tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4656100203996407102024-02-08T14:52:13.979-05:00BlowingBigBubblesKeep Swimming! Keep Swimming!CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.comBlogger74125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-35478974825291915722014-01-15T15:13:00.000-05:002014-01-15T15:13:24.111-05:00Reflections On a ChickenWhen my grandmother was a young teen in Poland, she was rounded up like an animal and thrown in a cattle car. They stopped at Auschwitz, which in Polish is known as Oświęcim, and were all commanded to disembark. There were two lines. One to the camp, one to the showers.<br />
<br />
For some inexplicable reason, my grandmother was told to get back on the cattle car and they went over the border into Germany.<br />
<br />
Hannah, now known as 'Anna' was sent to a private farm which had been seized by the Third Reich for its produce to feed the troops. Grandma was assigned to be a field hand. This didn't go over well because her job was to walk a giant picnic basket for miles to a specific field for lunch and then return and repeat it for dinner.<br />
<br />
She spent so much time meandering through woods and on roads and then talking with the boys and men in the fields that they never got dinner and she'd return home after curfew which put the farmer and his family in jeopardy because spies, officials, and officers were always around. <br />
<br />
They tried to put her in charge of the chicken coops.<br />
<br />
One day an official demanded they all line up outside and she was to count all the chickens and return to him, waiting there outside. Each chicken, you see, was also a displaced worker, of sorts. Any that didn't provide the expected number of eggs would become a meal for some soldiers or officials. Either way, work or die. <br />
<br />
For all the chickens this farm had, the family, and none of the workers were able to enjoy eggs much because everything went to the military.<br />
<br />
My grandmother had to learn how to do two more things at once: ride a bicycle, and go into town with it, with all the day's eggs in a basket to be relinquished to a military depot.<br />
<br />
So Grandma began counting chickens and reported back to the official (who also served as the telegram messenger) and the farmer, who had an affection for her because she was quite young and he had only sons, both of whom were serving on the front lines.<br />
<br />
She told them there were so many chickens and seven roosters.<br />
<br />
The official asked her why were the roosters not counted as chickens and it was explained to him that roosters could not lay eggs, only fertilize them to make more chickens, so they served a different purpose. He was satisfied, told the farmer how many eggs were expected daily and departed.<br />
<br />
Soon after he was out of sight, the farmer said, Anna! Why did you tell him we have seven roosters! You know we have only two! She told him since the official didn't know the difference between roosters and chickens, they could now have more eggs because five of those roosters were in fact, chickens. So they got to eat eggs, albeit clandestine, after all.<br />
<br />
The farmer's wife grew to love Anna. The woman had a seizure disorder and was homebound. She asked her husband if perhaps my grandmother could be like a nurse to her. He was afraid of spies, and initially and reluctantly denied her request. <br />
<br />
Anna, meanwhile, was learning to ride a bike. And carry an open basket of around a hundred eggs in it.<br />
The first day of her several-miles long trek, she fell into a ditch and arrived at the depot covered in dirt with nothing but eggshells and tears. They let her go, and the farmer decided they might want to rethink the nurse thing.<br />
<br />
However, there was another snag. No one was allowed such a luxury and this family had no influence. So they came up with something else. They would make her a kitchen maid and teach her to cook (and speak) German. This worked out splendidly and she enjoyed cooking and serving their meals while tending to the wife, who she called Mother. My grandmother's own mother died in childbirth along with twins, when my grandmother was only three, and was tossed between sisters not much older than her, her father having died of tuberculosis, so she had no mother-love, except from the farmer's wife.<br />
<br />
Grandma ate at table with them. The telegram messenger spy arrived one evening at dinnertime and he was stunned to find her sitting there. He raged and demanded to know why she wasn't eating in the barn with the other animals (commonly, barns were connected to farmhouses) and the farmer explained that she didn't even understand German, so couldn't know what was discussed, plus prepared all their meals, so it was only fair.<br />
<br />
He was reported and had to go to town to pay a fine and receive a stern warning.<br />
<br />
He did it again when they discovered five roosters were indeed chickens.<br />
<br />
Eventually the war ended and my grandmother was invited to stay with them. Their son who was against the war but drafted anyway had wanted to marry her but he was and would remain MIA. Their other son who was a hardcore nazi survived and made life hell for her, whom he called an outlander. She had met my grandfather by then, a casanova from another farm, and would marry him and find their own way, so they all parted tearfully.<br />
