Merriest Christmas Ever!

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Scanning Old Photos

I've been going through old photographs and scanning those I want to keep forever and ever into my BACKUP hard drive. :-)

Lo! And Behold! I came across some old photos from my belly dancing days. There are lots more, but most haven't surfaced yet. Some blasts from the past to enjoy and share my melancholy over:

This is scanned from one of my old business cards:

This is the first costume I ever made, appearing in the first photo shoot I was ever invited to:


This is a later business card:

Here is a photo of the specialty dance troupe I was with for a while. Each of us specializes in a particular prop/symbolism form. I'm the one in white:

This is a photo shoot for a costumer... the costume is a hand-made Madame Abla design. Back in the day, a costume like this sold for about $2K:

Here I am doing one of my specialties: those are candles in my hands. The candles lay on the palms while some rather intricate arm motions and body turns are manuvered. There are about 8 million photos of me doing this type of dance, but i can't find a single on "in action:"


Here I am with the other part of that specialty: a tray of lit candles on my head. The candles aren't secured to the tray in any way, they aren't in jars or anything. There are about 20 votives on there, just sitting there, lit. This is a horribly unflattering shot (but I'm TOTALLY getting ready to do something AMAZING with that tray on my head), but you can see that I am truly dancing without managing to also become Belly Dancer En Flambe.


Here's a flyer for a twice-monthly show my partner and I had for almost a year at a local coffee house. We had guest dancers, musicians, and everything!


Here I am again with the candles, this time both in my hands and on my head. Another unflattering shot, but that's the problem with belly dance - we're always doing something with out bellies and if you catch a still shot of us it just looks weird. I'm "camel walking" in this one, which is a walk that begins in the abdomen and is powered by throwing one's pelvis over, down, up, and back over in a sort of sideways "O" movement:


Awwww. Memory Lane is so fun!

2008 - But No Photos Yet...

Yes, I'm back from the BC3D. There are precious few things in my life that never get old, and this event is surely one of them. Of course, I'm already registered for next year and must hold my breath again in hope that I will get the assignment that I want and love.

There were only two things that marred this event for me, and one is the old nemesis: the cellular phone. I'm not exactly sure why cellular phone use on the route sticks in my craw so bad, besides the fact that it's patently against the rules and wholly unsafe. And the rules are easy to follow: step off the route, stop walking, take your call, hang up, start walking again. This is not rocket science. Still people refuse to follow this simple rule. And then they act righteously indignant when their refusal to follow a basic rule is pointed out. I think the thing that makes this so hard for me to swallow is that it reminds me so much of what I do every day at work - except these are ADULTS who are being given a very simple set of rules and very obviously and defiantly failing to follow them. This is not the Olympics. No one is timing the Walk. Stopping along the route to take a call, or stretch, or chat with an onlooker is encouraged and expected. Why people will defiantly argue their right to endanger themselves and others with use of a cell phone - a cell phone that accepts messages!!! - is completely beyond my scope of understanding.

The other thing, well... it's really just the same old thing as well. Except that it's never happened in Girltopia before, at least not to me. I'm hoping that the infiltration of the "real world" into Girltopia was a one-time glitch, but I fear that the increasing numbers of men participating in the BC3D is going to allow the "real world" to infiltrate even further, perhaps even enough to occupy.

Pics to come!!

The Song of O: 2-28-00 to 11-9-08

When we brought you home, you were small enough to hold in my two cupped hands. For the first three weeks, you slept in a laundry basket next to my bed. Just like all my other babies, when you cried in the night, I brought you into bed with me and held you next to my heart until you slept.

Every time we opened the dishwasher, you would climb in and frolic. One day, you could no longer fit your body into the cavity and were comically confused at the inevitable physicality of it. Ice was your very favorite treat, and the sound of someone opening the freezer door was cause for rejoicing and a funny little dance, your toenails tapping in glee on the kitchen tile. You were the reason that no mailperson, FedEx employee, UPS deliveryperson, or Jehovah's Witness would approach our door - at least not more than once. You hung your head and followed us to the door every morning when we left for work, and wagged your entire body while snorting with ecstasy when we returned each night. You knew with clockwork precision when 6:00 am and 6:00 pm rolled around, and made sure that everyone else knew it too; in fact, you wouldn't stop letting us know until we produced the food you were waiting not-so-patiently for.

You sat on the couch with your legs on the floor because you were convinced you were human. You slept with a pillow under your head for the same reason.

We brought you home with hope that your presence would revitalize old, tired Frejya; instead, she hated you with a passion reserved only for the Akita breed and would choose to sleep outside in the rain rather than anywhere near you. You valiantlyand tirelessly - and rather stupidly - insisted that she recognize you, often getting yourself a firm swat and snarl for your trouble. Later, she learned to tolerate you, and you accepted the gift of her tolerance with playful impudence that frustrated her to no end.

Still, when she died later that year, you were lost without her. You pawed at her body and barked, trying to rouse her; and when you found that her body was gone, you yelped joyously and ran frantically around the yard in search of her. When she was nowhere to be found, you cried mournfully. Your grieving baying broke my heart all over again. More so throughout the days that followed, as you didn't know how to fulfill the duties she had left to you and were painfully aware of it.

When we brought Siofn home to help you, you gratefully accepted her as the new "alpha," a role you were no more comfortable with than you were going outside in the rain. She, in return, graciously allowed you to housetrain her and share the couch. Throughout the years that followed, you and Siofn had long, strange conversations in high-pitched Dobie-speak that frustrated MSU endlessly because it was impossible to hear anything else in the house - including the smoke alarm - until you were finished.

You were the ground squirrel Enforcer, the voice of fence-line reason, the Official Greeter, and surreptitious panty thief. You played dumb a lot, but managed to find your way into every food cabinet no matter how we tried to keep you out. You loved with unbridled abandon and protected with fierce dauntlessness. You were the master of energy conservation in those last years, but when it really mattered, you were all over it like flies on shit.

Ten days ago, you stopped eating. Six days ago, you ate some turkey and some peanut butter, but I could tell you were doing it to make me happy and it was then I knew that you had made your decision. Knowing what was to come, I spent as much of the last four days with you as I could; as your faculties waned I wanted you to know every minute that you were a good, good boy. Yesterday, you lost control of your body functions but still tried to stagger outside, face filled with shame. The Baby (not anymore, but that's how you always knew her) gave you her sleeping bag and we made you as comfortable as we could, and I let you know that I would clean up after you and that there was no need to get up, go out, or work. And though your body was shutting down at that point, you appeared sheepishly affronted at being relieved of the duty you had meticulously attended to for so very long.

Last night, I lay with you on the sleeping bag and held you as your breathing grew ever more shallow. Your last bit of bodily energy was spent in Herculean effort, as you stretched your front legs out to take the first step of your Last Journey and struggled to take the last breath you would need to cross the Veil. I felt the sweet release as you left the confines of the body that had finally failed you and knew that you had found your way.

Of all of the watchdogs I have trained for God, I know that you will be the most entertaining.

BEING

While I was teaching at a local middle school deep in the gangland, we adopted a uniform policy. Needless to say, the uniform – navy blue belted pants or skirt, white button-down or polo shirt tucked neatly in, and closed-toed shoes – was unpopular with the students and faculty alike. So unpopular, in fact, that much of that first year’s teaching time was engaged instead in uniform compliance enforcement and the inevitable referrals that accompany defiance.

And, of course, the female sub-population was the most difficult to bring on board – as I’ve said many times before, sometime around the age of eleven, young girls stop BEING and start BEING SEEN. Making them wear uniforms frightened them horribly (though they could not have verbalized it as such) because their power base had been completely removed. No more tank tops. No more middy shirts. No more skin-tight low-rise jeans. Their mechanism for displaying their status, power, and desirability had been yanked out from under them like a moldy rug. Without the mechanisms of BEING SEEN, the females could be seen casting about in confusion, looking for a way to restructure their pecking order.

One year later, assaults on campus had declined from two or three per day to two or three per semester. Thefts by students declined 80%. Participation in after-school programs increased dramatically. Gang-related crime on campus decreased dramatically. Standardized testing scores skyrocketed (NOT an exaggeration). The District had finally learned the lesson the military had known for years: take away the biology of status and sex and even uncivilized middle school students can become somewhat civilized.

