when Need arises. You isolate yourself too far, and when you realize that you really need someone there, right then, there's no one but the illusion of friendships you've created because you've kept them too far away.
For you, how much "personal" information about yourself is too much?
How much personal information FROM someone is too much?
Should there be a "minimum requirement" of knowledge before you take a step to meet someone face to face?
What quality makes you decide to share your information?
Do you have am offline Contact List in case of emergency?
Do you have one for your online friends as well? If not ... why not?
A question for the masses: If something were to happen to you, does any member of your family/immediate close-by circle of friends know to tell the friends you've made online?
Does your family even know about your circle of friends online? Your significant other? If you were in an accident, would we ever find out?
Missing persons, missing faces.
Do you have a "Just In Case" security net set up?
Now that the question has been posed, think on it a bit.
Despite the emotional attachment we have to friends we have made online, how much do we really know about them? A first name, maybe a last? A phone number? Maybe?
Could you, if asked, name both the first and last name of twenty of your online friends? Ten? Five?
If a story aired on the news, would you recognize the name? Their location? Or even a face?
Do you even know what most of your online friends look like?
The unfortunate reality is that there is still a line drawn between flesh and electronic. The media blasts us with the potential horrors of online stalkers and psychopaths while failing to acknowledge that the psychos would be there if you were offline as well.
One world only reflects the other. You're just as likely to be knifed in a dark alley by someone you meet in a nightclub as by someone you talk to online. You're just as likely to be raped by someone you've met in a bookstore as you are by someone you met online.
So why the fear? Why the line at all? What makes it so different if someone online asks for your phone number as opposed to someone in the flesh? Is it the immediacy of the judgement, seeing that person right there before you that you can judge worthy or not? Does the lack of a face and a voice make that great of a difference?
Or is it something simpler, that friendships made online are more disposable? You don't have to clean up after them if they come over, you don't have to throw them out if they stay too late or close the door in their faces at four a.m. You can just sign off. You don't have to get dressed up for them or wear makeup. You don't have to be dressed at all.
That convenience is a drawback when Need arises. You isolate yourself too far, and when you realize that you really need someone there, right then, there's no one but the illusion of friendships you've created because you've kept them too far away.
For you, how much "personal" information about yourself is too much?
How much personal information FROM someone is too much?
Should there be a "minimum requirement" of knowledge before you take a step to meet someone face to face?
What quality makes you decide to share your information?
Do you have am offline Contact List in case of emergency?
Do you have one for your online friends as well? If not ... why not?
The Voice of Reason
I cannot help but wonder at what point I became the Voice Of Reason.
On the surface I suppose it seems relatively simple. I'm older than some 75% of my friends and acquaintances, have two children and a relatively stable long-term marriage, so long as DG isn't being A Guy at the moment. If there's something I haven't been through, well ...
That's where it gets more complex. Personally, I can't see how anyone could see me as anything resembling sane and stable. My body is falling apart around me, we're completely broke and struggling to make ends meet, and sometimes it's just Too Much for even me.
There's a LONG running joke. "You gonna be okay?" "Always am." I'm lousy at quitting. I'm good at falling apart, and then picking the pieces back up. In a way, letting yourself fall apart every now and then helps keep your liver from exploding due to everything you bury. I've never met a person capable of letting every single thing slide off their backs without having some problem with the internal pressure it causes.
I have my faults. There's a pretty damn long list of them. To me, they're glaring and brash and rude and unacceptable.
Voice Of Reason, my fat white Irish ass.
Yet consistently, people come to me.
I don't know if they're coming to me for answers. Sure, I've got an answer for everything, and straight answers without some twisted humour cost you a hundred bucks extra. I don't know everything. I don't pretend to know everything, and I sure as hell don't know how to solve everything, either.
I don't know if they come to me because no one else will listen. Listening, I'm good at. Listening without making comments ... now that's another matter entirely. That I can't do.
I don't know if they come to me because I'll tell them they're being silly and that's what they need to hear. I don't know if they come to me to have me validate their own responses, or to provide that extra voice telling them if they're right or wrong to help them make a final decision.
I don't know.
I've never enjoyed politics. Back in the years when I was actively involved in the SCA, I was dragged into the murk of Knowing The Game and playing politics with the big kids. I knew everyone Important and what who was doing to who and all of the behind the scenes crap that really took all of the fun out of it. It didn't stop me from being good at it. I knew how to play it, I learned from some of the best. But I loathed it.