<br />
When the Red Cross appeared to find new homes for all the displaced workers, they discovered that all the countries required the men to go first for six months to a year and then could send for their families. My grandfather was all for it but my grandmother, now a mother of two little girls, was completely against it and she sabotaged his every attempt at going to Australia, New Zealand, and Canada. Finally, a country opened up that would take entire families, even those unsponsored, and that's how they found their way to the United States.<br />
<br />
Grandma could grow anything. Out of necessity and at times in Europe when she was starving, she would go down to the river and eat weeds to fill her stomach, so the moment they were able to, she planted a small potted garden and then after saving money, they purchased a house where she grew a larger garden. I would see her take a snipping from any plant and it would flourish with her love.<br />
<br />
Many times when money was tight my siblings and I would eat sandwiches made with white bread and beefsteak tomatoes grown in her garden. In the city she could not have a chicken, so she was content with dogs and two cats, both named Peter. <br />
<br />
Many years later, she was a great grandmother, three times over, and the military base where my mother worked, closed. She was transferred to an army depot in Pennsylvania which delighted my parents and my grandmother. My parents bought a small house and hired a contractor to make half of it a studio apartment for Grandma. She had her own little place, separated from my parents by only a door, and a beautiful garden to grow and spend all spring and summer in and that's where she would be found whenever I'd visit.<br />
<br />
She bought a poly-resin chicken and painted it yellow and sky blue with red polka dots and proudly displayed it in the garden.<br />
<br />
My father was fined, received a stern warning about distasteful garden ornaments, and we all went to the administrator to fight for the chicken.<br />
<br />
The chicken stayed.<br />
<br />
Now Grandma is in a nursing home. After my dad's stroke, I was unable to take care of his needs, hers, and my own. I barely took care of physical needs like her insulin injections but was emotionally drained and she had no one to talk to all day except Wonton and my dad's cat, Schnookie. She watched a lot of crime shows and Walker Texas Ranger. I knew she was lonely. I knew I was fading away myself and was too isolated and after coming up with no help from state agencies, decided I had to leave.<br />
<br />
My uncle got involved and he and my aunt found a nice assisted living facility and once again she flourishes. I asked her for the chicken, and she said, of course, but there was a lot of family drama and I needed to make a quick getaway with Wonton. I packed everything I could into my Outback wagon, my aunt and uncle took Schnookie and Grandma's parakeet, and Wonton and I took off for a 4000 mile roadtrip.<br />
<br />
That was in July.<br />
<br />
In October I returned to another area in Pennsylvania on another lake and am unspeakably happy except making ends meet financially is a challenge. In some ways I love the challenge. And friends upon friends upon friends are helping out in so many creative ways.<br />
<br />
Nothing I do or have experienced hasn't been an adventure but there are days that I won't eat not because there's no food, but because I'm so afraid there won't be food in the future or my electricity will be shut off so I meditate and take deep breaths.<br />
<br />
I call my dad in his nursing home and we chat. I call Grandma sometimes when she isn't socializing in the lounge. I text my aunt and uncle and thank them for taking care of things. I thank God a hundred times a day and chant, I am grateful, I am grateful, I am grateful and I am.<br />
<br />
But still, no matter how positive your outlook, or looking back you see your mistakes and vow to never make them again or give yourself a break and say, those weren't mistakes, those were lessons that needed to be learned, you sit down and weep over some colossal losses. And loneliness. And are you ever going to make good on your debts.<br />
<br />
You hear the couple upstairs making love and you aren't jealous at all but happy that there is love in the place you dwell but you ask God to wrap His arms around you just this once as you cling to a stuffed black lamb and fall asleep with tears counting your blessings and telling yourself tomorrow is a new start. Look what Grandma survived.<br />
<br />
Yesterday I could clearly see my little dieffenbachia is not doing so well. I talk to my plants and tell them they're alive and flourishing but this one is feeling a bit down. No matter what I do, it's fading. So I do some research and the experts weigh in: immediately re-pot in good soil. <br />
<br />
Only problem is, I'm days away from having my electricity cut-off. I have one emergency gift card I'm saving for gas for the car, and a Starbucks card. I'm not asking my friends for another penny, they've given so much and have their own needs. I'm screwed. Think, think, think.<br />
