This is the sort've question that strikes dread in my heart because 1.) I hate to disappoint and 2.) I haven't really found a succinct way to sum up my sort of witchcraft/my beliefs, at least not in a way that satisfies me. Everything I do, everything I believe in I built from scratch with my bare hands. (I do appropriate concepts and images, but I redefine them using personal experiences. There's nothing more powerful - or spiritually meaningful - than what you, yourself, have experienced during your lifetime. That's the sort of intimacy that makes up the foundation of my practices.)

I feel that using books, sites or other people is counter-intuitive, they dilute the significance of things. I want something pure, something totally from ME that hasn't been influenced by outside sources. I do, however, understand the importance of books, sites and people; I just feel that a huge majority uses those resources as crutches, or free templates of belief because they're too lazy to engage with themselves. The more you lean on something, the less you're standing on your own two feet.

I think we MAY have crossing interests, so I'll point you towards my Amazon wishlist. A lot of the books listed are more "how to" (i.e., cooking, making candles, making soaps, taxidermy, preserving - things that HELP me practice, rather than teach me how or why to practice), but there are books with chthonic, plant folklore, herbal medicine, mythological and divine woman/goddess themes as well.

I also recommend checking out the diaries, blogs and journals of witches that I follow. (Left side under "READING" on Graveyard Dirt's index page.) Especially Sarah (Witch of Forest Grove, I think you're already familiar with her) who's compiled lists of books on various witchcraft related subjects, and Carolina (Carolina Gonzalez) who's proof you can live the dream.

I hope that my response hasn't deterred anyone from asking questions. I love answering questions, I love explaining what I do, why I do it and how I came to doing it, I just can't teach what I do. I can show you how I live, but, at the end of the day, people have to live for themselves.

Yesterday I sat in front of the backroom's patio door while working on unfinished projects, soaking up the early Spring sun as middle eastern music and cheap ass lemongrass scented incense filled the warm, comfortable silence. (I don't meditate; I'm too high strung. I can appreciate the calming loss of reality, though, through repetitive movements like popping dried rowan berries off their stems and into a crystal vase.)

Dried clusters of rowan berries? Sorted. (I snapped off every fucking viable berry into a vase - only accidentally knocking it over once (see the picture above) - and transferred the lot into another jar. The remains - unsightly berries and brittle, empty stems - were added to our burning pile.)

(Since we can't compost we ritually burn things and I incorporate the ash into our spiritual lives - sometimes we scatter the remains at sacred sites as offerings, other times I use it as fertilizer for our plants and around this time of year I use it to create a paste to anoint our bodies and bed frame for purification as late Winter turns into early Spring.)

The limpet shells? Next in line to get sorted. (We collected them two days ago when beachcombing a little cove next to Dunnottar castle. That story? Requires an entirely new entry; stay tuned.)

The entire neighborhood thinks we're weirdos. And, for once, it's not entirely MY fault. (YES, I DO saunter around the house naked without pulling down any blinds and YES, Italics and I are the freaks that are up in the middle of the night with all of the lights on in the house and YES, it was my decision to leave illuminated stars hanging in the kitchen window despite Christmas being long gone but are we the ones responsible for the dirt yard outside (long short? father-in-law dug up the entire lawn outside a few years ago and left it as dirt, hence "dirt yard" instead of "front yard") and the two broken cars - both parked indefinitely, one partially obstructing access to our street? NO.)

I almost blew a fucking gasket when my mother-in-law had the audacity to complain that the opening of our driveway wasn't getting plowed. FOR FUCK'S SAKE, WOMAN, CAN'T YOU SEE THE RED FUCKING OBSTACLE YOU PARKED //LAST YEAR// IN FRONT OF THE FUCKING HOUSE? CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE HOW LARGE VEHICLES HAVE TO GIVE IT A WIDE BERTH? CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE HOW MUCH OF A FUCKING INCONVENIENCE YOU'VE CREATED FOR EVERYONE ELSE?

(I'd like to add CAN'T YOU FUCKING SEE THE ABSOLUTE FUCKING HATED AND IRE DIRECTED AT US EVERY FUCKING TIME SOMEONE HAS TO FUCKING NAVIGATE AROUND THE BROKEN CAR YOU DECIDED TO FUCKING PARK IN A TINY RESIDENTIAL STREET BECAUSE YOU'RE TOO FUCKING LAZY TO DISPOSE OF IT LIKE NORMAL FUCKING PEOPLE? but I can't, because I know she's never gotten the POINTED LOOK OF UNADULTERATED HATRED from drivers due to NEVER BEING AROUND TO EXPERIENCE IT.)

The WORST part of all of this? The car actually disappeared for two weeks. One day I glanced outside and noticed something was amiss, but it took me a few seconds to realize what it was. ("HOLY SHIT THE RED CAR'S FINALLY GONE!") Thank fucking God, I thought, now I don't have to feel embarrassed when a complete stranger throws me a nasty fucking look. For a fortnight I could MAKE EYE CONTACT WITH PEOPLE AGAIN, and not just because I felt obligated to offer some sort of silent, lame ass apology for the aggravation.

