Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Start the Damn Stock

YOU BETTER START THE STOCK BEFORE YOU WRITE YOUR UPDATE OTHERWISE IT'LL BE THE PERFECT EXCUSE TO //NOT// WRITE YOUR UPDATE. AND HAVE SOMETHING TO EAT; GET ALL OF THE DISTRACTIONS OUT OF THE WAY.

(Oh, I know myself almost too well.)

Dreadlocks

Dreadlocks.

Gorse (Ulex Eureopeaus)

I tore this out of a Sunday Times weekend supplement:

LOOKS LIKE WE'LL BE COLLECTING GORSE FOR MIDSUMMER FIRES, THEN.

(Any reason to burn shit, right?)

But Can't

Thirsty, but can't drink. Cramping (just started period), but can't take medication. Tired, but can't sleep. Not hungry, but can't eat, anyway.

...I love rescheduling my life around a fucking medical test appointment. (Right now I just want a hot cup of tea, some pain medication and a goddamn nap but I have a "ph and manometry study" in just over and hour.)

(And then I come home fitted with a fucking tube in my stomach attached to a monitor for at least 24 hours.)

(I really, really wish I had slept better.)

Outside Cabinets

I swear to all that's fucking holy that the only thing my in-laws notice when I clean the fucking house is that there's suddenly MORE FREE SPACE TO JUST DUMP SHIT AND LEAVE IT THERE.

(Do they notice the bleached counters, the buffed surfaces, the streakless windows, the vacuumed floors, the polished wood, the sparkling glass? No. They only thing they seem to notice is the sudden - almost if by MAGIC - expanse of open, uncluttered space that's being wasted on absolutely nothing.)

(I MEAN, WHY WOULD //ANYONE// WANT A FLAT SURFACE DEVOID OF ANY DECORATION OR CLUTTER WHEN YOU CAN HAVE AEROSOL CANS OF DE-ICER OR WINDOW SCRAPERS OR PILES OF ALREADY READ MAIL OR BOTTLES OF BEER AND CHAMPAGNE SITTING OUT AND TAKING UP THE FREE SPACE? REALLY, COUNTERS ARE JUST OUTSIDE CABINETS, RIGHT?)

(AND SINCE THEY'RE AN EXTENSION OF CABINETS IT'S ONLY NATURAL TO TOSS SHIT ON THEM BECAUSE WHAT IF - WHAT IF! - YOU NEED THE ALREADY READ MAIL OR ONE OF THE 10 DIFFERENT PENS IN THE NEXT 3-19 WEEKS? IMAGINE THE SORT OF CHAOS THAT WOULD ENSUE IF YOU NEEDED ONE OF 10 DIFFERENT PENS OR THAT ALREADY READ PIECE OF MAIL FROM 3 WEEKS AGO AND SOMEONE HAD -PUT IT INSIDE THE CABINET, WHERE IT BELONGS-. IT WOULD ADD A WHOLE TEN SECONDS TO A SITUATION THAT ALREADY BORDERS ON "EMERGENCY".)

((CLEARLY, I'M THE ANOMALY...AGAIN.))

On schedule

You do realize there are solar eclipse sabbat cakes you should be baking right now - the day of the solar eclipse - otherwise you're never going to get it done, right?

(Happy year of the Earth (<- chthonic) Ox (<- bull!), baby.) (Chthonic bull? Fuck me, this //is// going to be a "crazy, but fun" year; Negro knows what he's talking about.)

(LOL @ CHTHONIC BULL, BTW, AFTER SPILLING THE BULL'S BLOOD IN THE WHEAT FIELD LAST YEAR. <- LOCAL FARMER OWES US -BIG TIME- FOR THIS YEAR'S HARVEST.)

"Facts are Facts"

So, we're fucking with the window vents. He knows we are. Christ only knows for HOW LONG he's known we've been playing with them, but he's had to suffer in silence. He's had to endure; every day is a struggle just to //survive// in this house, every day is a new day of hardship, of cruel and deliberate mind games that are only noticed by his keen, watchful eye.

He lodged a formal complaint yesterday with his wife, Italics's mother/my mother-in-law. Unfortunately, he was a little TOO eager to lodge his formal complaint and it came tumbling out before Italics even had a chance to properly close the door behind himself.

(LOL, DUDE, I'M GOING TO TRY AND KEEP "AND THIS IS WHAT I'D LIKE TO DO YOU TO, YOU FUCKING INCONSIDERATE CUNT..." TO A MINIMAL IN CASE THIS SHIT EVER DOES GET BACK TO YOU SO ALL I'LL SAY IS THIS, RIGHT NOW -- YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY SHIT AT BEING SUBTLE, AND YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY SHIT AT MAINTAINING A LOW VOICE. YOU'RE SHIT AT TALKING ABOUT PEOPLE - LYING ABOUT PEOPLE - BEHIND THEIR BACK. YOUR LIFE WOULD PROBABLY BE 70% EASIER IF YOU LEARNED THE FINE ART OF SUBTERFUGE AND TACT, BUT, AT THE AGE YOU'RE AT, NO ONE IS EXPECTING ANY SIGNIFICANT, POSITIVE CHANGES OR IMPROVEMENTS FROM YOU. <- THAT'S NOT MEANT TO BE A COMPLIMENT, BTW. JUST IN CASE, YOU KNOW, IT READ THAT WAY.)

So we're fucking with the window vents. He knows we are. His allergies have been horrendous, and have been triggered by Italics and I randomly opening and closing the vents. (Apparently he's tried to combat the problem by OPENING WINDOWS AND LEAVING THEM OPEN FOR HOURS AT A TIME DURING THE DEAD OF WINTER. <- LOL, THE FUNNY PART? THE PART THAT MAKES ME LOL AND WANT TO ATTACK HIM WITH MY NEW DEEP FRYING SLOTTED SPOON? I CANNOT, FOR THE FUCKING LIFE OF ME, KEEP WINDOWS OPEN DURING SUMMER. YOU KNOW, SUMMER. WHEN IT'S BALMY, AND SULTRY, AND THE SUN IS AT ITS ZENITH. IF I LEAVE OPEN WINDOWS IN THIS HOUSE DURING A FUCKING HEATWAVE THAT SCOTLAND HAS NEVER BEFORE SEEN IN ITS RECORDED HISTORY HE'S ONLY 10-15 MINUTES BEHIND CLOSING THEM, SWISHING AROUND IN HIS SPEEDOS. <- OH, HONEY, YES. IT DOESN'T MATTER HE'S NEARLY 70. IT DOESN'T MATTER HE DOESN'T HAVE THE PHYSIQUE FOR IT AT MORE. WHAT MATTERS IS HE IS A /MAN/ AND /MEN/ WEAR SPEEDOS.)

His allergies are out of control, and he's barely hanging on...but then She - mother/mother-in-law - points out that he's standing next to a bouquet of flowers, flowers that he's allergic to. (Since he's developed a rather severe allergic reaction to my favorite sort of flower (NOTHING TO DO WITH ME, SAYS THE WITCH WHO SPITS) there aren't as many blooms as there used to be in this house least I get blamed for biological warfare. But there are flowers in the house, right now, because Italics's mother's birthday is this coming Sunday. <- SO IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ME, OKAY? THE FLOWERS HAVE -NOTHING- TO DO WITH ME!) He didn't appreciate her response. He ALSO didn't appreciate her reminding him if he actually TOOK his allergy medication he wouldn't be in the state he is.

And when she V. obviously wasn't buying the blame (LOL, BECAUSE, YOU KNOW, I HAVE //NOTHING// BETTER TO DO EVERY FUCKING DAY OF MY LIFE THAN DEDICATE MYSELF, MY ENTIRE BEING, TO THE CAUSE OF MAKING HIS LIFE A LIVING HELL, ONE AIR VENT AT A TIME) it's the third strike and he goes into fussy-bitchy-prickish mode. She politely requests that he not act that way (be that way? Christ, who knows, all of this shit was learned second hand via Italics), please, because it was her birthday weekend and she wanted to enjoy it. He more or less told her to SHOVE IT, but with as little words as possible.