<br />
I drive to the area I lived with my dad for something and make a call to a friend who owns a garden center on the off-chance he can spare some potting soil and two little pots (the pothos needs re-potting too), I don't care if they're cracked, I'll take them, but I just get voice mail. And then I think, the chicken.<br />
<br />
I'm in the area. It's time for me to go back to the house and get that chicken. I don't care who the hell thinks it's an ugly lawn ornament. It's taking a place of honor in my living room because it represents determination and endurance and GOOD that it's flamboyant and plastic! I don't care if I have to dig under six feet of snow, I'm getting that chicken and I drive through security and pull into the driveway and sitting there in the sun is the chicken. And a bag of potting soil. And two flower pots.<br />
<br />
Picking up one of the pots, I see that it was one of the centerpieces from my wedding reception. I painted over thirty with my sister-in-law a few nights before my wedding and I took them to my grandmother and we bought flats and flats of impatiens to fill them with. On each pot I painted the words, Let Love Grow.<br />
<br />
And I bought stones to scatter around the tables at the reception and painted words on them too. And in that one pot was one of those stones and it said, Reflect.<br />
<br />
My eyes filled with tears and I thought of the promise of love and a new marriage and where it all went horribly wrong but I knew with all my heart I had tried my best. And now, starting over was the hardest of the hardest things I'd ever done in my life and I realized that 'reflect' wasn't just about looking back.<br />
<br />
'Reflect' is also about looking at myself and seeing how far I've come and what is yet to come. Promise, and joy, and yes, love, real true love. 'Immediately re-pot in good soil' is excellent advice.<br />
<br />
And the funny thing is, that my prayers were answered that I got that potting soil and two pots<br />
<br />
And Grandma's chicken. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h1 class="firstHeading" id="firstHeading" lang="en">
<span dir="auto"><br /></span></h1>
CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-8178471954216061172014-01-10T17:15:00.002-05:002014-01-10T17:15:31.153-05:00Guilty Pleasure Confessions<span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][2]"></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{0}[0]">As
a card-carrying second-generation Italian-American raised ten years in
an old neighborhood where everyone married everyone else (my dad married
the girl across the street, my aunt married the guy who lived next door
to my dad, etc.) and then raised in another town with a very large
Italian population, it was a very big deal who you went to for your
beef, pork, sausage--oh the sausage wars, and my dad's side of the
family owned a chain of butcher stores, so woe to the neighbor who
shopped anywhere else---canned crushed or whole tomatoes (Tuttoroso if
you knew what was good for you) and God forbid if you EVER were seen in
the supermarket with jarred sauce in your cart or at the cashier. You
were a BAD ITALIAN. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{0}[0]"> </span><br data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{1}[0]" /><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{2}[0]">I
didn't know what the inside of a McDonalds was until I was 10. I didn't
even know what Spaghetti-O's were until I was 15. My Irish best friend
would eat it everyday for lunch where we'd eat at her grandma's a block
away from school. I'd sit there with my pb&j which I guess is universal. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{2}[0]"> </span><br data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{3}[0]" /><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{4}[0]">My
saving grace is that my mom was Polish. They never let her forget the
shame of not being born Italian, but she rebelled in her own ways and
with her mother's help, because her parents owned the house we lived in,
across the street from Italian Nonna. So yeah, Mom learned to shop
right, and cook Italian like an Italian but we got lots of Polish food
too and my Polish grandma could strike fear into the heart of grown men
(and did) so no one would stand up to her. Mom just was being a good
wife in those days. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{4}[0]"> </span><br data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{5}[0]" /><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{6}[0]">Story
is getting long so I'll wrap it up--I had my first can of Spaghetti-O's
when I moved into my first apartment at the ripe old age of 32, swear
to God. With meatballs. The first time I tasted those fake meatballs,
that fake sauce, those little rings of sketti, I thought for sure I was
going to hell AT 32! But...it was delicious, delicious hell. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{6}[0]"> </span><br data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{7}[0]" /><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{8}[0]">Yeah,
I make my own sauce. I also buy Prego. Fuck anyone who doesn't like it.
