Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

96 Hours

The past 96 hours haven't been entirely awesome. I've spent three out of four days in tears (give me enough time and I'm sure I can make it four out of four; I'm just that talented): ritual items have been breaking, Shakey's getting sicker, post-Valentine's Day shopping was canceled, it's been snowing again (so we can't go out AND I can't do any gardening) and I've been stuck in the house cleaning non-stop in preparation for Ash Wednesday and Lent.

Valentine's Day began promising, but chores and pet care kept me from getting ready for the romantic dinner we had planned. Our reservation was for 7:00 PM and I began prepping myself around 4:00 in the afternoon. You'd THINK that three hours would be enough time to slap on some make-up, set your hair in hot rollers, pack an overnight bag (we were spending the night in a hotel), get dressed, style your hair, drive into town and check into your room but you'd be wrong.

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?