Graveyard Dirt: Two Worlds and In-between

Wedding Altar Building

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The to-be wedding altar where Italics and I will be exchanging marital vows sometime in the next 11 days. (I know it doesn't look like much, but wait until I get everything laid out, measured, taped and freshened up with a lint roller. <- YES, I //DO// USE A RULER, DUCT TAPE AND A LINT ROLLER WHEN PIECING TOGETHER A SACRED SPACE - ALTAR BUILDING IS V. SRS BUSINESS, OKAY?)

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The black rabbits have been unleashed upon the world once again! Nestled amongst the stoic sentinels is our Black Goddess ritual bong (she's wearing a garland of white plastic Halloween skulls around her neck). To the left of the picture you can see the all important tape (duct AND electrical!), and Italics' wooden crab peeking from beneath an embroidered tablecloth.

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I'm so anally organized that all of my ritual/ceremonial linens, tablecloths, aprons and scarves are kept folded up in their own specific boxes. I have an inordinate amount of golds, whites, greens, blues, purples and blacks, not to mention a growing collection of traditional Ukrainian embroidery. (The golds, whites and greens are usually paired with wooden/brass/golden objects, the blues, purples and blacks are typically paired with silver.)

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Thanks to my father-in-law's inability to keep his hands to himself I have to keep all of our ritual/ceremonial shit under lock and key. (If you leave anything out - ANYTHING, EVEN FOOD YOU'RE OBVIOUSLY GOING TO EAT - it's only a matter of time before he breaks it, ruins it, kills it, eats it, takes it or throws it out.) It's only when he's gone on holiday that we have the freedom to throw open the closet and parade out our magic goods to create a seasonally elaborate altar in the lounge.

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I'm considerably less anal when it comes to organizing our ritual tools and items; if I can shove something into an awkward space without breaking the object, it fits. (YOU try and find a way to store a vintage KGB hat, a Ukrainian gun candlestick, skeletal hands and an army of votive candle holders in an aesthetically pleasing fashion. I've tried; it's not worth the madness.)

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Honest to fucking God, when I found out that this past Sunday was Palm Sunday I almost threw up. Not only is my ass totally not prepared in the SLIGHTEST for my upcoming wedding, I also have to somehow flawlessly execute a traditional Ukrainian Easter in less than a week's time.

Still a Happy Bear

Nearly blindly, severely congested and dying; but, still, a happy bear. (<- Her breathing's so loud (due to her blocked nose) you can't hear her bruxing beneath the noise.)

We've been waiting for death to take Shakey naturally, but the Reaper hasn't come calling. In the past 48 hours her quality of life's quickly deteriorated to the point where both of us feel obligated to intervene. If she doesn't improve in the next day or two I'm going to have to consider the one thing I've been avoiding.

Ostara Cream Puffs II

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On the first day we made the pastry. On the second day we created the filling, and then liberally stuffed the gaping choux clams with homemade custard and cream. On the third day we toasted almond flakes, boiled up the liquid gold toffee sauce and smothered the cream puffs with the sticky glaze, topping the glazed domes with handfuls of warm, slivered almonds.

Spoilt Pig

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Did you know that this week is Bacon Connoisseurs' Week? No? (Just between you and me? Neither did I.)

Easter, Peeps and Resurrection

I keep mentioning to Shakey Bear that Holy Week's a terrific awesome amazing time to die hint, hint (with Easter and Peeps and all of that Resurrection stuff), but I don't think she's completely sold on the idea. (<- Maybe she's Jewish? HEY, IT COULD HAPPEN! HEZBOLLAH WAS OBVIOUSLY - OBVIOUSLY! - MUSLIM, SO IT'S NOT *COMPLETELY* UNHEARD OF.)

The Forgetful Cannibal

I can't believe I drunkenly ate some of my mother's cremated remains at a Russian-themed bar last year on St. Patrick's Day AND THEN FUCKING FORGOT ABOUT IT. (NATURALLY, I'M MORE DISTURBED OVER MY BAD MEMORY THAN THE FACT I MADE AN ASH COCKTAIL OF MY MOM.)

February, 2009

When I'm not overloaded with stressful real life stuff I'm almost always taking pictures. I think I manage writing about 75% of the photos I take, but a small percent almost always slips through my fingers and sits untitled, undescribed and untagged in my Flickr stream.

My original idea was to scoop up those motherfuckers - one year later, month by month - and finally give them the journal entry they deserve (even if "the journal entry they deserve" involves being part of a picture dump). January (when I came up with and incepted the plan) was on time, but due to House and Shakey and Mr. Awesome I kind've sort've lost my way.

This is February 2009's catchup, almost two months late. (WHOOPS.) After reading through the entire month I feel slightly resentful that last year's Feb. was such a piece of fucking cake (at least when compared to this year). In fact, the obvious contrast between 2009 and 2010 borders on fucking comedy, although my ass ain't laughing.

You don't have to take my word for it, you can READ FOR YOURSELF. And I recommend you do, because I did a decent job in explaining - or at least emoting - my take on the entire Spring/Winter, Bride/Whore dynamic that I engage in.

Everything I should've said and shown you this year? Got said and shown last year. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that next year I'll in the right mental place and have less peripheral distractions which'll allow me to reexperience the awakening I did in 2009. (<- SPRING 2009? ABSOLUTELY //MAGIC//; IT WAS THE SORT'VE SHIT THAT BECOMES THE FOUNDATION OF YOUR BELIEFS.)

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It's been virtually impossible to get a decent picture of our current rat brigade. The last trio we had (Jigga, Hezbollah and Beh) were lazy ass, docile lap rats which made photo taking a piece of cake. The current triad of terror (Denny's, Shakey's and Shoney's) are so hyperactive that almost every fucking picture we've taken of them has come out blurred in the (near) three years we've owned them.

(Pictured just above my hand is Choo-Choo (aka Shoney, who's also called Choney), and off to the side is most of Wuzza (aka Denny's).)

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Choney doing what she does best: theatrically waiting for attention.

(The triad of terror have successfully ruined a huge percentage of our books. You don't even want to know what they've done to some of our OUT OF PRINT and STUPID EXPENSIVE erotic fantasy art books. No, seriously. Jesus himself would fucking weep.)