Still, I use Tuttoroso tomatoes. Some habits are hard to break. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{8}[0]"> </span><br data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{9}[0]" /><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{10}[0]">And
I keep six cans of Spaghetti-O's with meatballs in the back of a shelf
on my baker's rack/pantry. It's like candy to me. Comfort food to the
nth level. If you touch them, I'll break your effin' fingers. </span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0]"><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{10}[0]"> </span><br data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{11}[0]" /><span data-reactid=".r[j8].[1][3][1]{comment597661060305221_597780090293318}[0].[0].{right}.[0].{left}.[0].[0].[0][3].[0].{end}[0]{12}[0]">THAT'S Italian.</span></span></span>CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-89171126449079334442014-01-03T22:35:00.000-05:002014-01-03T22:35:38.190-05:00The LambAn excerpt from a letter to a friend:<br />
<br />
<span class="null">You said to pay attention to signs as they would be
very strong. I think I told you that while I was neglected and abused, I
had a younger brother who was weaker, so more of a target, and as he
got older, he turned to drugs to feel numb. We were very very close and
things had turned well for him for some time when he put distance
between himself and my parents and other brother. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="null">He got married, a good
job, and an apartment. Then, he was in an accident and very injured and
lost his job, his apartment, and his wife worked many many hours and
wasn't home for weeks at a time (although the love was real) and he had
to return to my father's home because he had nowhere to go. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="null">My husband
wouldn't allow him to live with us, and I told him that he would have to
give up drugs or go to rehab and I would take him anyway. By that time
he was too addicted but I would let him stay at my house for a couple of
weeks at a time, then go back to my dad's, then return back to me to some peace
again.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="null"> He died accidentally in his sleep from the drugs. They all believe it
was suicide but I don't. He was too good for this world, too sensitive
in a world that devoured him.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="null"> When I left my husband, I begged my father to take me in because I had
nowhere to go. My brother was dead only a few months. I felt as if my
father was a main cause of my brother's death and in anger I told him
that, during a verbal attack by him.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="null"> I slept in my brother's bed, on his
pillows, under his blankets, in his room. I held his things that my
other abusive brother hadn't already picked through like a ghoul. I
asked his wife for something, anything, that I could have that belonged
to him and she cried and said that my other brother took it all.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="null"> When I had to escape my father's house because my other brother was
trying to trap me into staying to take care of my dad after his stroke, I began packing everything I had into my Subaru Outback wagon.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="null"> I looked
under the bed and found a plate, knife, spoon, a piece of granite from
the World Trade Center, a few photographs and I was so grateful. The
night before I left, I reached under the bed one last time and found a
stuffed black lamb. It was my brother's and it was meant to go with me.
Everywhere I went, I would sleep with the lamb and hold its paw. </span><br />
<br />
<span class="null">And
when I came to this new apartment and I would worry, I would hold the
lamb and talk to Donny, my brother.
We had the first snowstorm coming and I couldn't locate my shovel. It
was a mystery and I had no money to buy a new one. I had only a broom
but it was worse. The way my door is shaped, I would be unable to open
it if there was more than a few inches of snow.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="null"> I went to sleep with the
lamb praying that everything would be okay. I got up in the morning and
went to the door to see what I would be facing, but the snow was
cleared away from the door, the path and down the steps. Gravel was
thrown so I would be able to walk down the incline.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="null"> I was so surprised
and I went back to my bedroom to get my cellphone and the lamb was
laying not where I left it, on the side, but in the space where I had
been sleeping. My cat hadn't moved it because she was in the window
watching the snow. I called my neighbor upstairs and asked him and he
said, Yes, I did it. I knew it would be hard for you so I did it. I
thanked him and started to cry in gratitude.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="null"> Today was another snowstorm. A friend brought me a beautiful new shovel
and gifts for my cat and me for Christmas and we had a lovely time, a
week earlier, so I was ready but again, I thought, I need to open that
door a few inches to get out to shovel. I woke up again, and I heard
shoveling and my neighbor was at my door clearing the snow again. He
apologized for waking me and I assured him he didn't. I thanked him
again, God bless him. I pray always for him and his little family and
dog.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="null"> I went back to my bedroom and the lamb again was in the same place in
the center of where I had been sleeping, again moved but not by me or
the cat.
I knew then that it was not a coincidence. It was Donny.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="null"> I was reminded
that he was always the one who shoveled the snow at my father's and my
father had no mercy for him, that they had a long driveway and my
brother had no gloves and his hands would bleed but he did it anyway out
of love.
And I knew this time that he had been doing it again, through someone
else, out of love.