(I've been pretty laid back and taken shit he's done in the past few weeks - OH, MR. AWESOME HAS BEEN SPECTACULARLY AWESOME FOR THE PAST TWO WEEKS, OR SO - with as much patience as I can. <- EVEN ITALICS HAS NOTICED I HAVE BEEN TRYING EXTRA CRAZY HARD RECENTLY. I think my golden running streak would've gotten tarnished last night if I had been in the same room where a husband made out to his wife - who, in so many words, has had a hard time coming to grips with this particular birthday, and has been in tears several times recently about it - that he could give a fuck about trying just a little harder so they could have fun and enjoy what's turned out to be an otherwise hella stressful, hella emotional birthday weekend. I don't step into other people's marriage, but I would've stepped into that - with stilettos on. WITH CUT-THROAT RAZORS TAPED ONTO THE STILETTOS, OR SOMETHING.)

I was too tired to be upset, too tired to be angry, or pissed off. I rolled my eyes and mentally gave my mother-in-law a hug. What am I supposed to do, anyway? A near 70 year old man we live with is now intentionally, consciously, knowingly, willfully lying about us and what we are (or aren't) doing.

I nearly blew a gasket last year when Italics informed me that he overheard his father tell the plumber - who was working on the heating which was broken - that it was //our// fault that the heater broke because we insisted on have "25 minute long showers". I mean, that's lying about us PLUS lying about us to a complete stranger who doesn't know any better, who doesn't know the history or circumstance or anything because he - Italics's father - just wants to momentarily feel vindicated about a situation THAT NEVER HAPPENED IN THE FIRST PLACE.

(AND I'LL BE UPFRONT AND SAY THAT YES, ITALICS AND I, ON OCCASION, TAKE SEX SHOWERS. BUT WE'VE NEVER, EVER TAKEN A SEX SHOWER FOR NEARLY A HALF-A-FUCKING-HOUR. (BUT WE DID, ADMITTEDLY, HAVE A HAND IN THE OLD TUB CRACKING DURING A BOUT OF ANAL SHOWER SEX. <- OLD TUB, OKAY? PLASTIC OLD TUB NEARING 20 YEARS OLD WITH TWO PEOPLE STANDING ON THE WEAKEST POINT. IT WAS GOING TO HAPPEN EVENTUALLY, DUDE.) AND WE'VE NEVER, EVER TAKEN A SEX SHOWER - NOT IN THE PAST THREE OR FOUR YEARS - WHEN EITHER OF MY IN-LAWS WERE HOME. SO HOW MY FATHER-IN-LAW CAME UP WITH "...AND THEY INSIST ON HAVING 25 MINUTE LONG SHOWERS ALL THE TIME" IS BEYOND ME.)

Look, the guy's a liar - how do you get AS upset like the first time you found out? You don't, because FINDING OUT THAT SOMEONE IS DELIBERATELY LYING ABOUT YOU IS OLD HAT. All he's proven - at least to me - is that he's a living, breathing liar, and the fact that the 25 MINUTE ZOMG SHOWER thing wasn't a one-off. I live with a liar, now excuse me as I feign surprise and shock and dismay that A LIAR FUCKING LIES ABOUT SHIT, HENCE THE DESCRIPTIVE LABEL OF "LIAR". (OH, BABY, HE'S TAKING THAT NOUN AND MAKING IT A VERB!) For once I just rolled my eyes, shrugged my shoulders and got on with it (better off just getting use to second hand hearing about what you are or aren't doing around the house, especially when you aren't doing what you are - or aren't - being accused of).

The internet died two days ago, just a few minutes after Italics woke up. I managed to scribble off one epicly disjointed (LOLOLOL, MORE SO THAN USUAL! NOW WITH 50% MORE "OBNOXIOUS" AND "DISJOINTED"!) email to a friend and then? And then...nothing. Dead. (Terrific wonderful news for me (one less thing that day to demand a slice of my time), and awful horrible news for Italics (not only did it mean he had to figure out what was wrong and fix it, but it also meant he couldn't work - you know, work, the shit you do in order to GET MONEY AND LIVE).)

We were supposed to go out to the movies and grab something to eat. (NEW YEAR'S COUPLE RESOLUTION: EAT OUT ONCE A MONTH. EVEN IF GRABBING A BURGER AT REVOLUTION, EVEN IF JUST SNEAKING IN A CHIPPER OR BURGER KING TO A MOVIE. WHATEVER YOU - COLLECTIVELY - DECIDE TO DO, MAKE SURE YOU DO /IT/ ONCE A MONTH, TOGETHER.) We still did, despite everything.

(If you don't know me, or don't know me well - I'm sick. I've been sick for edging on three years now. The first year was spent trying to convince doctors I was actually sick ("HEY! WE'RE PROFESSIONALS! AND WE'RE TELLING YOU YOU -AREN'T- EXPERIENCING THOSE SYMPTOMS, AND EVEN IF YOU ARE THEY DON'T MEAN ANYTHING!"), the second year was spent being insanely, crazily sick interspersed with waiting 18 weeks for a single consultation with a specialist and another 18 weeks just to get an appointment for medical testing I was prescribed (LOL, YOU THINK I'M JOKING?). I'm not terminal, it isn't fatal, but it's chronic, and since the problem lies within my stomach (so far they've found a hiatal hernia, a smooth muscle in my stomach that's significantly weaker and not working like it should, and symptoms that point towards a severe case of GERD) it affects every area of my life - eating, drinking, exercising, moving, sex, going out...the list just goes on and on.)

(Even when I'm feeling super awesome I'm still sick, and it comes up to bite me with SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE. WHICH IS TOTALLY NOT COOL, BECAUSE I ONCE WAS A VERY PHYSICALLY ACTIVE PERSON. And when I mean SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE I mean brushing my teeth, taking a shower, shaving my legs, styling my hair, putting on make-up, and picking out something to wear is enough to put me out of the game for the rest of the day. In fact, you probably lost me after "shaving my legs". I hate it. It's bullshit. I'm 28 fucking years old, I should be climbing mountains. I WANT TO BE CLIMBING MOUNTAINS, DAMMIT. But having a shower and dolling myself up is my mountain, at least right now.)

One thing I've never really told my husband, Italics, is how thankful I am at how he makes going out one of the most number one priorities in our life. (Mostly because I'm lucky if I can leave the house once a month. I've been able to temper myself so I have the energy I need to exist and coexist in this house, but anything that requires me to cross the threshold into the outside world usually requires a reservoir of energy that I may or may not have.) Sometimes I feel, especially when I'm sitting in the computer chair fully dressed and strapped into my shoes and watching him run around, like I've gone into labor, and the single most important thing is TO GET ME OUT OF THE HOUSE AND TO THE HOSPITAL, STAT, WITH NO EXCUSES FROM SECOND OR THIRD PARTIES.

("Going out" is somewhat complicated because neither Italics nor I can drive. I mean, I CAN drive, but I can't drive stick, and that's the only sort've car parked outside. So, since moving here in 2001 at the tender age of 21, I haven't driven. Not once. If we want to go out we have to rearrange it with my in-laws. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up and isn't carrying his cellphone and isn't at the house to pick up the house phone. Sometimes my father-in-law forgets to pick us up and isn't carrying his cellphone and isn't at the house to pick up the house phone and we've both been up for nearly 20 hours (our sleeping patterns are a bit weird; half the month we're up during the day, and half the month we're up at night so sometimes when we catch a 11:30am movie we've actually been up since 7 or 8 pm the previous night) and we're both feeling varying degrees of sick (between me and my stomach problems and Italics and his back problems) and we don't know when or how we're going to get home. Since getting seriously sick, as you can imagine, we've limited "going out" so a "situation" isn't created when someone forgets to pick us up or assumes, without asking us, that since it's a "nice day today" we wanted extra time out (but since he didn't take his phone we can't correct that assumption he made on our behalf.))