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Who was more excited by an unexpected package (date filled cookies and a bottle of sandalwood perfume) from my good friend F? Hezbollah, by the looks of it. (One day I promise to explain the entire Crazy Rat/Hezbollah thing, but until then just PRETEND like you totally get what's going on. <- I HAVE A FEELING THAT ANYONE WHO READS MY JOURNAL IS PROBABLY USE TO THAT.)

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2009's love cake for Valentine's Day. (ME? CANDY? HA! I GOT A //CAKE//!) Just for him I ate it like a little piggy with my nose buried deep in the sponge and filling. (<- It's easy to keep your relationship interesting when activities involve chocolate, sugar, frosting and cake.)

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Sunlight streaming down on the dead crow dirt. (You can't see the layer of gray, gelatinous mess beneath the surface layer of new food. Eventually all of the fat, grease and food sinks into the earth and creates a rich compost which I use around planting time.)

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My container of dead crow dirt sunbathing in February sunshine. (I know what you're thinking - WTF IS "DEAD CROW DIRT"? One of these years I'll sit down and tell the story.)

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I love how it looks like early morning (I think this was taken around 11 or noon) and how the damp earth is full of promise.

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My spring bulbs woke up beneath a blanket of snow that lasted about two weeks.

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An important ingredient for weather magic? Bottled snow.

This is snow gathered from February 2009's winter storms. I stuffed an empty plastic water bottle with freshly fallen snow, allowed it to melt at room temperature on my office altar (OH, HEY, LOOK, ANAT'S STILL IN ONE PIECE IN THIS PICTURE! <- HER WAR HAND GOT CAUGHT ON MY BRA AND SHE WAS ACCIDENTALLY SWEPT OFF THE ALTAR AND FELL TO THE FLOOR WHERE SHE BROKE INTO SEVERAL PIECES; SHE'S SINCE BEEN REPLACED BY WADJET) and then tossed the vessel in the freezer for future witchery.

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The remains of Snow Jigga. (<- A GIANT SNOWMAN MODELED AFTER JIGGA. I ACTUALLY HAVE PICTURES OF IT, BUT THEY'RE HIDDEN IN A FOLDER WITHIN A FOLDER WITHIN A FOLDER SO IT'LL REQUIRE A LITTLE BIT OF EXCAVATION ON MY PART TO FIND THEM.) It took two - maybe even three - weeks to fully melt and disappear.

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HOLY FUCKING SHIT, THEY WEREN'T THERE A DAY OR TWO AGO!

The unfolding purple flowers are Purple Gems (a dwarf iris), the lone yellow shoot is probably Danfordiae (a dwarf iris, I think) and the curling green leaves with raindrops are probably one of my two dwarf tulips.

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A streak of yellow against gray and gray.

Happiness Is...

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Happiness is having essential oils, herbs, spices and beeswax delivered to your door in 2-5 working days.

House of Cards

I just want to wake up from this Groundhog Day nightmare and get the next day started, but I've been stuck on the same day - the same routine - for nearly two months. Some days it doesn't feel like there's any meaning or purpose (so there's nothing worth fighting for), other days I wake up screaming like a Valkyrie, ready to crawl across a cosmic minefield if it means victory.

I feel the boot bearing down on me, but I'm throwing both shoulders into it and pushing against what feels like a brick wall because I know, eventually, it'll collapse like a house of cards.

(2010, I WILL BREAK YOU. I WILL CRUSH YOU BENEATH MY CALLOUSED, BARE FEET. I WILL STRETCH OUT MY SCARRED FINGERS AND BRING DOWN BIBLICAL SHIT YOU HAVEN'T SEEN SINCE FUCKING MOSES AND HIS PLAGUES. I MIGHT BE BLOODIED AND BROKEN, BUT BY DECEMBER FUCKING 31ST I'LL BE WEARING YOUR FUCKING BATTERED SKIN LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING FUR COAT GIVEN TO ME BY GOD HIM-FUCKING-SELF.)

(AND YOU KNOW THAT AIN'T AN IDLE THREAT BECAUSE A WOMAN DOESN'T DISH THAT SORT'VE SHIT OUT LIGHTLY.)

Exquisite Fucking Disaster

The in-laws leave for their Spring vacation on Saturday. I don't feel festive, or celebratory, or elated, or...fuck, anything (hence the recent lack of writing). All I can think of is how I'm not ready for Easter, how I'm even less ready for a fucking wedding and how my 30th birthday (sixteen days and counting) will be nothing short of an exquisite fucking disaster.

Dressing My Husband

I need $94.00 USD to buy my to-be-husband a wedding shirt. (Actually, I need $75.42 USD since I got paid for a blowjob earlier today. (Unfortunately, Italics has already done it twice so I don't think I can tap that resource again for another day.) Sigh.)

Hair Cuttin'

And in other noteworthy Ms. Graveyard Dirt news: for the first time, ever, I cut Italics' hair today*. (<- "First time" even includes the use of clippers! Holy shit, my God, if I can solidly clean up the nape of his neck I can surely shear some fucking sheep, right? ...RIGHT?)

* SO Y'ALL TRASHY, HAIR SNATCHIN' GHETTO ASS WITCHES BEST BE FINDING A NEW WAY TO STEAL MY MAN. CAUSE NOW? NOW //I// BE DOIN' THE HAIR CUTTIN' IN THIS MOTHERFUCKING HOUSE.

And Then, Spring

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...and then, Spring.

Scary minimal for me, but the in-laws are home and after the recent "NO I DIDN'T, YOU'RE FUCKING CRAZY!" debacle (<- my father-in-law denied a bunch of shit ranging from throwing away ashes that belonged to my mother to throwing garbage on my Winter altars (yes, plural; it's happened twice) earlier this week in an absolutely stunning display of audacious lying and insistent memory loss (the later of which, admittedly, is less "stunning" and more "worrying")) I've deliberately tried to scale back what gets left out in communal living areas.

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Last year Italics and I made a set of paschal lambs out of butter for our Easter marriage celebrations. (A block of butter is a must have in any traditional Ukrainian Easter basket, a block of butter moulded into the shape of a little lamb is a must have in any Ms. Graveyard Dirt Easter basket. <- You think I'm joking? I had to fucking IMPORT a fucking VINTAGE BUTTER MOULDING KIT from the fucking United States in order to live up to my Easter expectations.)