Happy New Year. Keep warm, my friend. </span><br />
<span class="null"><br /></span>
<span class="null">I see the signs.</span><br />
<span class="null"><br /></span>
<span class="null">I see the signs.</span>CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-15742804817430525162013-09-13T00:52:00.004-04:002013-09-13T00:52:30.648-04:00Cicada<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Last
night I heard only one cicada singing its lonely hearts death song and
actually prayed it'd find a mate. The rain finally came today and when
the pups came in rolling around and delighted, I ran out the front door
and down the steps and stood in it, grateful.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> It stopped after a good soaking and a squirrel began barking and I realized how much I missed all that. </span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> And I prayed.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> And now the air is filled with a hundred more cicadas; the last one was neither last, nor alone.</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"> Nor am I.</span>CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-64555954996914987252013-09-01T00:06:00.000-04:002013-09-01T00:06:52.515-04:00The Sun In Our Eyes 100 Miles to Lubbock<br />
<br />
Wonton spent the entire trip across the country hiding under bags in the back seat. If I hadn't tethered several leashes together to her harness, It would have been impossible to pull her out and sneak her in and out of economy hotels like a furry ten pound pumpernickel. It's very difficult to convince a terrified cat to act like a loaf of bread. I admit I didn't know what I was doing. I was 'chicken-winging' it. I had always wanted to roadtrip across country but never dreamed my only companion would be a cat.<br />
<br />
I'm 46 years old and I still don't know what I'm doing. And it's not just me to fuck up my life or be like a dandelion seed blowing in the wind. I have to take care of her, think of her always, first, because she is little and she may be ferocious at times, but the world will devour both of us if we aren't guarded, and even if we are and that was a lesson I'd been learning my entire life and would come to a head over and over again like increasing larger crashing waves until it was sink or swim. No indifferent floating for me, ever. The analogy is ironic considering how little water there actually was in the town I was in on the outskirts of Lubbock, Shallow Water. <br />
<br />
Although I couldn't see Wonton, I spoke to her all the way. I would call out and she would answer a quick meow from the depths of the car, or if she was in need, a howl and come out and I'd have to figure out what was going on. I stopped on the shoulder somewhere on a toll road in Oklahoma because she was yelling and discovered a throw pillow in her water bowl. As far as I could see, she wasn't eating, drinking, or using her litter pan all day long, but was offended that she didn't have the choice. Thinking about it, so would I be, considering how little room she had to navigate.<br />
<br />
I'm glad I got the air conditioning fixed because in retrospect, we would have both died in the heat. We were traveling in July and like a bad luck lottery, hitting hundred degree weather in every state we crossed. Even with it on full blast, it wasn't circulating well into the back because the car was packed to the ceiling and when I saw Wonton mouth-breathing, I was filled with guilt, I pulled in early for the night. She didn't volunteer for this shit. <br />
<br />
I saw my first tumbleweed 99 miles in. There were three, to be truthful, and ridiculously tiny but so delightful, I pulled over to announce it on Facebook. I was so full of enthusiasm and gratitude and love. And stupidity. But that's all I want to say about that.<br />
<br />
Things I won't forget about TX:<br />
<br />
The kindness and hospitality and good manners of strangers<br />
<br />
The wide open sky<br />
<br />
Breathtaking farmland where even shacks were glorious in ruin<br />
<br />
Super cell thunder clouds, purple skies and formations with lightening sandwiched between them while boiling on the edge of a clear starry sky <br />
<br />
Ungodly 'dry heat' that made me wither the moment I stepped outside <br />
<br />
Fluorescent sunrises that lasted forever<br />
<br />
Cap'n, the orange and white cat, an underdog which stole my heart and would have taken with me, had there been any room left in the car<br />
<br />
Feeling more alone and isolated than I ever have been in the worst times and places in my life but at the same time, thankful I had someone to take me in for 37 days. <br />
<br />
<br />
We were not a good fit. I kept her in the bedroom 24/7 and she was lonely, and there were days I stayed in the bedroom or alone for long periods of time and we were lonely together. When I saw the cut on her ear, I chalked it up to cats being cats. When I saw the cut on her neck, and she ran from me, I knew it was time to go and we went.<br />
<br />
This time, she perched on a bunch of pillows and stared out the window the whole trip. She saw the first armadillo, before I did. And the second, and tenth. She liked buzzards and eagles. Horses and cows were boring to her but I liked them, the different species, markings, colorings, sizes.<br />
<br />
We stopped for the night in Paris, TX. The nicest motel room of the cheap chain I was favoring. We got two beds because the singles were taken and she took the one closest to the door but she spent the night sleeping on the floor between the beds next to me, and as we were leaving caught and ate the biggest roach I ever saw in my life.<br />
<br />
Everywhere we stopped, for gas or snacks or potty breaks for me, she stood and yelled for me and when we crossed the state line in Arkansas, she stood up on my shoulder and I felt genuine relief as if a giant burden had lifted. As we came off the highway and into the city, she put her paws on the dashboard and meowed at the windshield as if to say, WE'RE HERE! WE'RE HERE! and the energy shifted again.<br />
