What was I thinking? And YES, I WAS thinking!

Let me start off by saying, that I AM of above average intelligence.  No, really.  I've got papers.  My IQ is actually 143, I shit you not.  So, even though I tend to be, by all outward appearances, a complete wingnut whose goofballs bounce randomly without warning, I am pretty damn smart.  I have often felt that my humor is BECAUSE of my overloaded brain, stuff just spills out sometimes and people tend to laugh at the bizarre nature of some of the leaks!

Now, with this brain, I find myself doing some pretty fucking STUPID things from time to time.  Merely out of curiosity, I do things that a "normal" person would not even attempt, sometimes resulting in bodily harm.  I like to see how things WORK or attempt to do something that SHOULD "conceptually" work .  I just can't help myself.  The following paragraphs contain things that I have done so that you do not have to.  Laugh if you like, I have suffered for YOU.

This "curiosity" has, in the past, left me standing naked and bloodied in my old shower, as I had the bright idea to start the demo process while I was waiting my turn for the new shower.  Do not attempt this folks.  You need to know that when you hit a ceramic tile wall with a sledge hammer, it splinters into hundreds of VERY sharp shards that cut you and stick in your skin if you happen to do it in the nude.  Good concept, BAD idea. 

Ladies, you need to know that even though it's a pain in the ass to shave your armpits every or every other day, you should not under any circumstances try and WAX your armpits.  You will, as I did, bleed, bruise and walk around like Wonder Woman for a week, as your armpits heal from having hair that is obviously attached to the inside of your skull as well as your spine, being ripped from their rooted homes. 

Also for the ladies and perhaps gentlemen, if you are anticipating surgery in your genital area, as I was recently with my hysterctomy, please, PLEASE allow the hospital to do their own prep work.  I thought I should shave the area before surgery so as to not have to deal with the discomfort while I was recovering.  I suppose if I had left well enough alone, and not gone to the park and sweated immediately after my fresh shave, I would not have gotten such horrible razor burn.  AND I suppose if I had not decided that shaving again the NEXT day would possibly HELP the "situation", that "things" wouldn't have gotten "as bad" with the razor bumps now not having any flesh on them.  AND I SUPPOSE that if I hadn't have tried to remedy THAT problem by applying DEODERANT to the bleeding bumps, I would not have ended up with the most raging, angry beaver my OB/GYN had ever seen.  So, yeah, don't do that either. 

Also, do not attempt to stick your thumb onto a car cigarette lighter to see if it is still hot after it has stopped glowing.  I still have a scar and I did that when I was 10.

Do not try to charge at a friend with the brilliant idea that you are going to give them a most impressive football shoulder hit.  They will move.  You will continue your action, as it is impossible to stop the momentum of this move once it is begun.  With no one there to take the impact, you WILL impact SOMETHING.  In my case, it was a truck that I ended up underneath of.  In your case, it very well might be the pavement or even worse, oncoming traffic.

NEVER, look down the top of a Salamander Propane Heater to see where the heat is coming from.  It will burn your face off, nose hair, eyelashes, eyebrows and a portion of your scalp along with it.

Do not put two leashes on a cat, tie one to the shower door and one to the wall soap dish unit and attempt to use the shower to give it a bath.  They are extremely flexible, get maniacly pissed and are more fierce than the King of the Jungle with their claws when they are suspended and being hit with water.

Do not apply a stun gun to ANY part of your body to see what it feels like so that you'll be confident in using it.  Trust me.  It works.  And thank you Andy for making me put my pants back on before doing it.  Although my fear that the zipper and rivets in my jeans would somehow be electrified, I am grateful that I did indeed have them on when I pressed that piece of pure evil to my thigh.

