Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

25 Days

They’re gone for 25 days leaving us with the house. During those 25 days they’ll visit theme parks, amusement parks, eat out, swim in the in-ground swimming pool, and enjoy Florida’s weather in July. During those 25 days Italics and I will be trapped in the house, eating at home (with the occasional take-out from the 1-3 places we can go – 2 Chinese and one really awful not proper pizza at all pizza place), pretend that the grass is alive (Italics’ father thought it was best to kill any and all grass growing on or near the property this year leaving nothing but dirt and straw), sit inside all day (seriously, guys, THERE IS EITHER NO GRASS LEFT, OR ALL OF THE GRASS IS DEAD – WHY THE FUCK WOULD I WANT TO SIT OUTSIDE? DO YOU KNOW HOW DEPRESSING IT IS LOOKING OUT THE WINDOW AND SEEING THAT YOU LIVE IN THE ONLY HOUSE THAT HAS DIRT FOR A FRONT LAWN AND NO LIVING GRASS IN THE BACKYARD?), and enjoy Scotland’s weather in July.

It wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t for the fact that while they’re gone visiting all of those Orlando parks, eating out, enjoying the lush lawn and pool we’ll be at home cleaning their house, taking care of their hobbies, and hearing about how awesome Orlando really is. (LOL, YOU THINK I’M JOKING? THEY EVEN LEFT THEIR LAUNDRY IN THE WASHING MACHINE FOR ME TO DO WHEN THEY LEFT THIS MORNING! AND THEY LEFT ITALICS WITH 100+ TREES AND SHRUBS TO TAKE CARE OF!) So for the next 25 days Italics and I will be fixing and cleaning a house that doesn’t belong to us while the owners are enjoying themselves in Disney World (I BET THE GRASS THERE IS REALLY GREEN, RIGHT?), only because the people who do own this property can’t be bothered to do shit like WASHING THE TILES OF SHOWER ONCE A YEAR or OILING SQUEAKY DOORS or SORTING THROUGH PILES OF JUNK PLACED IN EVERY FUCKING CORNER OF THE HOUSE BECAUSE IT’S EASIER TO DROP SHIT THERE THAN ACTUALLY PUT THINGS AWAY WHERE THEY BELONG.

(When I’m not fed-up playing the game I’m everything from house keeping (this covers everything you can think of – including scrubbing the underside of the toilet seat and bleaching a bath tub I don’t even really use), to unintentional family chef (Italics’ father helps himself to anything and everything bought or made without asking), to laundry servant (what am I supposed to do when they throw their things into my wash?), to daily straightener (if I didn’t straighten up after my in-laws the couch would be covered with used ankle socks and the house would be blanketed in a layer of dust and unnecessary papers) who lives with her clients 24/7 but doesn’t get paid.)

I’m not bitter or resentful or whatever (I MEAN, THE FLORIDA PROPERTY IS ONLY 30 MINUTES AWAY FROM DISNEY WORLD AND IN ALL OF MY 28 YEARS OF LIVING I HAVE NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER EVEN MADE IT 300 MILES NEAR THE FL BORDER LET ALONE PASSED THE ENTRANCE OF ANY SORT OF DISNEY-THEMED PARK SO THERE IS OBVIOUS ROOM FOR ME TO FEEL THE MOST NEGLIGIBLE OF GRUDGES), but I’m not excited, either. I can’t even really view the month long absence as a “break”; I see a hard, unflinching deadline for a million things that need to get done, most of which will be undone within 24 hours of his parents returning home. (YOU THINK I’M JOKING…AGAIN? HIS PARENTS MANAGE TO THOROUGHLY TRASH THE HOUSE WITHIN 15 MINUTES OF BEING HOME. IT’S LIKE A BOMB GOES OFF AND EVERYTHING THAT HAD BEEN PUT AWAY FOR 2+ WEEKS SUDDENLY FALLS BACK ONTO COUNTERS, TABLES, AND IN CORNERS.)

…it would sure be nice if I was allowed to drive, though. (25 days with -3- parked cars outside and I can’t use any one of them – what was that about me not being bitter or resentful, again?)

#1 Source for Voodoo Socks

Click thumbnail for larger image.

This is what makes it all worth while.

Flickr Update

Graveyard Dirt's FLICKR PHOTOSTREAM has just been updated. In the next few days I'll hopefully get around to writing the entries they're meant to accompany. (FAMOUS LAST WORDS.)

Socially Awkward Dilemma

IT’S SOLSTICE! (Can we get Noddy Holder to scream that for us? No? Well, maybe next year...)

Today’s (possible) socially awkward dilemma? CAN RURAL SCOTTISH FARM FOLK ACCEPT (OR, AT LEAST TOLERATE) FISHNET AND BAPHOMET LOOKING CREATURES WITH BARED BREASTS AND HORNS ON A T-SHIRT AT THEIR FARM FOLK COUNTRY FAIR? (WHO’S FAULT IS IT REALLY? IS IT THE INNOCENT YOUNG WOMAN DRESSED IN FISHNET AND CARRYING A BANNER OF A LACTATING FERTILITY DEITY ACROSS HER BREASTS? OR IS IT THE SEEMINGLY SIMPLE, BUT REALLY NEFARIOUS AND SCHEMING, FARM FOLK WHO DECIDED TO HOLD THEIR ANNUAL EVENT ON MIDSUMMER’S EVE THIS YEAR?)

I have less than an hour to come to some sort of decision.

(PS: About that final decision? You’ll know I missed the mark if you hear that somewhere in Scotland a witch was burned today for the first time in over two hundred years.) (It’s alright, maybe the Devil will save me.)

Retcon

You know when I said “I WANT TO BE YOUR SLUT” last night when you were fucking me against/on my computer chair? I actually meant to say “I WANT TO BE YOUR FAT SLUT”. (I know that you know the significance behind that very important, very slight variation.) Let’s retcon tonight; I’ll say “fat fucking slut” and you do me in the ass while trying to keep me quiet.

The Long Walk

When Bee was younger and her Bok-Bok self I used to say to her “BOK-BOK! YOUR FACE IS SO CUTE THAT I’M GOING TO RIP IT OFF, BEE! I’M GOING TO RIP IT OFF, YES I AM! AND THEN, AFTERWARDS, I’M GOING TO BEAT IT WITH A HAMMER, BOK! WE’RE GOING TO BEAT IT WITH A HAMMER AND FLATTEN IT OUT AND MAKE IT INTO A MASK THAT I CAN WEAR LIKE MICHAEL MYERS, BEE-BEE! I’M GOING TO RIP OFF YOUR FACE TO MAKE A MASK!” and she LOVED it, and would give me THAT LOOK (that satisfied and proud look you get from pets when they realize that you’re sweet talking them) and chuff and look right pleased with the attention. (WELL, HOW MANY RATS DO YOU KNOW THAT HAVE BEEN TOLD THAT THEY’RE SO CUTE THAT YOU HAD TO RESTRAIN YOURSELF FROM PEELING OFF THEIR SKIN AND WEARING IT LIKE A MASK? EXACTLY.)

It’s harder to do that now. (I tried the other day, but it wouldn’t stick.) Bee, caught somewhere between living and sleeping, is very nearly comatose now and almost too weak to breathe. Not long after Hezbollah’s death (Bee’s former roommate, aka Crazy Rat, her BFF) she went blind in one eye. I knew something was up, but couldn’t put my finger on it. (YOU KNOW HOW YOU JUST KNOW THESE THINGS WHEN YOU HAVE PETS. YOU JUST KNOW.) That uneasy feeling only became more concrete when “WOMAN, BEE SICK!” boomed (OH, WHEN YOUR SUMERIAN DEMON DOG WHO SOUNDS LIKE ANIMAL FROM THE MUPPETS DECIDES TO CONVERSE WITH YOU WHEN YOU’RE SUSPENDED IN A CONSCIOUS-BARELY CONSCIOUS-ALMOST SUBCONSCIOUS STATE YOU WILL FIND THAT HE HAS A TENDENCY TO BE ALL...BOOMY) through my flashing (HIGH, BUT NOT THAT HIGH, WHICH MADE ME PAUSE AND GO “WOW, I DIDN’T EVEN THINK I WAS HIGH ENOUGH FOR THIS SORT OF THING”) thoughts.