Getting away from it and starting over elsewhere helped for a while, but eventually I found myself in the same position because I was good at it. I walked away again.
I'm the mediator. I always have been. I have problems saying No. I end up in the middle by sheer accident more times than I care to remember.
It happens online a lot. DG has a talent for pissing people off. When he does, they come to me. I don't get that. "Your husband is at it again." "So?" "Well, can't you ..."
No. I can't.
I'd like to think that I'm a somewhat sarcastic and heartless Evil Overlord ... so why the hell do they bring it to me? Because he's better at being an asshole?
I've been through this with RP partners, too. One specific character just made the head of a particular forum foam at the mouth. I mean he HATED my partner to the point of trying to find some 'legal' way to have him banned. There wasn't one, but every time we showed up, I'd spend the next three or four days dealing with the aftermath.
My partner was never once approached over it. Never.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not really complaining about the whole Voice Of Reason thing except on those levels which are just plain silly. If you have a real and serious problem with something that someone else is doing, take it to THEM, particularly if the other person you are trying to get involved has absolutely no idea what is going on.
I just don't fully understand it.
And I feel very, very old sometimes.
I'm not fishing for answers here. I'm not sure that I'd completely believe any answers handed to me anyway. I definitely still have some serious self-esteem problems.
But I'm feeling introspective lately, and this was among the little bubbles that danced around on the surface until it finally nagged me into babbling about it. For those that read my journal for the questionable humour, I should probably apologize. There hasn't been much of that at all lately, and I'm not sure when there will be again.
It's a phase, you know, and I think I'm getting too old to grow out of them quickly.
In the end, though, it's still Just Me, Pretending To Be.
On the surface I suppose it seems relatively simple. I'm older than some 75% of my friends and acquaintances, have two children and a relatively stable long-term marriage, so long as DG isn't being A Guy at the moment. If there's something I haven't been through, well ...
That's where it gets more complex. Personally, I can't see how anyone could see me as anything resembling sane and stable. My body is falling apart around me, we're completely broke and struggling to make ends meet, and sometimes it's just Too Much for even me.
There's a LONG running joke. "You gonna be okay?" "Always am." I'm lousy at quitting. I'm good at falling apart, and then picking the pieces back up. In a way, letting yourself fall apart every now and then helps keep your liver from exploding due to everything you bury. I've never met a person capable of letting every single thing slide off their backs without having some problem with the internal pressure it causes.
I have my faults. There's a pretty damn long list of them. To me, they're glaring and brash and rude and unacceptable.
Voice Of Reason, my fat white Irish ass.
Yet consistently, people come to me.
I don't know if they're coming to me for answers. Sure, I've got an answer for everything, and straight answers without some twisted humour cost you a hundred bucks extra. I don't know everything. I don't pretend to know everything, and I sure as hell don't know how to solve everything, either.
I don't know if they come to me because no one else will listen. Listening, I'm good at. Listening without making comments ... now that's another matter entirely. That I can't do.
I don't know if they come to me because I'll tell them they're being silly and that's what they need to hear. I don't know if they come to me to have me validate their own responses, or to provide that extra voice telling them if they're right or wrong to help them make a final decision.
I don't know.
I've never enjoyed politics. Back in the years when I was actively involved in the SCA, I was dragged into the murk of Knowing The Game and playing politics with the big kids. I knew everyone Important and what who was doing to who and all of the behind the scenes crap that really took all of the fun out of it. It didn't stop me from being good at it. I knew how to play it, I learned from some of the best. But I loathed it.
Getting away from it and starting over elsewhere helped for a while, but eventually I found myself in the same position because I was good at it. I walked away again.
I'm the mediator. I always have been. I have problems saying No. I end up in the middle by sheer accident more times than I care to remember.
It happens online a lot. DG has a talent for pissing people off. When he does, they come to me. I don't get that. "Your husband is at it again." "So?" "Well, can't you ..."
No. I can't.
I'd like to think that I'm a somewhat sarcastic and heartless Evil Overlord ... so why the hell do they bring it to me? Because he's better at being an asshole?
I've been through this with RP partners, too. One specific character just made the head of a particular forum foam at the mouth. I mean he HATED my partner to the point of trying to find some 'legal' way to have him banned. There wasn't one, but every time we showed up, I'd spend the next three or four days dealing with the aftermath.