As you can tell, I have MANY experiences, hell, I'm just mentioning the top of my head ones, and yet somehow I still remain curious by nature.  Case in point:  I purchased a Scrubbing Bubbles Automatic Shower Cleaner a few weeks ago.  I installed it and have been using it on a daily basis as per the instructions.  As per the instructions, I press the blue button after I am out of the shower for the day.  The unit beeps for 15 seconds, letting me know, to be out of the shower and close the doors, as it is about to do it's 360 degree spray rotation.  I have watched through the frosted glass several times as the contraption sprays the cleaning solution for 10 seconds.  This morning, I was curious.  I was wondering if the little ball that has the sprayer in it, did a little up/down movement while it went around.  So, I got out of the shower, pushed the blue button and ignored the beeping and didn't shut the door.  I DID have my hand on the door so that I could close it when the sprayer got to my side of the shower.  I did NOT know that that little ball apparently sprays down the shower several times as it spins around EXTREMELY fast.  I had NO time to react.  Before my brain could register that that thing was going too quickly, and I needed to shut the damn door, it was too late.  I couldn't even blink because my eyes were so wide open in suprise.  I got a full, BOTH eyeball dose of Scrubbing Bubbles!  Mayhem!  Panic!  Eyes under cold water in the sink!  Holy crap!  Is my face going to melt off????  Are my eyes going to demoisterize and fall out of my head????  Shit!  Shit!  SHIT!!!  Blink.  Blink.  Blink.  O.K.  No pain.  No blood.  No pus.  I'm o.k.  I'm o.k.

So yeah, don't do that one either guys.  My eyes seem to be o.k. except for this incessant watering and apparent scrubbing bubbles cleansing of my corneas causing some blurriness when I blink.  It's all good.  The shower thing works.  I recommend it.  I also recommend following the damn directions, no matter how curious you get.

I will tear them limb from limb...

O.K.  So no I won't.  But damn I sure want to.  Who are "them" you ask?  The people that hurt MY people.

I am a GREAT listener.  Always have been, always will be.  I don't know why, but people have always been able to feel free to emotionally vomit all over me with the confidence that I'm NOT one of "those" people who will tell them it's going to one day be a beautiful flower bed and smell nice.  I'm not going to tell them everything is o.k. when it is so obviously NOT o.k. for them at that moment or on that day or even that week, month or year.  I'm not the fixer and won't tell them to go lie down somewhere while I clean up the mess on the floor of their soul.  I've learned through my own personal experience that it's just part of LIFE (Living In Full Everyday) which means that sometimes being FINE (Fucked-up Insecure Neurotic Emotional) is all I've got to offer the day. 

Sometimes, I am NOT o.k., and I've accepted that THAT'S o.k. too.  Learning this about myself has enabled me to accept it from others.  People suffer pain, loss, anguish, anger, despair, sadness and self-pity, it's just what happens.  It's not fair.  It sucks.  It happens to my favorite people as well as the ones I can't stand.  It's what brings us all to the same level really.  Our happiness meters rarely EVER register at the same level as someone else's, but when it comes to that pain that literally makes you feel like your heart is being squeezed in your chest and your guts have fallen somewhere too far to reach?  We, as humans being, can ALL relate to that.

It's at these times, when someone I actually truly CARE for, is in that deep, to the core, pain, that I just want to track down the source of their wound and "tear them limb from limb."  I can't take the hurt away from them, so I'd like to remove it's cause.  That seems fair.  That seems like it would make the situation suck less.  Yet I have never done that and most likely never will.  Because 95 times out of 100, it really wouldn't make a damn bit of difference and the other 5 times the source has removed themselves in such a way that they can't be removed twice (death beats rock/paper/scissors every time).

Anyway, as you might have guessed, there a few people in my life right now that are in pain.  I've reached out or reached back when they've reached first.  I listen with an open mind and an open heart, because I know first hand how much that means, to be able to just get it all out of your head to try and make sense of it all FOR YOURSELF, not to someone else.  It doesn't HAVE to make sense to ME.  It's not my LIFE.  I don't have to face the next day in their skin.  All I can do is let them know it's o.k., not to be o.k. and that they have someone who gives a shit and will walk through the dark with them if they'd like.  And I've got mad dark angel skills, so if anyone trys to fuck with them while they're trying to heal, they're gonna get a smack down...  I mean, I can't fix what has already harmed them, but I'll be damned if I let some vulture pick at them while they're down.

I got your back my friend.  You do what you need to do to get through the process.  I'll be here the whole time.  I won't be holdin' your hand or shovin' you in the direction I think is best, but I'm here when you WANT some help.  No way around, over or under the pain, gotta walk all the way through it.  I can relate.

Bein' Broke for Christmas

In the past several weeks, I've repeatedly heard the following sentiment expressed by friends and family:  "I don't know what I'm gonna do about Christmas, I'm not going to have any money."