It was so left field, so unexpected, such a non-fucking-sequitur that I automatically knew it was one of two things – I was either really fucking high and making shit up (A PARANOID, OVERREACTING PESSIMIST EVEN SUBCONSCIOUSLY? SWEET!) or it was true, and Bee was a lot sicker than I had imagined. (At the time I had forgotten, but Italics pointed out that both she and Hezbollah had been on antibiotics for a significant time for colds they couldn’t seem to shake, but when you’re not the person administering the medication you have a tendency to sort’ve forget.) I guess, really, it sounded so fucking crazy that it could be true. And, as it turned out nearly a week later, it was true. Bee had gone blind in one eye with no explanation as to how it happened since there weren’t any wounds. The vet told Italics “it could be a brain thing” and when I heard that my stomach dropped to the floor because I knew it WAS instead of IT COULD BE and to know that we’d be back at the same place we were a month ago (with Hezbollah) and have to witness the rapid decline of our last remaining pet…Christ, we had just barely gotten over the Crazy Rat ordeal, you know?

I lost my Bok-Bok Baby (WHO, IN FACT, WAS A GREAT AND TERRIBLE SPACE PIRATE, FEARED FOR HER BRUTAL SAVAGERY AND FOR HER INEXPLICABLE LOVE OF DIRE STRAITS) when she lost her Bok-Bok spring. (It wasn’t a change in disposition or personality, she just lost that gleam that made her BOK-BOK, and it was a very sad thing to witness and realize.) In her place I got my Special Little Flower, my BEE-ZEE-BEE, my Sexy Bumblebee, my Bee. And Bee seemed happy and content, and got to live on the floor ALL OF THE TIME (no other rat we’ve ever had has had the freedom she did) and was let out of the room several times a day for a “walk” (she was allowed supervised expeditions into other areas of the house) and seemed, for the most part, not entirely bothered she was blind in one eye.

But, as the weeks went by, it became more and more obvious that it was, in fact, “a brain thing” and there was nothing we could do other than watch our BEE-ZEE-BEE fade because she’s a rat, and rats have two medical options – take antibiotics (and if they don’t work, they don’t work, the end), or go under the knife (there’s always a good chance they won’t survive the anesthetic). Bee didn’t get either, because there’s no medication for “a brain thing” and neurosurgery hasn’t really advanced in the rodent world.

Our only option with Bee was to make her as comfortable as possible, and to prepare ourselves for the inevitable – the wasting away, the loss of personality, the sleep deprivation, the constant, around-the-clock administration of antibiotics, and pain and allergy medication, the cleaning, the fussing, the preparation of special food that can be easily eaten, the worry, the grief, the angst, and, also, the burst of almost overwhelming resentment knowing that there’s a good possibility that we’ll have to euthanize something that’s become a member of our family by ourselves with our own hands.

(We use nitrous (aka laughing gas) when it’s necessary. When you’re faced with the prospect of watching a beloved pet suffocate to death in front of your own eyes – complete with self-conscious awareness which means they’re panicking while gasping and withering around, and the sounds, Jesus, the sounds they make as their lungs shut down and they can’t breathe, and the looks they give you because they know that in the past you’ve always been able to fix things for them or help them, that you’ve always, always been able to make things better and THEY KNOW THAT and THEY LOOK AT YOU WITH THOSE BEGGING, PLEADING EYES AND FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THEIR LIFE YOU CAN’T DO ANYTHING TO MAKE IT BETTER OR MAKE IT STOP (EXCEPT FOR ONE THING) – you harden your heart, cling tightly to something deep, down inside of you (“I KNOW THIS IS RIGHT, I KNOW THIS IS RIGHT, I KNOW THIS IS RIGHT..”) and get on with being Death.)

So it’s harder, now, launching into the entire “BOK-BOK! YOUR FACE IS SO CUTE THAT I’M GOING TO RIP IT OFF, BEE! I’M GOING TO RIP IT OFF, YES I AM! AND THEN, AFTERWARDS, I’M GOING TO BEAT IT WITH A HAMMER, BOK! WE’RE GOING TO BEAT IT WITH A HAMMER AND FLATTEN IT OUT AND MAKE IT INTO A MASK THAT I CAN WEAR LIKE MICHAEL MYERS, BEE-BEE! I’M GOING TO RIP OFF YOUR FACE TO MAKE A MASK!” thing, because reality is hitting home today (we’ve both already agreed that if she didn’t pass on her own accord today, that we would have to finally help her along) and I know the long walk from the computer room to the bedroom is going to be very long, and, inevitably, I’ll feel like I betrayed her, somehow, by ending something that’s already half-done.

(BEE, I JUST WANT YOU TO UNDERSTAND, IF YOU CAN, THAT I REALLY HATE DOING THIS, AND I FEEL LIKE A PART OF ME DIES EVERY TIME WE HAVE TO “HELP” YOU GUYS. I WANT YOU TO KNOW THAT I AM VERY ANGRY AND SAD THAT THIS HAD TO HAPPEN, AND I’M ALREADY RESENTFUL THAT YOUR TIME WITH US WAS A LOT SHORTER THAN IMAGINED. (THERE WERE SO MANY CHAPTERS LEFT TO ADD TO YOUR STORY, BEE!) AND THAT I LOVED YOU VERY, VERY, VERY, VERY MUCH, BEEBEE, AND YOU’RE THE ONLY ANIMAL I’VE SHARED MY LIFE WITH THAT GOT TO REMAIN BEING MY “BABY” LONG AFTER YOU BECAME MORBIDLY OBESE AND GROWN-UP. BEE-ZEE-BEE, PLEASE DON’T HOLD WHAT I HAVE TO DO AGAINST ME, OKAY? I’LL MAKE YOU A HOMEMADE BOWL OF GRAVY AFTER, I PROMISE.)

The other thing I heard when Chippy told me that Bee was really sick? Papa chimed in and informed me that I’m not going to be happy with what they find when I get diagnostics done. (I finally got a referral to see a specialist regarding the “condition” I’ve been living with for 15+ months, so I’m now waiting for an appointment to get all of the necessary testing done.) At the time I dismissed it, along with the Bee being sick thing, because, seriously, how fucking unfoundedly pessimistic is THAT shit? I finally had to confess about a week back to Italics (I mean, how couldn’t I after the entire Chippy premonition thing?) but followed it up with “BUT THAT COULD MEAN ANYTHING, YOU KNOW? THAT COULD MEAN THAT IT’S VERY, VERY OBVIOUSLY A HERNIA (LIKE WE SAID), AND I’LL JUST GET PISSED OFF WHEN I FINALLY HAVE UNDENIABLE X-RAY PROOF TO STAPLE TO MY GP’S FUCKING FOREHEAD (HE’S NOT ENTIRELY CONVINCED IT IS BECAUSE, STATISTICALLY, I’M TOO “YOUNG”)” because, honestly? I don’t even want to think about it.

April Showers

Sometimes when we go walking castle grounds they have these dinky little plant sales (of things grown on the property) going on, and in most of these cases payment is based on the so-familiar-it-almost-hurts “honor system”. (You mean the honor system can be applied to a transaction that doesn’t involve homegrown corn or a rickety, unattended vendor set up at the edge of a driveway on a long country road in the Midwest? OH MY EFFING GOD, THE SHIT YOU LEARN WHEN YOU MOVE TO AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT COUNTRY!)

Most visits I just look, get really fucking close to getting something and then, at the last second, decide against it for some made up reason and Italics will be all “WHY DIDN’T YOU GET IT?” to me and I’ll be “OH, GOD, I DON’T KNOW…IT WAS TOO EXPENSIVE, I GUESS” back and he’ll respond with “WTF? IT WAS ONLY A POUND!” and I’ll just shrug my shoulders because we’ve had that same exact conversation more than several times in the eight (or so) years we’ve been visiting castles and changing it at this point would seem wrong and sacrilegious. (IT’S SORT’VE LIKE AN ANCIENT, ALMOST DIVINE PAGEANT THAT YOU CAN’T STOP FROM HAPPENING OR TAKING PART IN BECAUSE IT’S –PART OF THE GAME, BABY- AND IT’S –WRITTEN IN THE GENETIC CODING OF YOUR SOUL-.)

Twice in my life I actually came home with something. The first time it was some leafy, ferny, flighty number that my friend and I (you know that friend who’ve you been BFF with since, like, 3rd grade, or something, and even though you’re 28 now and live a half a world away you can still get together and start screeching and squeezing each other’s arms like you’re 12 all over again?) picked out together when she came to stay with me a week before setting off on her European tour. She was named (gendered?) Frenchie, and was planted outside in a pretty blue ceramic vase especially bought for her and I promised to send my friend new pictures of her every year. (I’M WELL AWARE OF THE FACT THAT IT MIGHT SEEM LIKE SOMETHING OUT OF “SISTERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING PANTS” BUT IT ISN’T. IN ANY WAY. AT ALL.)