My partner was never once approached over it. Never.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not really complaining about the whole Voice Of Reason thing except on those levels which are just plain silly. If you have a real and serious problem with something that someone else is doing, take it to THEM, particularly if the other person you are trying to get involved has absolutely no idea what is going on.
I just don't fully understand it.
And I feel very, very old sometimes.
I'm not fishing for answers here. I'm not sure that I'd completely believe any answers handed to me anyway. I definitely still have some serious self-esteem problems.
But I'm feeling introspective lately, and this was among the little bubbles that danced around on the surface until it finally nagged me into babbling about it. For those that read my journal for the questionable humour, I should probably apologize. There hasn't been much of that at all lately, and I'm not sure when there will be again.
It's a phase, you know, and I think I'm getting too old to grow out of them quickly.
In the end, though, it's still Just Me, Pretending To Be.
Saturday, January 19, 2002
Out of Context
Still awake.
Fingernails are still flamable.
Mice can hang upside-down for extended periods of time. This appears to do no damage whatsoever to their little mousey brains -- they're still as utterly butt-stupid on return to your regular upright position.
Carpet should not be kitty toilet paper.
Oh look! Carbon paper!
Tootsie Roll power, such a chocolatey chew.
Tootise Roll, I think I'm in love with you.
"He doesn't wear a zoot suit!"
"It's true. If I really cared, I'd dress like a dead man, too."
For every leap forward, we take three steps back. Progress is only an illusion. Evolution is a curious lie. Now we walk forward into the late past, regressing from humanity to be boiled down into the most primal primitive beast to walk the earth. Violence is not a solution, it's a symptom.
If your life was to accrue finance charges, would you still be in the black?
My Christmas tree is still up. For at least one shining evening, All was calm and Bright with the world. Removal of the tree is a sad task, one I never eagerly embrace.
I think I want to be young again. I'd need different parents, of course, but I want things to be simple. I'd like to have no more to worry about than what jeans go with which sweater, what flavour lipgloss I really liked, who was dating who, and getting homework done.
There's a new Eeyore PEZ dispenser out. I want it. I haven't seen Pooh or Piglet or Tigger, just Eeyore. He's cute. I like my Eeyore.
Still can't find the top to my Eeyore PJs.
Sometimes, you really just don't want to swallow.
Isis is an Isis is an Isis. Loves her, yes we do.
Movie trailer tonight. They've remade "The Time Machine." Lots of remakes these days, Ocean's Eleven, Planet of the Apes, Time Machine, other movies I can't possibly remember the titles to because I'm a doofus. A trend? Sign of more troubled times, searching desperately for some anchor in a sea of insanity.
The moose on the bookshelf is looking at me funny.
"This retro thing is pretty silly. I mean, I'm wearing a snood."
"I was trying not to notice."
Mmm, fun foam. Fun foam. Yessire, I'm having Fun now.
Maybe my life is little more than a cheaply built grafitti wall.
"You gotta help me make a stand.
You just got to see me through another day.
My body's achin' and my time is at hand.
I won't make it any other way."
Sybil is starting to make very scary noises. I'm afraid they're hinting at a meltdown to come. It's a weird low hissing gurgling sound from around the processor/fan side, kinda like the noise soda (especially ginger ale) sometimes make after the bubbles have clung to the sides and then spontaneously broached the surface.
I'm having difficulties with my Ks and Gs. Perhaps they are trying to tell me something.
.
.
.
.
.
Black Hole
Fingernails are still flamable.
Mice can hang upside-down for extended periods of time. This appears to do no damage whatsoever to their little mousey brains -- they're still as utterly butt-stupid on return to your regular upright position.
Carpet should not be kitty toilet paper.
Oh look! Carbon paper!
Tootsie Roll power, such a chocolatey chew.
Tootise Roll, I think I'm in love with you.
"He doesn't wear a zoot suit!"
"It's true. If I really cared, I'd dress like a dead man, too."
For every leap forward, we take three steps back. Progress is only an illusion. Evolution is a curious lie. Now we walk forward into the late past, regressing from humanity to be boiled down into the most primal primitive beast to walk the earth. Violence is not a solution, it's a symptom.
If your life was to accrue finance charges, would you still be in the black?
My Christmas tree is still up. For at least one shining evening, All was calm and Bright with the world. Removal of the tree is a sad task, one I never eagerly embrace.