You see, you can’t fight biology. That’s why many of us, confronted with questions about why we did something remarkably stupid, can only shrug our shoulders in shameful remorse. We don’t know why we do a lot of the things we do. But you can bet the motivation came out of our biology, out of our hard-wiring. You can bet it had something to do with perceived sexual signals, perceived status, or perceived power. Intellectually, we’d all want to deny that our motivators are so base. Yet, here we are, base creatures all.

The topic is on my mind because it’s made itself evident, in several manifestations, quite often over the past few weeks.

I battle biology every day. 20 years of my employment history has been spent in male-dominated fields, including my current career path. I’ve struggled for 20 years to maintain some semblance of femininity while earning the respect, trust, and esteem of my male co-workers, and biology notwithstanding have managed to fare pretty well. I can’t say it’s been a major sacrifice, as I failed every class in Girl School anyway; however, I have at times lamented that dressing up (for Court, for professional visits, for seminars, etc.) often results in dumbing down, at least in the eyes of my co-workers.

Yesterday (in the figurative sense), I was just “one of the guys.” Today (also in the figurative sense), I was dressed for Court and was suddenly treated differently by my male co-workers. I’m not sure it’s necessary, but I will make the distinction that I am not a shapeshifter or any sort of magical creature. I am the same person in the figurative today as I was in the figurative yesterday. The only difference is that in the figurative today, I was dressed like a girl and my legs and the general shape of my body were evident. In the figurative yesterday, those statements did not apply. Co-workers and other men (in the Courthouse, for example) who wouldn’t have given me a second glance yesterday - much less any sort of special treatment - suddenly acted in way that made no sense given the nature of previous associations: they opened doors for me. They did double-takes. They moved aside to allow me to sit. They offered to fetch me beverages. They made suggestive comments. They allowed their eyes to roam and linger. They did these things despite the fact that yesterday, they knew they’d get their asses kicked for treating me with such commingled respect/disrespect. Today they were surprised when I called them on it and then fervently denied such behavior.

Yesterday, I was a warrior. Yesterday, not a single one of my co-workers would have thought twice about my tactical positioning or ability to control a situation. Yesterday, I WAS. Today, I was only SEEN. What a transformation to undergo in only a few short hours: from BEING to BEING SEEN! From soldier to object! From manifested power to invoked subject! Why did this happen, you ask? Pure biology, plain and simple.

Ladies, we can say that we’ve “earned the right” to proudly display our femininity whilst retaining the “status equality” that our feminist sisters fought so inanely and futilely for, but it just ain’t so. Worse, some women know this to be true but insist upon dressing in a provocative manner at work and then having the gall to protest – sometimes even as far as into a court room – when they get exactly the sort of attention they are (maybe unconsciously?) seeking instead of the respect and cohesion their skills may very well deserve. We can’t fight biology, our own or that of the opposite gender. We can either minimize the effects of our hard-wiring in order to gain trust, esteem, and respect or we can maximize the effects to ensure attention. It’s a difficult and perhaps unjust dilemma, but the choice should be very clear.

Please don’t misunderstand. The inherent power of female can not be denied and should not be underestimated. It is a gift, and used wisely and with prudence, the power of female is and will ever be the civilizing force of humanity. The confusion seems to lie in the expression of it. The natural force of the feminine exists without makeup, without surgical enhancements, without push-up bras and “shapewear,” It exists without or without youth, without or without “standardized beauty,” and with or without higher learning. The unifying energy of the feminine is the birthright and responsibility of every female born, and needs only recognition and encouragement to bloom and grow. In other words, though our unique bodies are capable of demonstrating our Magic, the wellspring of our Mysteries lies elsewhere. Our power is in BEING, not in BEING SEEN.

I Apologize for My Total Lack of Remorse Regarding This Post

Obama Win Causes Obsessive Supporters To Realize How Empty Their Lives Are

WIth a Grain of Salt

The following data, taken from the public record, reveals each Presidential Candidate ' s proposed TAX Plan, if elected. Each taxpayer should become more informed before the November-04 General Election......or be willing to pay the tariff of ignorance, once taxes are enacted. All of these facts have verifiable websites to check the accuracy of what is stated just below the last assertion.


INTERESTING DATA ON TAXES

Proposed changes in taxes after 2008 General election:


CAPITAL GAINS TAX

MCCAIN
0% on home sales up to $500,000
per home (couples) McCain does not
propose any change in existing
home sales income tax.


OBAMA
28% on profit from ALL home sales

How does this affect you?


If you sell your home and make a profit, you
will pay 28% of your gain on taxes.


If you are heading toward retirement
and would like to down-size your
home or move into a retirement
community, 28% of the money you
make from your home will go to taxes.

This
proposal will adversely affect the
elderly who are counting on the income
from their homes as part of their retirement income.


DIVIDEND TAX

MCCAIN 15% ( no change)

OBAMA 39%

How will this affect you?


If you have any money invested in stock
market, IRA, mutual funds,
college funds, life insurance, retirement
accounts, or anything that pays
or reinvests dividends, you will now
be paying nearly 40% of the money
earned on taxes if Obama become president.


The experts predict that higher
tax rates on dividends and capital gains
would crash the stock market yet
do absolutely nothing to cut the deficit.


INCOME TAX

MCCAIN (no changes)

Single making 30K - tax $4,500
Single making 50K - tax $12,500
Single making 75K - tax $18,750
Married making 60K- tax $9,000
Married making 75K - tax $18,750
Married making 125K - tax $31,250

OBAMA
(reversion to pre-Bush taxation schedules)
Single making 30K - tax $8,400
Single making 50K - tax $14,000
Single making 75K - tax $23,250
Married making 60K - tax $16,800
Married making 75K - tax $21,000
Married making 125K - tax $38,750


Under Obama your taxes will
more than double!


How does this affect you? No explanation
needed.


INHERITANCE TAX

MCCAIN 0% (No change, Bush repealed this tax)

OBAMA Restore the inheritance tax

How does this affect you?



Many families
have lost businesses,
farms and ranches, and homes
that have
been in their families
for generations because they could not
afford the inheritance tax.

Those willing their assets to loved
ones will only lose them to these taxes.


NEW TAXES BEING PROPOSED BY OBAMA

* New government taxes proposed on
homes that are more than
2400 square feet

* New gasoline taxes (as if
gas weren' t high enough already)

* New taxes on natural resources
consumption (heating
gas, water, electricity)

* New taxes on retirement accounts
and last but not least....

* New taxes to pay for socialized medicine
so we can receive the same
level of medical care as other
third-world countries !!!


You can verify the above at the following web sites:
http://money.cnn.com/news/specials/election/2008/index.

http://www.cnn.com/ELECTION/2008/issues/issues.taxes.

http://elections.foxnews.com/?s=proposed+taxes


http://bulletin.aarp.org/yourworld/politics/articles/mccain_obama_offer_different_visions_on_taxes.
http://blog.washingtonpost.com/fact-checker/candidates/barackobama/


http://blog.washingtonpost.com/fact-checker/candidates/johnmccain/

Too Late

Bail Out???

Estimated US population as of July 2007: 301,139,947

Number of US homeowners in 2004 (the most recent stats I could find): 73,800,000

Percentage of mortgages in foreclosure or pre-foreclosure in January 2008: 9% (or approximately 7 million)

That 7 million mortgages in default or pre-default apparently represents that 700 billion dollar “bail out.”

I don’t pretend to understand finance or the “financial world” in general. If I did, I’m sure I would be a much wealthier person. But:

If the Federal Government gave each of those 73.8 million homeowners 1 million dollars, the total payout would be 7.38 billion dollars. If the Government required each of those homeowners to take that million dollars and pump it back into their mortgages, it seems to me that would “bail out” both the homeowners and the financial institutions. Once a homeowner’s mortgage is paid with the one million dollars, the remainder (if any) can be considered a “stimulus package,” as it would be funneled back into the economy by either paying of debt, upgrading a home (which many families would do if their mortgages were paid off, thus stimulating more economic growth for financial institutions), or run-of-the-mill purchasing. This seems to be a win-win proposition – though again I have no real understanding of finance.

What about the part of the US population that doesn’t own property? Well, given that the Federal Government has just saved 690 billion bucks by bailing out homeowners instead of financial institutions, a stimulus package could be offered to US tax-paying citizens. Let’s just say that of the remaining 227,339,947 people in the US, 200,000,000 of them are tax-paying citizens (not true, I know, but it makes the math easier). If the Government paid each of these persons (each person, not each household) $1000, the stimulus payout would be 200 billion. Homeowner bailout and stimulus package together would make a total Governmental payout of 207.38 billion dollars – which, seems to me, saves the Federal Government 492 billion dollars and still generates the desired effect on the economy.