The second time it was a small selection of bulbs – dwarf irises, dwarf tulips, and grape hyacinths – wrapped up in brown paper, bought for me by Italics after a long walk. (It was autumn and beautiful and we were having a fucking terrific day out and I wanted to stretch the afternoon out forever, so, to make the hours last, I decided to see what the sale was offering to delay the inevitable.) I took them home - all excited and hopped up on gardening endorphins - and planted them in matching terra cotta containers, waiting for the day I’d be able to line the concrete steps with them in bloom. (I had very clear, very finely tuned ideas on how awesome and spectacular it was going to look. (IT WAS GOING TO BE REALLY FUCKING AWESOME AND REALLY FUCKING SPECTACULAR, JUST IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING OR YOUR IMAGINATION NEEDED SOME HELP.))

Then I sort’ve forgot about them. For like…years. (Two? Three? At least two, maybe three?) Every fucking year I’d notice these pitiful fucking shoots spring up from half-frozen soil when hanging washing out, and every fucking year I said “OH, HEY, I WONDER IF THEY’D LOOK A LOT MORE AWESOME SPECTACULAR - LIKE I HAD VERY CLEARLY IMAGINED WITH MY VERY FINELY TUNED IDEAS – IF I, YOU KNOW, MOVED THEM INTO A PLACE WHERE THEY ACTUALLY GOT LIGHT” and every fucking year I SOMEHOW MANAGED TO FORGET THAT ANNUAL THOUGHT WITHIN SECONDS OF HAVING IT. (I use the dryer in the garage. A lot.)

So, like, last year I was officially tired of seeing the same fucking mutated, gamma-ray exposed miniature flowers (NO, SERIOUSLY, THESE THINGS WERE NOT OF THIS WORLD, OKAY? YOU REMEMBER THAT MONSTER THING IN FLY II? I THINK IT WAS FORMERLY THE BAD GUY IN THE FIRST FLY MOVIE WHO GETS ALL FUCKED UP IN THOSE TRANSPORTERS AND THEN HIS ASS GETS LOCKED UP IN SOME LAB AS THEIR MONSTER PET THING THAT COMES CRAWLING OUT OF THE DANK RECESSES OF THE EARTH TO EAT SLOP ONCE A DAY? THAT’S WHAT THE FLOWERS WOULD LOOK LIKE, BUT INSTEAD OF BEING ALL MAMMAL DEFORMED THEY WERE DEFECTED IN MORE OF A…VEGETABLE…WAY.) that I made a FOR REAL POINT of remembering to haul them out this year when we began straddling the cusp between late winter and early spring.

After Christ knows how many years I finally situated the four planters (the two larger terra cotta containers had the dwarf irises and tulips, the smaller pots had bunches of grape hyacinths) on the concrete steps, cleared the soil of debris, watered the fucking things until they bled, and gave them their first real exposure to the sun. Plants, I then learned, aren’t entirely different from dogs. Despite years of neglect an act of kindness can still draw a positive reaction or response; they’ve already forgiven you, they’re just waiting for you to catch up (and hoping that you eventually will). Within weeks I noticed that this year’s shoots were stronger, hardier, and on a much grander scale and within a month, or two, I had my AWESOME SPECTACULAR array of blooms cluttering up the concrete steps – the flowers’ first display, ever.

I know it sort’ve sounds out there – but seeing those damn things brought me endless amounts of joy this past spring. Part of it was knowing that I DID THAT so there was a sense of satisfaction, a “fruits of my labor” kind’ve thing, but part of it was allowing myself to be dumbfounded how THERE WAS NOTHING THERE BEFORE BUT, OH MY GOD, THERE’S THESE BEAUTIFUL THINGS NOW THAT MAKE ME REALLY, REALLY HAPPY! (You don’t even want to know how much time’s been spent just staring at plants while high and marveling in the wonder and mystery that is known as THE BOTANICAL WORLD because it all seems just so perfectly magic, the most sophisticated, wonderful clockwork thing, ever, but real and biological!) Part of it was also because I made those bulbs my anchor this year.

(An “anchor” is something I figuratively hold onto towards the end of winter. Something to focus on as the seasons begins to shift so I don’t get lost in the gloom. It gives me something to look forward to and helps keep part of me occupied and engaged when everything else feels like it’s hanging in limbo. Last year and year before that it was Papa’s birds, this year it was the flowers that Italics had bought me years and years ago on that autumn walk.)

I JUST LIKED THEM, OKAY? I mean, I already liked irises and tulips; they both remind me of Baba’s house and my childhood spent there. (BIG, HEAP HAPPY MEMORIES.) And teeny tiny miniature dwarf versions? (ZOMG SO CUTE.) They just brought me joy…I KNOW, I KEEP SAYING THAT, BUT I CAN’T THINK OF A BETTER WAY TO DESCRIBE IT – STUPID, ELATED, HAPPY, BUZZY, APPRECIATIVE WONDER. (See? “Joy”!) Everything from how vivid their colors stood out against one another (the tulips were orange red with yellow, frayed lips and the irises were powder blue and grey, almost crocus-like and fragile) to how the sun – OH MY EFFING GOD, THE SUN! SOMETHING I HAD NOT SEEN IN FUCKING MONTHS! – would shine on them and make the deposits of snow in the containers glisten like diamonds.

(I loved those damn flowers so fucking much that I had even planed to incorporate them – all four pots – into the altar layout for our Easter Wedding. At the 11th hour (JUST AS THE FIRST COMING UP WAVE HIT ME) I decided against it, realizing, just before drugs took over completely, that as much as I loved those flowers IT WAS REALLY FUCKING OBVIOUS I HAD BROUGHT IN OUTSIDE GARDEN POTS INTO A VERY CLEAN HOME (THAT WAS INSIDE RATHER THAN OUTSIDE) AND THEREFORE WAS UNABLE TO BLEND IN THE MILDEW ENCRUSTED TERRA COTTA CONTAINERS WITH THE POLISHED SILVER SUCCESSFULLY.)

So, last week, I finally get around to doing some serious deadheading work I should’ve done a month back (THESE THINGS GET DONE…EVENTUALLY) and cleared out the surface of both of the large pots, the ones with my tulips and irises. And while working the soil I start THINKING BIG for the future because, through the course of just a few weeks, I’ve become a bulb junkie and I want BIGGER and BETTER and MORE AWESOME SPECTACULAR for next year thanks to this year’s first ever floral display. By the time I finish brainstorming I’VE SOLVED WORLD PEACE WITH THE USE OF DWARF SPRING BULBS and am insane amounts of crazy excited to get to work using these plans that are SO AWESOME, SO SPECTACULAR THAT GLOBALLY UNITY IS ONE HUNDRED PERCENT ASSURED. Fall, this year, couldn’t come quick enough.

(SPOILER ALERT: THIS IS WHERE THE BOMB DROPS.)

Yesterday it started raining out of no where and I went dashing outside to take in my in-laws’s washing when I noticed something just wasn’t right. (It’s half feeling, half knowing, and both are based on something you’ve seen and haven’t seen. YOU KNOW, THAT –KNOWING- FEELING.) Instead of rescuing the laundry I did a three-sixty on the patio steps because I KNEW that whatever IT was IT was in my FIELD OF VISION so if I continued to LOOK REALLY HARD (LIKE THE HIGH RETARD I WAS, STANDING IN THE FUCKING RAIN, GETTING MY ASS SOAKED TO FUCKING HELL) IT WOULD EVENTUALLY DAWN ON ME WHAT THE FUCK I WAS LOOKING FOR IN THE FIRST PLACE. (“Fuck the laundry!” I thought, and, oh Lord, did I let it get fucked up.)

The two large terra cotta containers? Gone. The two large terra cotta containers I had previously deadheaded and prepped for replanting in the autumn on a much larger, awesome, more spectacular scale? Gone. The two smaller ones containing my grape hyacinths were still there, but the only thing left of my tulips and irises were the two stained rings the pots had left behind on the step. (THIS IS THE POINT WHERE I TRIED NOT TO PANIC. AND BY USING THE WORD “PANIC” I UNDERSTAND THAT IT MIGHT SEEM LIKE AN OVERREACTION, ON MY PART, TO THOSE WHO HAVE NOT BEEN INITIATED TO THE LONG AND SORDID HISTORY BETWEEN ME, ITALICS’S FATHER, AND ALL OF THE SHIT OF MINE HE’S RUINED, BROKEN, THROWN AWAY. (TO THIS DAY HE’S NEVER OFFERED ANY EXPLANATION OR APOLOGY FOR HIS ACTIONS, OR EVEN AFFORDED ME THE CHANCE TO STOP THINGS FROM BEING RUINED, BROKEN, AND THROWN AWAY BECAUSE IT’S TOO MUCH EFFORT FOR HIM TO ASK ME WHETHER THE OBJECT IN QUESTION BELONGS TO ME AND IF I’M INTERESTED IN KEEPING IT; HE JUST DECIDES ON MY BEHALF WITHOUT CONSULTING ME AT ALL.) STICK AROUND LONG ENOUGH AND YOU’LL BE CHRISTENED, TRUST ME.)