Being someone who has spent several years being unable to fund any type of Christmas present extravaganza, I totally get it.  I found myself broke after years of putting the most awesome presents I could find on credit cards.  I stopped using my credit cards for that purpose about five years ago.  I stopped using my credit cards PERIOD a little over a year ago, and with my bankruptcy proceedings coming up next month, will most likely NOT have another credit card for QUITE SOME TIME.  Do I feel like I suck just a bit for not having any gifts to give at Christmas (or birthdays for that matter)?  Yeah.  But I'm pretty much past all that.  I've gradually figured out, that while it's nice to rip paper and get something I haven't yet bought (or would never buy) for myself, I could generally care less.  Having no attachments to Christianity and the "true" spirit of Christmas (or Easter for that matter, which is totally about the damn Bunny with cavity bearing baskets), and viewing the "holiday" as something 90% of America has completely lost the whole point of, I get a little "gruff" inside when someone talks about not having the money for Christmas.  

Don't get me wrong, I'm not being a "bah-humbug" character here.  I love the season when peace and love seem to somehow make their way through the maze of retail aisles.  I would rather, if I could afford it, adopt a child from a poor family and give that way, instead of giving to the children I know, who already have everything they need and plenty of crap to play with and break.  Charity begins at home they say.  I don't think it says anything about Gift giving begins at home.

I know.  I know.  People love their children.  I've done my share of spoiling future generations and will most definitely continue to play a part in self serve first, as I can barely walk down a toy aisle without wanting to stack the cart for a special little boy in my life.  But, it makes me seriously consider what exactly that role plays in raising a well rounded, giver not taker, type of person.  Stressing about how I'm gonna manage to BUY stuff to show the people in my life how much I love them and how good of a child/adult they are?  That somehow seems a bit off the path I would like to walk in life.  Why must I feel guilty to let someone know that all I have to offer for Christmas is my love and company?  Why do I always feel as if going "home" for the holidays won't be worth it to my family if I don't come bearing some gift other than myself?  I don't honestly think I was raised to believe that, I think the commercialism has just been absorbed by me in the endless advertisements and quick changes of the holidays at the stores.

You want to know how I KNOW I wasn't raised that way?  The picture of that physically hideous doll is my proof.  My parents worked for the Motorola factory when I was little.  When the factory shut down in 1975, they were both out of work.  There was no money for Christmas.  There was barely enough money for bills with two of them without a job.  That year was tough on the entire country, not just my family, with the oil crisis' and the recession.  

Me, my two sisters and my three cousins all got one of those dolls.  I know, it is quite possibly the scariest friggin' doll you've ever seen.  It had no mouth, so I drew one on it with lipstick as any 5 year old girl would do to a doll that didn't have one.  My mom had made one of these skinny, long armed, even longer legged, bumpy knee-ed, mohawkishesk single row of yarn for hair-ed, panty-hose stuffed, go-go mini dress wearing dolls for each of us.  That was it.  That was Christmas.  I don't remember being that broke, but I remember enough to know that THAT doll meant something, so I've kept it.  That's a picture of it on my washing machine that I took this morning after digging it out of my keepsake box.  My big wheel isn't in there.  Neither is my Baby Alive that I absolutely HAD to have.  No evidence of the Atari I thought was so cool to brag to my friends about.  The cool shoes and even cooler jeans have long since been tossed.  But, that hideous doll, that contains all the beauty in the world, I've still got IT.  THAT's how I know what Christmas is all about.  Doing everything you CAN with what you've GOT, to show a little girl that you love her.  THAT'S what I want to pass on to future generations, not the "I deserve it for being on the planet"  attitude that seems to exist more predominantly now.

Fuck the Cabbage Patch kids or whatever doll is the biggest retail craze, my creepy doll is worth way more than that.

My Veterans!

Yes, I WILL list off the men and women I have in my life that are veterans:  I have left a voice mail for my boy Derryl Belknap, Jr.; talked to each of my dads, Jim Caley and Dick Dooley; texted my man Andy Alderson; left a voice message for Anthony, who's married to my girl Kelly; left a FB wall post for my childhood buddy, Ms. CJ Moutray, currently stationed at Ft. Riley in KS; left a message for my homey Don Secrest; called and talked to my home group member Louis; left a message for my buddy Andy Doyle; left a message for Kevin Henley to pass to his son Riley, that we just shipped off last summer; and cleared it with my boss to take my two technicians here at work, John Reed and Phil McGlothlin, to lunch.  These are MY veterans and I've thanked each one for their service. 