One lamb was taken to church (to be blessed*), placed on Easter Sunday's altar and consumed during a ritualized Ukrainian brunch. The other was slung in the freezer for "something special". With Easter only a few weeks away I figured it was time to use up our last paschal lamb before creating a new pair to mark the start of the agricultural season.

(I'm totally making an herbal butter with fresh sage, thyme and rosemary and coating a lamb shoulder roast with the mixture. <- OUR OSTARA/SPRING MEAL; LAMB BASTED WITH SYMBOLIC LAMB, MORBID OR WHAT?)

(* Basically? Basically you haul all of the shit you're going to eat on Easter Sunday brunch - paska (that's a traditional Ukrainian Easter bread), boiled eggs, salt, butter, horseradish (sometimes tinted magenta with beets) and insane amounts of smoked pork (sausages, bacon, ham, loin) - to church on Holy Saturday to get it all blessed by the priest for Easter Sunday.)

The crocuses are from our dirtyard; these three mark the beginning of my crocus and snowdrop harvest to create a bee incense. (Last year I kept a close eye on all of the flowering plants, shrubs and trees on our property to see which ones the bees favored. This year I'll be collecting those blossoms throughout the growing season as the major ingredient in my homemade incense blend.)

I always bake something extra special for our Easter wedding. I mean, a marriage requires some sort of cake or dessert, right? (CORRECT ME IF I'M WRONG, BUT I'M PRETTY SURE THAT AN ABSENCE OF PURE, REFINED SUGAR AT A WEDDING CELEBRATION IS GROUNDS FOR AN ANNULMENT.) This year Italics and I decided we wanted some Easter tat in the form of little chenille baby chicks decorating our high sugar content celebratory dessert, now all I have to do is figure out what the fuck to make. (But, hey! At least we've got the dessert decorations, right? Snort.)

(Italics says the baby chicks look like they're singing in the picture above. Ever since he brought it up to my attention THAT'S ALL I FUCKING SEE. WHAT ARE THEY SINGING? WHY ARE THEY SINGING? CLEARLY, THIS IS A SPRING MYSTERY.)

Everything is gingerly sitting on a rectangular offering dish that I regularly use to create "spirit plates" (what my mom called them) for visiting relatives, friends and ancestors that have passed on. (Not spectacularly significant, but since I explained away everything else...)

Ostara Cream Puffs I

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Celebratory Ostara dessert? Homemade, gluten-free cream puffs. We made - and baked - the choux pastry yesterday (NOTE TO SELF: DOUGH FELT TOO DRY DUE TO GLUTEN-FREE FLOUR; ADDED EXTRA EGG, WORKED PERFECTLY), but kept filling (custard cream), stuffing and topping (toffee almond crunch) making until today.

(The cheap ass plastic piping unit worked PERFECTLY until Italics and I shared a cream puff - ala Lady and the Tramp - but immediately after our passionate custard cream-flavored kiss everything came tumbling down Babel-style. <- At least it was a TASTY kiss of death and destruction?)

Taking the Demon for a Walk

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Just in case you ever come across a nearly thirty year old woman lugging around an extra large Shar Pei toy (despite not having any children with her) which is wearing bling and a happy dragonfly yellow t-shirt and need the mystery explained: she's clearly taking her demon - which she house trained as a dog - for a day out. (I mean, duh.)

Waiting for Spring

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Waiting for the balance of dark and light.

(Pictured: a box of chenille baby chicks (to top our Easter wedding cake), teardrops of frankincense piled on the window ledge, Winter's Kolach (a traditional Ukrainian bread religiously baked at Christmas, although the Aries/ass/sprouting seed design isn't traditional, heh) and velvety ribbons of incense smoke.)

Housemaker

"Going out" has become some sort of mythical status that I'm often left daydreaming about. I wish I could explain THE HOUSE CURSE, but it'd require more concentration than I normally have these days. (I think I'd be able to cope with the mental stress of being a shut-in if I could only write about what I'm feeling and what's happening, but my ability to stayed focused enough to write anything remotely cathartic is shot and I feel disinterested in everything, including myself.)

Before Chippy settled into domesticated family life he was a chaotic rocket crashing from one wall to the next. I couldn't work with him because I couldn't physically interact with him. I knew that if he was going to stay with us I had to house train him, but I had no idea how you tamed and built a relationship with something incorporeal. In the end, I picked an inanimate object (a plush Shar Pei dog; that's a story within itself, though) and interacted with it, pouring time, energy and intention into the process until it was brought to life.

Chippy eventually understood why I was lugging around and talking to an extra large stuffed toy and the vessel - a vacant structure waiting for some soul - was filled. If I created SOMETHING out of NOTHING before, why should size matter? What's REALLY the difference between a house and a stuffed animal? Especially if MORE of my heart, soul and physical exertion is given to House on a daily basis?

I'm the caretaker of House, and everything inside of House. House knows my role and my feelings of responsibility towards it. I've screamed at House. I've pounded my fists against House's walls, shrieking like a wild banshee while putting holes through drywall. I've cried within House, I've despaired, felt hopeless and trapped. I've laughed within House, found the meaning of life (and lost it, a few times) and like a queen perched on her royal fucking throne I've governed and ruled within - because of - House.

Our beliefs are kept sacred within House. House holds our altars, our prayers, our joys and fears. We live, grow, create, work, breathe and forge relationships within these walls. Every Spring we're married in House, every Fall we hold the divine king's wake in House. The seasons are celebrated, the cycle of the year is observed and we grow older and wiser within the confines of House.

House is a temple, a school and home. Within the collection of rooms I'm a nun (because "priestess" is totally a DONE concept within the witch/pagan community) observing and fulfilling my sacred duties. Within the collection of rooms I'm a student testing and experimenting with new ideas and theories. Within the collection of rooms I'm a nun, a witch, a wife, a partner, a co-worker, a cook, a gardener and a homemaker. (Housemaker?)

If I told you that House didn't like me leaving, would you believe me? If I told you about the years worth of effort and energy I put into House, caring for it, cleaning it, loving it, interacting with it, praying, loving and living in it and would you believe that House was just as real as the Velveteen Rabbit?

Daydreaming

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Daydreaming of warmer days (and less clothes).

Missed Opportunities

We don't get out often. In fact, in the past six months alone we had to reschedule the same attempt (i.e., Christmas Eve) four fucking times. It's a combination of bad timing, Italics working four jobs, being nocturnal for half of the month, being ill (between his back, my stomach and his inability to process gluten we're a walking, talking pair of chronic discomfort, pain and suffering) and living from one major disaster to the next.