Internet, it reappeared fourteen days. At first I thought I was hallucinating, but a harder look out the window confirmed the car wasn't a figment of my imagination. And then? (<- As if it couldn't get any worse.) And then we got hit by several blizzards. I can't even fucking imagine what the snow plow folk must've thought (and felt) when they swung into our little street and saw that the red nightmare was back. (If we get hit by one more snowfall I swear on all that's fucking holy and divine THEY'RE GOING TO DEMAND A HUMAN SACRIFICE FROM THIS HOUSE.)

I apparently missed the memo that we were going to start leaving empty bottles of wine next to the stock pot, heating tray and stale ass Pringles. (I seriously wonder what goes through my in-laws' minds before bed. Granted, this isn't as funny as the time I found the car keys in the cutlery drawer. <- WTF?)

(Maybe it was the daffodils beginning to unfold on the window ledge. Maybe it was the sinuous trails of incense smoke that curled and stretched in the bracing March breeze. Maybe it was the skin warming sun, streaming through the northern window. Maybe it was the music creeping out of this house through all the open windows and doors, magically capturing the essence of celebratory hopefulness that comes after a long dark winter of the soul.)

Standing in front of my daffodils peeling potatoes Spring arrived, and I silently cried in victory.

Further proof why you can't take me //ANYWHERE// (especially old historic sites of national importance).

Most mornings I forgo breakfast (it's hard to sustain an appetite after spending an hour on your hands and knees chasing a blind rat who can't see her food). This morning? I was totally ready to make us a batch of (gluten-free) nalysnyky (Ukrainian crepes).

(How's THAT for extreme?)

Since I don't have the entire house to myself, I steal pieces of it whenever I can. Last year I appropriated the kitchen's windowsill (most subtle Ms. Graveyard Dirt altar ever? probably), but before that I staked my claim to a patch of carpet next to the backroom's patio door. In Spring it serves as a greenhouse for my germinating plants, in Summer it provides the heat needed for Papa's chili plants to fruit, in Fall I spread our harvest out on the ground to dry and in Winter, if I have my shit together (obviously this year I didn't), it's where we proudly display our stoner Christmas tree.

I suppose it reminds me that I don't need to wear a label, or know the "technical" name for what I'm doing or what I'm engaging in. I don't NEED to know what everyone else calls it, or what everyone else is doing, or how everyone else is doing it. I'm already doing "it", and I've been doing it for years without anyone's help or without referring to a book. If you took the scarlet word "witch" away from me I'd still live it, I'd still breathe it. It's always been there, regardless of what I or other people call it (as if that wasn't already evident enough).

My father-in-law, Mr. Awesome, returns home on the 26th. It's been a blissful month of a certain sort of serenity. In the past several weeks I know that no one's touched my shit, thrown my shit out, broke my shit, stolen my shit or ruined my shit. That peaceful certainty ends soon, which is precisely why I'm executing THE LAST CLEAN. Everything you see above? The very last of 2009 that needs to be bagged, tagged and put away. I need to sort as much as I can - as quick as I can - so I don't experience the all to familiar "misunderstandings" and "accidents" that seem to dog my father-in-law's existence.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

My foraging isn't limited to indigenous plant life. I'm routinely picking up discarded or lost articles. Stupid things, little things - broken pieces of jewelry, old playing cards, parts fallen off cars or equipment. If it's in my path it's significant, so it gets picked up, cleaned off, bagged, tagged (including the date, where I found it and the circumstances behind the outing) and stored away for future use.

I found the aborted Pac-man coin on a cemetery excursion, and it's nestled in a bag with two black plastic pieces - one rectangular (it reminded me of a blank domino) and one circular (it reminded me of a blank poker chip). There's also fingernail clippings (mine), a pair of diaper pins (the white plastic heads slide over the tucked in needles so they can't spring open), Wadjet's key and Tawaret's steering wheel (we've been trying to get a car for several years now, but it wasn't until I put the toy steering wheel at the foot of my Tawaret statue and a key I found at the foot of Wadjet's statue that the wish actually materialized) which all sits on a white envelope filled with some of my hair clippings.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I WANT to say these are the very last pieces of dried animal I need to deal with, but that'd be a lie. (If I remember right there's several roadkill hedgehog skins in the outside room (and when I say "skins" I really mean the bristly spines attached to a piece of leathery hide), four sets of feathers (off the most recent pheasant roadkill I scavenged) and I think there's one or two inside-out poached rabbit pelts I found when walking in the woods.)

Buried beneath the two wishbones (the larger, more robust looking one is from our Christmas goose, the smaller, fragile looking one is from a chicken) is Italics' fajita dolphin; we're planning on setting him free the next time we make it to the ocean. The snakeskin looking mess at the back of the dish? One of the Christmas goose's toes. For whatever reason they forgot to remove one of the appendages which meant one very special Yuletide gift from the Universe this year: a goose claw.