My boss didn't want to make a big deal out of our two techs, in case it would piss off the other guys in the shop that they were getting special treatment.  I say, too fuckin' bad, they should have served their country.  These people, in times of war and peace, have done something that the majority of American citizens do not do and I for one could NOT do.  The physical training alone would probably kill me outright!  I owe these veterans my appreciation and will use this day to celebrate them and remember the fallen.  It only takes a moment.  It's not too much to ask of myself when their country has asked so much of them.  Whether I believe in "the cause" or not, I support these men and women, so therefore I MUST support the reasons we currently fight.  May their God's watch over and keep them from harm, whether they're currently serving or have fulfilled their duty.  Riley and CJ who are currently serving, and Phil who just go word this week that he may be reactivated, my heart and prayers are with you.

The picture is of my stepson Derryl Belknap, Jr. (o.k., not anymore, but I was with his dad for 12 years so he still calls me his stepmom and he will always be my stepson).  That picture and that cross have traveled together since he went into the Marines in 2001 at barely 18 and has spent the last 5 years since I've been back at work, taped to the right side of my monitor here.  The worn edges are proof.  I love this boy/man.  I couldn't imagine not having him and his sister Kelly having been a part of my life.  I was so blessed to have been in their lives since they were 7 and 5 years old.  They're both amazing people now and I know from them both telling me, that I played a part in who they have become. 

Derryl, Jr. was not the type of kid I would have ever imagined in the military.  He was a slob and pretty damn lazy, wanting mainly to work on his car and watch tv, not doin' so hot in school all of his life.  He had started to get into bits of trouble here and there and I thought, well here we go, this kid is running totally off track.  Then, out of nowhere in the latter part of 2000, he let his parents (including me) know that he had decided to join the Marines.  We were all completely shocked.  I remember asking him, "The Marines?  Really?  You know that's like THE toughest branch don't you?"  His statement to me was very matter of fact, "If I'm gonna do this, I'm gonna be a part of the best."  Well, all right.  He was determined.  He started running and training and pulling his grades up, completely turned himself around.  He graduated high school the end of May, turned 18 in June and was tearfully put on a plane by all of us on 08/13/01.  He'd never been away from home.  He'd never flown.  Watching this boy walk away was one of the most painful, yet hopeful moments of my life.

Notice the date he left for basic.  08/13/01.  We had no way of knowing that less than a month later, the entire world would change in an instant.  The morning of 09/11 was made even more frightening for his mother Hazel and I.  We had MULTIPLE calls back and forth.  Hysterical.  Powerless.  Scheming on ways to get our boy OUT of the military.  We were petrified.  As citizens of a country under attack, we felt as eveyone else did, but as mothers who had sent their boy off to serve, thinking he'd never really be in any danger, we had a little extra sense of doom.  EVERYTHING had changed.  We wanted to talk to him but it wasn't allowed in basic training.  We wanted to drive out there and see him, but it wasn't allowed either.   We wanted to call and tell them he was gay so they'd send him home.  We were coming up with all kinds of plots, let me tell ya!

We each received pretty much the same letter from him within days.  "I am fine.  I am not afraid.  I am here to do my job and defend my country."  It SOOO was not anything OUR kid would say and it did little to nothing to assuage our fears.  (We found out later that, those were indeed NOT his words.  They had given them all paper and pencils and told them exactly what to say.  They saw ZERO coverage of what had taken place.  He didn't see pictures of the events of 09/11 until the day we picked him up.)  We would just have to wait until we saw him at basic graduation in California and by God we were ALL going.

The first time we saw him was in formation for their final run.  He was barely recognizable to us with his new haircut and physique.  The slightly overweight and flabby child that had left us, was now a slim, chiseled soldier.  A man in just a few short months.  On the video I took that day, scanning to find him in the lines of identical men, you see me shaking and then breaking into hysterical tears as I shout to his mother, "Oh my God Hazel!  There he is!  He's right there!"  And then you hear her start bawling as well.  Then you see this young man glance our way and his chin start to shake and his eyes start welling up and I say, "Oh... Don't cry baby.  We love you so much."  And eyes forward again he snaps back out of it.  Our baby.  Our boy.  Still ours, no matter what the military says.  That quivering chin and those tearful eyes are ours, not the Marine Corps. 