As expected Italics's father takes off just as I'm shoving a foot into the shoe, and we exchange "OH SHIT" expressions since neither of us had a chance to request his chauffeur services, AND OH MY GOD WE HAD SCHEDULED GOING OUT - BETWEEN US - FOR DAYS AND WE NEVER GO OUT AND WE'RE REALLY FUCKING LUCKY IF I EVEN MAKE IT OUT OF THE HOUSE ONCE A FUCKING MONTH AND WHAT ABOUT OUR RESOLUTION AND -

- Italics's mom came home early and took us. Normally I'd feel guilty about putting any sort of pressure on her, but Italics said she was OVERJOYED to hear that I was feeling up to LEAVING THE HOUSE so FUCK WORK, SHE WAS COMING HOME EARLY. (See? CLEARLY I'VE GONE INTO A METAPHORICAL STATE OF LABOR.) Although by the time we managed to get in the car I had already spent an hour nodding off at the computer (SUDDEN EXTREME FATIGUE) and Italics was worried about dragging me out of the house BUT NO, I SAID, I WILL NOT LET FATIGUE GET THE BETTER OF ME, I WANT A SEMBLANCE OF A LIFE, PLEASE, AND IF THAT MEANS I HAVE TO FUCKING SUCK IT UP AND FALL ASLEEP IN SEVERAL DIFFERENT PUBLIC PLACES WHILE WE'RE OUT THEN SO FUCKING BE IT.

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Besides, it was time to send off DAS HEXENHAUS (our gingerbread house) to the tentacle creatures of the deep (which we do annually). (MOST OFFERINGS ARE EITHER TAKEN TO THE CEMETERY OR COMMITTED TO THE PLASTIC TERRACOTTA BUCKET KNOWN AS "DEAD CROW DIRT", BUT, ONCE A YEAR, WE TAKE THE GINGERBREAD HOUSE WE ASSEMBLE TOGETHER DURING THE YULETIDE SEASON TO THE OCEAN (THE NORTH SEA) AND LET THE TIDE TAKE THE HOUSE AND THE ICING AND THE GUM DROPS AND SUGAR PRETZELS AND CANDIED WITCH WITH HER MAGIC MUSHROOM DOWN INTO THE DEPTHS OF MY/OUR CHTHONIC WATER.)

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The pitch black water touched the pitch black sky, and the only thing that separated one endless expanse into another were the citrine lights from North Sea ships dotting the horizon. Somewhere in that inky darkness, as the tide came in, a small gingerbread house went out to sea. Somewhere just a pin prick of white floated on black, and then disappeared beneath a wave of salt water and sand. ("TENTACLE MONSTERS OF THE DEEP, COME AND TAKE YOUR GINGERBREAD HOUSE!) The Deep Ones, the Tentacle Ones, have been sated for another year. (Unsuspecting sailors and captains? You can thank me later for not capsizing and meeting your ancient, watery grave when a hungry ass Kraken decides your ship looks like a floating meze.)

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The Wrestler was shit. Expected more, got less. I didn't feel anything either way (I anticipated choking up once, or at least LEARNING SOMETHING ABOUT MYSELF while watching the movie, or taking away something poignant and meaningful), and was significantly less than impressed with getting fed artistic intent with a shovel. (Maybe you can blame that on one too many "bros" in the dialogue?)

I ate a small box of popcorn which, in retrospect, was one of the stupidest fucking things I could've done. (Corn - especially popcorn - is the kiss of death. It's already hard enough to digest for the average person, let alone someone who has mysterious stomach/digestion ailments. When I eat popcorn it's the equivalent of having something nuclear go off inside of me that stays tightly contained between my stomach and my hernia, so there's a tight ball of explosion (implosion?) that doesn't expand, doesn't emanate, but burns like a dead star.)

I forgot I wasn't on my medication. (I have another round of testing on the 27th of this month, and in order to get a sense of what's wrong with me I have to be off my prescription for at least two weeks so it isn't in my system.) I forgot I wasn't home. (YOU KNOW, AFTER NEARLY THREE YEARS OF HAVING A BODY THAT DICTATES WHAT YOU CAN EAT AND WHEN YOU CAN EAT SOMETIMES YOU BRASHLY DECIDE TO TAKE THE REIGNS AND EAT WHAT THE EFF YOU WANT AND FUCK THE CONSEQUENCES. ADMITTEDLY, THOSE TIMES ARE A LOT EASIER WHEN YOU'RE -AT HOME- AND NOT OUT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN A MONTH WHILE DEALING WITH THE REPERCUSSIONS.) And the popcorn? It smelled like popcorn. And we were at the movies. And we hadn't been out for over a month. And...well, "and".

I thought I'd be okay since I managed a half-bag of popcorn when at home during Christmas, but I //forgot// and in doing so - even after chasing it with two extra strength antacids - I got sick. I got so sick that there was no chance we could stay out for dinner. I got so sick that there was no chance we could go grocery shopping (I needed ingredients to bake two birthday cakes). I got so sick that I honestly, truly believe that I've already ruined the one resolution I made for us - go out to eat once a month, regardless of dress, regardless of menu, just go out and eat something, somewhere, once a month, together - because I don't know when or how I'll be able to leave this house again by the end of the month.

And, so, I did the most mature, rational and logical thing a woman could do in my situation - I sat on the bench in front of the theater we came out of and cried. (Okay, so I tried NOT to cry, but, still, there was some sniffling involved, and there was some hoarseness of voice, and, uh, a little bit of moisture.) I tried to keep shit in perspective (i.e. "You have a digestion problem, you know you can't eat certain foods but you chose, out of your own freewill, to eat one of those foods while out. It's popcorn, for Christ's sake. There are people out there with DIABETES and CRAZY FATAL FOOD ALLERGIES; you aren't one of them.") but it's always hard to rope in the horses once they start galloping (i.e., "BUT I'M FUCKING TWENTY-FUCKING EIGHT YEARS OLD AND I CAN'T EVEN HANDLE EATING A FEW HANDFULS OF POPCORN AT THE MOVIES. I CAN'T EVEN FUCKING HANDLE LEAVING THE FUCKING HOUSE. I AM TWENTY-EIGHT YEARS OLD AND I FEEL LIKE I HAVE SOMETHING //COSMIC// GOING ON INSIDE OF ME AND THERE IS NO MAGIC PILL I CAN TAKE, NO SPECIAL OPERATION THAT'LL MAKE THIS BETTER!").

My woe-ing was kept to a minimal (for someone with such a volatile personality and temper -that- was a miracle within itself). I did feel sorry for myself, though, and I let myself pitifully wallow in it while doubled over and gasping for breath - except for the time I had to physically move to another bench when another cinema patron and his chilli dog with fried onions sat right next to me. (SORRY, DUDE, BUT THE SCENT OF -YOUR DINNER- ALMOST INSPIRED AN EXTRA TOPPING THAT YOU DIDN'T PAY FOR, IF YOU CATCH MY DRIFT.)

There is something bizarrely exhibitionist about crying in public when you're sitting next to your partner. The entire time all I could think of - well, LOL, other than "WHY MEEEEEEEEEEEEEE?" and "FUCK POPCORN, FUCK IT, FUCK IT AND ITS PIED PIPER AMBROSIA SMELL" - was "FUCK, PLEASE DON'T LET THESE PEOPLE PASSING US THINK WE'RE FIGHTING, PLEASE DON'T LET THESE PEOPLE GLANCING OVER TO ME THINK THEY'RE WITNESSING THE STALEMATE OF A RELATIONSHIP, PLEASE DON'T..." as if me curled up into a speck of a being was reflective of our relationship, or the state of it.