A lot of those cancellations are a result of OTHER people's actions; they bring illnesses home with them (so we get sick and can't go out), they decide they'd rather do something else (AFTER promising that we can definitely rely on them) or someone - and when I mean "someone" I obviously mean Mr. Awesome, my father-in-law - decides to act like an inconsiderate asshole two hours before we're supposed to leave the house (FOR THE FIRST FUCKING TIME IN MONTHS) by picking a fucking fight with us.

(UNIVERSE, CAN I HAVE A LITTLE HELP HERE? IS TWO HOURS BEFORE MY FIRST BIG "DATE" WITH MY HUSBAND IN OVER A MONTH REALLY THE BEST TIME FOR MR. AWESOME TO PITCH A CRAZY OLD MAN TANTRUM? OUT OF ALL OF THE FUCKING DAYS HE COULD'VE PICKED TO THROW THE ENTIRE HOUSE IN TURMOIL, YOU'RE TELLING ME IT ABSOLUTELY HAD TO BE ON THE ONE DAY WE MADE PLANS FOR TWO FUCKING MONTHS AGO AND THAT NO OTHER DAY WAS SUITABLE?)

(I'VE BEEN STUCK IN THIS FUCKING HOUSE FOR SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS - SEVEN! THAT'S HOW LONG SHAKEY'S BEEN ILL AND DYING! SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS! SEVEN WEEKS OF FIVE HOURS OF SLEEP, SEVEN WEEKS OF ALWAYS BEING COVERED IN BABY FOOD, GATORADE, HOMEMADE SOUP, RAT SHIT AND RAT MUCOUS. SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS OF NOT BEING ABLE TO DO FUCKING //ANYTHING// OTHER THAN BE A LIVE IN MAID BECAUSE AN INVALID PET IS SOLELY RELYING ON US TO STAY ALIVE.)

(SEVEN FUCKING WEEKS! AND THE ENTIRE TIME I KEPT THINKING "BUT AT LEAST YOU HAVE MARCH 16TH TO LOOK FORWARD TO! AT LEAST ON MARCH 16TH YOU CAN TAKE THE DAY AND NIGHT OFF, PEEL OFF YOUR RAT STAINED CLOTHING AND PUT ON SOMETHING THAT MAKES YOU FEEL LIKE A SEXY HUMAN BEING AGAIN. AT LEAST ON MARCH 16TH YOU CAN GO OUT WITH YOUR HUSBAND, HAVE A GOOD TIME AND FORGET THAT YOU'RE CONSTANTLY SURROUNDED BY DEATH, ILLNESS AND MADNESS.")

This bullshit? ALWAYS. FUCKING. HAPPENS. Our luck is so shit poor that it borders on cosmic comedy. How many other people have to reschedule their Christmas Eve plans four motherfucking times? How many other people have to reschedule their Christmas Eve plans FOR THE SAME FUCKING REASONS?

(WHO THE FUCK GETS FUCKING SICK AND SNOWED IN, HAS TO CANCEL THEIR PLANS, IS FORCED TO RESCHEDULE EVERYTHING ONLY TO GET SICK (AGAIN) AND SNOWED IN (AGAIN) THEREBY HAVING TO CANCEL THE SECOND ATTEMPT FOR THE VERY SAME FUCKING REASONS THE FIRST ATTEMPT WAS AXED? OH, THAT'S RIGHT, US.)

I did EVERYTHING I COULD POSSIBLY DO to ensure that the 16th went smoothly. I worked out a timetable for showers, grooming, hair styling, dressing, make-up applying. We worked out where we were going to eat, where we were going to get dropped off and at what time. We spent the day taking it easy and deliberately distancing ourselves from anything stressful that could toss a spanner in the works.

What the fuck happens two hours before we're supposed to leave for our big evening in town? Mr. Awesome explodes because Italics caught him CLEANING HIS FUCKING DIRTY ASS MUD AND SHIT CRUSTED SHOES with the sponge we use to WASH THE FUCKING DISHES. When Italics asked his father to throw away the sponge he was using and replace it with a new one Mr. Awesome went mental.

(For the sake of my sanity - since this shit is still fresh - I'm going to gloss over everything my father-in-law pathetically wheeled out to try and justify his over-the-top reaction. Basically? Basically I'm a bitch, we don't give him the respect he deserves, this is HIS house, dammit, and if he wants to throw away or touch or break or ruin something - regardless if it's his - he's going to fucking do it, it's MY responsibility to tell him every day what he can or can't touch, and what he can or can't do otherwise he can't be held responsible for his actions, we're constantly causing problems in the house, when the fuck are we going to move out already and no, Ms. Graveyard Dirt, you're completely mistaken about me throwing out ashes that belonged to your mother, and, also, I never threw any garbage, ever, on any of your altars.)

(Internet, I have never had anyone lie so blatantly, lie so fucking BOLDLY to me before, all the while pretending to casually lean against the stove in deluded smugness. I barely managed to restrain myself from spitting directly into one of his eyes and decking him.)

(I abhor liars. Liars are bottom rung scum. Liars are pathetic insecure retards with tremendous illusions of grandeur who lack the mental facilities to engage in a normal argument or disagreement. They spend inordinate amounts of time convincing themselves that they're some sort of intellectual superman whose mental prowess allows them to pull the wool over everyone else's eyes, but when push comes to shove they realize they have nothing to fucking offer than some on-the-fly bullshit they're forced to invent on the fucking spot.)

He went mental over a fucking sink sponge. A part of me still can't believe that something that stupid, that fucking insignificant became the battle of his fucking life. My big night out - the one we've been talking about for two fucking months, the one I almost didn't mention because I was so fucking afraid that if I showed any signs of being excited I'd somehow jinx the evening - got fucking ruined because my father-in-law couldn't handle being asked to NOT throw the sponge back into the sink if he uses it to clean his fucking dirty shoes.

(I know the bigger WTF reaction is "HOLY SHIT, YOU'RE TELLING ME HE DOESN'T APPRECIATE OR VALUE HOW FUCKING UNHYGIENIC THAT IS?", but that's old news here. My father-in-law uses the dish sponge to clean his shoes, the cars (both inside and outside) and whatever else he's managed to get away with because there wasn't anyone there to intervene.)