When you’ve spent nearly a decade of having shit of yours thrown out for no apparent reason you quickly develop a gut feeling for these things. (My immediate gut feeling? THROWN OUT.) But instead of bursting out into tears (OH, THOSE ARE TEARS OF FRUSTRATION, Y’ALL, THE TEARS OF “WHY ME?” AND “OH WOEZ!” COME MUCH LATER) – which is my natural reaction to anything that involves a roller coaster set of emotions – I combed the backyard, in the fucking pouring rain. OH, HEY, GUESS WHAT I FOUND AND WHAT I DIDN’T FIND? Well, I DIDN’T find the two containers (they weren’t moved or regrouped or relocated or anything), but I DID fit TWO LARGE EMPTY TERRA COTTA CONTAINERS SITTING STACKED INSIDE ONE ANOTHER. (OH, YES, HE DID.)

My father-in-law threw out my spring flowers. Without asking me he emptied both of the pots, threw away the contents, and tossed the containers into a garden corner. If he had asked he would’ve found out that they were gifts Italics bought me years ago, and this was the first ever year I got them to bloom, and how they had been my anchor this year to keep me from sliding into winter depression, and how I loved them so much that I couldn’t even bare cutting a few to add to my floral wedding crown when Italics and I renewed our vows this past Easter. But he doesn’t ask, so it’s a moot fucking point, because they’re gone and I can’t say anything – not even to point the fuck out that, once again, he threw away something of mine that MEANT SOMETHING SPECIAL TO ME and IT ALL COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED IF HE HAD JUST ASKED – because if I did he’d just get upset, and God fucking forbid that.

(Besides, how do you explain to someone the inherent value of something that brought you tremendous amounts of joy? How do you explain the sentimental value of something that appears mundane to someone else? It’s not like he understood why I was so upset when he threw away part of a wedding anniversary gift I was working on for Italics, or ashes that belonged to my mother. All he saw were a handful of bulbs - not the joy, the effort, the love, the anticipation, the appreciation, the happiness, or the fact that I finally got off my fucking ass and set something in fucking motion that I meant to do for fucking years.)

(Christ, who am I fucking kidding? He didn’t even see the fucking bulbs; it didn’t even occur to him to check.)

PS: Frenchie? We lost her about three, maybe four years back when Italics's father decided to empty that pretty blue ceramic vase without asking anyone first. (I never had the heart to tell my friend; I couldn't think of an answer to "...but why would he do that?".)

Harness

A miniature wishbone from Finland surfaced this afternoon; the tiny, delicate thing was still perfectly in tact within the padded envelope it was sent in. (YOU SEE HOW THEY TRYIN’ TO TEMPT ME?) I considered using it earlier in the day (OH, LORD, DID THAT IDEA SOUND GOOD (AND OH SO JUSTIFIABLE)...), but, instead, hung it upside down on Apis’s back and watched the bone swing back and forth like a primitive harness.

(OH, I'M GOING TO TURN INTO THAT MAN'S WORST NIGHTMARE. HE THINKS I'M BAD NOW? ALL HIS ASS SEEN IS A TREACHEROUS, DEVIOUS, SCHEMING WITCH WITH A VOLATILE TEMPER. WAIT UNTIL HE SEES HOW MUCH WORSE A TREACHEROUS, DEVIOUS, SCHEMING WITCH WITH A VOLATILE TEMPER CAN BE WHEN SHE FINALLY GETS THAT SHIT CHECKED. (THE BEST PART IN ALL OF THIS? THE BASTARD WILL NEVER REALIZE HOW MUCH HE'S HELPED ME GROW AS A PERSON. (OH, HEY, I GET TO MAKE YOUR LIFE MISERABLE -AND- BECOME A BETTER PERSON FOR IT? AWESOME!)) THAT'S A PARTY I AM STARTING INVITATIONS FOR NOW.)

Cross Your Fingers, Spit in Your Hat

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from May 31st, 2008.

I'VE HEARD THINGS ABOUT SPITTING IN/ON GRAVES, AND JUMPING OVER GRAVES, BUT I'VE NEVER HEARD ANYTHING ABOUT PISSING IN/ON GRAVES, ESPECIALLY THE OPEN, EMPTY KIND, SO I THINK, SUPERSTITIONWISE, I SHOULD BE A-OKAY. (ESPECIALLY SINCE, AFTERWARDS, I THREW IN MY PANTIES AS AN OFFERING. (OKAY, OKAY, SO THEY WERE MY STAINED -PERIOD PANTIES-, BUT THE GRAVE WILL TAKE WHAT IT CAN GET AND I'VE LEARNED FROM THIS EXPERIENCE THAT YOU SHOULD ALWAYS WEAR NICE, CLEAN UNDERWEAR JUST IN CASE YOU EITHER A.) WIND UP IN THE EMERGENCY ROOM OR B.) ARE CONFRONTED BY AN OPEN GRAVE IN A CEMETERY DESPERATE TO BE MARKED AS YOUR TERRITORY.))

I OWN A GRAVE.

Click thumbnail for larger image.

...

...

...

...AWESOME.

(OF COURSE I WENT IN THE RUINED CHURCH BEFOREHAND AND THEN GOT CRAZY EXCITED WHEN I SAW THERE WAS -AN OPEN FUCKING GRAVE- IN THE NEW SECTION OF THE CEMETERY SO I DRANK A THIRD OF A BOTTLE OF WATER AND HOPPED AROUND ALL CRAZY LIKE JUST TO, YOU KNOW, WAKE THE BLADDER UP AND THEN I WAS ALL "ARE THEY COMING OUT OKAY?" BECAUSE HOW COULD I NOT GET ITALICS TO TAKE A PICTURE OF ME, FEET PLANTED ON GREEN PLANKS, STRADDLING AN OPEN HOLE THAT SEEMED ABOUT 10 FEET DEEP, TAKING A PISS? (YEAH, I KNOW, AND I KNOW THAT YOU GUYS DON'T KNOW ALL OF THE THINGS THAT MAKE THIS WONDERFULLY LOLERIFIC AND I ALSO KNOW THAT MOST OF YOU GUYS WILL BE DRAWING A COMPLETE BLANK AS TO WHY PISSING ON ANYTHING IS LOL WORTHY IN THE FIRST PLACE BUT THIS IS A VERY, UH, EVOLVED JOKE YEARS IN THE MAKING SO YOU'RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO TRUST ME ON THIS.))

(ALL I COULD KEEP THINKING WAS "OH, LORD, HOW AM I GOING TO SPIN THIS IF SOMEONE CATCHES AN EYEFUL OF THIS?" AND, ALSO, "OKAY, NOW DON'T LAUGH AND LOSE YOUR CONCENTRATION AND -FALL IN-!" WHILE STEADYING MYSELF ON THE PICKET "FENCE" BARELY COVERING THE OPENING OF THE HOLE.)

(HOW QUICK CAN I KICK OFF MY SHOES, PEEL OFF MY JEANS, SQUIRM OUT OF MY PANTIES, AND THEN HOP BACK INTO MY JEANS, FIX MY SOCKS, AND JAM MY SHOES BACK ON IN A CEMETERY AROUND 8 PM ON A SATURDAY NIGHT? PRETTY QUICK.)

(I ALSO MANAGED TO SCRAPE SOME DIRT FROM INSIDE HOLE BENEATH THE WOODEN PLANKS, SO NOW I HAVE GRAVEYARD DIRT FROM THE ACTUAL EMPTY SPACE OF A GRAVE. I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I'M GOING TO USE IT FOR, BUT I'M SURE IT'LL COME TO ME.)

(I REALLY, REALLY HOPE IT'S SOME GUY GETTING BURIED IN THERE OTHERWISE THE PANTIES THING MIGHT BE A BUST.)

(WELCOME TO MY PERSONAL BRAND OF MAGIC TMI.)

Sharp Shooter

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from May 23rd, 2008.

OH HEY REMEMBER A MONTH OR SO AGO I SAID THAT I MALICIOUSLY KNOTTED A PAIR OF MY FATHER-IN-LAW'S SOCKS TOGETHER FOR A BIT OF MAGIC FUN (SEE JOURNAL ENTRY PAYMENT, PUNISHMENT, & PROMISES)? WITHIN THE PAST WEEK (OR TWO?) ITALICS'S MOTHER TOLD HIM (WHO, IN TURN, TOLD ME) THAT ITALICS'S FATHER HAS DEVELOPED SOME GANGLION CYSTS IN HIS HANDS/FINGERS MAKING THE WORK HE'S DOING (I.E., GARDENING ON A RENTED PLOT OF LAND) EXCEPTIONALLY DIFFICULT AND PAINFUL.