I lost an entire day after that. Not that it was MISPLACED or OH FUCK THIS SHIT KEEPS POPPING UP AND I HAVEN'T EVEN STARTED THE SCHEDULE I SET MYSELF TODAY - but lost. Gone. Didn't even stand a chance of even having it. You get sick, really sick, and it takes a day to recover. Sometimes two, sometimes three. It's time that isn't yours; time that doesn't really belong to you, but your illness.

I forgot how many times I nodded off when sitting at the computer, when sitting at the couch, when sitting at the kitchen table eating leftovers. There just wasn't -anything- there. The internet wasn't working, but was, but in order to access it I had to use my father-in-law's new laptop because it'd only connect to the net in the lounge. I hate laptops, I hate small keyboards and I really fucking hate small keyboards that arbitrarily decide to drop letters. I hate the internet not working so I have to use a fucking laptop with a small keyboard that arbitrarily decides to drop letters while shuffling and moving files from different computers just to be able to upload entries here to Graveyard Dirt.

(I hate the bamboo wallpaper of the new laptop which is a fucking EYESORE TO ANYONE WHO ACTUALLY USES A COMPUTER WITH ANY SORT OF REGULARITY, but, LOL, Italics's parents fucking //love// it WHICH, REALLY, PROVES MY POINT, DOESN'T IT?)

So I said "SELF, YOU SHALL CALL KATE, BECAUSE SHE BROKE HER ARM A FEW DAYS AGO AND COULD PROBABLY USE A SYMPATHETIC FEMALE VOICE RIGHT NOW" and flipped open my address book. Much to my shock, dismay and amazement Kate's number wasn't there, which meant I had to turn on my mobile and figure out how to display my address book.

That would've been -perfect- had I actually known how to bring up anything but a contact's NAME in my address book. When trying to display her number I accidentally called, and once it started ringing I felt obligated to follow through (I was, originally, going to call her using the house phone because I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT FUCKING CELL PHONES AND, ALSO, SMALL KEYBOARDS AND LAPTOPS, AS YOU ALREADY KNOW). Our conversation spanned from a whole "HELLO?" to me shouting "OH SHIT!" as the battery of my phone inexplicably died within seconds of use.

I scrambled for Italics's new BLADE RUNNER phone knowing that her number would've been locked up in his sim card, but LOL, I SOMEHOW MANAGED TO CRASH HIS PHONE. (It might've had something to do with me RANDOMLY PUSHING UNMARKED BUTTONS HOPING THAT ONE OF THEM WOULD BRING UP SOME SORT OF CONTACT LIST OR SOMETHING.) I ran to my computer to find my text document of numbers but FOR JESUS'S FUCK SAKE IT WASN'T THERE WHICH MEANT I HAD TO GO BACK INTO THE EFFING LOUNGE, REBOOT THAT FUCKING NEW LAPTOP WITH THE EYESORE BAMBOO WALLPAPER, RECONNECT TO THE GODDAMN INTERNET AND USE A MOTHERFUCKING KEYBOARD THAT RANDOMLY DECIDES TO DROP CONSONANTS AND VOWELS JUST SO I COULD ACCESS MY FUCKING EMAIL ACCOUNT TO POP OPEN AN OLD EMAIL FROM LAST YEAR TO GET KATE'S NUMBER.

As it turned out I FUCKING THREW OUT THAT FUCKING EMAIL AND IT'S BEEN 40 FUCKING DAYS, OR WHATEVER, BECAUSE IT WASN'T FOUND IN THE TRASH WHICH MEANT ALL I COULD DO, AFTER ALL OF THAT, WAS EMAIL KATE TO APOLOGIZE FOR THE SHORT, POSSIBLY CONFUSING CONVERSATION OF "HELLO/OH SHIT". BUT THEN, IMMEDIATELY AFTER, I HAD -JUST- ENOUGH POWER (SINCE I HAD PLUGGED IN MY PHONE TO RECHARGE) TO TURN MY MOBILE BACK ON, AND IN DOING SO I SAGELY LEARNED THAT SIMPLY BY PRESSING THE "#" KEY IT DISPLAYED A CONTACT'S NUMBER WHICH I QUICKLY SCRIBBLED DOWN IN A TEXT DOCUMENT BEFORE CATASTROPHE STRUCK, AGAIN.

AND I HAVE NO IDEA WHY I'M EVEN WRITING ANY OF THIS DOWN, IN CAPS LOCK EVEN, BUT I AM. BECAUSE, HONESTLY, I FEEL SLIGHTLY DELIRIOUS BY THIS POINT OF WRITING. (OH, HONEY, I STOPPED TRYING TO MAKE ANY SENSE ABOUT SEVERAL PAGES BACK, SERIOUSLY.) LET'S JUST WRAP UP THE REST OF THAT PARTICULAR DAY IN A NON-COMMITTAL WAY BECAUSE I SERIOUSLY DOUBT ANYONE WHO SERIOUSLY READS THIS SITE HAS EVEN GOTTEN THIS FAR. (WAIT, WHAT, YOU HAVE? LULZ.)

Due to the entire DEVIOUSLY PLAYING WITH WINDOW VENTS FOR OUR OWN NEFARIOUS PURPOSES incident grocery shopping got pushed back an hour. And then another hour. And then another hour. And then my husband finally took pity on me and went shopping because I was waiting for several ingredients to bake my mother-in-law one of two birthday cakes and by that point in the evening I was only partially conscious, slumped over my computer desk after an entire day involving MERCURY RETROGRADE PHONE ACTIVITY and BRAND NEW LAPTOPS WITH SHIT KEYBOARDS AND SEIZURE INDUCING WALLPAPER.

By 11:30 PM the Fruits of summer buttermilk coffeecake with orange flower water was baked, a loose interpretation of "coulis" was cooling (I used the remainder of the frozen fruits of summer bag to make a compote using pomegranate juice and Cointreau.) (TOO BEAUTIFUL FOR WORDS. UNFORTUNATELY, I WAS TOO TIRED FOR PHOTOS SO YOU'LL JUST HAVE TO TAKE MY WORD ON THAT.), and Italics's parents were in bed after a night of uncomfortable atmosphere (YOU REMEMBER ABOUT THE WINDOW VENTS AND BIRTHDAY WEEKEND THING FROM WAY AT THE START, RIGHT?)

Singing the Blues

LAST NIGHT I CLICKED ON "WHAT IT'S LIKE" THINKING IT WAS THAT ONE "WHAT I GOT" SONG BY SUBLIME (I KNOW; THAT'S AN ENTIRELY NEW SET OF LULZ) BUT IT TURNED OUT TO BE THAT ONE EVERLAST SONG.

LOL, DOWNER. (LOL.)

Cold Moon 09, I

JESUS GOD AND ALL THAT IS EFFING DIVINE. This shit? This shit should've been written up on JANUARY FUCKING 10TH, but both our lives have been so NON-EFFING-STOP since the demise of our 2008 Christmas holiday that I was -lucky- just to be able to hammer out shorthand notes in mostly (MOSTLY!) chronological order. Now that we've gotten THAT out of the way, let's bore you to death with the details!

SATURDAY, 10 (FIRST FULL MOON OF 2009)

ITCHING, ITCHING, ITCHING. All fucking night long. Even after an anti-histamine, even after another trip to the bong bucket, even after ingesting the first Melatonin tablet in months. (To cope with sleeping during days I would pop a Melatonin to ensure I got the best possible rest, but then, after weeks of doing THAT it got so ingrained into my bedtime routine that I began taking it at night, too. And then (AND THEN!), and then weeks became //years// and after a few of THOSE - and a recent scientific something or other than warned against the flagrant abuse of Melatonin (unsurprisingly your brain, getting melatonin from another source, just sort've shuts that shop down and begins relying solely on the external dealer) - I decided it was time to turn in my metaphorical tourniquet and call it a day (LOL, NIGHT?).)