At the end of the day we still went out, but the night was ruined.

After engaging in a screaming match with my father-in-law I had to put on make-up and I was so agitated that I kept dropping everything on the floor. My hair dried pinned up so I had no choice but to wear it pinned up (which wasn't the original plan), and when it came time to style it it was all limp and static-y and clingy.

(I'm ashamed to admit that the make-up job was the worst I've done in YEARS and I was SO DEPRESSED and SO EMBARRASSED that I spent an hour sitting in my computer chair, crying, trying to decide if I looked too stupid to go out. <- OKAY, SO I MIGHT'VE OVERREACTED SLIGHTLY, BUT IT'S NOT LIKE I WAS BEING EMOTIONAL FOR NO REASON, RIGHT? IT'S NOT LIKE IT ~CAME FROM NOWHERE~.)

Despite being exhausted, angry, upset, pissed off, resentful and feeling like I looked stupid and embarrassing I still decided to go out. But by the time we dealt with the unforeseen retardation and were ready to go we didn't have enough time to have an actual evening out*. Halfway to the venue Italics discovered he forgot the tickets on the kitchen table, so we had to quickly race back home to get them. Then, because shit wasn't stressful and crazy enough, my mother-in-law (who was driving) almost hit a fucking cat that jumped out in front of the car.

The only reason why I DID go out? Italics' mother offered to drop us off if we were still interested in going. (His father was our ride, but neither of us felt up to getting a lift from him.) I knew if I didn't accept the offer, then the real reason why we didn't go out on the 16th would've been because of me (even if my "SORRY, I'M JUST NOT UP TO IT" excuse would've been perfectly legit and reasonable).

I forlornly looked over at Papa with his cold cup of coffee and thought "I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT THAT BASTARD'LL SAY - HE'LL SAY, "WHY YOU CRYIN', BABY GIRL?" AND I'LL SAY "THE AGREEMENT WAS YOU GOT THE COFFEE, I GOT TO HAVE A NIGHT OUT" AND THEN HE'LL SAY "BUT YOUR MAMA STILL OFFERED TO TAKE YOU OUT, YOU //CHOSE// NOT TO GO" and I as much as I hated to admit it, I knew if I stayed home we'd end up having that exact conversation and his black ass would be right. I don't have any right to cry about missed opportunities when I'm the one making a conscious decision to sit them out.

* We were supposed to be in town just after 5:00 PM to allow us to do some window shopping, have a meal, have a few drinks and then have a joint or two before wandering over to the music hall for the choral performance. It was after 7:30 fucking PM when we finally arrived and they were just closing the doors of the hall; we barely caught the opening act by the skin of our teeth.

Things Are Bad

I don't even know where to begin. Things are bad; I'll manage, like I always do, but things are bad.

(The absolute WORST part? Other than having my father-in-law deny TO MY FACE that he threw out ashes that belonged to my mother? (OH, YES HE DID. A YEAR AFTER MY MOTHER'S DEATH HE YANKED A BOWL OF ASHES OFF A BACKROOM ALTAR, THREW EVERYTHING OUT, WASHED THE BOWL AND THEN DIDN'T UNDERSTAND WHY I WAS UPSET.) Knowing that my mother-in-law pulled him aside and said "NO, YOU DID, AND I DON'T EVER WANT TO HEAR YOU DENYING IT AGAIN" and he still didn't apologize or mumble a disingenuous "sorry" my way. <- YOU READ IT RIGHT. HE'S NEVER - NOT ONCE - APOLOGIZED FOR TOSSING THE ASHES. NOT THEN, NOT NOW. AND HE ACTUALLY WONDERS WHY PEOPLE DON'T INTERACT WITH OR TALK TO HIM, OR INVOLVE HIM IN ANYTHING THEY'RE DOING.)

Revenge Consumerism

TODAY WAS ABSOLUTELY SHIT AND I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. (DESPITE NOT WANTING TO TALK ABOUT IT I RESERVE THE RIGHT TO BITCH ABOUT IT THE MORNING AFTER. <- YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.) INSTEAD, I'M GOING TO BUY FUCKING MAKE-UP AND CHARGE IT TO MY IN-LAWS' CREDIT CARD. (IT WON'T TEACH THEM ANYTHING, BUT AT LEAST I'LL LOOK GOOD WHEN THE WALLS OF JERICHO COME TUMBLING DOWN.)

Looney Tunes Love Child

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In this house if it looks V. V. V. IMPORTANT and/or SIGNIFICANT we don't eat it. This particular case? A Mother's Day drop scone that kind've sort've looks like Psyduck. (Actually, it looks more like Tweety Bird and Daffy Duck's love child. <- FATHER'S HEAD, MOTHER'S BILL/BEAK.)

Where the Bride Walks

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The Bride's finally walked through the dirtyard, leaving the first announcements of Our approaching wedding.

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Requiem

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House's curse has been lifted, but I'm suspicious enough (of a last second psych-out) to petition the help of Papa. (Our tickets for Mozart's Requiem - the performance we're booked to see tomorrow night - and free coffee from Starbucks arrived on the same day. I promised Papa that he could have one (the coffee) if I could have the other.)

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He wanted pancakes. At that very second. Fucking pancakes when I had a million things to do and I was super insanely high on an indica that was barreling through me.

(I KIND'VE SORT'VE FORGOT TO MAKE A SPIRIT PLATE YESTERDAY. THE JAM AND STRAWBERRY SMOTHERED PANCAKE? (FROM YESTERDAY.) WAS FOR MY DECEASED MOM. I HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THERE ARE SOME HURT FEELINGS I WASN'T PREVIOUSLY AWARE OF.)

We negotiated; pancakes within seven days.

Mother's Day, 2010

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Mothering Sunday breakfast: homemade drop scones, raspberry jam, fresh strawberries and pineapple guava juice.

Making Hawthorn Syrup

Cooling recently boiled hawthorn berries (to make hawthorn syrup) while a cover of Purple Rain plays in the background.

Under the Bed Badger

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After he was stroked, after he was fed, after he was watered, after he was held, after he was told I was going to help him shed the excess baggage he didn't need anymore I carefully lowered his body to the ground.