(I have pictures of all of this shit uploaded on Flickr, I just haven't had the time to tell the stories yet. If you promise not to appear openly bored when I tell unseasonal Ms. Graveyard Dirt stories, I promise to eventually get around to telling unseasonal Ms. Graveyard Dirt stories.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

The very last of our offerings to various spirits, entities, helpers and ancestors that need to be disposed of. (The chocolate cigar was given to Papa during Christmas, the chocolate heart is my Aries Valentine's Day chocolate, the toffee candies were placed in offering bowls at the foot of the Christmas tree and the gingerbread man, who totally was Italics' idea, dubiously sat amongst other Yuletide treasures.)

I'm planning to leave the cigar at Papa's grave, and I'm going to leave the toffees for the kids at the disturbed children's home (which we pass when walking to the graveyard). I haven't really decided where I'm going to lay the rest, but when I do it'll either be the cemetery, the cairn at the cemetery, the outside "oven", or the local standing stones.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Miniature brandy snifters that sat on the Winter altar. The one on the left is filled with Fet Ghede dirt (for a more detailed explanation of WTF Fet Ghede dirt is click through to the journal entry CLEANING DAY 1) and the one on the right is filled with salt (the salt water evaporated leaving crystals behind).

The homemade dirt mix correlates with Papa, who's my chthonic earth representative (Papa's one of the major aspects of the divine male/king that I work with, live with and fuck), the salt water correlates with Tentacle Monster, who's my chthonic water representative (TM represents my spiritual and emotional house). The unpopped popcorn seed in the empty salt water glass? Representative of the garbage my father-in-law dumped on my Winter altar when he was too fucking lazy to throw in the kitchen's trash can. (He got seriously told off for doing it in 2008, so what did he do in 2009? The same fucking thing.)

The Fet Ghede has been funneled back into its jar, but I'll be adding a pinch into the ash mixture and homemade salt scrub I'll soon be making to anoint and purify our bodies and bed frame. (I haven't had a chance to address how I observe Ash Wednesday and Lent, so just pretend you know what the fuck I'm talking about.) I've already rehydrated the salt glass with a mixture of freshly fallen snow (scooped off the top of sprouting spring bulbs) and some icicle water (I collected the most impressive icicles off the house this year and poured their melted forms into a plastic bottle for various witchery) so I can add the moistened mixture to my ash paste and cleansing scrub.

I'm keeping the popcorn kernel, though, because there are some things you shouldn't have to be told twice, Mr. Awesome. (DOES THAT SOUND OMINOUS? GOOD, IT SHOULD.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I went outside to make an offering, and when I opened the patio door my stone cock - THE stone cock from my outside Phallic Worship altar at the base of the Shango Tree - hurdled itself to the floor without ANY provocation, smashing one of my ritual plates below. Three days later I still have no fucking clue what "pushed" the heavy ass rock off the center of the table.

Remember? From the journal entry 96 HOURS? Thankfully the tray wasn't one of my super awesome beloved FOR REALS ritual plates (in other words, the little Italian number I picked up last year). I was pretty fucking resentful over the loss, so I left the mess untouched for days.

The dried leaves on the broken dish are off my indoor lemon rose geranium. There's some rosemary, too, underneath the mess (which I swept into the homemade chicken stock I made last night for Shakey Bear). (<- Dying pets are fed homemade soup made with homegrown ingredients, and freshly boiled potatoes mashed with sour cream and cream cheese.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

This ramekin of dirt has been the bane of my existence for not one, not two, but at least three years. (Long story short? Several years back a water pipe broke in the street adjacent to our property. The event was significant for several reasons, so before they closed the coffin-sized hole I threw in a homemade witch bottle (filled with urine, pins, magic mushrooms, nails, hair and other things) and scooped out some dirt for myself. I mean, it's not every day the crossroads YOU LIVE ON are dug up for your benefit, right?)

Soon, crossroads dirt, I'm going to pry you out of your ramekin tomb, batter you into a fine powder and funnel your ass into an appropriately labeled baby food jar.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Leaves from the bay tree on the patio. This past "Dark Year" (what I call the time between Harvest and Easter) I incorporated a lot of evergreen growing in our yard into various altars (Harvest Home, for example, and the kitchen's ever-changing Yule spread). I'm an unapologetic bay whore; it goes in EVERYTHING. (Probably because my signature dishes - which I cook often during winter - are peasant-y soups, stews and casseroles.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

The absolute BEST part of this log? (Other than it being the nicest one we've ever created?) When I accidentally bumped into it and knocked it off its crab pedestal (crabs are a big juju animal for Italics, which is why it's carrying his St. George and the Dragon ritual fire poker and the log itself) about twenty seeds spilled out of the pine cone. Come Spring I'll be planting seeds that came from our Yule/2009 Log, how awesomely magic is /that/?