We had to wait several more hours to get to touch him.  Watching endless marching and listening to one speech after another, the beginning of which was one we did not want to hear.  This was to be their first graduating class where the men had enlisted to serve a country at peace and were now graduating into service of a country at war.  It was heart wrenching.  When they finally released them, we tried to stay in one place as the hundreds of young soldiers swarmed to find their families.  We kept an eye on him as he jumped up and down like a gopher making his way across the field of men to get to us.  The hugs and kisses and hugs and more kisses was what we'd all been needing so badly since 09/11.  Just to put our arms around him and tell him how much we loved him.

We took him home with us, driving across country in our conversion van.  He got deathly ill from the Anthrax vaccine they'd given him.  We had to stop at the VA to get him treatment, as his tongue swelled up and his fever spiked out of control.  What had they done to our child???  But he recovered pretty quickly and spent the remainder of his leave going around and seeing old friends that he was no longer like.  He was a perfect gentleman now, respectful in all areas of life.  A neat freak, ironing his jeans and constantly smoothing out his shirt.  He ate so fast I thought he'd end up choking.  He was a changed man and definitely for the better.  I was extremely proud.

We knew when he left that he would most likely be deployed somewhere we didn't want him to be and that's exactly what happened.  I woke up on a January morning in 2003 to a message on my home phone that he had left in the middle of the night.  "I'm leaving for Iraq.  I love you very much.  Don't worry about me.  I'm going to be o.k.  I'll see you when I get back."  I cried as I played it over and over, wishing I'd been awake to talk to him.  I haven't had a home phone in YEARS, but I still have that phone with that message on it.  I will never throw it away.

He sent an e-mail to his mom on March 17, 2003, the night before we declared war on Iraq.  I have never read anything so poignant.  This man, her son, expressing his fear, his bravery, his love of his family and his country, taking a moment to send a message to let us know his thoughts of us and what he was doing, in case he were to never return.  I was living in California and read it two days later at work.  A temp job on Wilshire Blvd. kitty corner from the Los Angeles Federal Building.  That night, 3/19/03, I wasn't allowed to leave my building until almost 11 p.m. as the authorities handled the HUGE protest in front of the Federal Building.  Being from Kansas City, the closest I'd seen to protesters was the few picketers at intersections, holding up "Honk if you're against ... whatever" signs.  THIS was surreal.  Riot gear.  Helicopters.  Cops dragging people out of the streets.  Water cannons.  SERIOUS shit, the likes this Mid-Western girl had never seen.  I was torn as I stood at the windows watching from above.  Understanding the protesters, yet needing in my heart to support my son the soldier.  No.  I did not agree.  No.  I did not want us to go to war.  Yet, we had and my baby was THERE and he was afraid and he was doing what his country told him to do.  I believed in him; therefore I believed in the war.  I would watch for awhile and then I'd read that e-mail again to remind me who was fighting for their right to be out there voicing their anger.  We were ultimately all on the same page of different books.

He came home safe.   He went back two more times.  He is proud of the service he did.  He speaks of the children and the schools and books they were given, not of the horrors he undoubtedly witnessed.  He has hung on to hope and in turn has made me do the same.  He will suffer for the remainder of his life with the injuries he recieved to his neck from driving the fuel tankers across the desert and slamming his helmeted head into the cab of the truck with no shocks.  He has a twitch that looks like his shirt tag is scratching the back of his neck.  He is being treated well at the VA and recieves his disability check for serving his country.  This young man of 26 who slept on the hood of his truck to stay warm in the frigid nights of the desert.  This soldier that speaks of the lack of weaponry and how completely out gunned we are there, still loves his country.

So, today, I give thanks to him and my veterans.  For the love, the hope and the sacrifices, I honor them.  Thank you for your service.

/\/\!55 /\/\3? (leet speak)

So?  Did you?  Miss me?  That's what that says in the title.  I've been intrigued (o.k., totally sucked into) "leet speak" after seeing it featured on what I consider to be the most intelligent television program currently airing, "Numbers", (aside from anything on the Discovery channel or NatGeo).  :)  I've been busily changing all of my passwords with various leet converters I'm finding on the web, even going so far as creating my own personalized encoding, which just completes my absolute geekness.  I can't help it.  I love learning new and seemingly bizarre shit.  It's just part of my nature.  I'm easily amuzed and even more easily bored to tears.