...LULZ. (I KNOW, I KNOW, ANKLES/FEET AREN'T HANGS/FINGERS BUT YOU KNOW HOW MAGIC IS - IT'LL DO AS IT WILLS (<- ANYONE? ANYONE? OKAY, SO MAYBE NOT EVERYONE HAS THE SCRIPT MEMORIZED FROM THE MOVIE). IN OTHER WORDS - I SHOULDN'T BE GIVING SPECIFICS TO THE UNIVERSE WHEN MAKING A REQUEST BECAUSE I'M THE LAST PERSON WHO CAN APPRECIATE HOW IT MIGHT ADVERSELY AFFECT ME OR THE SITUATION. BEST LEAVING THAT SORT'VE SHIT OPEN ENDED BECAUSE THE UNIVERSE KNOWS BESTEST.)

ETA: AND IT'S NOT EVEN SO MUCH THAT HE HAS THE CYSTS, BECAUSE THEY'RE THE PRODUCT OF OVER-GARDENING. IT'S THE FACT THAT HE GOT THEM - AND TO MY KNOWLEDGE HE'S NEVER HAD THEM BEFORE - DURING A TIME WHEN HE -CAN'T STOP WORK- BECAUSE HE NEEDS TO MOVE ALL OF HIS SHIT OFF THE LAND ASAP SINCE THEY'RE NO LONGER RENTING TO HIM.

I AM MOSTLY LULZING OVER THE TOTAL DISCOMFORT AND INCONVENIENCE OF IT ALL AND HOW HE CAN'T DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT. AND, ALSO, HOW IT DOESN'T AFFECT ME, ITALICS, OR OUR HOME LIFE IN ANY WAY. (<- THE FEET/ANKLE THING LAST YEAR WAS SUPER SPECTACULAR, BUT IT DID END UP LAYING US UP FOR A FEW MONTHS. THEN AGAIN, THAT WAS SORT'VE NECESSARY SO I COULD SEE, FIRST HAND, THE REPERCUSSIVE SHOCK WAVES OF SUCH ACTIONS, AND MADE ME APPRECIATE ALL THE MORE WHY I HAVE TO BE VERY CAREFUL WITH THE GUN I'M SHOOTING.)

My Best Friend

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from May 23rd, 2008.

ONE OF MY FAVORITE THINGS IN THE WORLD INVOLVES PEOPLE WHO GO AROUND TELLING EVERYONE WHO'LL LISTEN HOW OPEN MINDED THEY ARE AND HOW THEY'RE CONSTANTLY THINKING OUT OF THE BOX BUT AS IT TURNS OUT THEIR SUPERNATURAL SPECTRUM OF TOLERANCE AND ACCEPTANCE IS LIMITED TO A VERY NARROW VIEW OF HOW THEY SEE THE WORLD (WHICH IS, UNSURPRISINGLY, UNDENIABLY RIGHT).

(ONCE ON SOME DISCUSSION OR THREAD OR SOMETHING SOMEONE WAS BEING ALL ANTI-DRUGS FROM A -PAGAN- PERSPECTIVE AND SHE CLAIMED TO BE A -PRIESTESS OF APOLLO- AND I NEVER REALLY ASKED HOW SHE CAME TO TERMS WITH THE FACT THAT THE ORIGINAL PRIESTESSES OVER AT DELPHI USED TO SIT OVER CRACKS IN THE EARTH WHERE THE SULFURIC FUMES WOULD KEEP THEM HIGH (I HEARD THAT IT WAS NITROUS AND I AM SO NOT SURPRISE BECAUSE NITROUS TRULY IS A COSMIC CONNECTOR) SO THEY COULD SPEAK THE WORDS OF THE GODS TO VISITORS.

OH, THERE'S A LOT MORE WHERE THIS IS COMING FROM, BUT I'LL SPARE YOU...FOR NOW.)

ALSO, LET ME MAKE IT VERY, VERY CLEAR - WHEN YOU PICK ON DRUGS (AND WHEN I MEAN "DRUGS" I PRIMARILY MEAN POT, AND MUSHROOMS, AND ALL OF THOSE NATURAL ENTHEOGENS INDIGENOUS PEOPLE HAVE BEEN USING FOR THOUSANDS OF YEARS) AND HAVE NO FUCKING CLUE WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT AND HAVE ABSOLUTELY NO EXPERIENCE WHATSOEVER YOU'RE PICKING ON MY BEST FRIEND WHO I KNOW REALLY, REALLY WELL WHO HAS DONE EVERYTHING FROM MAKING SEX INCREDIBLE TO HELPING ME BEAT CHRONIC DEPRESSION TO MAKING ME A BETTER, MORE COMPLETE PERSON. (<- I WOULDN'T SAY IT CURED MY AUTISM, BUT IT FINALLY HELPED ME FIND THE HEAD SPACE NEEDED TO BE INTROSPECTIVE. AND IF THE ABILITY TO -THINK- ABOUT THINGS (I.E., MYSELF AND THE WORLD AND MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MYSELF AND THE WORD) IN DEPTH HADN'T COME ALONG I WOULD STILL BE THE SAME EMOTIONALLY STUNTED BEING I WAS FOR MOST OF MY LIFE.)

IN CONCLUSION, PLEASE CONSIDER EXPANDING THAT BOX VIEW OF YOURS BEFORE PREACHING "THE MORE YOU KNOW" LINES FROM SOME LAME ASS AFTER SCHOOL PROGRAM YOU SAW AS A KID IN THE 80S, OKAY? (ISN'T IT FUNNY HOW WITH DRUGS EVERYONE CAN BE AN AUTHORITY - ESPECIALLY IF YOU HAVE ZERO EXPERIENCE? I CAN'T THINK OF MANY OTHER TOPICS IN THE WORLD THAT HAVE SO MANY FUCKING EXPERTS WITH PHDS, BUT HAVE NO FIELD WORK OR CREDITS OR DEGREES TO SHOW FOR IT.)

Darkness Suits Me Well

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from May 10th, 2008.

Internet LOL! Quiz: Which Goddess lurks in your soul?
My Results: Hecate

You hold more power in your little finger than most do in their entire being! Hecate is perhaps the most selective of all deities who inhabit the souls of mortals. Being the goddess of the crossroads, Cosmic Knowledge, and of course witches and magic she can’t be bothered by residing in the souls of the mundane. She often chooses those who practice the craft of the old ways and those who harbor deep mystical secrets that must be kept close. Your soul is old, perhaps having been present at the birth of the cosmos in some form or another. Your ability to comprehend the necessity of death and it’s beauty have awakened a connection to the underworld, where Hecate has been known to reign and you relish this otherworldly bond. Darkness suits you well, as many of the best secrets of the cosmos can be found there.

THIS WAS SO EXPECTED THAT THE RESULTS ARE -ANTI-CLIMACTIC-. (<- IT'S BECAUSE I SAID I'D KEEP BODY PARTS IN JARS, RIGHT? ...RIGHT?) (ALSO I LIKE THE SUN, OKAYTHNX. <- I'M ON -VACATION- IN THIS HEMISPHERE RIGHT NOW, "DARKNESS", OKAY? SCHEDULE YOURSELF IN SOMETIME AFTER OCTOBER 31ST. SEE THE OLD MAN FOR BOOKINGS, THE OTHER ONE DOESN'T KNOW HOW TO WRITE. <- LOL, I'M JUST -ASSUMING- HE CAN READ AND WRITE. <- I'D TOTALLY TAKE IT TO THE NEXT LEVEL EXCEPT I JUST GOT UP AND AM NOT NEARLY HIGH ENOUGH TO ENGAGE A MASK IN A COMICALLY RACIST THEMED GAME OF VERBAL TAG THAT ENDS ON AN UNAPOLOGETICALLY (AND V. V. V. UNSUBTLE) SEXUAL NOTE.

DINNER WAS SO FANTASTIC LAST NIGHT THAT I THINK I STILL NEED SOME TIME TO COMPOSE MYSELF.

ALSO, BEEBEE IS DOING TERRIFIC, BUT DOESN'T HAVE A ROOMMATE YET BECAUSE THE ONE PLACE WE GET ALL OF OUR RATS - THEY'RE MORE...ANIMAL-SY, AND LESS PET STORE-SY AT THE GARDEN CENTRE - WON'T BE GETTING ANY FRESH STOCK UNTIL WEDNESDAY. THANKFULLY SHE IS TOO DISTRACTED BY SPACE PIRACY TO LET DEPRESSION SINK IN. GO, BEEBEE!