Last night I carefully tapped 2009's Yule Log seeds out of their ceramic dish into a plastic baggie and tucked the packet into my seed box. I have no fucking clue what I'm going to do with pine trees, but I'm sure I'll come up with something. (<- I ALWAYS DO.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Wheat from the crop of the most recent roadkill pheasant we picked up. When I butchered and cleaned the bird I saved all of it so I could plant the seeds in Spring. I also added a token amount of the pheasant (i.e., small bits of skin and tiny feathers) so when I did sow the kernels they'd grow from the remains of the bird. (<- Life, death and rebirth.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Hardneck garlic that was SUPPOSED to be planted back in October of last year. (I was busy, okay?) When the month old (and THEN some) blanket of snow finally melted I raced outside to plant the motherfuckers, only to find that my father-in-law had BURIED LEAVES HE WAS INSTRUCTED TO THROW AWAY AT A LOCAL COMPOSTING SITE IN THE SAME SPOT I HAD PREPPED TO GROW GARLIC.

(It's even more involved than that, but I keeping that particular WTF? story for later. Suffice to say - I raked those leaves in November to finish the job he started (and walked away from), packed them in bags for him to cart away only to discover he BURIED A PORTION OF THE GARDEN WASTE in a spot that I OBVIOUSLY HAD PREPARED TO PLANT SOMETHING IN so instead of sowing late, late garlic I actually spent the day RERAKING LEAVES I HAD ALREADY RAKED UP ONCE AND REPACKING THE SAME BAGS WITH THE SAME FUCKING LEAVES.)

The most upsetting part? I mean, other than having to redo the work that I did over three fucking months ago because someone decided they were too fucking lazy to do the easier job (i.e, simply throwing out prepackged waste)? It snowed the day after, and it's been snowing since. I never actually got my garlic in the ground because I had to spend the ONE DAY it was conducive to plant cleaning up Mr. Awesome's mess (which I originally had to do in November as well).

"Pissed" doesn't even cover it. Seriously.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Some of the shots I managed to pull out of the SEVEN LOUSY RABBITS that the Universe gave me last Fall. (It's long, involved and complicated. My suggestion? Read the journal entry.) These are shots that killed; they're worth their weight in magic gold. (If you don't understand why, then you're probably not cut out for my personal brand of witchcraft.)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Unshelled nuts that I incorporated into the kitchen table's Christmas centerpiece and dried rowan berries from our tree out front. We're going to split open the nuts and scatter the broken pieces as an offering to the local wildlife, and I'm currently picking through the rowan clusters to finally jar up the dried berries.

(I was supposed to string the motherfuckers, but we were stupid busy this past Fall so they all dried before I could thread one effing berry. NEXT YEAR, DAMMIT, NEXT YEAR. <- Especially since I now have A CAR which means I can gather rowan berries from all of our special places further afield (i.e., near standing stones, cairns and stone circles).)

Click thumbnail for larger image.

Because I chose to refrain from (most) contact with (most of) my family, they didn't bother notifying me when my grandfather died. I got a letter, several months after the fact, requesting that I stop sending my grandfather cards and gifts because he had died earlier in the year. Since I wasn't even given the chance to send flowers to his funeral I spent all of the next year - 2009 - incorporating Didi into my practices and our celebrations.

When I heard he had passed on one of the very first things I did was pick him up a bottle of Heineken (his favorite beer) and I left it - for almost an entire year - hidden behind Papa's headstone. (I removed it when Winter came, so the glass wouldn't break.) The bottle was displayed on several altars throughout the Dark Year to keep my grandfather close to me during his first year of death.

Soon I'll be taking the beer back to the graveyard to pour the contents out as an offering. (HE'S WAITED LONG ENOUGH FOR HIS BEER, RIGHT?) I've decided to keep the emptied bottle, though. I'm planning on refilling it with regular ole water and asking Didi to bless it so I can anoint/water my fruit trees with his expertise and wisdom.

(For those of you who don't know, my grandparents recreated THE OLD COUNTRY (aka Ukraine) in southeastern Wisconsin. I grew up running around barefoot on two acres filled with vegetable gardens, ancient oaks, fruit bushes, manicured flower beds and an orchard. I'm MOSTLY growing fruit trees and bushes because I FUCKING LOVE FRUIT AND I LOVE HARVESTING FRUIT, but also because it's my ancestral link to THE OLD COUNTRY and, in a weird way, I'm sort've paying homage and respect to the memory of the Eden I grew up in.)

The bottle of water? Melted icicles. I harvested the most impressive specimens that grew off the roof this past December and funneled their unfrozen forms into a plastic water bottle. (Sometimes you need Winter in Summer so I store snow and ice in the freezer for various forms of witchery (ranging from weather magic to purification rites).)

I'm almost afraid to freeze the contents of the bottle because I was planning on using an ice cube tray (so I wouldn't have to defrost the entire container every time I needed some Winter), and I know EVEN IF I say DON'T TOUCH THIS SHIT and go as far as STICK A NOTE ON THE TRAY SAYING "DON'T TOUCH THIS SHIT" my father-in-law will still use the cubes in his daily nightcap. (You wouldn't believe how many supplies and bottles I've cleaned that he's thrown out even though I taped a neon sticky note to it (reading "I NEED THIS, PLEASE DON'T THROW IT OUT").)

Me neither; it was way, way before my time.