It was one drugged up, itching night too many. The second Italics was up the following morning (the 10th) I announced to him, the rest of the sleeping house, the world, universe, and the building blocks of life itself that I was washing bed sheets that day...BUT NOT THE DUVET. (Never the duvet! NEVER!)

(We, supposedly, have a double-sized comforter, but for whatever LOLERIFIC reason it doesn't actually -fit- our double-sized duvet. So washing and cleaning the comforter and duvet involves a bed making autopsy - first I have to unbutton all the damn buttons that never seem to stay buttoned but manage to be buttoned when I don't need them to be, then I have to fish around at either end of the bottom corners to find where the safety pins holding the duvet to the comforter are to remove them, once they're removed I have to flip everything over and undo several more safety pins ON THE EFFING OUTSIDE OF THE DUVET, PINNED TO THE UNDERSIDE SO THE 1 FUCKING FOOT OF EXTRA MATERIAL DOESN'T HANG PATHETICALLY OVER THE SIDE OF THE BED LIKE A DEFLATED POOL TOY, when that's loosened I have to crawl into the sandwiched mess so I can turn it inside and out and undo another set of pins on the side and three more pins at the very top. FINALLY, THREE YEARS LATER, THE TWO BED PIECES ARE SEPARATE AND READY TO BE WASHED, BUT, LOL, NEED THE SAME EXACT PROCEDURE - ALL REVERSED - TO PUT BACK TOGETHER. It's an ENTIRE DAY EVENT that I often don't observe or celebrate, and now you see -why-.)

SO NOT THE DUVET, BUT THE SHEETS. Which meant the white mattress cover, the blue fitted sheet, the blue loose sheet, and the 18 pillowcases. (FINE, OKAY, 12. EXCUSE ME FOR EXAGGERATING BY JUST 6 TO BETTER ILLUSTRATE THE RIDICULOUSNESS OF THE NUMBER OF PILLOWCASES WE HAVE. Part of it, admittedly, has to do with needing to double bag feather pillows so ducks and geese who have been long dead don't extract their revenge by brutally attacking our faces with their quill points of wrath.)

And, fuck, if I was already doing all of that effing shit I might as well liberally Febreeze the bed. And the pillows (all six of them!). And Catfish, who probably smelled like Dorito Fish at the time. (WHEN CATFISH, OUR 6 FOOT LONG CATFISH PILLOW, BEGINS TO SMELL LIKE DORITOS YOU KNOW IT'S TIME TO FEBREEZE HIS SKANK ASS.) And wash Catfish's shirt to ensure that he wouldn't ruin clean sheets with the scent of COOL RANCH (or nacho cheese).

But that was all like 5AM, or something, and I began getting REALLY, REALLY into it, and thought FUCK IT, TO HELL WITH IT, IT'S THE FIRST FULL MOON OF THE YEAR, I BETTER WASH ALL THE GODDAMN SHEETS - DUVET INCLUDED - AND GET IT OVER WITH.

(I, uh, don't often wash the sheets. We only have one set - the set we're currently using. And as I've already explained WASHING THE SHEETS IS, EMOTIONALLY, THE EQUIVALENT JOURNEY OF ODYSSEUS, OR SOMETHING. That, and I'm fastidiously, crazily, verging on anally clean, so I've never turned in knowing that I smell like a herd of cattle. And, hell, I'll admit it - I love the lingering, waning scent of our perfume (we still wear department store toilette waters, but more often than not we're wearing eau de parfum grade perfume), our bodies, our heat in the bed. It marks it - claims it - in an animalistic sort of way.)

So I did it. I did //everything// with a self-made promise that even though I had peeled the duvet from the comforter - 10+ safety pins and all - I wasn't obligated to put it back together that night. Instead I layered each crisp, clean sheet (HOW CAN I MANAGE TO MAKE A BED SO PERFECTLY YET STRUGGLE BUILDING A VIDEO GAME BURGER VIA THAT ONE ATARI GAME WE PLAYED DURING CHRISTMAS?) on top of one another, and, for the first time in years, we slept with our old blue and white batik sheet. (Normally we wrap our large black ritual candlesticks in it, but since our altar was still out there were no sticks needing rolled up.)

The sun rose, the world woke, and the mail was delivered. A letter arrived, Stateside, with a bizarre, totally unknown return address but with my grandfather's name on top. Apparently, my grandfather (the only grandfather I've ever known, the only grandfather I've ever had, the only grandfather who gave me drunken rides on the lawn mowing tractor on balmy Wisconsin summer days) passed away...in September. It took until I sent him his annual Christmas card and gift for someone in my immediate family to tell me. (LOL, AND NOT EVEN "I THINK YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS SINCE YOU HAD A RELATIONSHIP WITH YOUR GRANDFATHER" BUT MORE "HE'S DEAD NOW, OKAY, SO STOP SENDING SHIT OVER, THANKS".)

I already wrote about it. (RIGHT HERE.) Well, sort've. That was my initial, first reaction to the news. (HOLY FUCK, DUDE, SO YOU'RE TELLING ME THAT YOU SENT ME A FUCKING -EMAIL- TO LET ME KNOW THAT SOMEONE IN MY //IMMEDIATE FAMILY// DIED. YOU SENT ME A FUCKING -EMAIL-, WHICH IS, OSTENSIBLY, A FUCKING TEXT MESSAGE, AND ADMITTED THAT YOU KNEW THAT THE EMAIL ADDRESS WAS NO LONGER BEING USED BY ME BUT YOU SENT IT THERE ANYWAY. I AM SO AMAZINGLY BLOWN AWAY AT HOW ANY ADULT - ESPECIALLY ONE DOUBLE MY AGE, AT LEAST - THOUGHT THAT SENDING AN EMAIL TO AN ACCOUNT THEY KNOW ISN'T BEING USED ANYMORE WAS A TOTALLY APPROPRIATE, TOTALLY SUFFICIENT, TOTALLY ADEQUATE WAY OF CONTACTING SOMEONE TO LET THEM KNOW ABOUT THE PASSING OF A MEMBER OF THE IMMEDIATE FAMILY.)

I'm 100% not done with this shit, but I am within this entry (otherwise this'll be MGM epic as opposed to disturbingly epic). MOVING ON...

An hour was lost. Lost to anger and grief and guilt. (How did he die? My uncle didn't say. Did he suffer? My uncle didn't say. All he said was that my grandfather had died in September, and I would have known if I had bothered to reactivate an account that he knew was dead for at least two years. Jesus, was it long? Was it drawn out? Did he know? Was in the hospital, just waiting? Did anyone send cards? Did anyone send flowers? Did anyone, other than me, bother caring at all? How fucking ironic that the one person who did care wasn't even given a chance to say good-bye, or even given the ability to send flowers to the funeral.)

But I have Italics, so I was - and still am - okay. When my mother passed away a few years back - the end of January 2005 - my father, who was then divorced from my mother, informed Italics that he felt I wasn't -grieving appropriately-. Because, after years of taking zoloft and anti-depressants and reading Dr. fucking Phil, my father was an expert on what was appropriate and normal for a child to undergo during the first stages of grief over the loss of a parent (the only parent they even gave a fuck about).

(I wasn't upset enough. I wasn't upset enough, and I didn't hang on him (my father) like he wanted me to, screaming and crying and wailing like a woman on the Maury show who learns that the 12th man she tested for the paternity of her baby wasn't the father. When I wasn't able to deliver that rich pageant of over-the-top grief I was labeled "crazy" and my mental health was put in serious question. What no one seemed to understand was that EVERYONE DEALS WITH GRIEF THEIR OWN FUCKING WANT, AND, ON TOP OF IT, -I HAD/HAVE A HUSBAND-.)