SPEAKING OF THINGS THAT BEGIN WITH "BEE" - BEES CONTINUE TO INVADE MY HOME. WTF, BEES, I LOVE YOU, BUT, REALLY, WTF? (THERE WAS ONE THAT HUNG AROUND FOR NEARLY 12 HOURS. FOR SERIOUS - 12 HOURS. AND WHEN I FINALLY KICKED ITS ASS OUTSIDE IT SPENT ANOTHER SEVERAL HOURS TRYING TO GET BACK IN -THROUGH A TINY VENT IN THE WINDOW-.)

I'M SERIOUSLY CONSIDERING STOCKPILING JARS OF HONEY. FOR MONTHS I FORGET, AND THEN I REMEMBER, AND THEN I WANT TO THROW UP AS THE PESSIMIST IN ME SAYS: "THIS IS BIBLICAL, THIS IS HUGE, THIS IS LIKE WHEN THE EPA GUY FLIPS THE SWITCH OF THE ECTO-CONTAINMENT UNIT IN GHOSTBUSTERS!" IT'S TOO DEPRESSING; I DON'T EVEN WANT TO THINK ABOUT IT. (36%? GAH.)

Breaking Glass

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from May 6th, 2008.

Three pieces of glass have broken over the past three days, all, somehow, connected to me (i.e., either I dropped it, or it broke in the dishwasher after I was the one who did the dishes). THIS CANNAE BE GOOD. (Or it's really, really good. Well, the green one wasn't supposed to be good. (i.e., "If green glass is broken, bitter disappointment will be your lot." - OH NO! BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT! LIKE, ONE OF THE (FEW) PIECES OF YOUR BELOVED GREEN DEPRESSION GLASS THAT YOU INHERITED FROM YOUR MOTHER BREAKING IN THE DISHWASHER BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT? HEAVY.))

Famous Grouse

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from April 8th, 2008 (although the events that took place pre-date the writing; actual date of said events would have been during the 2008 Easter Wedding holiday).

(ALSO IT'S SNOWING AGAIN AND I THINK THIS IS PRETTY MUCH MY FAULT BECAUSE AT THE BEGINNING OF WINTER I GOT IT IN MY MIND TO LEARN HOW TO MAKE IT SNOW SO I GOT ALL BUDDY-BUDDY WITH THE INDIGENOUS WINTER HAG AND BECAUSE SHE'S SORT'VE AN ASPECT OF THE RUSSIAN SEX'N'DEATH GODDESS THAT GOVERNS ME I LEFT AN OFFERING OF A SHOT OF VODKA AND A CRUST OF BREAD EVERY FUCKING TIME IT SNOWED AND LAST MONTH I WAS ALL "I AM A DUMB ASS BECAUSE THE WINTER HAG HERE IS SCOTTISH AND NOT ACTUALLY RUSSIAN WHICH MEANS SHE WOULD PROBABLY PREFER WHISKEY TO VODKA" SO I WENT AND GOT HER A SMALLISH BOTTLE OF "FAMOUS GROUSE" TO LEAVE INSTEAD OF VODKA AND EVER SINCE THEN IT HAS BEEN SNOWING -EVERYWHERE- AND -EVERYONE- IS COMPLAINING AND I'M ALL "OH DEAR, I DID WONDER WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF I CONTINUED TO LEAVE OFFERINGS THAT ARE ADDICTIVE SUBSTANCES AND NOW I KNOW." BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT -THIS- "PAGAN/WITCH" DEBATES IN HER MIND (I.E., "IS IT MORALLY ETHICAL TO LEAVE ADDICTIVE SUBSTANCES AS OFFERINGS KNOWING THAT THEY'RE ADDICTIVE AND A SERIOUS ADDICT WILL DO SOME SERIOUS THINGS FOR A QUICK FIX?") SINCE THE ENTIRE LOVE SPELLS VERSUS MORALITY THING IS SO WAY OVER MY HEAD PHILOSOPHICALLY. <- SOMETIMES YOU JUST NEED TO ADMIT WHEN YOU'RE OUT OF YOUR INTELLECTUAL DEPTH.)

(SO, UH, SORRY ABOUT THE SNOW, YOU GUYS, BUT I THINK SHE'S SET ON FINISHING THE BOTTLE OF WHISKEY.)

(PPS: THERE'S LIKE 2/3 LEFT.)

Payment, Punishment, & Promises

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from May 3rd, 2008.

- Lost one of Ma's depression plates today. (AND HERE YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE BEING CAREFUL BY CLEANING THEM IN THE DISHWASHER.)

- Used it in Hezbollah/Beltane altar (SEE PICTURE HERE), smaller succulent plant sat on it. (MAKE NOTE OF "GREEN" WHICH HAS BEEN THE PREVAILING COLOR OF THIS YEAR.) Situated on "my" side of altar; where earth was offered (as opposed to Italics's seeds) and Tawaret stood (as opposed to Sobek).

- Not sure if break is payment, punishment, or a promise of better things to come. (TIED ITALICS'S FATHERS SOCKS TOGETHER AT ANKLES TO TRIP HIM UP YESTERDAY, GOADED CHIPPY INTO MAKING HIM STUMBLE.)

- Pulled THIS CARD directly after after asking WTF IS GOING ON. (EVERYTHING IS OBVIOUS; BUT REMEMBER WHEN YOU TURN IT TO THE SIDE THE BLACK AND WHITE SHADING BECOME PILLARS ALA HIGH PRIESTESS CARD.)

- Feeling soulless and tired. Monthly tarotscope pulled out JUDGMENT for soul/being; got JUDGMENT REVERSED last week when pulling a few cards. (I.E., SUN (R), JUDGMENT (R), QUEEN OF WANDS, NINE OF WANDS (R).)

Big Heap Happy Day

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from April 27th, 2008.

I HAVE A CROW SKULL WITH ATTACHED AND DETACHED BEAK. I HAVE A CROW TALON. I HAVE VARIOUS CROW BONES, INCLUDING A PRISTINE WISHBONE FULLY INTACT. I ALSO HAVE A BAG OF CEMETERY DIRT THAT ISN'T ACTUAL CEMETERY DIRT BUT IS IN THE SENSE THAT IT WAS THE DIRT BEING DUG -OUT- OF THE CEMETERY IN ORDER TO MAKE A GRAVE. WHEN I SHOVED A PLASTIC BAG COVERED HAND INTO THE DIRT PILE I PULLED OUT A PERFECTLY POLISHED ONYX COLORED STONE. (I HAVE NO IDEA. SRSLY. THIS HAS BEEN GEMSTONE POLISHED FO SURE, OR SOMETHING.)

CLEARLY BIG HEAP HAPPY DAY. (HAPPY ORTHODOX EASTER! AND THE END OF PASSOVER, I BELIEVE!)

(ONE OF THESE DAYS I'LL TAKE A PICTURE FOR Y'ALL SO YOU CAN SEE ALL OF THE SUN BLEACHED BONES THAT LITTER OUR YARD. MAYBE NEXT YEAR I'LL GET AROUND TO GINGERBREAD PROOFING OUR HOUSE WITH CANDY ACCENTS, UNTIL THEN LARGE CARCASSES OF QUESTIONABLE ANIMALS (GOOSE, ACTUALLY) AND BONES WILL HAVE TO SCREAM "WITCH HOUSE!" TO NEIGHBORS AND PASSERSBY.)

ALSO, IT IS TIME TO STEAL A PAIR OF GLOVES THAT BELONG TO MY FATHER-IN-LAW. I'VE THREATENED THAT ONE DAY I'D BIND HIS HANDS, AND THAT DAY HAS FINALLY COME. (YEE HAW.)

For Whom the Bell Tolls

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from April 3rd, 2008 (although the events that took place pre-date the writing; actual date of said events would have been April 2nd, 2008 (i.e., 2008 Easter Wedding)).

LOLOLOLOL! WAIT, BEFORE I FORGET BECAUSE I NEED TO TAKE A SHOWER --

-- YOU KNOW THAT CITY IN WISCONSIN WHERE THAT CHURCH EXPLODED A FEW HOURS BACK (NEWS ARTICLE LINK HERE!)? THAT'S THE HOMETOWN OF MY EX-BOYFRIEND; THE GUY WHO I WAS "INVOLVED" WITH BEFORE ITALICS. (It was one of those rites of passage affairs that happened when I was 14 or 15. One of those embarrassing, eye-rolling "OH, WOW, YOU TOUCHING MY NIPPLES IS SO -NOT- EROTIC AT ALL...HOW DISAPPOINTING...FOR ME." affairs that really shouldn't have any weight in my life at all if it weren't for the fact I hooked up with Italics almost immediately after and we've been ever together since.)