"DO YOU WANT TO STAY WITH US?" I asked the badger while I sized up his body (trying to figure out where the first incision needed to be made to skin him). "YOU COULD LIVE UNDER THE BED, IF YOU WANT, AND WE CAN FEED YOU DRY CAT FOOD AND AS LONG AS YOU DON'T DIG UP THE CARPET OR MAKE TOO MUCH NOISE YOU COULD STAY IN THE BEDROOM WITH US AND EVERYONE ELSE."

He grunted in agreement. (I know WHY and HOW he did it; that doesn't matter. What matters is that just after I finished asking him the question he immediately answered.) The very first thing I did after stepping out of the shower was push a bowl of dry cat food underneath the bed for Under the Bed Badger.

FUCKING FUCK

IT ONLY FUCKING OCCURRED TO ME TO RENDER THE FUCKING BADGER FAT AN HOUR AFTER I BURIED THE FUCKING THING BENEATH THE OFFICE WINDOW.

THE ENTIRE TIME I WAS SKINNING THE BODY I KEPT THINKING "THIS IS A TOTAL WASTE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL FAT I'VE EVER SEEN, THIS IS A TOTAL WASTE..." BUT DID INSPIRATION COME WHEN THE DEAD FUCKING BADGER FARTED IN MY FACE? (<- OH, YES HE DID! I GOT HIM BACK BY CAREFULLY CARVING HIS TESTICLES OUT OF HIS SACK SO THE EXTERNAL COVERING OF HIS JUNK REMAINED IN THE PELT.)

NO, IT ONLY FUCKING HAPPENED //AFTER// I FUCKING HELD A BADGER FUNERAL, BURIED THE FUCKING BODY, CLEANED THE MESS UP, DISINFECTED EVERYTHING, HAD A SHOWER AND WAS WAITING FOR MY FROZEN PASTA DINNER TO COOK IN THE MOTHERFUCKING MICROWAVE.

(NORMALLY? NORMALLY I DON'T HAVE A CHANCE TO BURY THE FUCKING BODY SO THE JOB GETS DONE THE NEXT DAY. TODAY? THE FIRST DAY, EVER, THAT I MANAGED TO SPIRIT BOND, SKIN, BUTCHER, FREEZE AND DISPOSE OF THE CARCASS IN ONE SITTING. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.)

Good Mail Month (Feb.)

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AWESOME PACKAGING, ISRAEL, AND I'M NOT JUST SAYING THAT TO KISS THE ASS OF THE FUCKING "HOLY LAND". (<- Last year? Last year Italics bought the Holy Land candles - for our annual marriage ceremony/ritual - and they never arrived. This year? This year I bought the Holy Land candles and they JUST BARELY managed to arrive. IT'S LIKE THE CHRISTIAN MAIL KNOWS I'M NOT PURE OF HEART, OR SOMETHING.)

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Ancestral (I'm 7/8ths Ukrainian (and 1/8th Lakhota, but I favor my Ukie genes for obvious reasons)) heritage folk art goodness. My mother was an exceptional Ukrainian embroiderer and pysanky maker, but when she found out we had Indian blood she dropped everything remotely Ukrainian and let the Native American thing completely consume her.

I've been cross-stitching since childhood, so creating samplers isn't entirely new (or taxing). What I haven't done before is create pysanky (REAL ones, I mean, not the colored Easter eggs I doodle ancient Ukie symbols on with a black Sharpie marker). I've been desperate to learn the art, but my fear of being just "okay" the first time around has held me back.

(LOOK, IF YOU'RE AN AUTISTIC ARIES YOU'LL TOTALLY UNDERSTAND WHY EVERYTHING YOU DO - EVEN IF IT'S THE FIRST TIME - HAS TO BE ABSOLUTELY MINDBLOWINGLY PERFECT, OKAY? NOT TO MENTION THE FACT THAT THIS PARTICULAR AUTISTIC ARIES (WHO HAS TO BE AMAZINGLY SPECTACULAR AT EVERYTHING SHE DOES) HAS THE WEIGHT OF HER HERITAGE SITTING ON HER SHOULDERS WATCHING, WITH GREAT INTEREST, HER ATTEMPTS TO LEARN, CREATE AND EXALT A SACRED ART FORM OF HER ANCESTORS.)

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I laughed when I found a cross-stitching pattern for a pair of sirins in my Russian Folk Needlepoint Designs book. (Not exactly Birds of Joy and Sorrow, is it?) I'm going to tweak the design to give the girls a pair of gravity defying sirin tits because, Jesus, isn't that what being a harpy is all about? (<- I WOULDN'T KNOW BECAUSE I'VE ONLY EVER VIVIDLY HALLUCINATED THAT I WAS A SPHINX SO THE ONLY ANTHROPOMORPHIC CREATURE I CAN RELATE TO IS A WINGED LION WOMAN WITH A FANTASTIC RACK.)

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More patterns from my vintage Russian design book. And, also, my left hand and wedding ring. (One of these days I'll be getting a "purity ring" to wear during Lent. Until I get one, though, I'll continue wearing our matching rings to ensure that everyone - and everyTHING - knows I'm taken.)

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More reading material for a witch who doesn't read. (I CAN'T ACTUALLY SAY THAT. THE INTO THE WORLD OF THE DEAD BOOK? I TOTALLY, TOTALLY READ IT IN ONE SITTING A FEW DAYS AGO. THAT DAMN THING, ALL 49 PAGES OF IT, IS THE FIRST FUCKING BOOK I'VE READY IN //YEARS//. HOW DID I CELEBRATE THE MOMENTOUS EVENT? I BOUGHT ANOTHER BOOK (ON MAKING SALVES AND TINCTURES AND LOTIONS).)

The African black soap? My biggest beauty secret. (No, seriously!) I have thin, sensitive, oily and problematic skin (<- an interesting mix of Indian and Ukrainian genes) which really limits my ability to use cleansers, toners, creams, lotions and moisturizers. For whatever reason my seriously fussy skin absolutely fucking LOVES this soap. Blemishes, period pimples, blackheads and dry skin disappear within days of daily use which officially makes the black soap a magic eraser given to us by God. (And now you know the secret, too. <- YOU CAN THANK ME LATER.)

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Another recently bought vintage book that I can't wait to sink my teeth into. (The pages? Beautifully aged yellow. The sort've dusty old look that makes you feel you've just acquired a long forgotten magic tome. <- JUST BECAUSE I DON'T READ, DOESN'T MEAN I CAN'T APPRECIATE BOOKS.)