This makes total sense to me. I’m sure I’ve oversimplified with my ignorance

Five Thoughts with Regard to Respect

**No one has the “right” to be respected. Respect is earned, not given. Neither compliments nor criticism have any effect if they are delivered by a person for whom I have no respect. If you want to be respected, you must be RESPECTABLE.

**If something is important enough to do, then it’s important enough to take responsibility for. Refusing to own your actions – actions with either positive or negative effects – is a blatant denial of your humanity. Not to mention a good way to ensure that no one will respect you.

**Try to keep in mind that the common denominator of every problem you’ve ever had is YOU, and only you are accountable for your choices. Accountability is the greatest gift we have. Model accountability for your children, for your colleagues. Accountability guarantees transparency – and respect.

**No matter what kind of spin anyone chooses to put on the concept, deception is equivalent to betrayal in all cases. Dishonesty serves no one. Lying – about anything – is the fastest way to earn the contempt of everyone around you and is never worth the effort. Lie to me and the only thing you’ve proved is that you don’t trust me enough to accept you for the fallible human being that you are.

**The right thing and the easy thing are very rarely the same thing. Create a culture of righteousness around you and support the efforts of others to choose wisely while embroiled in difficulty. A person who will always strive to do the right thing despite the high risk of failure is worthy of the highest esteem.

Progress

I am fully checked in for the quickly approaching Breast Cancer Three Day (www.the3day.org) and have my hotel room reserved at the Paradise Point Hotel and Spa (www.paradisepoint.com). It's right around the corner from the campground and I never would have thought to stay there. Just for giggles, I checked the government rates and THEY ARE THE SHIZNIT!! The only down side is the $22 bucks a night parking fee. Other than that, ther government rate is cheaper than the Holiday Inn.

Thanks to David who donated for the 3 Day! And it's not too late to donate. :-)

I was thinking today about my Cousin Thayer, and how she shaped so much of the way I feel about myself. She's actually my mother's cousin, but we've just always called her Cousin Thayer (and we always called her mom Auntie, though she was my mother's aunt). Cousin Thayer's family lived about 60 miles from where I grew up, and we spent every holiday at her home.

I'm convinced that Cousin Thayer actually converses with God. More than that, I wouldn't be a bit surprised if God talked to Cousin Thayer about his problems because somehow doing so is a sweet release in and of itself, mostly because she really LISTENS. But that's beside the point.

Anyway, every holiday we would travel to Cousin Thayer's, and every holiday we would attend their family's church, St. Michael's Espiscopal. One of my earliest memories is standing next to Cousin Thayer in the pew and being amazed at her incredibly loud, tuneless, off-key, and nasal singing voice. I had never heard anything like it, Still haven't. Her single voice could drown out an entire congregation, and St. Michael's is a HUGE church. It was easy to distinguish the visitors to the church because they would turn their heads slightly, trying to see who was making that infernal racket without being rude. Others had obvious looks of incredulousness on their faces and could be seen nudging their neighbors in disbelief. In later years (those awkward pre-adolescent years in which self-awareness translates to being embarrassed about EVERYTHING), I would cringe when it was time to sing because I was mortified to be standing next to Cousin Thayer and her powerful but rather frightening vocalizations.

But later, I admired her. Still do. And on the very rare occasions that I am now able to accompany her to church, I too sing at the top of my lungs and refuse to care if I'm out of my range, cracking, or off-key. Because we know that God doesn't care how we sound. We know that God expects us to do the very best we can with the gifts that we've been given. We know that God hears our joyous noise and revels in the enthusiasm of it. I know this because she knows God and God knows her and they are BFF.

Cousin Thayer's singing has been an inspiration to me, for she taught me that everything - every single thing - I do deserves the utmost effort, the utmost attention, and the utmost gratitude. Every little moment in life should be a moment of thankfulness and praise.

Same Shit, DIfferent Day

I dreamed that my teeth were crumbling and falling out. In my dream, MSU was indifferent and no one would help me. Here is what www.dreammoods.com has to say about it:

Dreams that your teeth are falling out are the most common dreams we here at Dream Moods receive. Common dream scenarios include having your teeth crumbling in your hands or your teeth falling out one by one with just a light tap.Such dreams are not only horrifying and shocking, but often leaves the dreamer with a lasting image of the dream. So what does it mean?

One theory is that dreams about your teeth reflect your anxiety about your appearance and how others perceive you. Sadly, we live in a world where good looks are valued highly and your teeth play an important role in conveying that image. Teeth are used in the game of flirtations, whether it be a dazzling and gleaming smile or affectionate necking. These dreams may stem from a fear of your sexual impotence or the consequences of getting old. Teeth are an important feature of our attractiveness and presentation to others. Everybody worries about how they appear to others. Caring about our appearance is natural and healthy.

Another rationalization for these falling teeth dream may be rooted in your fear of being embarrassed or making a fool of yourself in some specific situation. These dreams are an over-exaggeration of your worries and anxiety.

Teeth are used to bite, tear, chew and gnaw. In this regard, teeth represent power. And the loss of teeth in your dream may be from a sense of powerlessness. Are you lacking power in some current situation? Perhaps you are having difficulties expressing yourself or getting your point across. You feel frustrated when your voice is not being heard. You may be experiencing feelings of inferiority and a lack of self-confidence in some situation or relationship in your life. This dream is an indication that you need to be more assertive and believe in the value of your own opinion.

In the latest research, it has been shown that women in menopause have frequent dreams about teeth. This may be related to getting older and/or feeling unattractive and less feminine.

Traditionally, it was thought that dreaming that you did not have teeth, represent malnutrition which may be applicable to some dreamers.

Learn About the LHC and Decide for Yourself

I am once again struck by the fundamental dichotomies of human existence.

The thing we call “intelligence” is more of a curse than a blessing. Think about it before you disagree: You can thank your “superior intelligence” for your ability to completely blow off your body’s survival signals (humans are the only animals that will not respond to danger cues and remain in situations that have already been identified as dangerous or life-threatening). You can thank your “intellect” for such human wonders as suffering, envy, vengefulness, and guilt. Don’t forget to offer your gratitude to the “brainpower” that allowed you to be trained to never act aggressively enough quickly enough. It’s that “higher functioning” that lets you believe that no one really wants to hurt you.

The reality of “intelligence” is nothing more than this: we are trainable. As a matter of fact, we are so very trainable that we allow ourselves to be trained without even knowing or consenting to it. We are so very trainable that we allow ourselves to be trained by persons and circumstances that aren’t qualified to teach. And though we are intelligent enough to recognize poor training… though we are equipped with the tools to ensure that our training is relevant, fruitful, and constructive… though we are capable of conscious discrimination between what is creative and what is destructive… we all too often choose to “think” or “feel” rather than BE.

Ladies: do we honestly believe that it’s a credible, savvy marketing ploy for designers to display their creations on models whose bodies are representative of less than one percent of the population as a whole? Of course we don’t. As a matter of fact, each and every one of us recognizes the strategy as ludicrous. Each and every one of us recognizes advertisements in fashion magazines as misleading, unrealistic, confusing, and in some cases downright misogynistic. Yet 75% of us – yes, 75 f**king percent – feel anxious and unattractive after perusing a fashion magazine for 10 minutes. 75 f**king percent of us feel ashamed of OUR bodies after a few minutes with a magazine. OUR bodies = 99% + of the female body type range. Fashion models’ bodies = less than 1% of the range. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out which ones are the mutants and it’s NOT US! And though we recognize the marketing strategy as ludicrous and hurtful, those designers – the ones who use the mutant models to SHAME us – are far richer than you and I.

I sincerely doubt that anyone reading this would pay money to watch a circus in which all the animals were trained to HATE THEMSELVES. Why? Because we are intelligent, because we can choose between innovative and inhuman options, and because each of us knows that having a purpose is singular to contented life.

No, we wouldn’t stand for that kind of circus. We would not endorse or support such a circus. We would be incredulous to learn that such a circus was wildly successful around the globe. Yet, we allow ourselves to be the circus monkeys of advertisers who have no qualms about using our intelligence against us. We’ve allowed ourselves to be trained not only to dislike our selves – our SELVES! The most marvelous gift of all!! – but to actually float an entire economy on our self-dissatisfaction.