I think I want to be young again. I'd need different parents, of course, but I want things to be simple. I'd like to have no more to worry about than what jeans go with which sweater, what flavour lipgloss I really liked, who was dating who, and getting homework done.
There's a new Eeyore PEZ dispenser out. I want it. I haven't seen Pooh or Piglet or Tigger, just Eeyore. He's cute. I like my Eeyore.
Still can't find the top to my Eeyore PJs.
Sometimes, you really just don't want to swallow.
Isis is an Isis is an Isis. Loves her, yes we do.
Movie trailer tonight. They've remade "The Time Machine." Lots of remakes these days, Ocean's Eleven, Planet of the Apes, Time Machine, other movies I can't possibly remember the titles to because I'm a doofus. A trend? Sign of more troubled times, searching desperately for some anchor in a sea of insanity.
The moose on the bookshelf is looking at me funny.
"This retro thing is pretty silly. I mean, I'm wearing a snood."
"I was trying not to notice."
Mmm, fun foam. Fun foam. Yessire, I'm having Fun now.
Maybe my life is little more than a cheaply built grafitti wall.
"You gotta help me make a stand.
You just got to see me through another day.
My body's achin' and my time is at hand.
I won't make it any other way."
Sybil is starting to make very scary noises. I'm afraid they're hinting at a meltdown to come. It's a weird low hissing gurgling sound from around the processor/fan side, kinda like the noise soda (especially ginger ale) sometimes make after the bubbles have clung to the sides and then spontaneously broached the surface.
I'm having difficulties with my Ks and Gs. Perhaps they are trying to tell me something.
.
.
.
.
.
Black Hole
Wednesday, April 11, 2001
Once Upon a Starry Night
... there was a lonely, scrawny, fey little thing that had a penchant for getting "lost." Oh, she knew where she was, but no one else was ever able to find her when she had to get away. There were legends about her ability to vanish, jokes about the fey creature's ability to teleport, even when being watched. I'm still reminded of these legends, every blue moon.
One rare lonely night, when she had the car to herself, she drove off into the middle of the woods in her pajamas. Her goal was to seek out a particular field where the stones had been carefully brought in and laid according to ancient pattern, all by the hands of men that knew the proper songs.
Still in her pajamas, she parked the car out of site of the stones, and stepped into the circle.
The moon was full. The stars were out in their full glory. This field was used for this purpose quite often, blankets laid on the ground as friends sat together and watched the dance in the skies.
This night, she was alone.
The stars danced for her, private performance for the little lost fey, and she for them, feeling not like a fool, but free -- and freedom was a rare elusive beast to her, teasing, and never caught. For the time being, the burdens were set aside, the darkness cast away and given back to the moonlight.
I'd like to find that girl again, wherever she is inside me, and dance one more time, for the night.
One rare lonely night, when she had the car to herself, she drove off into the middle of the woods in her pajamas. Her goal was to seek out a particular field where the stones had been carefully brought in and laid according to ancient pattern, all by the hands of men that knew the proper songs.
Still in her pajamas, she parked the car out of site of the stones, and stepped into the circle.
The moon was full. The stars were out in their full glory. This field was used for this purpose quite often, blankets laid on the ground as friends sat together and watched the dance in the skies.
This night, she was alone.
The stars danced for her, private performance for the little lost fey, and she for them, feeling not like a fool, but free -- and freedom was a rare elusive beast to her, teasing, and never caught. For the time being, the burdens were set aside, the darkness cast away and given back to the moonlight.
I'd like to find that girl again, wherever she is inside me, and dance one more time, for the night.
Friday, March 16, 2001
Blank Pages
Tell a simple machine that '2+2=4', and the machine will log it away in memory, and from that point forward, '2+2 will always =4' until such time as new stimuli is added.
Tell a sentient organism that '2+2=4', and he will ask you 'why'?
The day that your computer begins to ask you 'why' upon receiving new data is the day you've lost your position. Welcome to the world, little brother. You're now an AI.
Stimuli. It all revolves around stimuli. It's how we learn. Kept in a blank, dark box, no contact with anyone or anything, even a sentient organism cannot learn. There must be some sort of data input for learning to take place.
As a programmer, you are the stimuli, the computer the student. The moment the machine learns to ask 'why', the situation is reversed. Until then, the computer is like a blank page of paper, capable only of receiving stimuli and input, then reacting accordingly. Paper can process just as well as a computer, because they're both dependant on the mind of the one utilizing them.