I spent a third of last year finally getting acquainted with some of the indigenous plant life and getting an idea of their natural growing environments. (In other words, I scoured the local countryside for edible plants and mentally marked where the best blackberries, brambles, gooseberries, elderberries, rowan trees and hawthorns grew since they were crazy safe to eat and I wouldn't accidentally misidentify them as something else. <- HAVEN'T FOUND SOLES OR CRAB APPLES YET, BUT I'M NOT GIVING UP, DAMMIT.)

This year I want to extend my knowledge, but I want that knowledge to incorporate native (i.e., Scottish) folklore and ancestral (i.e., Ukrainian, Russian, Slavic) folklore. So instead of learning one thing (i.e., Wikipedia stuff) I'm focusing on three (Wikipedia stuff, Scottish stuff and Slavic stuff) thanks to my innate talent for making things more complicated than they need to be.

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I don't have the freedom to decorate the house because we cohabit with my in-laws in Italics' childhood home. While our living situation might stop me from hanging shit on walls, it doesn't stop me from buying shit to EVENTUALLY hang on walls.

In this picture's case it was a pair of vintage prints from the same Ebay seller: a non-fairytale Dulac (LARGER, CLEARER IMAGE HERE!) and a mysterious little conjuring number by George Soper (LARGER, CLEARER IMAGE HERE!).

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I rediscovered an original watercolor that Italics gave me as a birthday gift last year (or was it the year before last year?) shuffled amongst old letters, postcards and newspaper clippings. I know he bought it off Etsy - after I sent him the link - but for the life of me I can't remember the artist's name (or her Etsy username).

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STUFF. Glorious, magic, vintage middle eastern and Slavic themed STUFF. (<- YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE HOW MUCH I LOVE //STUFF//. GOD DEMANDED THE BEST OF THE HARVEST AND THE BEST OF THE FLOCKS, I DEMAND STUFF (AND CHOCOLATE AND FRANKINCENSE, BUT MOSTLY //STUFF//).

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Handmade decorated hair sticks made by a Ukrainian artisan for my Medusa hair. (I struggle fucking DAILY with my hair. While my genes might've favored my Native American bloodline for pubic hair (EVEN MY BIKINI WAXERS HAVE COMMENTED ON MY REMARKABLY ROBUST AND COURSE PUBIC HAIR) they totally favored my Ukrainian bloodline for head hair. I have baby fine waist length hair which looks CRAZY AWESOME AMAZING when made-up (and in photos) but has a wandering life of its own. To keep it in place I normally sweep it up in a bobbing ponytail or bun, which Italics hates (HE PREFERS MY HAIR TO BE FREE-RANGE) but it keeps me sane while doing housework.)

My new hair sticks are resting on one of my new khokholma pieces. I'm trying to incorporate more Ukrainian paraphernalia into my spiritual practices and I figured the beautifully painted folk art of khokholma was a good place to start. I now have four pieces, not including the egg cups I know that Italics got me for my birthday.

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I collect a lot of things - antique/vintage table linen, unfinished embroidery, green depression plates, old spoons (to name a few) and pieces of old horse brass. I already use the pieces ritually (as decoration), but I'm planning to get a leather collar made so I can physically wear them - ponygirl-style - as ceremonial jewelry. Once I get my harness made I can then focus on the next important aspect - the tail.

Because I'm all WAR! (AND OTHER STUFF THAT WILL NOT BE SPELLED OUT IN CAPS LOCK, BUT //WILL BE// MYSTERIOUSLY ADDRESSED IN A DISMISSIVE WAY) I identify and have a fondness for the Queen of Spades. But the good Queen is the Queen of Air, and I'm fire which means I'm technically Queen of Clubs. (I'm reluctantly trying to embrace clubs while wistfully glancing at spades; life's tough, I'll get over it...eventually.)

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Candles from the Holy Land that just barely managed to arrive. I have a bizarre fondness for old skool Christianity (especially if its Russian Orthodox) and incorporate some of the religion's images, concepts and celebrations into my spiritual life. These candles are typically burned during Easter by devout followers of Christ, I'll be burning them during our wedding ceremony when we celebrate the marriage of the resurrected king to the virginal Spring bride.

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They were $3.00 USD! Handmade! From Ukraine! How could I possible say NO to miniature emblems of ancient Ukie life? (OBVIOUSLY I COULD NOT.) The bestest part? The scythe is roughly the same size as all of my hair sticks which means this Ukrainian witch can wear a scythe IN HER FUCKING HAIR. (<- DON'T MESS WITH THIS REAPER.) The axe - which is delightfully sharp despite its small size - has already been claimed by Wadjet, but that's a whole other entry.

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To my delight and surprise I found these vintage sterling silver middle eastern earrings in my TO SEND! box. (<- "TO SEND BOX" = GIFTS WAITING IN A LARGE CARDBOARD BOX TO BE PACKAGED UP AND SENT TO FRIENDS.) Somehow Italics accidentally (mis)placed the padded envelope containing the earrings in my outbound mail box around Christmas and I found them last week when clearing it out. They're absolutely gorgeous, but crazy insane HEAVY.

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Some Slavic countries observe a strange tradition on Easter Monday - spanking women. It's an old practice - and ancient practice - that bestows good luck, good health and beauty for the following year (and also allows a man to (not so subtly) announce his attraction to a certain lady). Because the play spanking/switching (switches and whips were made from fresh tree branches, decorated with ribbons) is considered a blessing it's customary to give a gift of an egg in return.

Last year was the first year we observed Spanking Day. After getting thoroughly spanked I laid a large golden egg in Italics' hand. (<- LITERALLY. ADMITTEDLY, IT DID POP OUT AND HIT ITALICS ON THE FOREHEAD WHEN I HAD A STONED "OH MY GOD WHAT IF I CAN'T GET THIS THING BACK OUT AGAIN?" MOMENT AND PROMPTLY SHOT THE EGG OUT OF MY VAGINAL CANAL WHEN HE WAS PERFORMING ORAL SEX ON ME. THE EGG WAS MORE CAREFULLY LAID THE SECOND TIME AROUND, JUST AFTER AN ORGASM, STRAIGHT INTO HIS HAND.)