Makes you go “hmmmmmm,” doesn’t it? Me too!

Well...

...my son decided he is ready to buy the Rogue. Which, of course, meant I had to find another mode of cheap transportation.

So I bought this:

No, not the Ferrari! But aren't they a beautiful matched set??

Hmmmmmm.

Doctors
(A) The number of physicians in the U.S. is 700,000.
(B) Accidental deaths caused by Physicians per year are 120,000.
(C) Accidental deaths per physician is 0.171.
Statistics courtesy of U.S. Dept of Health and Human Services.

Guns
(A) The number of gun owners in the U.S. is 80,000,000. (Yes, that's 80 million)
(B) The number of accidental gun deaths per year, all age groups, is 1,500.
(C) The number of accidental deaths per gun owner is .000188.
Statistics courtesy of FBI


Statistically, doctors are approximately 9,000 times more negligent than gun owners regarding their obligation to preservation of human life.

Of course, if we ran statistics regarding the number of PURPOSEFUL deaths caused by the same populations, we'd come to the real reason for the shrieking for gun control. However, I just didn't want anyone to be swayed with arguments about "accidental" death due to the negligence of gun owners. The argument is non-sensical, as the aforementioned brief statistical data shows.

To Hell with That Gray Crap

I don't know WHAT I was thinking. This is better.

Not Sure What I'm Blathering About

The Norsemen of old, with their pantheon of gods as harsh and unpredictable as the frozen tundra and finicky fjords of their homeland, believed that the events of their lives were predestined even before the moment of their birth. After their pre-determined death, all souls would travel to Valhalla, but only a chosen few would be deemed worthy to sit at the table in the Great Hall of Odin's long house.

The events of the past week have found me pondering a life without fear. My mind does not allow me to assign blind faith to any religious doctrine, nor will it allow me to wholly discount "free will" insofar as the will can be defined as "free." But I must admit that evidence gathered over the sum of my years thus far might indicate that there is indeed "a time to die." MSU alone has had more "near misses" than any person should live to tell about. I, myself, have lived to tell the tale of numerous experiences that have killed coutless others. Three weeks ago, the 9-year-old son of a couple we know was hit by a car traveling at a fairly slow rate of speed when he failed to look both ways before crossing. I know several children who have been in similar circumstances and sported casts to school a week later. Not this one. He died of survivable injuries 2 hours after being hit. Why? Why him and not my other friend's 5 year old who sustained significantly graver injuries and lived to thrive? His time, perhaps... and not hers. MSU stood up and walked away from his accident last week - a 40 mph direct broadside hit to a motorcycle - when most others in similar happenstance did not survive to await settlement. Why? Perhaps just not his time.

It boils down to this: those who believe that their lives and deaths are predestined, preordained, and predetermined have no reason to fear. No choice, no action, no failure to act will change the events that have already been destined to occur. And if judgment of worthiness is based on how well a predetermined series of events is weathered, fought, ridden, played, danced, and worked, then it makes sense that the more fiercely one can live that life the more worthy that life will be judged to have been.

What would you do if you had no reason to fear? What would you accomplish if you knew that your success or failure was ultimately already in motion and the outcome already known to every Universal power but you? How fiercely and passionately would you live your life if you knew, without a doubt, that your choices would not affect the outcome at all? For in a passionate and zealous lifetime, every day is a good day to die because very day is a good day to live.

I fear no one. I want nothing. I am free.

Everything in Between

I am pleased to report that there has been a dual tortoise sighting. I have no idea where they go when they are not in the pen, but at least they know their way back. I'm glad I bought that food that they like... I don't think I would have been able to tempt them back into my clutches with grape leaves alone.

I've been busier than usual this month, or at least I feel more exhausted than usual this month. And money has been an issue for several weeks... seems like I have all the money in the world "on its way," but no money in my pocket or bank accounts. MSU's per diem paycheck is over 60 days overdue and each person we talk to says the same thing: "We'll cut the check Thursday." 8 Thursdays have come and gone - no check. I won $1000 on a lottery "scratcher," but have to wait three weeks to get it from Sacramento. There is another $800 check "in the mail," but who knows when that will show up. I'm sure it has to travel through Zimbabwe first. In the meantime, my cupboards are bare and my credit cards maxed out. Trying to figure out how I'm going to make a dinner for five out of one small bag of pasta, Lemon-Dill sauce, and freezer-burned baby carrots is exhausting in and of itself.

Last Thursday evening (7-10-08) MSU was broadsided on his motorcycle by a young lady who ran a red light. She was traveling about 40 miles per hour and didn't brake or try to swerve or take any evasive action whatsoever. My guess is that she was texting while driving, because she honestly didn't know that the light was red. MSU was taken via ambulance to Grossmont Hospital, where they took xrays and did emergency reparative surgery on his left hand. By the grace of all Divine, the extent of his injuries is life-changing, but not life threatening. His right shoulder is separated and he broke his thumb at the base joint. See cool x-ray photos below:




The young lady in question is insured and her insurance company has already accepted liability. The bike is totalled and our insurance company has already paid off the loan and towed it to the salvage yard. We are going to speak to a lawyer on Monday. In the meantime, MSU is the No-Armed Man, though he's finally getting a little more range of motion out of his shoulder. His thumb will never work correctly again (if at all) and he has a lifetime of arthritis to look forward to. Seems a small price to pay for such a horrific accident - but then again, had actually DRIVING the car that she was navigating through the city streets of El Cajon, California been the young lady's FIRST priority, MSU would have full use of both arms, both hands, and his beloved Ultra.

Today, I am at work. I haven't slept in 8 days. The No-Armed Man absconded (well, sort of) with my Nimble German Car last night and came home hours later drunk off his ass and barely able to walk. Then commenced 4 straight hours of vomiting every ten minutes or so. I'm not looking for a medal - after all this is a marriage and that's what all those promises are about - but I'm a little miffed that I just spent the last week dressing him, wiping his ass, bathing him, and doing EVERYTHING in the house (not to mention still going to work for part of every day), and he then chooses to endanger himself, others, my vehicle, and our home and livelihoods by refusing to call me to pick him up after drinking too much and being doubly impaired by the non-working condition of both arms. We've had the discussion over and over again. I'll drive to LA at 3 am to pick him up if that's what it takes to keep him from driving under the influence. My guess is that the ungrateful fool doesn't give a flying fuck about me - otherwise he'd take a little more interest in protecting the life that we've made. After all, when he's dead or in jail, it's ME that's going to have to pick up the pieces of that WHOLLY AVOIDABLE poor decision.

Next week will be better. I just know it.

Gone

The tortoises apparently didn't like the new beach at all, because they absconded.

I came home today to find MOUNDS and MOUNDS of dirt in the enclosure... and a HUGE tunnel inside their den.

We dug up the den and tried to dig out the tunnel... but it's too deep and too long. I can't see them and I can't feel them as far as my arm can reach.

I changed the water in their pool and put out food that they really like. I hope they come back.

New and Improved Tortoise Beach

Forgive the horrid photograph, taken with my phone because I can't seem to find my "soccer mom" camera and I'm too lazy to drag out the Canon.

The tortoises kept digging up new dirt and kicking it into their water bowl/pool. So I moved the pool and made a little beach around it, plus I filled it up about halfway with the same rocks so that the dirt would filter down to the bottom and so the poor tortoises wouldn't be afraid of drowning.

They seem to like the new set-up!

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

Remember when I said, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em?" Well, I did.

And now I'm gonna take over. Mwahahaha!

Some have asked for new photos, so here you go! This is from a little photo shoot on Sunday: the photographer was looking for people with "character" for outdoor work to plump up her portfolio a bit. Good stuff!!

Me with a big reflector in my face. Though it burnt my retinas at the time, I am now grateful for its amazing power to erase wrinkles and bad skin!


Mw and my sponsor, Mongo. He is aptly named.

Is it a waste of precious, valuable time attempting to incite compassion in the masses? I don't mean the "give us your money and we'll feed the world" type of compassion, and I also don't mean the "social program" type of compassion. I mean everyday, human-being, but-by-the-grace-of-God-go-I compassion. Do you feel the cold and impersonal wall of distance that greets each step you take in public? I do. And it breaks my heart, because I don't think compassion is a waste of time. It breaks my heart because I don't think compassion is too much to ask. Believe me when I tell you that sometimes a warm, sincere smile from a stranger is the difference between choosing to live or choosing to die.