One good thing about me though, is my "obsessions" don't tend to last long anymore, before I realize that they are truly NOT the most important thing on earth.  Not so important that I find the need to isolate myself from contact with people I care about and want to spend time with.  Yes, I've had my share of time sucks, mostly at work I must admit... FarmTown, ITR, MafiaWars, etc., but I can pretty much tell if it's affecting my relationships and when it does, I actually do make a conscious effort to stop the behavior. 

I've learned first hand, too many times, how painful it is to those "left behind" while someone runs off into the sunset thinking they've found their absolute happiness and purpose in someone or something that, in the end, when life is ending, won't mean a fucking thing.  I choose to go off on my little micro jaunts and come right back to the people I love.  Do I tell them how much fun it was and how much they'd enjoy it too, to try and recruit some company?  Absolutely.  But we are all so powerfully different in our interests and rhythms, that it rarely happens.  I choose to come back to this planet and inhabit the earth with my friends, instead of my self constructed universe that revolves around me.  I spend time with the ones who love me to pieces and will be there when I cry, with a hand on my cheek, a hug for my aching heart and a kiss on top of my head to help the bad thoughts melt away.  Will the ones who are with me today be there in the absolute end?  Who knows.  And honestly, who fucking cares.  They're here now and I'll take their hand while I can and let go when they choose to walk away, if/when that day ever comes.

Meanwhile, my inner geek will explore leet speak and try and convince all you guys how totally rad it is!  C'mon!  Let's go!  O.K., it's cool.  You stay here, and I'll be right back.    1 L0\/3 j00Z!  ;)   

Unmet Expectations and Their Consequences

Most of the time, my life follows pretty closely to the "definition" of expectation that says, "Expectations are just premeditated resentments".  98% of the time if I have an expectation of a person, place or thing, I am totally let down and cop an attitude faster than you can say, "Sorry" and there will be hell to pay to me for "whatever" not happening like I had it all thought out in my head.  I've learned my lessons painfully on having unrealistic expectations of others, ones that they can never possibly meet.  I've learned those are a way of having you disappoint me right off the bat, so that I no longer have to trust you or your word.  Gotcha.  The consequences hurt me and they hurt you too.

Last night, I went to the Linda Ronstadt concert with my friend Don.  He graciously sprung for the tickets when I told him she was coming to town.  We were both excited to see Linda do Blue Bayou, When Will I Be Loved, You're No Good, etc., etc.  She's got an expansive, awesome career, becoming the only woman to have a Top 100 hit in one genre or another, every single year, for 30 years straight.  You don't accomplish that with no talent, no matter how much payola you do.  So, with the expectation of an evening of greatest hits, we were quite suprised to find out that she has, in latter years, embraced her Latin heritage and this tour was completely in Spanish, perfoming only Spanish folklore and original songs.  Not even an Azul Bayou or Cuando Se Agregó I or No Eres Bueno...  The opening act was her accompaniment, Mariachi Los Camperos De Nati Cano, a grammy award winning Mariachi ensemble.  They were INCREDIBLE.  Seriously.  I thought I would be sitting there wanting to jam a tuning fork in my ear, imagining a night filled with the music I hear in the Mexican restaurants I frequent, with accordians for gawd's sake.  But no.  They were costumed beautifully, matadors of music, playing, singing and "Oy!  AAAHAHAHAHA!"ing like nothing I've ever experienced.  Don said the main singer was being screamed for like he was the Spanish Wayne Newton, but he was a WAY better vocalist than Wayne, with a range, tone and diaphragm contol that would give Pavarotti a run for his pesos.  The trumpets were so crisp and clear they gave me chills.  The violins played in tandem like a well oiled engine, the pistons being the bows rising and falling with Porche like precision, puffing out smoke billows of resin that filled the air.  The harpist, what can I say, other than the fact that I had never actually seen anyone playing the harp, left me awestruck.  The three different acoustic guitar players could have outplayed Eddie VanHalen on his best day.  And they were all SO full of joy it was absolutely contagious.  I could have listened and watched for another hour!

Unfortunately, Linda's voice isn't at 64 as it was at 25, and the spell was broken by she who was to be queen.  We didn't stay for much of her performance.  It was anticlimactic to say the least, but the consequence of a complete misrepresentaion of an expectation was totally worth it.  I would soooo do it again.  Thanks Don.  It's made me smile for over 24 hours now.  Via con Dios mi amigos.