I gave Italics an Easter egg - a real shell hollowed out, painted and then filled with chocolate - as his egg payment last year. This year? This year I got a sterling silver egg charm for him to add to his charm bracelet. (<- I KNOW IT'S TOTALLY NOT MANLY TO HAVE A CHARM BRACELET (OR TO BE GIVEN A CHARM BRACELET), BUT WHEN I GAVE ITALICS THE BLANK ANTIQUE BRACELET IT WAS LIKE GIVING HIM A BLANK DIARY. WHENEVER ANYTHING SIGNIFICANT HAPPENS WE FIND A CHARM THAT COMMEMORATES THE EVENT, AND WE ROUTINELY ADD CHARMS OF ANIMALS OR THINGS THAT ARE SOMEHOW SIGNIFICANT TO US.)

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Finally, a pipe to call my own! We have a ritual bong (which sits on my nightstand altar), we have one or two pipes for out of the house smoking (when in the house we congregate at the BONG BUCKET to do rockets together) but until about a week or two ago I didn't have a personal pipe for private use.

My dear friend (and one of my favorite witches), Carolina Gonzalez, sent me a witch-themed package a few months back which included her homemade Lord Krishna Smoking Herbal Blend. I was so fucking excited that the very first thing I did was NOT SMOKE THE HERBAL BLEND OR OPEN ANYTHING UP, AT ALL. (When the mix fell into my little hands I knew I had to make an EXPERIENCE out of using it, which meant finding and buying the right pipe.)

CAROLINA, I FINALLY FOUND THE RIGHT FUCKING PIPE; YOU'LL BE HEARING FROM ME SHORTLY! (AND WHEN I MEAN "SHORTLY" I MEAN MY VERSION WHICH YOU ARE ALL TOO FAMILIAR WITH.)

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The second khokholma piece I bought last month. This one's more subtle and faint than the usual in-your-face boldness that I associate with khokholma designs. I only paid £0.54 for the wooden barrel - not too shabby for a glorified stash box, right?

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I don't really know what the fuck this is - neither did the seller - but I DO know that I liked it, and after several episodes of bad Ebay luck I was hellbent on winning this particular item. It's the perfect offering stand/mini-altar, you can fit a stick of incense (or a flower stalk) in the "vase" perched on the rim and you can leave little trinkets, tokens or candies within the dish itself.

Because I identify with the concepts of FERTILITY GOAT and SACRIFICIAL LAMB I chase after cloven hoofed ritual items, but lately I've been attempting to widen the net to incorporate animals that are exceptionally significant to me (i.e., rabbits, foxes, crows and large felines). When I saw the roaring/yawning lion dish the Leo in me (I'm Aries with a Leo ascent) said THIS IS A GOOD FUCKING PLACE TO START.

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I HAVE AN INEXPLICABLE PASSION FOR NOVELTY SOCKS (PROBABLY BECAUSE I INHERITED BAD UKRAINIAN CIRCULATION; I SLEEP WITH SOCKS ON IN FUCKING //SUMMER//, SERIOUSLY) THAT ITALICS ONLY ENCOURAGES. (THE "NOT LISTENING" AND "I UNDERSTAND, I JUST DON'T CARE" SET ARE TOTALLY HIS DOING. <- YOU SHOULD'VE SEEN US LAUGHING HYSTERICALLY AT THE CASH REGISTER WHEN PURCHASING THEM. <- IT'S THE //LITTLE THINGS// THAT MAKE A RELATIONSHIP, YOU KNOW?)

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OH, GOD, THEY WERE REDUCED TO CLEAR AND I JUST COULDN'T RESIST. I mean, at least the Lady's Mantle is good for WOMAN STUFF and the Golden Rod should make the bees happy way into autumn. (That's what I told myself, anyway. In reality I'm a Midwest girl transplanted in Scotland who kind've sort've misses the flora of her childhood. <- I HAVE NOT SEEN MILKWEED IN OVER TEN YEARS. PLEASE SEND HELP. AND WHEN I MEAN "HELP" I MEAN ENVELOPES STUFFED WITH MILKWEED SEEDS.)

Badger, Badger, Fox

Courtesy of my Twitter account: Scooped up first ever badger roadkill. The second one we found was too far gone. Don't even ask me about the fox. (<- Too, too far gone.) Italics has already forbidden me to eat any of it, but we're still negotiating what I get to do with certain internal organs.

Standing On Your Own Feet

Do you have any books and/or sites that you would recommend that helped you to get started in your practices of witchcraft?

I know this is TERRIBLE for me to admit, but...I so got a kick from this question. I sometimes forget the age discrepancy between myself and the majority of followers; I forget that I'm double your guys' age (in some cases). The internet's always been around for a lot of my followers, but it's only been around for half my life. I can't recommend any sites because my practice of witchcraft PREDATES the net (at least the version that became available to the general public in the mid 90s), so there weren't any sites (or books) that influenced me or my beliefs.

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

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

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

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

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

Love Magic, Ms. GD-Style

Defrosting a raw lamb heart for some love magic. (3 HEARTS IN TOTAL; 1 FOR HEXIN', ONE FOR LOVIN' AND ONE FOR OFFERIN'.)

Seashells and Rowan Berries

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

My geranium pile? Sorted. (I separated the stems from the leaf heads, and bundled the tiny sticks together. Both dried parts ended up in the same jar because it seemed like a shame to throw out the stems since they're as fragrant as the lemon rose scented leaves.)

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

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

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

Red Nightmare

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

That fucking red car has sat in the same fucking place this entire winter. (And when I say "entire" I mean since November, and that's me being GENEROUS, okay?) Vans and trucks barely squeeze by, the mailman - who once parked opposite of our house when doing his rounds - had to find another spot to momentarily leave his car. The snow plow folk? THEY WANT TO KILL ME. (Normally I have a hard time reading body language and facial expressions, but, somehow, I inherently understand what they're thinking and feeling when I mistakenly make eye contact with them when they turn into our dead end street.)

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

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

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

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

Missed the Memo

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

Home Remedies

I swear to God I must be the only fucking witch who feeds homemade chicken soup to plants when she's worried about their health.

It's Happened

It's happened.

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

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

Same Old Joke

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

Ukrainian Breakfast

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

A half hour ago we enjoyed homemade crepes with plain and chocolate-flavored whipped cream, sour cream, maple pecan coffee and forest fruit pyrohy (Ukrainian pierogies). I'm SO hardcore Ukie that I actually wrapped my pyrohy INSIDE my nalysnyky and covered the delicious abomination with fresh sour cream.

(How's THAT for extreme?)