The blank page theory is also dependant on yet other stimuli, yet another series of 'whys'. 'Why' is the programmer telling the machine to perform this function, 'why' is the writer committing these words to paper, 'why' is the artist turning the blank space into a canvas. A simple machine accepts the change without question. A blank page accepts the change without question. They're incapable of being stimuli directly, in most cases.
There are precious few in the world that embrace stimuli in every bit of creation. These are the few that see every blank page, every virgin expanse of paper as a challenge to be met. The space must be filled. How few? Try this.
Find a relatively busy sidewalk, outside of a business is perfect. You will require several sheets of blank white paper (spares in case, trust me on this). A bit of sticky tape is a bonus, so that the page remains where it is, without being subject to wind and human motion.
Set the page on the ground. Step away. Leave it alone. Sit back and watch.
Count twenty organics that pass by. You won't need any more than that.
See how they react to that page. Watch just how many completely ignore its presence. These are the cases where you might have to switch the page out. Footprints negate the experiment, since the page is no longer blank.
Who tries to pick it up and see what it says? Who tries to just throw away the trash? Who, if anyone, tries to make some use of it?
Do you want to be disappointed now and be told just how many of your subjects will show no reaction to the page whatsoever?
It's simply a page. It has no 'why'.
Sometimes, I feel like that blank page.
Tell a sentient organism that '2+2=4', and he will ask you 'why'?
The day that your computer begins to ask you 'why' upon receiving new data is the day you've lost your position. Welcome to the world, little brother. You're now an AI.
Stimuli. It all revolves around stimuli. It's how we learn. Kept in a blank, dark box, no contact with anyone or anything, even a sentient organism cannot learn. There must be some sort of data input for learning to take place.
As a programmer, you are the stimuli, the computer the student. The moment the machine learns to ask 'why', the situation is reversed. Until then, the computer is like a blank page of paper, capable only of receiving stimuli and input, then reacting accordingly. Paper can process just as well as a computer, because they're both dependant on the mind of the one utilizing them.
The blank page theory is also dependant on yet other stimuli, yet another series of 'whys'. 'Why' is the programmer telling the machine to perform this function, 'why' is the writer committing these words to paper, 'why' is the artist turning the blank space into a canvas. A simple machine accepts the change without question. A blank page accepts the change without question. They're incapable of being stimuli directly, in most cases.
There are precious few in the world that embrace stimuli in every bit of creation. These are the few that see every blank page, every virgin expanse of paper as a challenge to be met. The space must be filled. How few? Try this.
Find a relatively busy sidewalk, outside of a business is perfect. You will require several sheets of blank white paper (spares in case, trust me on this). A bit of sticky tape is a bonus, so that the page remains where it is, without being subject to wind and human motion.
Set the page on the ground. Step away. Leave it alone. Sit back and watch.
Count twenty organics that pass by. You won't need any more than that.
See how they react to that page. Watch just how many completely ignore its presence. These are the cases where you might have to switch the page out. Footprints negate the experiment, since the page is no longer blank.
Who tries to pick it up and see what it says? Who tries to just throw away the trash? Who, if anyone, tries to make some use of it?
Do you want to be disappointed now and be told just how many of your subjects will show no reaction to the page whatsoever?
It's simply a page. It has no 'why'.
Sometimes, I feel like that blank page.
Sunday, November 19, 2000
We need a life
Pooka: ::goose::
Sorcha: HEY! Ref, I call a fowl!
Pooka: Disallowed, no phones in the game.
Sorcha: Ahhh, go lay an egg you big chicken.
Pooka: Cluck you. I don't need to be hen-pecked.
Sorcha: Listen to her crow. Don't get your feathers ruffled.
Pooka: Look, chick, don't you take this any fea-ther.
Sorcha: Damn, looks like I scratched a nerve
Pooka: I'm all cooped up, what do you expect?
Sorcha: Eggcuse me? Who's fault is that? Not mine.
Pooka: You're the one that Rhode me, Red.
Sorcha: This is silly. You crack me up.
Pooka: Eggsactly.
Sorcha: You keep carping on like this and it could get messy.
Pooka: What, we might need a sturgeon?
Sorcha: Someone may have to call the cods on us. It's gonna smell rotten.
Pooka: Mako, mako not. Besides, no one is floundering yet.
Sorcha: I think I am just gonna try to tuna you out before we are all in a heap of trouble.