What about leadership? Is that a waste of time and resources too? Is a title, a grander paycheck, and a corner office enough to transform a hard-working employee into a boss who will inspire excellence? I think not. Moreover, I think that it's a personal responsibility to ensure that I don't promote beyond my ability to lead, to inspire, to teach, and to impassion. Leadership - TRUE LEADERSHIP - requires transparency, empathy, humility, and the patience of Job. Dictatorship is NOT leadership. Standing on the shoulders of giants is NOT leadership. "Perfection" - whatever that might be - is NOT leadership. Accept that promotion if you dare - but ensure that you are up to the task, because leadership means courage enough to succeed and courage enough to fail, not just for yourself but for those you lead.

And craftsmanship? Is that a bygone concept as well? I think of my father, psychotic in so many ways, but a craftsman beyond compare. He applied his skill and deftness to everything he touched, be it a delicate, spider-web thin wood etching, a to-scale and perfectly recreated model airplane, or the implements he handmade to punish my sister and me. Hours of time, infinite patience, meticulous attention to detail, and a genuine love of creation were devoted to items that most people would be content to purchase in a department store. His perfectionism and eye for detail weren't exercised because he was going to sell the items, or because he was going to enter a contest, or because he wanted acclaim. He demonstrated pride in craftsmanship simply because that's the way it is done. My place of employment used to practically teem with such people. Now it seems that people do just what is necessary to get by; putting forth the least amount of effort necessary for a finished, but immature, product. Yet another insight that breaks my tired heart, as craftsmanship is very fulfilling... having a job is not.

Strange to say, but perhaps the most dismaying question of all remains - who do we represent when we egress the safety of our homes and face the world each day? What does my attire, my facial expression, the state of repair of my shoes, the condition of my vehicle, my attitude, and my speech say about my family? My friends? My employer? My upbringing? My personal code of ethics? Do those things - those superficial, first-impression, open-to-interpretation-by-anyone-on-the-street things - tell the world what I want the world to know? It's easy to say "I don't care what other people think," or "You have no right to judge me," but it's just as easy to accept that humans-at-large are going to make snap decisions based on my appearance, my grooming, my attitude, and my speech that have the potential to reflect on my children, my spouse, my friends, my employer, and perceptions of my ethical system. It only takes a few moments longer to think before I speak, to plan the next day's wardrobe instead of throwing it together at the last minute, to polish my shoes, or to ensure that my dress, manners, and attitude reflect the highest moral caliber - and the effort results in impressions that are pervasive and long-lasting. Otherwise, it only takes a second for a person - perhaps just the person I needed to talk to about a new job, or my child's IEP, or my elderly parents' care - to dismiss me outright. Is representation a waste of time and effort? Only if you truly don't care what people think.

MSU's Prehistoric Molar

It’s a crappy photograph (taken with my cell phone), but that’s one of MSU’s molars next to a dime. Yes, that’s a TOOTH.

You’ll notice that the tooth, sitting there so incongruently, has a $900 crown on it. The crown was so well done that it didn’t budge a bit when the tooth was yanked. And why, you ask, was the tooth yanked? Because the $1000 root canal he had on that very tooth approximately two years ago FAILED (as you can see by the gargantuan root) and the root continued to grow until it affected the flesh, bone, and nerves around it.

So, by my calculations, that’s $1900 laying there next to that dime. It’s sort of funny, actually: I placed the dime next to the tooth for perspective. 10-cent dime and $1900 tooth. Which one is more valuable today? HA HA HA HA HA.

The good news: pulling the tooth was free. Finally, a benefit to that dental coverage I’m supposed to have.

MSU informed me that he has an appointment in a month to get an implant. I replied incredulously, “Implant? Whatever for?” He said, somewhat condescendingly, “To replace the pulled tooth.” Stunned, I asked, “But why? It’s in the back. No one can see it.” MSU smugly informed me that his “face will change” if he doesn’t replace the tooth, and self-righteously posited that I “wouldn’t want THAT to happen.”

HA! Ha ha ha ha ha! How about I change it for you right now, you patronizing dillwad?

Okay, I didn’t say that.

Silly me, I thought that the million-dollar smiles currently sported by my two eldest daughters represented the pinnacle of dental expense, especially the veneers and reconstruction that make my middle daughter’s glorious smile so, well, glorious. No so!! The single implant that MSU is scheduled to receive will cost us $3400, more than we spent on our eldest’s entire regime of orthodontia and roughly one-fourth of what we spent on 4 years of orthodontia, reconstruction, and 7 veneers for our middle daughter. For ONE stinking implant. $3400 is more than I’ve spent on my mouth in my ENTIRE LIFE.

For what? Nothing but simple vanity, in my humble opinion. But SHEESH! Would you look at the ROOT on that damn thing??? If it weren’t the harbinger of more financial woes, I’d be pretty dang impressed.

Email from the Crew Coordinator:


Breast Cancer 3-Day crew members have to be a little crazy. You work long hours and early mornings. Some of you lift hundreds of pounds of gear, some put on fairy wings and cheer on walkers until you lose your voice. Well, we think that's crazy bold, and crazy beautiful.

Are you up for another crazy challenge? Spring has sprung and we're ready to go into the summer season with a bang. We're launching the Breast Cancer 3-Day Crew $300 in 3 weeks challenge. Ready?

We're challenging all Breast Cancer 3-Day crew members to get at least $300 in your fundraising account by June 11th. We know you don't have to fundraise, but don't we all want to do more to help end breast cancer?

Well, don't we??? See the link to my 2008 BC3D donation page to your left!!

Always a Problem, Never a Solution

With all the things couples can argue about in a marriage, MSU and I seem to have just one major issue: sex. In all honesty, the only reason it's an issue for me is because it's an issue for HIM.

Sex: it's a good thing. It's a gift to us, for sure. But I just can't get into the mindset that it's the end-all be-all reason and motivator for human existence. Sex is a TOOL for human existence. The fact that it's rather enjoyable is just a fringe benefit. So I don't attach a whole lot of importance to it. I just don't. If I get some, great. If not, oh well. And I think it's been mentioned before that MSU and I are on TOTALLY different wavelengths when it comes to sex. I've never had mindblowing sex in my marriage. And that's okay.

MSU, however, attaches a boat-load of emotional well-being to sex. His worth as a man is dependent on how much sex he's getting. His only concept of "intimacy" is through sex. He places a great deal of his self-esteem on whether or not I am "satisfied." It is apparent from our very long-term relationship that MSU's very definition of marriage is "sex when I want it, on my terms, you'd better cum or I'll pout, and see ya later I gotta go to work and you really need to clean up this house and I'm out of clean t-shirts." The point is, he needs sex to feel alive. So I accomodate his needs, which far exceed mine, because I understand that about him and want him to feel like a "whole man."

So, the same discussion arises again over the weekend. The Discussion has had several makeovers (this is from MSU casting about trying to find the magic word that's going to make me be a totally different person). My side of The Discussion is always the same: if you want "intimacy," then be intimate. Intimacy is caring about the same things that I do and applying passion toward them. Intimacy by definition does NOT mean "enjoy MSU's fumbling approach to all things sexual." Intimacy does NOT mean "come home from work, sit in front of the computer and/or TV, wait for your wife to cook dinner, do homework with the kids, get kid stuff ready for the next day, put in a load of laundry, clean up the kitchen, and then fall exhausted into bed so you can traipse into the bedroom about an hour later (after you've finally gotten off the computer after 6 hours) and wake her up to 'be close to you.'"

This time, The Discussion revolved around how important it is to MSU that I cum. In fact, it's so important to him that he threatened me - again - with dissolution of the marriage if I don't fix it. Because this is, evidently, MY problem. Let it be known that I am taking Wellbutrin, which is notorious for impairing women's ability to achieve orgasm. And I must be really special, because I CAN do it, it just takes a while and some effort - and time for that is generally limited, even when I'm alone. But MSU is convinced that I am "not making love to him" if I don't have an orgasm. Doesn't matter if he ignores me all night before coming to bed to wake me up for sex. Doesn't matter if the timing is right for me. Doesn't matter if he has NEVER paid attention to the things that turn me on, even after detailed instructions. Doesn't matter that my mind has to engage before my body does. Doesn't matter if I'm on medication for FUCKING DEPRESSION that physiologically impairs my ability to do what he wants. Doesn't matter that he wants something from me that he himself is not willing to give. His sentiment is this: if I don't start enjoying sex (he means having an orgasm), then he's outta here.