(I've had a husband for SIX OR SEVEN YEARS. (LOL, I CAN'T EVEN REMEMBER WHAT YEAR WE GOT MARRIED, JESUS.) I've been involved with only person, ever, in my entire life, and I've been involved with that person since I was -16- (and I'm now -28-). I handle grief because I HAVE A FUCKING HUSBAND WHO IS MY BEST FUCKING FRIEND. I have SOMEONE WHO FUCKING TAKES CARE OF ME; I've made the normal, biological, sociological progression from PARENTS/PARENT'S HOUSE to HUSBAND/HUSBAND'S HOUSE. I'm a 2-fucking-8 year old woman, AT THIS POINT IN TIME, AT THIS AGE IT'S NOW //MY HUSBAND AND WHATEVER FAMILY WE DECIDE TO CREATE// THAT BECOMES MY WORLD. And that's TOTALLY NORMAL. You leave home, you build your own family. Your own family - the flesh and blood you've built after 10+ years of living, coping, building, dreaming, and loving. YOU LEAVE YOUR PARENTS' WORLD THEY CREATED FOR THEMSELVES AND GO OUT AND CREATE YOUR OWN. THAT'S TOTALLY NORMAL, BUT NOT IN MY FAMILY, APPARENTLY.)

(My family, if you haven't already came to the conclusion yourself, is the undisputed bastion of what's considered NORMAL and what's considered CRAZY, although, LOLTASTICALLY ENOUGH, I've never met a bunch of more dysfunction, irrational, and completely immature people sharing the same gene pool. If it gives you any indication as to how blinding insane they are - I'm the sanest, most rational member of my family. THAT SPEAKS VOLUMES, RIGHT?)

HOW DID I MANAGE TO GET INTO THAT BULLSHIT? JESUS EFFING CHRIST, ANY EXCUSE TO COMPLAIN AND BITCH ABOUT IMMEDIATE FAMILY, YOU KNOW?

You know how sometimes when you start cleaning you just can't stop? Especially when you're finally tackling something YOU KNOW SHOULDN'T HAVE EVEN BEEN AN ISSUE IN THE FIRST PLACE, YOU LAZY FUCK. Just as you're almost done with the monumental task you undertook you find yourself searching for something else - ANYTHING ELSE - that needs to get purged, or cleaned, or dusted, or straightened out, or whatever. And at first you use the extra cleaning as an excuse because you need to kill time, anyway, but then it becomes A CRAZY OBSESSION, AND YOU BEING SHAKING, AND EVEN AFTER YOU'VE STRAIGHTENED EVERYTHING THAT COULD POSSIBLY BE RIGHTED YOUR EYES ARE STILL DARTING AROUND TO FIND SOMETHING THAT LOOKS SLIGHTLY OUT OF PLACE.

It was one of those days. (Plus, I had time to kill between switching dripping wet laundry from the washing machine into the dryer and from the dryer to the bed.)

Chef Shakey's Specials

ME: OH THAT'S CUTE, SHAKEY BEAR FOUND A PRAWN CRACKER.

*STOPS TYPING TO WATCH CHEF SHAKEY WADDLE ACROSS OFFICE / COMPUTER ROOM FLOOR INTO THE CAGE WITH A PRAWN CRACKER*

APPROXIMATELY TWO MINUTES LATER:

ME: OH, THAT'S CUTE, SHAKEY BEAR FOUND ANOTHER PRAWN CRACKER.

*STOPS TYPING TO WATCH CHEF SHAKEY WADDLE ACROSS OFFICE / COMPUTER ROOM FLOOR INTO THE CAGE WITH A PRAWN CRACKER*

A MINUTE LATER:

ME: WHERE THE FUCK IS SHAKEY BEAR GETTING ALL OF THESE GODDAMN CRACKERS?

*STOPS TYPING TO WATCH CHEF SHAKEY WADDLE ACROSS OFFICE / COMPUTER ROOM FLOOR INTO THE CAGE WITH A PRAWN CRACKER*

ANOTHER MINUTE ALMOST PASSES:

ME: EW, JESUS, FUCK, SHAKEY BEAR, DON'T EAT THOSE, THAT'S CORN STARCH, JESUS.

*SOLVES THE MYSTERY OF THE CORNUCOPIA OF PRAWN CRACKERS AFTER WATCHING CHEF SHAKEY GLANCE LEFT TO RIGHT SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE LEAPING ONTO THE SIDE OF THE TRASH CAN TO REMOVE ANOTHER ECO-FRIENDLY CORNSTARCH PACKING PEANUT THING*

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Chef Shakey taking part in a pea diving expedition. (Both Dennys (semi-pictured, left) and Shakey have matching bald patches. BFF?) One thing we've learned with this trio of rats? RATS LOVE PEAS.

PS: The house isn't a scary skanky RAT HOUSE, but they did manage to make it look that way in the picture, didn't they?)

Yule Log '08

THE STORY OF THE YULE LOG.

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This was the first year we had a proper Yule Log. (Or my version of a Yule Log. <- ADMITTEDLY I DON'T KNOW MUCH; I LIKED HOW THE IDEA SOUNDED AND JUST RAN WITH THE CONCEPT WITHOUT BOTHERING TO DO ANY REAL RESEARCH, WHICH IS, NATURALLY, THE BEST WAY TO MAKE IDEAS -MORE REAL AND SPECIAL- TO YOU.)

On the 23rd of December (I KNOW, I KNOW, POST-YULE) we went out for winter walk to specifically find a Yule Log and possible Stoner Tree. (<- CHRISTMAS IS A BIG DEAL, OKAY? SO I HAVE A NAZI CHRISTMAS TREE IN THE LOUNGE THAT IS THE SHOW CHRISTMAS TREE THAT ADHERES TO A VERY STRICT COLOR-THEMED CODE WHICH MEANS A LOT OF FUN AND STUPID AND LOLTASTIC ORNAMENTS DON'T GET HUNG UP ON IT. SO, IN THE BACKROOM, WE HAVE THE STONER TREE WHICH IS DECORATED WITH MULTI-COLORED LIGHTS AND EVERYTHING THAT MAKES US LOL! AND AWW! THROUGHOUT THE FESTIVE SEASON.)

Along the way I found holly growing at the Disturbed Children's Home (<- A SMALL VICTORIAN MANORESQUE HOUSE ALONG THE ROAD THAT WAS ONCE USED TO HOME "DISTURBED" YOUNG BOYS, GIRLS, AND ORPHANS. RIGHT NOW IT'S ABANDONED BUT IS IN GOVERNMENT CUSTODY SINCE IT WAS ONCE A GOVERNMENT FACILITY. IT IS CREEPY, BUT THE KIDS HAVE WARMED UP TO US WITH BRIBES OF CANDY AND SWEETS AND A GIFT OF TOYS LAST YEAR DURING CHRISTMAS. SO -DON'T PISS ME OFF- BECAUSE I HAVE A SPECTRAL HOUSEHOLD OF DISTURBED CHILDREN WHO ENJOY BEING DISTURBED AT MY DISPOSAL.) so we clipped several branches for eventual house decoration.

After that winter harvest we meandered through our usual walking route of: crossing the beech hedgerow over the stone wall, through the cow field, over another stone wall, getting high at the small ruined church, taking dubious pictures in the sort've abandoned walled garden behind it (NEXT TIME WE'LL STEAL THE CLAW, OLD FOLKS!), exiting the walled garden and following the path through to the road to the now old folks' home (once a much larger manor; the walled garden and ruined church is part of it), ambled down the road and out onto the street, turned the corner and entered the cemetery so we could make our offerings and visit our ancestors before returning home.

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Winter mist descending from the hills.

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Every year I love Scotland more and more.