(F)Owl City, (I want to set them on) Fire flies

Do you ever hear a new song on the radio and instantly want to pull your spine out because it is the most intelligence sucking, eardrum raping thing you have ever heard?  Well, I do.  And Owl City "Fireflies" is the culprit.  I heard it for the first time about a month ago.  I gave it a chance and listened to it all the way through.  I then shut the radio off and called Miss Sara and told her that the song was the dumbest fucking thing I had ever heard.  She said, and I quote, "I have to say that at first I agreed with you, but it grows on you.  I was singing it in the shower the other day."  I told her then and I repeat it now, just because it has wormed it's way into your brain, doesn't mean it's good.  Lots of things grow on you that suck balls.  Syphillis for instance.  It grows on you and eats similar holes in your tissue, turning it into swiss cheese, but that doesn't mean it's good.  The drug ecstasy I'm told is lots of fun (came out after I got clean, so no first hand account), but also has the same burrowing effects.  Flesh eating viruses.  They grow and multiply, but, THEY EAT YOUR FLESH.  So, my apologies to the apparent millions of people who have turned Owl City Fireflies into a chart busting hit, but you seriously need some musical medication before it's too late.  Your Artistic IQ points have dipped to a dangerous level.  Let me know if you need some help filling those holes in your lobes back in, and I'll give you some great suggestions for some REAL talent.  Until then, I beg of you, do yourself a favor and turn the damn channel when that beat blasphemy comes across the airwaves.  Put Fireflies in a jar and forget to poke holes in the top.  Let it die.  You'll thank me later.  ;)

Laughing and Crying

So, the first thing I do every morning is turn on the radio in the bathroom, which is always tuned to NPR, so I can listen to the news of the day and any other interesting tidbits that may air.  I listen on the way to work and on the way home.  Most of the time, it's honestly, mainly just background chatter to argue with whatever is running through my head at those times of the day, i.e. what lies ahead for my work day when I'm on my way there and what I didn't get accomplished by trying to find the end of the internet while I was at work, instead of working, when I'm headed home.  Sometimes, though, something catches a thread in my brain and begins to tug, pulling me away from my brilliant plan or endless self torture for not doing what I'd told myself I was gonna do.  I leave the bindings of my self centeredness and enter the story that's being told about someone else, somewhere in this world, doing good deeds, accomplishing amazing results with small efforts or struggling through what I would see as insurmountable circumstances with a grace I could only begin to touch the surface of.  Today was such a day.

I always seem to be drawn to the stories with a musical base, seeing as my Higher Power seems to "speak" to me through the sounds of artists old and new, country and punk, classical and metal.  Whatever I need to get to the next place on my path, I seem to find in the notes that are strummed, drummed, plucked, screamed or sung.  This story today was on a project a man is working on to recognize the role of one Charlie Poole in the origins of country music. The song that he was playing was called High, Wide and Handsome.  A song about drinking and dieing and lauging and crying.  The lyric that struck me was in a chorus about what the lamenter wanted on his tombstone.  Sad?  No, because I am not one to be all that afraid of death.  It happens to all of us.  I am more afraid of life.  Always have been and will be until I have nothing left to be frightened of.  The song said, as the body of his tombstone, he wanted it to say, "And always remember that I laughed twice as hard as I ever cried." 

That phrase opened up an avenue in my brain.  Avenue my ass, it was a damn Expressway!  A road to the reality of my life.  No matter how much pain I've endured through the years; physical, emotional and spiritual, the gut wrenching wailing at the top of my lungs, the sniffling tears that have trickled off my chin and the silent inside sobs that I wouldn't allow anyone to see, will never reach the point of surpassing my laughter.  I have giggled, snickered, guffawed, snorted, died laughing, convulsed, cracked up, chuckled and howled.  I can contain pain, but can NEVER seem to supress a fucking laugh, even when it's TOTALLY inappropriate.  That's the absolute truth, so why can't I ever seem to remember that when I'm hurting?  Why is it when I'm miserable, I can never recall the last time I laughed?  My memory of pain is still there when I'm joyous, so how come it's not true in reverse?  Doesn't seem too fair, but hey, we all know life ain't too big on bein' fair.  I accept that.  I've learned that acceptance doesn't mean I have to like it.  I'll just laugh it off, because right now, "I remember that I laughed twice as hard as I ever cried."

LOL, ROFLMAO.  For now...  :)

Profound Changes in Ourselves

So, the meeting I went to tonight was on a chapter that contained a sentence that struck me pretty deeply.  It said, "it requires a profound change".  It made me reflect on the "profound change" I have experienced in myself from when I first got clean.  Hell, the profound change just in the past year!