I asked him if it's ever occurred to him that I might be enjoying sex even if I don't cum? He said (and I quote), "That's impossible."

Me: So we have a problem. The problem appears to be that I'm not having orgasms and you don't like that.
MSU: Right. It's really important to me.
Me: But it's NOT really important to me. I could care less if I cum. Sex is still a nice thing even if I don't.
MSU: But you're not having fun if you don't cum.
Me: Says who?
MSU: Says me.
Me: But wouldn't I be the one to know whether or not I'm having fun?
MSU: Even if you are, you're not having orgasms, so I'll never believe that you are.
Me: Okay. But you do understand that there really isn't anything I can do about that, right? I mean, it's not like I have some "orgasm on/off button," right?
MSU: You could if you wanted to.
Me: So, let me get this straight... this is MY problem, not OUR problem. Is that what you're saying?
MSU: No, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying that it's really important to me and I need you to figure out what I can do to help you.
Me: Well, for one thing, you can stop believing that me not having an orgasm has ANYTHING WHATSOEVER to do with YOU. You can also stop believing that my orgasms somehow dictate the quality of our sexual relations.
MSU: I can't live like this.
Me: Okay. Do you have any ideas how this can be solved?
MSU: No. I just want you to know it's an issue.

As ludicrous as this conversation was, he's serious. And honest to God, I have NO IDEA what to do.

Queen Sadim

Yesterday:

If I could screw it up, I did. I had a 1.000 average in SNAFU.

When I tried to un-fuck the things I thought I could un-fuck, I just fucked them up worse and made my ineptitude even more public.

Everything I touched turned to shit.

Chemical Dependency and a Small Victory

My hair started going gray when I was 15. It was cool back then, but once I hit 30 (and was about 40% gray), I decided to start coloring.

Since then, I've gone throught the gamut... ultra-blonde, close-to-my-natural-blonde, auburn, nothing-in-Nature-is-this-color-red, and most recently several futile attempts to regain my natural color. This task was difficult, because it entailed 1) remembering what my natural color IS, and 2) stripping my hair of all the old color.

Stripping took a long time and left me with hair that was devoid of all pigment, including natural pigment. Each time I attempted to dye it to a color close to my own, it came out very brassy because of the lack of natural pigment.

Two color cycles ago, I let the hair grow out much longer than I usually do, just to get a really good look at the roots in order to verify what the natural color is at this point. Guess what? The natural color is 100% GRAY. Well, not quite 100%... some of the hair is white.

It occurred to me to just shave it off and start over. Thinking that I really liked my Sinead O'Connor hair when I had it, I still wasn't quite ready to go to that extreme. Instead, I chose to try to dye my hair gray.

Yes, gray.

The first attempt, two weeks ago, resulted in daily-swimmer-green. I walked around like that for two weeks, playing it off like I did it on purpose (which, in a manner of speaking, I did).

Today, I went big. I bought 8.12 "Moonlit blonde," the darkest blue-violet drabber I could find, and a bottle of 12% peroxide developer. I mixed them up with 2 parts color to 1 part drabber and applied.


Voila! 100% gray hair!

More Truth (from the mouths of babes)

Yesterday, while sitting in my office typing madly away, two of the student workers that this building is infested with were sitting about 30 feet away in the "bullpen." They were talking loudly and rather irreverently and obviously were unaware of my proximity and presence. I was getting sort of tired of their sophomoric banter (trying to remember that they are, after all, 20 years old or some such ridiculous age), and was taking a break from my typing to think of a project for them that would keep them both seperate and quiet, when one of them asked, "there are no POs here, are there?"

Thinking she needed help, I shouted out, "I'm here!"

At that point, the first girl lowered her voice and said to the other girl, much like the 5-year-old who doesn't realize that sound travels, "Who is that????"

The other girl said, also sotto voce and in a tone one would reserve for referring to someone with grandiose delusions, "Oh, she's not a PO. She's a SENIOR Officer. She's old."

Simple Truth

Just before the choir I direct went on stage for yesterday's Law Enforcement Memorial, I snuck out back and had a cigarette.

When I came back, I learned I wasn't as sneaky as I thought, because one of the Commanders from our Sheriff's Department (who sings in the choir) gave me an uber-disapproving look and mournfully asked, "Why do you smoke? Why?"

Rushed, stressed, and sweaty, I retorted, "Because they won't let me drink at work."

Monday's Pointless Rant

* Just because YOU felt you were "taken off guard" does not mean that I "handled it badly." If you were doing what you were supposed to be doing instead of trying to go behind my back, you wouldn't have been "taken off guard." Remember that next time you argue with a direct order. And the next time I catch you trying to circumvent an order given for YOUR OWN SAFETY, you can think about it while you're on the beach for a couple of days.

* Your incompetency does not constitute an emergency for me. I'll un-fuck your situation when I have a moment to do so. If it even CAN be un-fucked. You are offered training for a reason and the rest of us can only assume that you're paying attention. If you didn't, well, shame on you and woe to whatever family is on the receiving end of your ignorance.

* Don't cut me off so severely that I have to actually "Tokyo Drift" (on a fucking motorcycle, no less) to get out of your way, and then pull up beside me to tell me I "look so hot on that bike" and expect any other reaction than the one you got, you brainless troll-faced menace.

* Please, please, PLEASE take a few moments to proofread before you bring me a report. Training issues are one thing, but misspelled words, missing words, poor grammar, and sentences with no discernable beginning or end are issues I can only assume a college graduate should be able to catch before submitting a report for review. If you just can't bring yourself to proofread, for God's sake don't look surprised and dismayed when I bring the fucking thing back to you for corrections.

* Move out the second you graduate if you want to, girlfriend, but remember that life is really fucking hard when you work part-time retail and don't have a driver's license or a pot to piss in. Yes, I know... you're "in love" and "nobody else understands" and you'll "find a way to make it work" because you're "supposed to be together." I'm sure I'm just overreacting again.

* Why on God's green Earth would I buy ANYTHING you're trying to sell me over the phone???? Do people ACTUALLY give you their credit card numbers and addresses in order to purchase an item sight unseen from a total stranger????? I can't figure out if the joke is on you or on me!!

* Hey, Disney Channel! Your programming is NOT APPROPRIATE for children! Fucking Sponge Bob is chock full of positive moral messages, but you can't seem to make a program that doesn't revolve around youngsters lyuing to their parents or trying to get away with something they shouldn't be doing or both at the same time!! Stop teaching our children to misbehave, and yes, it IS your responsibility!

A Little Friday Meltdown

I hear the song and I’m back. Just like that, like time doesn’t march on, like pain doesn’t fade, like I’m just seeing him for the first time and feeling thunderstruck and terrified all at the same time.

Oh yes, I can name that tune in three notes or less, and the first note brings a thrill to my body, the second joyous tears to my eyes; and the third a moment of blissful tribute before the whole of it comes rushing back like a Mack Truck toward a squirrel sunbathing on the Highway of Life.

God, but I can smell him and taste his sweet saltiness just like his skin is warm again against mine. He’d sing along with that song, somewhat tunelessly and under his breath, the percussion of his breathy syllables assaulting my eardrums as his hands kept time elsewhere.

It’s always the same… I can’t reach the iPod fast enough to stop it before it transports me, but I can’t bring myself to remove the song from my playlist (and therefore from my consciousness) either. I am blindsided every time: my own fear of never knowing that feeling again prevents me from erasing the materialization of it along with the suitcase of pain that it carries.

It’s over now: 3 years of torrential emotion relived in 3 minutes, and my body is slumped in the chair from the force of it. Beautiful and tragic, symmetric and discordant, wondrous and appalling, my senses are fully awakened and my insides are twisted into knots of frustration, shame, and remorse.

Some people never learn.

Mother of the Year

Raw Thoughts recently posted about an incident that, he was certain, lost him the "Father of the Year" award. Oh, what memories were triggered by the story!