The thing is...it's easier getting older, it's harder becoming younger. The Whore is Woman unhinged - She's widowed, but still consorts, still acts as a mistress to the Universe. She's beautiful, She's terrifying, She's powerful, intimidating and awe-inspiring. She's wise, She's hardened, She's the culmination of everything learned, experienced and understood as the Bride. The Whore - the Old Woman - is enlightenment, one agricultural year at a time.

At the start of the year - the Dark year, after harvest, after the king's been cut down - the Whore's still young. She ages with Winter, and, eventually, as time passes and weeks become months the wild, intoxicated parties, celebrations and "black masses" give way to quieter evenings, warmer clothes and amotivation. By February We aren't the sexy, sassy, audacious mistress We once were. We're old, We're tired. We're grouchy and bitter and jaded and hate everything and everyone and SERIOUSLY, WHAT'S THE FUCKING POINT OF WEARING THONGS, ANYWAY, BECAUSE WHO AM I TRYING TO IMPRESS? MY PARTNER OF NEARLY 13 YEARS? PLEASE.

We hate and resent youth with its energy, excitement and naivety. I think, really, We're wary of youth; We've been down that road before, generations upon generations, and We're tired of finding Our way year in and year out. Every year - every Spring - We watch our slate get wiped clean, knowing We have to live through it all again and make new mistakes, experience new embarrassments and deal with the annual heartbreak of love and loss.

The curse of aging - the real curse of aging - is realizing there's no satisfactory trade off. A body of a teenager comes with the mind of a teenager who, psychologically, is still a child. At age 29 with two months to go until 30 there's only one prospect that strikes unmitigated terror into my (laughably) adult heart (well, other than death and that there isn't anything after this) - the prospect of being 19 again with two months to go until 20.

The hallmark of being a proper grown up? Finding yourself going "NIGGA, PLEASE!" when offered the chance of reverting to your retarded, younger self for the sake of something purely physical - youth, and youth's young body. When I feel myself struggle against Spring I feel my "old" self resisting the negative and challenging aspect of being young. That's the problem with Winter's end, if I don't pace the season properly I'm left with nothing but reversed tarot cards - I have negative fighting and pushing against negative.

Spring should be a celebration, a joyous revelry. Who else gets to become young again? Who else does the earth miss and mourn? Who else does the resurrected king love? Who else never dies - grows old, as old as time and then, as if by magic, grows young again?

Maybe there's a part of the Old Woman who, even after all of this time, still fears death and the loss of Herself. What the fuck does it matter if you get to be young again if you lose your wisdom, your enlightenment and your life's experiences? To know and be aware that you have to be reborn, new, without the baggage that made you YOU is a fucking terrifying prospect.

Old Woman, you live my fear of death.

* She said she THOUGHT MY MOTHER-IN-LAW WAS //OUTSIDE//. WTF? Dude, it's fucking FEBRUARY and THERE'S SNOW ON THE FUCKING GROUND. WHAT THE FUCK WOULD MY MOTHER-IN-LAW - WHO DOESN'T GARDEN, CLEAN OR DO ANYTHING OUTSIDE OTHER THAN SIT, READ AND DRINK WINE - BE DOING OUTDOORS FOR SUCH AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME? SPARE ME FROM BIZARRE EXCUSES YOU'RE USING TO DISGUISE THE FACT THAT YOU'RE ACTING LIKE AN OBSESSIVE, PSYCHOTIC RETARD. JESUS.

ETA: Holy fucking shit, even AFTER Italics told the woman to STOP CALLING BECAUSE WE'RE SLEEPING RIGHT NOW she's //STILL FUCKING CALLING//.

With less than an hour to go I still hadn't packed, gotten dressed, styled my hair, driven into town or checked into our room. In fact, with less than an hour to go HOT ROLLERS BEGAN FALLING OUT OF MY HAIR FOR NO APPARENT REASON. I got stressed and manic. Loose hair began itching my face. I got even more stressed and manic. (How do you know when Ms. Graveyard Dirt is about to lose it? She begins scratching her face like an animal because every single fucking strand of hair that touches her skin drives her fucking crazy.)

The reservation was bumped to 8:00. I realized Shakey Bear (our sick pet rat) hadn't been fed dinner, and the cage hadn't been fixed for our overnight absence. In tears - but trying not to cry because it would've totally fucked up my black-gold smoky eyes - I packed, worried, scratched, paced and panted. Italics nearly canceled going out. I wasn't even dressed by 8:00 so Italics had to call, again, and change our reservation, again, for 9:00.

We just barely made dinner by the skin of our teeth. By the time we checked into our room I was so exhausted that it bordered on stupid. I shuffled around in a haze until I realized - while staring at my reflection in the elevator mirror - that I looked like some sort of 80s Patrick Bateman female escort. (Suddenly, as if by magic, I was a little more aware of myself and my surroundings.)

"I LOOK LIKE A PROSTITUTE, DON'T I?" I asked Italics. He didn't say anything. For a long time. And then, after a damning pause, "not with that coat on". (Wearing his gray pea coat apparently offset my curled and teased Jessica Rabbit-like hair, smoky eyes, red lipstick, figure-hugging black halter dress and gigantic ghetto gold hoops.)