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Ruined church across the cow field.

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There's only one cross on the building AND I WANT IT SO BAD.

This year in the field in front of the manor a farmer grew potatoes. (AND I WENT MENTAL WHEN I HAD THE SNEAKING SUSPICION WHAT THE CROP WAS; I CIRCLED THE STONE WALL MANIC, PACING BACK AND FORTH WHILE TRYING TO REMEMBER IF THOSE LEAVES AND STALKS AND PLANT MATERIAL LOOKED FAMILIAR TO ME AT ALL, SINCE I WAS A KID THE LAST TIME I WAS FACE-TO-FACE WITH A POTATO PLANT. THANKFULLY, SOMEONE UPROOTED A FEW PLANTS AND BABY POTATOES WERE STILL ATTACHED TO THE WITHERED STALKS. THEN, AS EXPECTED, I WENT EVEN MORE MENTAL - FRESH POTATO FREE-FOR-ALL!)

When the crop was confirmed we came back closer to harvest time, around six in the morning, and harvested a little for ourselves. (THERE WERE SO MANY HIGH-LIGHTS TO THIS YEAR, BUT ONE OF THEM - I MEAN, RIGHT UP THERE - IS SNEAKING INTO A FARMER'S FIELD IN THE EARLY AM AND FRANTICALLY DIGGING UP EARTH TO REVEAL A RICH TREASURE OF POTATOES WITH MY HUSBAND WHICH WERE SMUGGLED AWAY IN ENVIRONMENTALLY FRIENDLY GROCERY BAGS.)

Those potatoes? FAN-FUCKING-TASTIC. (Oh, we had them hashed, fried, dilled, roasted...) (<- You can officially add "potato thieves" to our list of criminal and moral offenses.)

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As if the treat of stolen potatoes wasn't enough I was very lucky to find Her. She had just been killed, and a pair of crows were keeping her company. By the time I was able to scoop her up she had only lost her eyes and there was a small hole in her thigh, but she was otherwise immaculate. And soft and pliable, but cold. I cradled this beautiful thing who had just lost her life in my arms, and took her home with me, later burying my face in fur and crying on the back step. (She was just so...real. I don't know, she felt like a pet, and I mourned her as if she was a pet.) She's in the freezer now - DON'T TELL MY IN-LAWS, THEY HAVE NO CLUE THAT I HAVE A WHOLE DEAD RABBIT AND CROW IN THE OUTSIDE FREEZER - because I wasn't sure how to preserve certain aspects of her body, so she's frozen until I'm more knowledgeable.

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I carried her over a mile; at first cradled in my arm like a sleeping pet, and then like contraband that had to be sneaked in the house least the parents find out. Her fur gleamed like gold in the rays of the rising sun, and she was the single more gorgeous thing I had seen in a long time. (It was so hard finally breaking the connection and wrapping her up in her plastic grocery bag death shroud before committing her to her freezer grave.)

RIGHT, OKAY, I AM RAMBLING WITH PICTORIAL EVIDENCE NOW, TIME TO GET BACK ON TRACK.

We kept our eyes out for a fallen piece of limb that we could use as our Yule Log. I had a feeling that we'd end up finding it along the long stretch of road from the manor/old folks' home to the street, and those ovary instincts were right. Just as we had stopped for a second to snap a few pictures of the potato field in winter I noticed THE PERFECT LOG. (We never found THE PERFECT STONER TREE, but with so many things going on this year we opted not to have one.)

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Barren potato field.

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Setting winter sun over the potato field.

Once home it got decorated with the evergreen and holly we had cut down, using some of my mother's (she died several years back, so the very few things I have of hers are super special and only get used for super special occasions) green embroidery thread I bound the branches to the log. We both found a part of the center piece on that walk; Italics found the gold star in the cemetery, and I can't remember where I found the spiral coil. (<- WHIRLPOOL ALERT.) (I have a sneaking suspicion that I might've found the coil at the ruined church...)

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The Yule Log sat in front of the altar on the sheepskin rug Italics was bundled in when he was younger. (LULZ, IF YOU CAN BELIEVE IT, IT TOOK UNTIL I APPROPRIATED THE SKIN BEFORE THE RUG GOT EXPOSED TO DRUGS AND SEX, AND, ON A FEW OCCASIONS, A COMBINATION OF BOTH.) The wooden crab is one of Italics's special pieces (it's one of his animals / symbols) and I often use it for incense burning. (You can't see it, but it has a carved out dip in the middle of the shell, so it perfectly holds my bowls of burning incense and also absorbs the emanating heat.)

I'm not entirely sure how to concisely explain the Black Rabbit thing. I'm governed by (and am part of) a female deity who's all about SEX, DEATH, DRUGS, VIOLENCE, WAR, FIGHTING, INEBRIATION, NIGHT, MAGIC - you know, ALL OF THE FUN STUFF THAT MAKES LIFE WORTHWHILE. She has different names in different cultures, but in this lifetime She came to me with a Russian heritage, with an entirely new name. "Black Rabbit" isn't her name, but it is Her. And to honor the Black Rabbit we bought five teal plastic rabbits from the gardening section of ASDA (that's the UK equivalent of Wal-mart) and spray-painted them black for ritual/altar use. There's a HEAD Black Rabbit - pictured above - who got a coating of gold glitter and was decorated with my Santa Muerte pendant and a strand of skull prayer beads.

(WHEN YOU'RE UNDER THE INFLUENCE OF A LOT OF DIFFERENT INTOXICANTS THE SHADOWS OF THE RABBITS ON THE WALLS BECOME ELONGATED AND SHARP UNTIL THEY BECOME SILENT, IMPOSING JACKALS.)

The brass devil/imp fire poker was a gift from me to Italics this year. We're slowly getting more into ritually burning things (I like to burn any flowers or foliage used for magic or altar work, and the remains of vegetable and herb plants that were grown for special purposes) so we can incorporate the ash into the dirt that'll be used to grow even more vegetables, herbs, and flowers. After THE NIGHT OF HECATE experience (OH, LULZ, THAT NIGHT) I decided Italics probably needed something a little more swish than the METAL HANDLE OFF A BROKEN BADMINTON RACKET he was using to stoke the fire.

AND THAT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IS THE STORY OF 2008'S YULE LOG. (WHICH STILL NEEDS TO BE BURNED. <- WE'LL GET AROUND TO IT...EVENTUALLY.)

Christmas/Yule Altar '08

COME TO THINK OF IT, IT DOES SORT'VE LOOK LIKE A TRASH CAN (<- BACK STORY), DOESN'T IT?

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(...EFFING RETARD.)

When Death Comes Ripping

OH, HEY, MY GRANDFATHER DIED -- THREE FUCKING MONTHS AGO.

MY SIDE OF THE FAMILY? I AM DELIBERATELY ESTRANGED FROM THEM. AND THEY ARE ALL "BUT WHHHHY?" AND "YOU'RE JUST AS CRAZY AS YOUR MOTHER WAS" AND "WE KNOW THAT ITALICS HAS BRAIN WASHED YOU AND TURNED YOU AGAINST US" AND I WILL NOW GIVE AN EXAMPLE TO THE WORLD WHY I HAVE DELIBERATELY ESTRANGED MYSELF FROM THEM:

ON THE 10TH OF THIS MONTH (JANUARY) I GOT A LETTER FROM THE STATES WITH MY GRANDFATHER'S NAME IN THE RETURN ADDRESS, BUT THE ADDRESS LISTED BENEATH WASN'T HIS REAL ADDRESS (<- LIVED WITH MY UNCLE AND HIS WIFE, AND I KNOW THEIR ADDRESS). (I GOOGLED IT AND, AS IT TURNS OUT, IT'S SOME EQUINE LEARNING CENTER, OR SOMETHING.)