Here's a happy one! I had just made myself a cup of tea with boiling water from the kettle, and I set it on the coffee table to steep while I went to switch a load of laundry from the washer to the dryer. Young Tamara, who had just started pulling herself up to a standing position days earlier, was sitting in the middle of the living room, playing with her activity blanket. As I tossed clean diapers into the dryer, an unearthly scream came from the living room... and suddenly I KNEW exactly what had happened. I dropped what was in my hands and ran full-tilt into the other room (a total of four steps), where I found the cup of tea overturned and Tamara, red-faced and shrieking, soaking wet with boiling hot tea. Already crying, I snatched her up and ran with her to the bathroom, chanting "Mommy's so stupid, Mommy's so sorry, Mommy's so STUPID!" I turned the cold water on and set her in the tub, splashing her and peeling the wet clothes off, terrified that skin was going to come off with them. As a semblance of awareness returned, I realized that Tamara's skin was fine - not burned at all, thank God! - and that Tamara herself had stopped crying long ago and was now having the time of her life watching Mommy lose it. Could it have been a LOT worse? Absolutely. Was I consumed by overwhelming bad-parent guilt. Oh yeah. Still am.

But the situation that came to mind when I read RT's post came much later, and is reminiscent because of the "frosty" reaction of MSU.

Isabeau was -and is - a physically gifted child. She was crawling at four months and walking at seven... we didn't get a lot of "baby" time with her. I was getting ready for work one morning in our bedroom, which at the time was a very large room. I stood at the long mirror in front of the counter than ran the length of the back wall, the little room with the toilet and shower on my left and the large walk-in closet on the right. Isabeau was sitting on the floor behind me, playing with a toy and babbling happily. About five feet to Isabeau's left was our good Akita Freya, who had positioned her entire body in front of the door as was her habit. Just outside the bedroom door and immediately left was the wide staircase of 16 stairs that led to the inside end of the marble-tiled entryway. I was finished with my hair and face and was ready to get dressed, so I checked Isabeau's location (still in the middle of the room), checked Freya's location (still completely occupying the doorway), and darted into the walk-in closet to grab the day's outfit, which was already staged and ready to go. The entire trip into the closet and out of the closet took approximately three seconds.

When I exited the closet, Mom-Vision saw two things at once: the baby was no longer in the room and neither was the dog. Already knowing what I was going to find, I sprinted out the door just in time to see Isabeau, on her hands and knees, reach her hand out for the first stair down, Freya standing at her side. And in the horrific slow-motion vision that only parents have, I dove to try to snatch her clothing only to watch her tumble, end over end, to the cold marble below. In excruciating detail, I saw each body part as it hit each stair: arm twisted on that one, face down on that one, legs bent at an unnatural angle on that one. And though I was right behind her the entire way, screaming (also in slow motion) "Nooooooooooooooo," I couldn't catch her or even get my body in front of her in time to avoid what I knew was coming next: the fatal wet smacking sound of her soft baby head splitting on the marble tile.

It was 10 years ago, but I'm crying now, again, with the memory. There is NOTHING worse than watching an event that you KNOW will kill your baby. Except watching an event that you know will kill your baby that's YOUR fault for being so fucking negligent.

But even-then physically gifted Isabeau didn't smack her head on the tile. And she didn't break any bones on the way down. And when she came to rest, she looked fearsome confused for about 10 seconds before she started crying tears of experience, not of pain. And stopped crying immediately upon Freya joyously licking her face as if to say, "Great stunt, girlfriend!! High Five!!"

Still hysterical, I called MSU (more out of sheer adrenaline and terror than anything else), and related what had happened. And he shouted at me. He told me I was an unfit mother. He asked me how I could possibly be so stupid as to leave her unattended even for a second. He said he was coming home to take her to the hospital, since I was obviously not going to provide the proper care (MSU and I are both EMTs, BTW - I have the exact same training and expertise that he does). And things were mighty "frosty" around my house for a little while. Until, as previously mentioned, karma stepped in.

Two days later, Isabeau fell down the stairs AGAIN - on Daddy's watch. And he reacted the exact same way that I did. The only difference was that this time, Isabeau didn't even cry. She just laughed and laughed as MSU, crying in a previously unheard voice and shaking like a leaf, picked her up off the tile and cradled her little body to his. He brought her back up the stairs and they both crawled back into bed with me... and he and I looked at each other and said at precisely the same time, "We can never take our eyes off her again. Not until she's 18."

Oh yes, there are more. LOTS more. But those two incidents are the ones that stick in my head, the ones that taught me the most about how much of a responsibility it is to be a parent. Tired, sick, pissed off, in pain, half dead... doesn't matter. There is no time - not three seconds, not four steps - once those babies are born that parenthood stops, no moment where one can wholly abdicate the obligation in order to get a little sleep, have some satisfying and unhurried sex, or take a shower. And there is no way to predict what's going to happen next!! Hot tea... willful dog who succumbed to the charms of cute, hell-bent-on-escaping baby and left her post... casualties of fingers in noses... it's a thrill ride, to be sure.

The Best One!

"Chuck Norris' dick is so big it has its own dick. And Chuck Norris' dick's dick is bigger than your dick."

Rejection...

...SUCKS.

Especially when it's after the fact.

Rejection at first glance is an easy thing to deal with: there are myriad reasons why such a judgment is being made, and most of them don't have anything to do with the rejectee. First-glance rejection doesn't necessarily mean being personally dismissed out-of-hand.

But after the fact? That can only mean one - or all! - of three things:

1. I did/said/sucked/handled something wrong.

2. I didn't do/say/suck/handle something right.

3. I'm fundamentally wrong. Or ugly. Or smelly. Or whatever. Insert self-deprecating assumption here.

All I can say is that folks would save me - and themselves - a whole lot of time and energy if they'd just take the time to decide prior to the judgment becoming personal. Because I'm too old for this shit. Seriously.

Should Have Known, Part II

I think most people walk through their lives without ever knowing perfection. I think we have, as humans, resigned ourselves to the fact that our also-human companions are never going to be perfect and neither are we. No matter how compatible two people may be, there is always going to be something that doesn’t quite fit. There is always going to be some wavelength that isn’t matched. There is always going to be disagreement, there will always be annoying quirks, there will always be differences in timing, viewpoints, sexual preferences, and social issues. No one is a perfect fit. We find someone that is close and consider ourselves lucky to have that high degree of compatibility.

I honestly believe that no two people are completely compatible. But I do think that there are compatibilities that matter and compatibilities that don’t. And if two people can line up the majority of the compatibilities that matter, the differences won’t be as obvious, nor will they be enough to tear the relationship apart.

Sexual compatibility matters. Really matters. And it seems like almost everyone I’ve talked to lately has compatibility issues when it comes to sexual relations. I met two married people over the weekend who stated that the sexual incompatibility was too much to bear in their relationships and their respective significant others had agreed to quit having sex entirely and offered the other partner their sexual freedom in exchange. Hanging out with married people who spent the entire weekend openly looking to get laid with strangers was disconcerting, to say the least. These are people who obviously found a great measure of compatibility in every realm of their relationships but one – and instead of ditching their relationships entirely, chose to try to deal with the one level where they could not relate in a way that was acceptable to both. Of course, these folks are the extreme end of the spectrum, but most people I have spoken with on the subject seem to be incompatible sexually with their partners to one degree or another. I think most folks have decided that this is the status quo – no one can be on the same sexual page with another person all the time because sexual expression is just so dang personal.

I don’t know how many times I’ve said it aloud… I don’t know how many times I’ve cried myself to sleep thinking the thought over and over… I don’t know how many times I’ve typed it in this blog or written it on scraps of paper or scrawled it somewhere random, but I wish I didn’t know. I wish I didn’t know what it’s like to be perfectly sexually compatible with another person, to be perfectly synced, to be perfectly fit, to be perfectly pleasured, to be perfectly intimate. I wish I didn’t know that the true meaning of cunt-magic is the forging of a bond that transcends the physical, a connection that blends the psyches into one and erases the separation of consciousness. I wish I didn’t know that it’s possible to lose hours upon hours of time in sacred space, without being aware of the moments passing or of the shadows descending. I wish I didn’t know that once forged, that bond is a gilded chain, a jewel-encrusted shackle worn with pride. I wish I didn’t know that it’s a joy I’ll never, ever know again.

Mostly, I wish I didn’t know that it’s just not possible with any other person on the planet. I wish I didn’t know so I could be just like everyone else and believe it’s not possible at all.

Should Have Known Better

Sometimes the past haunts the experience of the present and even of the future. I wish I didn't know... I wish I had known better... I wish perfect wasn't particular... and I wish I could say goodbye and really, REALLY mean it.

Daddy's Little Girl

One of my myriad functions at work is to sit on a panel (called the Screening Committee) that represents the entire Department to the Judiciary regarding certain recommedned placements and/or commitments. The purpose of the Committee is to ensure that our recommendations to the Court are appropriate and that the County's funds are not wasted in duplication of services or inappropriate treatment.