(LADIES, TAKE NOTE: A MAN'S FORMAL COAT WILL TOTALLY, TOTALLY DOWNGRADE YOUR WHORE LOOK FOR THE EVENING. THE DISGUISE WORKS PERFECTLY UNTIL YOU GET TO YOUR PLACE OF DESTINATION (WHERE YOU THEN HAVE TO TAKE IT OFF).)

The coat protected my modesty until we arrived at the Turkish restaurant, but the second we crossed the threshold into the establishment my cover was blown. (And - LOL! - how my cover was spectacularly blown. Not only was I the only woman to show up in figure fitting dress with her breasts magnificently on display in a claustrophobicly full restaurant, but I was also the only one working styled hair, hardcore make-up and ostentatious gold jewelry. I'm PRETTY sure I was also the only woman who reeked of black amber, musk, myrrh and leather, but since I was so preoccupied with my unintentional escort look I failed to notice what perfume everyone else was wearing.)

"SO...WHAT DO YOU DO FOR A LIVING?" I asked Italics after we ordered (loud enough so the tables next to us could hear). He laughed. "I GUESS I DON'T REALLY HAVE TO ASK YOU THE SAME," he replied. Women around us wearing cardigans and pearls pushed their food around unenthusiastically; I readjusted my tits at the table and gnawed on Turkish chicken wings (MAC lipstick and all) like it was a Super Bowl party and I hadn't eaten in weeks.

(The restaurant owner had one up on them, though, since he's born witness to my inexplicable ability to transform any classy outfit/look into something sordid and dubious. (We've been patronizing the place for nearly a decade so when we walk through the door we're always greeted with recognition. "Oh, it's that young man accompanied by the same tramp who can't keep her breasts to herself!") It's an accidental talent that Italics doesn't seem to mind.)

(My mother had a sophisticated aura about her, no matter what she wore she always carried a sense of authentic, regal dignity. Me? Authentic white trash slut-whore polished up momentarily with designer make-up and gold plated jewelry. <- I don't know where "regal dignity" went since it's not like my younger sister inherited that particular gift.)

ANYWAY.

The second OH SNAP! moment of the night transpired when one of the straps of my soft Chinese flats literally snapped off in Italics' hand. Cinderella - too full and tipsy to bend over to change out of her heels herself - lost a shoe, but she still had to walk across town to the hotel with Prince Charming. And she did so, swearing, hissing and spitting the entire way, walking with a limp despite not being hurt because it was the only way to keep her broken fucking shoe on as she crossed the icy wasteland of urban Scotland in winter.

(Long story short? I wasn't raised wearing heels. Fuck, I wasn't even raised WEARING SHOES. I'm nearly 30 and I can't walk in anything that's precariously elevated. Blame my hippie upbringing, my mystifyingly tiny, delicate feet and my fat, full-bodied ass which makes balancing on mystifyingly tiny, delicate feet next to impossible. (<- NO, SERIOUSLY. ITALICS HAS OFFICIALLY BANNED ME FROM USING LADDERS.))

(If I'm required to walk any distance in a pair of fucking heels - which, by the way, are the Devil's instrument made for the sole purpose of inflicting as much discomfort, pain and frustration on me as possible - I absolutely have to bring an extra pair of shoes (non-heels) that I can change into. <- JUST KEEP IN MIND THAT SHOES DON'T NECESSARILY MAKE A (SACRED) WHORE.)

We were scheduled to spend the day after (the 15th) in town because it had been something like two months since we were last out of the house. Lunch was planned, along with shopping (Italics promised me all of the half-priced Valentine's Day candy I wanted) and a movie, but we didn't even manage ticking off one box.

Both of us were worried about Shakey Bear. Other than being sick she can't drink by herself (we have to physically syringe liquid into her mouth), she has a hard time moving around and requires special food - baby food, or anything soft and easily broken down without much effort. The other two healthy rats - Wuzza and Choney - make the special care difficult; they eat all of Shakey's food and tip over her containers of juice.

I was anxious that the pair had managed to knock over the two ramekins of juice and eaten all of her food. Italics' mother, not entirely keen on rodents, couldn't be asked to check on, feed or hydrate Shakey. By noon on the 15th I was sick with the prospect that it'd be another six hours before I knew Shakey's state (which could've been TOO long for a sick rat who hadn't had anything to eat or drink in more than 12 hours) so instead of going out to enjoy the day, I checked out of the hotel in tears.

(Out of worry, but also out of disappointment. We rarely have a chance to "go out" - it had been two months since our last foray in - and when we finally made it we had to leave. I ACTUALLY MADE IT //IN TOWN// BUT WE DIDN'T MAKE IT INTO TOWN - HOW FUCKED UP IS THAT?)

(And the worst part? A week earlier? I spent Saturday crying because Italics' mother promised to take us in so I could hit the farmers' market, catch a movie, have lunch out and do some shopping but when the day came the trip got canceled because SHE WANTED TO DRINK A GLASS OF WINE WITH HER FRIENDS WHICH WOULD MAKE HER UNFIT TO DRIVE.)