APPARENTLY, MY GRANDFATHER DIED IN SEPTEMBER, BUT NO ONE BOTHERED CONTACTING ME. WAIT, NO, I TAKE THAT BACK - APPARENTLY MY UNCLE SENT ME A FUCKING EMAIL...BUT THAT WAS IT. MY UNCLE SENT ME AN EMAIL TO AN ADDRESS HE ADMITTED THAT HE ALREADY KNEW THAT I NO LONGER USED (AND HADN'T USED IN YEARS), AND THOUGHT THAT WAS, YOU KNOW, SUFFICIENT. (I GUESS MY SISTER AND FATHER ALSO THOUGHT IT WAS SUFFICIENT BECAUSE NEITHER OF THEM CONTACTED ME, OR EVEN MENTIONED THE FACT IN THE CHRISTMAS CARD/LETTER THEY SENT ME.)

AND THE ONLY REASON WHY MY UNCLE WAS CONTACTING ME - PRETENDING TO BE MY GRANDFATHER BECAUSE OTHERWISE I GUESS I WOULDN'T HAVE OPENED THE LETTER AND JUST THROWN IT OUT (WTF? I HAVE NO IDEA, SRSLY.) - WAS BECAUSE I HAD SENT A GIFT AND CARD, LIKE I ALWAYS DO, FOR CHRISTMAS. SO, REALLY, HE WAS ONLY TELLING ME -SO I DIDN'T SEND ANY MORE SHIT TO THEIR HOUSE-, NOT BECAUSE HE FELT OBLIGATED TO INFORM HIS NIECE THAT HER GRANDFATHER HAD FUCKING DIED.

AND THE WORST PART? I MEAN, LOL, OTHER THAN THE FACT THAT NO ONE BOTHERED CONTACTING ME THAT MY FUCKING GRANDFATHER - MY ONLY GRANDFATHER THAT I HAVE EVER KNOWN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE - HAD DIED THREE MONTHS AGO, IS THAT IF I CONTACT ANY OF MY IMMEDIATE FAMILY GOING "WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?" I'LL BE TAGGED AS THE CRAZY ONE. (TRUFAX.)

FOR FUCK'S SAKE - YOU SEND AN EMAIL WHEN YOUR FUCKING DOG OR GOLDFISH DIES, NOT WHEN SOMEONE IN YOUR IMMEDIATE FAMILY PASSES AWAY - ESPECIALLY NOT TO AN ADDRESS YOU'VE ALREADY EFFING ADMITTED YOU KNOW -NO LONGER WORKS-. MAYBE I'M JUST OLD-FASHIONED THINKING THAT IT BORDERS ON INAPPROPRIATE TO RELY ON, OSTENSIBLY, ONE FUCKING -TEXT MESSAGE- TO INFORM PEOPLE OF THE DEATH OF AN IMMEDIATE FAMILY MEMBER. (HOW FUCKING LAZY IS THAT? I MEAN, REALLY? THAT SHIT IS FUCKING INEXCUSABLE, AND I CAN'T BELIEVE AN ADULT DOUBLE MY AGE THINKS HE'S ACTED FAULTLESSLY AND FLAWLESSLY.)

AND THAT IS WHY, WORLD, I HAVE CUT THE STRINGS. THAT IS WHY.

(AND -I'M- THE FUCKING CRAZY ONE. JESUS EFFING CHRIST. DO YOU SEE WHAT I HAVE TO WORK WITH? ON BOTH SIDES? FUCK ME.)

Insert Credit

NIGHT TERROR X 2. (OH, WE PLAYIN' THAT GAME AGAIN?)

Nasty Ass Tobacco Spit

ADD "WART" TO THE LIST OF AFFLICTING GIFTS I'VE LOVINGLY BESTOWED UPON MY FATHER-IN-LAW. (I TOLD YOU WITCH'S SPIT IS VENOMOUS.) (LOLOLOLOL! NASTY ASS TOBACCO SPIT. OH, PAPA, YOU DO MAKE ME LOL, <3!)

Planetary Awesomeness

What a fucking full moon.

(And now? AND NOW CERES AND MERCURY RETROGRADE. THESE NEXT FEW WEEKS ARE GOING TO BE BRIMMING WITH SHEER PLANETARY AWESOMENESS.)

Crazy But Fun

On the 11th of this month, a day after the first full moon of the year, both Mercury and Ceres go retrograde. (CERES, WUT? I KNOW, ME TOO.) It's the third phase of Cancer, and the moon enters Leo just before one in the afternoon.

(BREAK IT DOWN NOW, Y'ALL...)

OH, 2009, ALREADY MAKING THINGS INTERESTING. (PAPA SAID IT WAS GOING TO BE A "CRAZY BUT A FUN YEAR", AND I GUESS THE MAN WASN'T LYING. EXAGGERATING, PROBABLY, BUT NOT LYING.)

AND CERES?

AND, ALSO:

(OH, HEY, CERES' SIGN IS A SICKLE. <- IS A SUPER GENIUS WHO JUST NOTICED THAT.)

"THIRD PHASE OF CANCER" I'LL TAKE AS A NOD TOWARDS THE ENTIRE HERMIT/SOLITUDE THING (GOING INWARD, AHOY!). AND, LOL, LET'S NOT EVEN CONTEMPLATE THE IMPLICATIONS OF TAKING THE MOON ENTERING LEO AS THE MOON, IN TAROT CARD FORM, UNITING WITH STRENGTH.

OH, IT'S GOING TO BE "CRAZY BUT FUN", AIN'T IT PAPA?

Sources:
ArtCharts.Com
AstrologyCom.Com
Retrograde Zone

New Year Resolution #1:

Eat more cornmeal.

(POSSIBLE COURSE IN CELEBRATION OF CORNMEAL MENU? HMM. ALSO, LULZ.)

Not the Trash, II

YESTERDAY I DISCOVERED THAT MY FATHER-IN-LAW USED AN OFFERING PLATE ON MY ALTAR AS A TRASHCAN.

I WAS VERY, VERY ANGRY.

SO ANGRY THAT I SCREAMED INTO A TOWEL LAST NIGHT FOR AN HOUR. SO ANGRY THAT I FORCED THE MAJORITY OF THE TOWEL INTO MY MOUTH SO I WAS SIMULTANEOUSLY CHOKING AND CHEWING ON IT. SO ANGRY THAT ALL I COULD DO WHILE CRYING AND SCREAMING AND CHOKING AND CHEWING WAS PRAY THAT NOTHING POPPED INTO MY MIND TO GET FINALIZED IN A SPLIT SECOND OF FURY.

(OH, BABY, DID I WANT TO SPIT.)

NORMALLY I'M NOT AS SENSATIONAL WITH THE CHOKING AND THE CHEWING AND THE REGURGITATING OF TOWELS, BUT I MADE MY DISCOVERY JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT WHICH MEANT BOTH MY IN-LAWS WERE IN BED. (SO I WASN'T ALLOWED TO BE LOUD, TO BE UPSET, TO BE ANYTHING, WHICH MEANT THE EMOTIONAL TSUNAMI WAS ABSORBED BY A SKANK ASS KITCHEN TOWEL WHILE I ROCKED BACK AND FORTH IN FRONT OF THE ALTAR.)

WHO LEAVES GARBAGE IN A PLACE OF WORSHIP? WHO LEAVES GARBAGE IN A CHURCH? OR A MOSQUE? OR A SYNAGOGUE? OR A TEMPLE? WHO DELIBERATELY LEAVES GARBAGE IN AN OBVIOUS PLACE OF PRAYER AND BELIEF? WHO DOESN'T EVEN CONSIDER THE INAPPROPRIATENESS OF THAT SORT OF ACTION?

MY FATHER-IN-LAW.

Not the Trash

If you only knew how many times he's come close to losing one of this hands.

(This is one of those times.)

("Rotting" was the predominant image, btw.)