I have become someone I actually appreciate being.  I have become someone I like being.  I have learned painful lessons and realized tonight that I have long since stopped asking, "Why is this happening to me?" and begun accepting responsibility for my own actions and letting go completely of the circumstances beyond my contol.

The chapter said, "Life is to be lived."  I live my life to the best of my ability at that moment in time.  If it's done in a way that brings me pain, I don't see it as having taken the wrong path.  I see it as taking a path that will somehow serve a purpose, have a point, a meaning that I can not yet see, but will eventually reveal itself in ten times the beauty as there was ugliness.

My life is profound and I am grateful for the complexity of me.

Gratitude for Freedom

I didn't blog yesterday, as I ran errands and worked around the crib yo!  I even got candy for the trick or treaters that never showed, which is just fine, because now I get to eat it ALL!!!

Now for today....  I got up pretty early and mowed down some cinnamon rolls and a couple of cups of coffee and went back to bed!  After I rolled back out, I started to pick up all of my damn shoes and boots that I tend to just leave lay where I walk out of 'em, when Amazing Amanda called and told me it was like 80 degrees outside and told me I needed to go ride my damn motorcyle.  Thanks Beautiful Girl!  You knew exactly what I needed!!!

I got the poor, dirty Harley out and went for a seriously needed day in the wind.  I can not tell you how fucking cool it is to be on my bike.  I am so grateful every time I get on that thing.  Grateful for who I am and how far I've come.  Andy and I rode Highway 5 to Leavenworth, which is just the coolest two lane in Kansas if ya ask me, to Highway 7 to Atchison, had some lunch and reversed it.  I have missed this ride for two years, living in Columbia last year and my pain and resulting surgery this year.

I had forgotten how much this trek means to me.  I have been travelling that stretch on a motorcycle since 1999, when I was on the back of my ex-husband, DerrylictionDegredationandDeath's, bike.  I loved it then and I love it even more now that I have the freedom of my own scoot.  Something I never would have thought possible "back in the good old days".

The thing about this route, for anyone who isn't from around these parts, is that Hwy 5 winds around through the minimum security prisons outside of Lansing, KS.  Going by the smaller camps on 5, seeing the men waving and watching through the razor wired fences if they're out in the yard, is always bittersweet.  I always wonder if it hurts them to see someone riding by on a bike, experiencing freedom that has been lost to them in some way or another.  Wondering how many of them are there for drug related crimes and feeling a sadness that they couldn't have found a "fellowship" like I did, before their lives were boxed in beyond their control. 

And then, as you travel on, past the Fort Leavenworth National Cemetary and seeing all of the white gravestones (I just checked, 23,058 internments) of soldiers who have served our Country, in times of war and peace, fighting for a freedom that the prisoners have lost and so many of us take for granted. 

Once you get on Hwy 7, you will come upon the most ominous structure in the state,  Leavenworth Penitentiary.  A Federal prison with more history than my heart can stand.  Built by prisoners for prisoners.  It is absolutely FOREBODING.  My chest always feels like it's being squeezed.  The pain behind those HUGE walls.  The thoughts of the men that have been housed there almost too much to fathom.  Before 9/11, when they put up barriers so you could only go so far up the driveway, we would pull right up to the front steps and have a moment of silence for those being housed there and those yet to come.  The addict who still suffers inside and outside those walls and that dome.

I always pause to think about the "self-made prisons" I have built for myself over the years.  Serving my time, breaking out, escaping with my life, only to find myself back inside the dark walls of my mind because I wasn't staying vigilant to my own morals and values.  Compromising them for others, thinking I'm serving myself, only to realize too late that I've locked myself up again.  I have freedom that I need to be grateful for on a daily basis.  When I lose my gratitude, I lose myself and lose my way.  And it's so damn sneaky, that I don't see it until I'm doin' hard time inside my mind again.  I've never been behind the walls or walked the yard with that fucking razor wire, but I know that it could easily have been me, had I not found my way on a different path.  The "other fellowship" says, "There but by the grace of God go I."  Never is that phrase more resonant than when I take that beautiful stretch of road to Atchison and back.  And it's beautiful because of the road and the scenery, which INCLUDES the haunting reminders...

Be grateful.  Be vigilant.  Be free.