(Internet, I've spent the last part of January and the entire month of February cleaning up after my mother-in-law. Without leaving the house I've straightened up after her, continuously cleaned rooms (on a daily fucking basis, sometimes twice a day) she dirtied, cooked for her, left her meals, and did her laundry. Despite all of the work, despite knowing in advance and agreeing to take me in, she still effectively canceled the one day off I scheduled for myself.)

(I was...upset. Italics found me on the lounge floor, sobbing, picking apart a faux leather box full of my in-laws' junk. After weeks of being trapped in the house and taking care of other people I found myself doing the same thing I had been doing for nearly a month on the day I was supposed to take it easy. My mother-in-law? In town - where I wanted to be - having a glass of wine as she lunched with her friends.)

(Italics promised me that he'd try to get us in later that week, but I told him it was futile and we wouldn't actually leave the house until the 14th (the dinner, hotel stay and day out had been scheduled way in advance) for one reason or another. I don't think he believed me, but it turned out to be true. (<- YOU DON'T NEED CLOUDS OF SULPHUR TO BE AN ORACLE.))

And it was a fucking good thing we came home, because upon inspection they HAD managed to knock over Shakey's juice (no telling the last time she had anything to drink) and they HAD eaten all of her food (no telling the last time she had anything to eat). I wanted to feel stupid and pessimistic for feeling so anxious and worried, but coming home to find your worst fears confirmed - and the thought that it might've been another six hours before even finding it out - sort've cemented the feeling that I'm imprisoned within this two bedroom bungalow.

(Italics offered "BUT WE CAN GO HOME, CHECK ON HER AND THEN GO BACK OUT!", but being the non-sulphur oracle that I am I knew that'd never materialize. I told him that I knew us too well - we'd come home, check on Shakey, take care of her, let the rats out while we checked on our internet stuff, find ourselves hungry so I'd have to make us something to eat and by that time we'd be too comfortable at home and wouldn't want to drop everything to get dressed up to go out again. He evidently agreed because he didn't bother disagreeing; we both know how we are.)

No lunch. No movie. No shopping. No half-priced Valentine's Day chocolate. Just the House, and everything that I do every day that gets undone by the end of the day. I went outside to make an offering, and when I opened the patio door my stone cock - THE stone cock from my outside Phallic Worship altar at the base of the Shango Tree - hurdled itself to the floor without ANY provocation, smashing one of my ritual plates below. Three days later I still have no fucking clue what "pushed" the heavy ass rock off the center of the table.

I retired for the day immediately after the incident; it didn't feel like the Universe wanted me up, anyway. I went to bed assuring myself that the following day - Mardi Gras/Fat Tuesday - would be better. In retrospect, it was an overly optimistic act in futility which was rich coming from the crowned royalty of pessimism. After spending an entire day crying my heart out that I failed to, yet again, score a single day off from my routine life I was back to square one - cleaning the house. (This time for Ash Wednesday, when I sweep the Whore out of the house and make way for the coming of the Bride.)

I disinfected, bleached and polished the kitchen until it shined, straightened, dusted and cleared away clutter in the communal lounge, dusted, disinfected and straightened the computer room/office until anything even remotely out of place was dealt with (I finally filed a bunch of old, important papers, bagged and tagged various witch articles floating around and boxed old letters and postcards from friends and correspondents that I've replied to) and stripped the bedroom down to uncluttered furniture so I could dust, wash the window, polish the window ledge, disinfect our nightstands (and the closet, the bed frame, the switches, the electrical outlets, the door handles, window handles and hinges) and clean every article, statue, pen and ritual knickknack that adorns the four surfaces in the room.

Even though I was mostly going through the motions I go through EVERY FUCKING DAY I was making some serious progress. And I knew it wasn't the most fantastically awesome way to spend the last day as the Whore (especially since I undergo a vow of celibacy during the Lenten period), but I knew if I got the involved work done on Tuesday we could spend Wednesday, Ash Wednesday (the first day of Lent), focused more on the spiritual aspect of the early Spring cleaning.

The idea sounded *GREAT* until one of my ritual statues of Kadesh - the one that prominently displays my Czarina earrings on my nightstand altar - tumbled off my peacock tray and broke in four places. I cried for my broken Kadesh, who was now more broken than before. (I got her when I bought several other statues. Her auction suddenly disappeared; it turned out the seller accidentally knocked her over and broke her. When I won some of the statues he was selling he included Kadesh, in pieces, for free. Italics lovingly glued her back together for me and she's sat on my altar until Mardi Gras, 2010.)

When Kadesh broke I seriously very nearly threw in the towel. It was the second ritual item that inexplicably broke within 48 hours. I sat in the hollowed out bedroom and sobbed. It wasn't worth it. The loss of beloved material possessions (which, I know, shouldn't mean so much - things will come and go, and old loves will be replaced by new loves), the feeling of being trapped in a routine I've been shouldering for several years, anger at being "punished" for leaving the House and resentment for having to take several slaps in the face while I dutifully perform spiritual obligations that require tremendous amounts of work, effort and physical energy.