Pooka: You're on fin ice, eh? Sink or swim, and you can't even keep your head below water.
Sorcha: You sure as hell have some nerve. Having a whale of a time screwing with me. Why don't you go suck a jellyfish?
Pooka: You hard of herring, honey? I think your just doing this to me on porpoise.
Sorcha: Listen Gilfriend! I have had about all of the flotsam I can take from you. I'm gonna land you with a right hook.
Pooka: Just can't fathom that. I mean, you're so crabby, but you don't have enough groupers to back that up. Hah, you're kelpless.
Sorcha: That does it. I'm gonna pound you until you are as flat as a mackerel.
Pooka: Oh, I get it. You're tanked.
Sorcha: Ya, one too many Seaweed cocktails.
Pooka: Your barbs are losing their sting, Ray.
Sorcha: Don't whine at me. I have a haddock. Besides, you are just feeding me the same old line over and over.
Pooka: Betta back down then. I marine it.
Sorcha: Bite me. You blow dogfish for quarters.
Pooka: And you're just being shellfish.
Sorcha: I am just gonna clam up now. You make me seasick.
Pooka: Brine, brine, brine, that's all you ever do.
Sorcha: HEY! Ref, I call a fowl!
Pooka: Disallowed, no phones in the game.
Sorcha: Ahhh, go lay an egg you big chicken.
Pooka: Cluck you. I don't need to be hen-pecked.
Sorcha: Listen to her crow. Don't get your feathers ruffled.
Pooka: Look, chick, don't you take this any fea-ther.
Sorcha: Damn, looks like I scratched a nerve
Pooka: I'm all cooped up, what do you expect?
Sorcha: Eggcuse me? Who's fault is that? Not mine.
Pooka: You're the one that Rhode me, Red.
Sorcha: This is silly. You crack me up.
Pooka: Eggsactly.
Sorcha: You keep carping on like this and it could get messy.
Pooka: What, we might need a sturgeon?
Sorcha: Someone may have to call the cods on us. It's gonna smell rotten.
Pooka: Mako, mako not. Besides, no one is floundering yet.
Sorcha: I think I am just gonna try to tuna you out before we are all in a heap of trouble.
Pooka: You're on fin ice, eh? Sink or swim, and you can't even keep your head below water.
Sorcha: You sure as hell have some nerve. Having a whale of a time screwing with me. Why don't you go suck a jellyfish?
Pooka: You hard of herring, honey? I think your just doing this to me on porpoise.
Sorcha: Listen Gilfriend! I have had about all of the flotsam I can take from you. I'm gonna land you with a right hook.
Pooka: Just can't fathom that. I mean, you're so crabby, but you don't have enough groupers to back that up. Hah, you're kelpless.
Sorcha: That does it. I'm gonna pound you until you are as flat as a mackerel.
Pooka: Oh, I get it. You're tanked.
Sorcha: Ya, one too many Seaweed cocktails.
Pooka: Your barbs are losing their sting, Ray.
Sorcha: Don't whine at me. I have a haddock. Besides, you are just feeding me the same old line over and over.
Pooka: Betta back down then. I marine it.
Sorcha: Bite me. You blow dogfish for quarters.
Pooka: And you're just being shellfish.
Sorcha: I am just gonna clam up now. You make me seasick.
Pooka: Brine, brine, brine, that's all you ever do.
Monday, October 02, 2000
Dreamwalking
I hate dreams that are so realistic that, upon waking, they distort your view of reality. I hate waking up lost and not knowing where I am, certain that I should be Somewhere Else. Maybe it's the fever, maybe it's the meds, maybe ... maybe it's just Karma.
I haven't seen my great-grandmother's house in over 15 years. In fact, I can't even recall the year that she died. I do know that the scar on my hand is still visible, but since it was quite a doozy of a scar, that makes sense.
We had all shown up at the hospital, and were sitting there waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting. It was over half an hour before anyone bothered to talk to us, only to tell us that she'd died before we even got there. What was the wait for? To clean her up.
They had to do a trach on her (severe pneumonia, she basically drowned) ... but they left her on the table where she had died. And so these people take us all in, including me, and I couldn't have been more than 13 or 14. I knew enough to know what a tracheotomy was, and so the cloth they had thrown over her throat did nothing more than conceal the actual damage. It all seemed very cheap to me, that someone who was so loved was presented to their family ... like that.