...

...

...

...

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL!

(Why is this so wonderfully LOLERIFIC? ALL OF THIS HAPPENED ON THE DAY ITALICS AND I RENEWED OUR WEDDING VOWS. (I LIKE TO THINK OF IT AS A "LOL!" WEDDING GIFT FROM THE UNIVERSE.))

Click thumbnail for larger image.

"On April 2, 2008, a gas line exploded just west of downtown, destroying the First Baptist Church on West Wisconsin Avenue. The church, which was first built in 1910, was completely destroyed, except for the frame of its bell tower. The cause of the explosion is unknown, but utility work was being done on Wisconsin Avenue in preparation for reconstruction of the street's entire length through downtown."

AWESOME.

A Job Well Done

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from March 27th, 2008.

WEDDINGALTARFINALLYDONE.

ETA (APPROXIMATELY ONE MONTH LATER): LOLOLOL! DATE OF DEATH FOR THE NEW GRAVE @ CEMETERY COINCIDES WITH THE DATE OF THE 2008 WEDDING ALTAR BEING OFFICIALLY "DONE"! LOLOLOL!)

New Traditions

The following post ventures into "OLD NOTES" territory. In this particular case it's a copy and paste job from an old livejournal entry from December 19th, 2007.

SO IN A FIT OF PURE, CONCENTRATED GENIUS THAT IS BIOLOGICALLY AND METAPHYSICALLY UNIQUE TO ME I DECIDED THAT WE WILL NOT, IN FACT, BE CELEBRATING THE SAME OLD CHRISTMAS THAT BOTH THE HUSBAND AND I HAVE EXPERIENCED IN OUR 54 YEARS COMBINED (A HALF A CENTURY AND I STILL HAVE TO EXTEND BOTH MY LEFT AND RIGHT HAND TO DIFFERENTIATE BETWEEN THE TWO DIRECTIONS), BUT DAZH BOH WHICH IS DIZZINGLY UNFAMILIAR AND THUS STILL VIRGIN AND NEW AND WAITING TO BE DEFILED WITH MODERN INTERPRETATIONS OF ANCIENT CUSTOMS AND CEREMONY WHICH WILL BE SIGNED, STAMPED, AND SEALED WITH INSANE AMOUNTS OF HENNESSEY CHOCOLATE EGGNOG (I CAN'T EVEN DO EGGNOG -RIGHT-) AND POT. (ON SECOND THOUGHT, I RETRACT MY POT STATEMENT AS I REMEMBER THAT MY VERY ANCIENT SARMATIAN ANCESTORS ENJOYED TOKING THEMSELVES, SO THE INTRODUCTION OF POT TO THE FESTIVE SLAVIC PAGAN SEASON IS ALREADY SOMEWHAT OF A COSSACK CLICHE. (TARAS BULBA FTW!))

AND TO COMMEMORATE MY DESCENT INTO DAZH BOH MADNESS -

(OKAY, FIRST OF ALL IT IS A-OKAY TO SUCCUMB TO FESTIVE MADNESS IF IT'S A -NEW VERSION- OF FESTIVE MADNESS BECAUSE, CLEARLY, CHRISTIAN FESTIVE MADNESS IS 100% DIFFERENT THAN PAGAN FESTIVE MADNESS AND SECONDLY I AM A WOMAN WHO IS INVOLVED IN SOME FORM OF FESTIVE MADNESS AND THEREFORE MY OVARIES AND FALLOPIAN TUBES AND UTERINE LINING WILL NOT ALLOW ME TO BE IMMUNE TO FESTIVE MADNESS BECAUSE ESTROGEN DOESN'T CARE ABOUT THE NAME, AGE, OR ETHNICITY OF THE VIRGIN MOTHER IN QUESTION IT JUST CARES ABOUT EVERYTHING THAT YOU, AS A WOMAN, ARE DOING AND HOW EVERYONE IS EITHER GETTING IN THE WAY OR TAKING THINGS FOR GRANTED OR RUINING THE VERY PERFECT CHRISTMAS-VIRGIN BIRTH-WINTER SOLSTICE CELEBRATION YOU HAVE PREPARED ESPECIALLY FOR THEM (THE UNGRATEFUL BASTARDS!).)

- WE HAVE AGREED TO BREAK OVER FIFTY YEARS OF FAMILY TRADITIONS (MY FAMILY'S TRADITION OF EATING ROAST GOOSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY TOTALLY TRUMPS ITALICS'S FAMILY'S TRADITION OF EATING A UNDERCOOKED TURKEY WITH RAW SAUSAGE STUFFING, BUT ITALICS'S FAMILY TRADITION OF NOT HAVING A MOTHER WHO THROWS THE FESTIVE ROASTED BIRD AT HER CHILDREN WHILE TELLING THEM THAT THEY RUINED HER LIFE JUST BEFORE RACING OUT THE DOOR, SOBBING, WITH CAR KEYS IN HANDS TO DISAPPEAR FOR SEVERAL HOURS WITHOUT ANY SORT OF WORD OR CONTACT AT ALL SORT'VE TRUMPS MY FAMILY'S ANNUAL TRADITION) IN ORDER TO CREATE OUR OWN SPECIAL NON-FAMILY TRADITIONS.

FURTHERMORE WE WILL NOT, IN FACT, BE OBSERVING SVIATA VECHERIA ON SVIATA VECHERIA BUT ON THE FIRST DAY OF DAZH BOH WHICH GIVES ME APPROXIMATELY 72 HOURS TO CREATE 12 TRADITIONAL UKRAINIAN DISHES FROM SCRATCH BECAUSE THINGS LIKE BORSHT AND HOLUBSTI AND KAPUSTA AND VARENYKY JUST FLY OFF THE GROCERY SHELVES THIS TIME OF YEAR AND YOU'RE LUCKY IF YOU CAN EVEN MANAGE TO FIND A JAR OF READY MADE KUTIA LET ALONE A TRADITIONAL BRAIDED KOLACH BY DECEMBER 20TH. (YOUR ARTERIES DON'T EVEN WANT TO KNOW HOW MUCH SOUR CREAM, BUTTER, BACON FAT, AND RAW POTATOES I WILL NEED FOR THIS SLAVIC-SAMARITAN EFFORT.)

...AND (BECAUSE THERE'S ALWAYS, ALWAYS, ALWAYS AN "AND") I NEED TO MAKE IT SNOW FOR THE 25TH. (I DON'T KNOW WHICH IS HARDER - MAKING IT SNOW OR MAKING VARENYKYS BY HAND. (I'M GOING WITH THE LATER, IN THIS CASE, AND IF YOU'VE EVER MADE VARKENYKYS (AKA PIEROGIS) BY HAND YOU, TOO, WOULD HAVE ALL THE SCIENTIFIC DATA NEEDED TO MAKE SUCH A BOLD SCIENTIFIC STATEMENT.))

Divine, but Not Sacred

So I wake up this morning and I’m fine, but as the day progresses my tonsil – the one I cut after accidentally swallowing a piece of sharp pork crackling (YES, THE SKANKY TONSIL, THE HOSPITAL TONSIL, THE DEFORMED TONSIL, THE “WOW, I REALLY WISH THE MEDICAL PHOTOGRAPHER WAS HERE TODAY TO TAKE A PICTURE OF YOUR TONSIL BECAUSE IT’S DEFINITELY ONE FOR THE BOOKS” TONSIL, THE WITCH TONSIL, THE TONSIL THAT IS FOREVER SWELLING AND NOT BACKING THE SHIT UP WITH AN ACTUAL COLD - THAT TONSIL) – begins to twinge, and that familiar feeling is eventually followed by dryness and the dryness, surprisingly enough, is just as familiar as the oh so familiar twinge I recently mentioned which means the depth of my shock and disbelief was very shallow indeed by the time my old acquaintance, the last of the mysterious and wise magi (aka swelling), appeared on the scene. (PERHAPS I COULD HAVE A NEW CONNECT THE DOTS PATTERN SOON? SOMETHING DIFFERENT AND UNTRACED FOR, OH, I DON’T KNOW...VARIETY?)