(HEY, YOU KNOW WHAT, UNIVERSE? I'M DOING THE SHIT //YOU'VE// REQUESTED. I'M DOING IT WITH MY HEART AND FUCKING SOUL, SOMETIMES WITH BLOOD RUNNING DOWN MY TORN AND BATTERED SKIN. TAKING THE EASY WAY OUT HAS NEVER BEEN A FUCKING OPTION FOR ME - I GIVE EVERYTHING I FUCKING HAVE. WHAT THE FUCK MORE DO YOU WANT FROM ME? MY SANITY? MY HAPPINESS? MY WELL BEING? I'M DOING MY FUCKING BEST WITH WHAT I'VE BEEN GIVEN TO WORK WITH AND IT //STILL// DOESN'T FEEL LIKE IT'S GOOD ENOUGH.)

So, overwhelmed by stress, I cried on Valentine's Day. Then, the day after, I cried on the 15th in mournful disappointment when the one day off I tried to have in two months was canceled. On the 16th I wept as I grieved for my broken goddess, my broken Kadesh, who became an unexpected sacrifice as I fulfilled my spiritual obligations/duties.

The 17th saw me grinding my teeth in bitter resentment as I stripped the sheets off the bed (I left myself one physical task for Ash Wednesday - wash all the sheets and covers, flip the mattress and Febreeze anything that wasn't going to make it into the washing machine) and the anger eventually gave way to indignant tears because I WANTED to execute the bed washing ritual with joy and happiness, but there wasn't any love or light in my heart.

(I also found out, at the very beginning of my day on Ash Wednesday, that my favorite perfume - the one I wore on Valentine's Day, the ONLY perfume I wear from this particular perfume company - had been discontinued without any previous warning in January. Deleting the Whore's trademark perfume just in time for Lent? Way to kick off welcoming the Bride, Universe.)

I'm tired, World. I'm weary, Universe. But you keep asking for more, even when I feel paper thin. And because I'm a fighter I keep on fighting. (Pain, the Black Rabbit said, is the absence of death, and as long as I'm hurting I know that I'm still alive.) If I get broken, will I even know? Or will I keep clawing and dragging myself, unaware, driven by some sort of divinely internal need to just keep going, to just keep moving, to just keep fighting?

If your past four days have been anything like mine, you're going to need an army of these truffles, too. (You can thank me for the recipe later.)

INGREDIENTS:
* 1 cup (170g) bittersweet chocolate pieces
* 1/2 cup whipping cream
* 1/2 cup (100g) butter, softened
* 1 cup Rice Chex cereal, crushed to 1/3 cup
* 1 egg white
* 3/4 cup hazelnuts, finely chopped
* 1 1/3 cups powdered sugar
* 2 tbsps your choice of liquor (Rum, Whiskey, Frangelico, Amaretto, etc.)
* 2 2/1 cups Rice Chex cereal, crushed to 1 1/4 cups
* 2 tbsps unsweetened cocoa powder

METHOD:
Combine chocolate pieces and cream in a 2-quart saucepan. Cook over low heat until chocolate pieces are melted. Remove and cool slightly. Beat in butter. Add 1/3 cup cereal, egg white and nuts; mix well. Beat in sugar and liquor. Mix thoroughly. Pour into 8 X 8 X 2 inch lightly buttered pan. Freeze until firm.

Combine remaining 1 1/4 cups cereal and cocoa in bowl. Shape rounded teaspoons of chocolate mixture into balls. Coat with cereal mixture. Place balls on plate. Cover and refrigerate (I usually put them in the freezer). Let stand at room temperature for 10 minutes before serving. Refreeze chocolate mixture as needed to keep firm.

MS. GD NOTES:
Oh, Christ, where do I begin? To make these truffles gluten-free we used Rice Krispies cereal, and our choice of booze was Frangelico. (<- The friar's got a hold of me something awful.) RE: the use of Frangelico; I upped the original amount of 1 tablespoon to 2 tablespoons with no disastrous consequences.

I'm going to come out and be completely honest with everyone - my mom's method of truffle making? Crackhouse crazy. Making a tray of homemade chocolate for someone's a gentle labor of love, so why fucking rush it and compromise the quality? SORRY MOM; YOU CRAZY.

(I CAN SAY THAT NOW BECAUSE SHE'S BEEN DEAD FIVE YEARS, OR SOMETHING. OR MAYBE FOUR. I FORGET. <- LOL, I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER THE DATE OF MY OWN MOTHER'S DEATH. SERIOUSLY. EVEN WORSE THAN THAT? I LAUGH HYSTERICALLY WHEN I REMEMBER THAT I DON'T REMEMBER WHEN SHE DIED.)

Italics and I divided truffle making over the course of two days. On the first day we used a water bath to melt the chocolate, but rather than pour the chocolate out into a buttered tray and throw it in the freezer for a few hours, we left the chocolate mix in the bowl, covered it with clingfilm and stuffed it in the fridge overnight.

On day two I formed teaspoon heaped balls and rolled the naked truffles in the cereal/cocoa coating. Once finished, I packed the truffles away in a Tupperware box (I tipped in the leftover coating to help keep the chocolate from touching) and they've been living in the fridge ever since. (But not for long...)