I pretty much freaked out.
I "think" I hit my hand on the door when I fled the room. My family let me go. All I know is that I stopped some time later, sobbing in the middle of some hallway. A nurse stopped, upset, and dragged me back to the ER. Why? I was bleeding all over her floor. LOL Whatever I contacted with my hand, it left one hell of a scar as a reminder.
I digress.
Anyway, Ethel's house (she wasn't great-grandmother, she was Ethel, dammit) wasn't quite in the sticks, yet wasn't quite "citified" yet either. You walk outside, and you smell country. You had to walk some distance to reach the huge garden in back of the house, where rows upon rows of soon-to-be food waited, scarecrow and all.
I can never remember if the house was 2 bedrooms or 3, but I remember the layout clearly enough, especially the kitchen. I grew up in that kitchen, and the smells of fried chicken or fresh boiled corn, or better yet, jalapeno cornbread can still make me misty eyed. I can remember the incessant and futile humming of the window units, just barely breaking into the Texas summer heat. I remember the back door in the middle of the "living room" that led straight out to a flower bed and a cut brick walkway. I can remember the little iron scotty dog that always held that door open. My grandmother has it now.
For all I know, the house is no longer there.
Yet for the life of me, I can't figure out why I was suddenly back there again last night. Not just there, but moving in, with my family, trying to figure out how to install ceiling fans so the temperature would be bareable until we could get central air, or figuring out where the kids were going to sleep, or how to get the washer and dryer hooked up INSIDE the house, instead of in the huge garage that was always more of a barn, and always filled with wild neat things to get yourself thoroughly in trouble.
In the hazy early wakeup, I had no idea where I was. It certainly wasn't "here."
I was still there, and I could still remember in such clear detail that "home" was hundreds of miles away, in a quiet Texas cornfield.
And they say you can never go home again.
I haven't seen my great-grandmother's house in over 15 years. In fact, I can't even recall the year that she died. I do know that the scar on my hand is still visible, but since it was quite a doozy of a scar, that makes sense.
We had all shown up at the hospital, and were sitting there waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting. It was over half an hour before anyone bothered to talk to us, only to tell us that she'd died before we even got there. What was the wait for? To clean her up.
They had to do a trach on her (severe pneumonia, she basically drowned) ... but they left her on the table where she had died. And so these people take us all in, including me, and I couldn't have been more than 13 or 14. I knew enough to know what a tracheotomy was, and so the cloth they had thrown over her throat did nothing more than conceal the actual damage. It all seemed very cheap to me, that someone who was so loved was presented to their family ... like that.
I pretty much freaked out.
I "think" I hit my hand on the door when I fled the room. My family let me go. All I know is that I stopped some time later, sobbing in the middle of some hallway. A nurse stopped, upset, and dragged me back to the ER. Why? I was bleeding all over her floor. LOL Whatever I contacted with my hand, it left one hell of a scar as a reminder.
I digress.
Anyway, Ethel's house (she wasn't great-grandmother, she was Ethel, dammit) wasn't quite in the sticks, yet wasn't quite "citified" yet either. You walk outside, and you smell country. You had to walk some distance to reach the huge garden in back of the house, where rows upon rows of soon-to-be food waited, scarecrow and all.
I can never remember if the house was 2 bedrooms or 3, but I remember the layout clearly enough, especially the kitchen. I grew up in that kitchen, and the smells of fried chicken or fresh boiled corn, or better yet, jalapeno cornbread can still make me misty eyed. I can remember the incessant and futile humming of the window units, just barely breaking into the Texas summer heat. I remember the back door in the middle of the "living room" that led straight out to a flower bed and a cut brick walkway. I can remember the little iron scotty dog that always held that door open. My grandmother has it now.
For all I know, the house is no longer there.
Yet for the life of me, I can't figure out why I was suddenly back there again last night. Not just there, but moving in, with my family, trying to figure out how to install ceiling fans so the temperature would be bareable until we could get central air, or figuring out where the kids were going to sleep, or how to get the washer and dryer hooked up INSIDE the house, instead of in the huge garage that was always more of a barn, and always filled with wild neat things to get yourself thoroughly in trouble.
In the hazy early wakeup, I had no idea where I was. It certainly wasn't "here."
I was still there, and I could still remember in such clear detail that "home" was hundreds of miles away, in a quiet Texas cornfield.
And they say you can never go home again.
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