It doesn't happen often, but there are occasions where the Committee shoots down the recommendations of the presenting officers, who have to have "buy in" from their Supervisors in order to even appear before the Committee. One such occasion arose last week, when an officer from my former Unit appeared to screen a case, obviously with my former Supervisor's blessing.

My former Supervisor is a man who has earned my respect and esteem, no mean feat. He is the consumate leader and the prototypical Officer. I would follow him anywhere. Not only has he been a great Supervisor to me, he has also been a mentor, a sounding board, a staunch supporter, and a friend. And, as I learned yesterday, he has become somewhat of a father figure to me.

It should be obvious from the aforementioned sentiments that I knew full well my former boss was NOT going to be happy about the Screening Committee not only shooting down his officer's recommendation, but in fact directing the complete opposite action. As unfortunate as the situation is, it is the function of the Committee and I feel that we - and I personally - did the right thing.

Yesterday I telephoned my former boss regarding a normal workaday incident, and he brought up the decision of the Screening Committee from the week before. He expressed a profound disappointment in the decision, and advised of his displeasure with me personally. We discussed the matter for a while - there is no doubt that the case in question was different, tragic, and horrific - but the fact remains that the services of the commitment originally recommended were not necessary or appropriate for the juvenile himself. My former Supervisor felt that the recklessness demonstrated by the juvenile, which resulted in the death of an unrelated person, deserved punishment. I reminded him that the function of the Juvenile Court is rehabilitation, not punishment. He stated that such reckless disregard should be sanctioned to the fullest extent of the law. I indicated that there are very few 16-year-olds who haven't done something stupid to impress a girl, and just because this one resulted in the death of a person who would have easily survived the accident had he made his own decision to wear a seatbelt does not mean we should remove the young man from his intact, supportive, church-involved, straight-A-student home to provide him services that he doesn't need, in a setting that would be toxic to his existence and would expose him - for a year! - to an element that he normally wouldn't associate with. I said that the young man probably wakes up every night screaming and will pay his penance every single day of his life. He said that we'll never know for sure because he's not in custody.

He had me there.

He said that we would just have to agree to disagree. I concurred with this assessment of the situation and wished him a good day and marvelous weekend. And for the rest of the day I felt horrible.

And that's when I realized that my former boss had taken on a role for me that I had previously been unaware of: father. Regardless of his displeasure with me, I know that the Committee made the right decision in that case. Had it been any other Supervisor, I would not have been affected at all by the discussion or the sentiments expressed. But because he adamantly demonstrated his disappointment with my participation in the Committee's decision, I was bereft and spent the rest of the day feeling unwhole. Chastised. Sullied and in need of absolution. Emotions that I am vastly unfamiliar with, given my upbringing and lack of positive male role models.

Once the revelation had sunk in, I realized how very blessed I am to have him.

Healing

As you can see, the largest of my "stab wounds" is healing nicely. However, here is a photo of the same site in which I'm not pulling the skin up to expose the scar:

The skin fold you see is the result of the sub-cutaneous stitching that is holding my abdominal muscles together. I tore some of this stitching on Friday, so the swelling is making it slightly worse than it was last week, but the fact remains that even though I VEHEMENTLY stressed the importance of not messing with my body art during this surgery, these guys managed to still fuck it up, even if they didn't disturb the ink.

Not to mention that I REALLY liked my belly, and now I have this goofy skin fold. And if it grosses you out in this direct view, then I will save you the trauma of the horrific side view.

I am grateful for my ability to eat without feeling sick, for the disappearance of the night sweats I've been plagued with for years, and for the quick response to my distress. I am. The other side of the coin is that my belly was one of the very few parts of my body that I really thought was attractive, and now it's NOT. MSU says that it might be okay once the stitching is fully absorbed... in a YEAR... but dammit! I asked for ONE THING!!! Just ONE!!!

Okay, pity party's over. But I'm still pissed. And sad. And feeling rather like a hag, if the truth must be known.

Gained and Lost

Here's what I gained today: a "Meez."

And what I lost? So difficult to explain in a way that's going to make sense to anyone but me. I'm not even sure I'm making sense to myself, now that I think about it. Either way, I'm fairly sure that I'm overreacting, but I just can't seem to help myself.

I don't want to revisit the history behind all of this, because it really is too painful for me, even now. My current frustration is that MSU's ex-wife just plain refuses to stay in the little, safe box that my brain has her interred in. This defiance of my "safety zone" only serves to bring stuff from the past flooding back, whether I want it to or not. And the common denominator of EVERY event that's occurred with MSU and his ex-wife since he and I have been married (almost 19 years) is DECEIT. By them. MSU in particular. Because he doesn't always make smart choices and he usually isn't proud of it. This, in his mind, gives him carte blanche to lie.

When MSU decided to return from Hawaii and our little "separation," he vowed that he was a "new man." He swore up and down that lying, deceit, and misinformation of any kind was a thing of the past. I praised him for this. I believed him. I was so proud of him, because an honest path is a very difficult one. I was impressed, because this was the thing that kept tearing us apart and it seemed that he had finally seen it, known it, and decided to change it.

Enter the ex-wife, again. Evidently she is in the process of trying to obtain a Top Secret clearance as a requirement of her current job. She sent MSU an email yesterday, advising him to expect a phone call and/or interview regarding her TS application, and asking him to call her. She wants him to call her because "the investigator is really only focusing on the last seven years, but I want to tell you what I told him."

There's only one reason that she would want to talk in person to MSU about this. Just one.

So I asked him flat out if he was going to lie for her. He said, "I don't know. It depends on what they ask me."

And I lost my mind and spent the next 20 minutes locked in the bathroom sobbing.

When I came out, MSU said, "This doesn't have anything to do with you, so I don't know what you're so upset about."

I said, "I'm upset because you just told me that you don't know if you're going to lie to a Federal Investigator to protect your ex-wife. I'm upset because you're telling me that the truth and your relation of it depends on what the question is. I'm upset because I want to trust you and if you get to decide what is and isn't okay to lie about, then trust isn't a word I can keep in my vocabulary. I'm upset because you KNOW full well that I'm opposed to lying of any kind. I'm upset because YOU DON'T OWE HER DIDDLYSQUAT and I can't understand why you would compromise OUR relationship - AGAIN!!!! - for her, just so she can keep a job she lied to get in the first place."

He said, "It really isn't any of your business."

True dat, y'all. None at all. Apparently the only thing that's my business is that I can trust NO ONE. MSU's got his ex-wife's back. Who's got my back? Hell if I fucking know.

The Fourth Day

I am Jack's utter boredom.

Funny thing about being conspicuously absent from places I've been conspicuously present. It's only my 4th day away from work and today I haven't received a single email in my work inbox. My suspicions are confirmed: it doesn't take seven years to be declared dead, just four days.

There is a lot of freedom in being dead. I can skulk anonymously about the Internet without worrying if anyone thinks I'm just wasting precious time. In reality, I am. I can only nap so often.

If I could lift anything heavier than my own underwear, I'd try to do some laundry. If it would stop raining, I'd try to take the bike out for a little spin. If someone would have helped me out by doing the grocery shopping during my incapacitation (see point number one in this paragraph), I'd cook an elaborate meal. As it stands, I think I'll go take a nap. After all, I have protoplasm to knit!!

I did get a transfer, by the way. It means that I have to work Saturdays. It also means that I won't be doing casework anymore, as it is an administrative position. I'm very grateful to be leaving my current Purgatory, but am wondering just how much I'll like my job if I'm not out in the field, supervising kids. This "admin" thing is supposed to be good for my professional resume... I hope it's worth it. Either way, I won't have to work in The Building of Bad Karma any more and I'll be out from under the constant PA paging, not to mention the steady stream of questions, distractions, and issues. I'm pretty sure I'm really going to miss casework, though.

Rookie quit. No two weeks notice, no warning (other than her simple refusal to try on a daily basis). She left a stack of unfinished reports on the Duty Officer's desk with a note stating that she "resigned." Apparently she then just walked out. Good riddance, I say. I just wish she hadn't been so selfish about it. My staff had already sucked up enough of her work - now I'm not there to carry my part of HER load and I'll be leaving for good about two weeks after I return. Part of me blames the consistent mismangement of my Supervisor, but in reality, Rookie is just a selfish, crazy bitch.

Looks like it's naptime. I have to rest up for the 20 minute drive to get my taxes done tomorrow. Ha!