And I go “IS IT THE WEATHER? IS THE GODDAMN WEATHER GOING TO TURN BAD?” because it would SO BE LIKE THE WEATHER to suddenly TURN BAD just as our schedules shift (we’ve been sleeping days and working nights) so we miss the really fucking great spell. I mean, it’s NOT LIKE THIS HASN’T HAPPENED BEFORE, HAS IT, WEATHER? It’s not like you HAVEN’T decided to have glorious, unseasonably balmy days for weeks on end when we were sleeping during the days, RIGHT? IT’S NOT LIKE YOU HAVEN’T DECIDED TO INEXPLICABLY TURN THAT FAUCET OFF WHEN YOU NOTICED WE WERE INCHING OUR WAY TO BEING ABLE TO ENJOY THOSE GLORIOUSLY, UNSEASONABLY BALMY DAYS THAT WE HAD BEEN PREVIOUSLY MISSING BY SLEEPING, RIGHT? Let’s be honest, weather, it’s not like we haven’t been here before – you, me, and the tonsil.

(OKAY, SO, I KNOW IT MIGHT SOUND REALLY, REALLY LEFT FIELD, BUT YOU’RE JUST GOING TO HAVE TO BELIEVE ME ON THIS ONE...I HAVE OLD PEOPLE ARTHRITIS WEATHER DIVINATION SKILLS, BUT WITH MINOR DIFFERENCES. LIKE, INSTEAD OF BEING OLD I’M YOUNG AND, UHM, INSTEAD OF HAVING ARTHRITIS I HAVE A MUTATED TONSIL. CLEARLY, AS YOU CAN SEE, THE BASIC PRINCIPAL’S THE SAME AND SO IS, MOST IMPORTANTLY, THE END RESULT. I FEEL BAD WEATHER – IN MY SWOLLEN TONSIL.)

Guess who’ve been experiencing some fan-fucking-tastic weather? And guess who’ve been sleeping days, but are quickly creeping up on the light to make up for some lost time? AND GUESS, IF YOUR IMAGINATION IS POWERFUL ENOUGH TO ALLOW YOU TO NAVIGATE THIS MULTI-LAYERED, MULTI-DIMENSIONAL WORLD WE ARE CREATING, WHO’VE BEEN VERY, VERY EAGER TO ENJOY THIS SPECTACULAR CLIMATE PHENOMENON WE’VE BEEN PRIVY TO WHILE FAST ASLEEP IN OUR BED? Now take a wild, crazy, insane out-of-this-world guess at why my left tonsil feels inflamed and comically enlarged today, out of nowhere?

Click thumbnail for larger image.

(PS: Today’s Monday!)

LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL! MY FAVORITE IS HOW THERE’S A TWENTY-FUCKING-THREE DEGREE TEMPERATURE DROP IN THE SPACE OF FOUR FUCKING DAYS. (NOW THERE’S SOMETHING EXCITING AND TOTALLY WORTH GETTING OUT OF BED FOR!) MY SECOND FAVORITE IS HOW MY WITCH TONSIL IS SORT’VE LIKE CASSANDRA – DIVINE, BUT NOT SACRED. (IT’S LIKE AN ORACLE WHOSE PREDICTIONS NO ONE REALLY WANTS TO HEAR IN THE FIRST PLACE.) MY THIRD FAVORITE IS HOW THE WEATHER HAS A PERSONAL GRUDGE AGAINST ME. (BITCH, DON’T YOU KNOW I CAN MAKE IT SNOW? YOU DON’T WANT TO BE MESSIN’ WITH THIS SHIT.)

Your Ass High?

Sometimes, when I’m half asleep and buzzed, the Old Man starts talking like we’ve been having a conversation all day, dropping all sorts of crack pipe nonsense that makes you go “NEGRO, YOUR ASS HIGH?” (Oh snap! That’s four words! WAIT, WAIT, I’VE COME UP WITH A NEW AND IMPROVED CONFIGURATION THAT ONLY REQUIRES THREE WORDS. (CAN YOU GUESS IT?) Crisis averted!) And when in that hazy state of lucid drowsiness I go with the flow and just entertain his raving black ass, because, really, the crazy shit he’s throwing out of left field is only a puzzle waiting to be decoded. (Effort? Work? WHO THOUGHT EITHER WERE NEEDED TO STAY SHARP AND SUCCEED AT THIS GAME.)

(Admittedly a lot of the “crazy shit” is in the form of poignant commentary on things I’m thinking about, or ideas that catch a significant portion of my attention (A LOT MORE DIFFICULT THAN YOU THINK WHEN YOU’RE REALLY FUCKING HIGH AND ON THE BRINK OF FALLING ASLEEP, IT’S LIKE BEING FORCED TO WATCH 1000 TV CHANNELS – AT LEAST SEVERAL SIMULTANEOUSLY - BUT NOT BEING ALLOWED TO CHANGE THE CHANNELS YOURSELF SO YOU JUMP FROM SHOW TO SHOW AT RANDOM INTERVALS, WITH NO EXPLANATION AT ALL, BECAUSE SOMEONE ELSE – WHO YOU DON’T SEE AND DOESN’T EVEN SEEM TO BE AWARE OF YOU - HAS THE FINGER ON THE BUTTON, CONTROLLING EVERYTHING) for a brief second before the next distraction comes tumbling down. Admittedly, times two, that his form of poignant commentary during these fugue states - where the conscious meets the subconscious, and they both work in unity for my emotional, mental, and spiritual well being and progressive growth as an individual - usually involves the words “let”, “black”, “cock”, “me”, “suck”, “ass”, “pussy”, “up”, “fuck”, “Negro”, “in”, “nigger”, “me”, “you”, “why”, and “the”. (SUPER SECRET AWESOME FUN TIP: If you strike out every instance of the use of one of the previously mentioned words, you just might be left with a simple, fragmented sentence. (CAUSE THEY BE ALL EDUCATED NOW.)))

Two or three days ago the Old Man caught me turning over an idea (much like the Rubik’s Cube analogy I used when talking about my grandfather (64 Degrees and Cloudy). He watched me for some time as I studied it from all angles, not saying anything (watching me more than my mental process), and then after I finished completing the thought, or coming to a final decision (because I can’t exactly remember what I was thinking about other than something about MAGIC –

WAIT! WAIT! WAIT! I ACTUALLY REMEMBER! LOL @ HOW WRITING THIS (ARUGABLY RACIST) ENTRY JOGGED MY MEMORY! I had a stunned, really fucking dumbfounded moment after I started mentally revisiting things I’ve done (aka “worked on”, ahem). As I refamiliarized myself with the situations I found I was able to tick almost every one of them off as “HAPPILY EVER AFTER!”, which left me with an eerily high ratio of success. A RATIO SO UNNERVING, SO ILLUMINATING THAT MY ONLY REACTION WAS A COSMIC BILL & TED WHOA.! (It’s the truth! Okay, it was more of an unsure “Uhm...?”. Okay, okay, so it was more like an unsure “Uhmmmmmmmmmm...?” (ONLY RIVALED BY BANGLADESHI DOCTORS!) so there was enough room for something, anything, to feel like they could jump on in and provide any sort of explanation without there being an awkward silence.

PAPA: “BABY GIRL, IT CAUSE YO ASS BE ALLLLL FUCKING...SCIENTIFIC...IN SHIT.”

So, apparently, the secret to my Midas touch is BECAUSE I’M “ALL FUCKING SCIENTIFIC, IN SHIT”. (See? Educated.) Italics’ response was A+ better than mine, but since this is a family friendly journal I’ll refrain from repeating the anecdote due to its use of a stereotypically negative view of the culture he comes from (for comedic purposes). And, really, if I don’t think about the children or take a stand for them, right here, right now, who will?

(KIDS, ONE DAY YOU’LL LEARN YOU CAN BE AS DEROGATORY AS YOU WANT ABOUT ETHNIC STEREOTYPES; JUST AS LONG AS THEY’RE ALL ABOUT YOUR OWN CULTURE. OR, IF YOU’RE SERIOUSLY INVOLVED WITH SOMEONE WHO FINDS IT SEXUALLY AROUSING WHEN YOU’RE BEING DEROGATORY ABOUT THEIR CULTURE/ETHNIC STEREOTYPES. THOSE ARE YOUR TWO CHOICES, SO CHOOSE WELL.)

Exactly.

Addiction

Click thumbnail for larger image.

I told him that I could quit anytime, that it didn’t own me. I told him that it was recreational, something to help me unwind and find a little peace in my life, and that I didn’t need to do it all of the time. I swore that I could stop whenever I wanted, whenever I felt like it - at any given second, at any given day. And to prove it to him, and the world, that I wasn’t just another delusional junkie who claimed to have it “under control” I announced I was going to give it up...for a year (and maybe even a day).

He just laughed. At me. (So much for support and encouragement from your loved ones.) Giving up being a witch for a year and day? Apparently more hard to quit that addictive class A narcotics. (That’s okay, though, because I wasn’t even that serious in the first place.)

(Well, maybe a little serious.)

(But not really.)