<br />
When we pulled into the driveway, my friend was on her way home from work so I texted her that we would wait out on the deck and I saw four giant quartz crystal clusters glowing in the sun and I sat on a rocker and felt at home and when she pulled up, we pulled Wonton out from behind a rolled up Oriental carpet and she took her in her arms and coo'd and Wonton let her love her and I knew it would take time but everything would be okay.<br />
<br />
And I burst into tears and am still crying as I type this.<br />
<br />
It's not easy to leave an abusive marriage. It's harder still to turn away from an abusive family. It's even harder when you're homeless and have few choices and have to leave someone who invited you to stay but you knew you were never going to belong. Everything feels like a long series of goodbyes. Everything is temporary and you don't know who your friends are anymore and you're suspicious of the ones who are generous and loving and are exhausted trying to figure out how to appease the ones who aren't. You burn bridges when you think you're building them. You burn them because you want some fucking respect to make your own decisions without their permission because they don't ask for yours. You burn them because you don't want to be enslaved. You constantly look over your shoulder wondering what's next. You pray for relief and mercy and forgiveness from God and all Creation. And you wipe the dust off your sandals of the ones who drove you away and you don't look back and you don't go back. You move forward, keep going, brush the tears away and take care of you and if you're blessed, a little cat or dog that you know loves you when the rest of the world has cast you out. CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-50586990142307833422013-07-07T16:26:00.002-04:002013-07-07T16:32:08.335-04:00The Great Escape Pre-Takeoff Log'<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">When
people say you've changed and they can't talk to (yell at) you anymore,
it's because you no longer fit their demands of who THEY think you
should be.'</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">******* </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Tonight
I stepped outside for some cool air and saw that the big pot of purple
petunias was exploding with lush blooms. My grandmother was outside
and I took.advantage of the opportunity to give her insulin then and we
chatted peacefully. I looked down at the petunias and noticed the most
beautiful gray moth I'd ever seen. It was big and fluffy and I could see
the patterns and striations in it<span class="text_exposed_show">s wings and body. It stayed with us for a few minutes while I talked to it and thanked it for its very meaningful visit.<br />
The significant visitation of a moth means transformation, new
direction, finding ones way in the darkness, spiritual and psychic
growth, attraction, unexpected messages and joy. <br /> It also represents
letting the scaffolding in our lives that imprison us to fully collapse
for us to take flight and folliw the light and not fear the darkness.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">******* </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">Wonton was microchipped, inoculated and given flea and tick treatment without much fanfare. She got lots of toys and treats. I got the bill. When we arrived at home, her top-of-the-line kitty kadillac stroller had arrived along with various accoutrements. This cat will eat better than me. In fact.....</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> *I* </span></span></span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">was admonished for Wonton being ONE POUND OVERWEIGHT. I said she was genetically predisposed to being spoiled rotten. </span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> We protested by eating a container of Philly smoked salmon cream cheese. And by 'we', I mean, she let me lick the lid.</span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">******* </span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">It's
pouring outside, I'm lying in bed in the dark listening to the soft
white noise of the little table fan and a lone firefly is giving me a
light show just outside my window.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> I've started saying goodbye to everything here just like I did to my own home for a year before I left the ex. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br />
Most of my stuff is in storage but I still can't fit two years of
living in this little room in my car, plus I'm saying goodbye to people I
may never see again, some of whom I'm very glad to be leaving and some
whom I'm heartbroken about. But I have to do this for me, even though I
don't quite know what 'this' is. </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> I guess that's part of what I'll figure out when me and my feline co-pilot are in a safer place.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">******* </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">I
think I'm going to bite the bullet, have faith the money will come from
somewhere and get the a/c fixed. I can deal with heat but even if I make
her bed in an ice cooler, I don't want to put Wonton's life in danger.
We went out for a short trip which included highway and she was wilted
when we came home. </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> Thanks to friends donating to my Paypal
account. If anyone else wants to chip in for the great escape,
mrpeachycat@yahoo.com is my Paypal account addy.</span> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[4f87f].[1]{comment4616521425781_4314594}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[4f87f].[1]{comment4616521425781_4314594}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[4f87f].[1]{comment4616521425781_4314594}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]">I've
called the National Domestic Abuse Hotline, Travelers Aid hotline and
local domestic crisis and women's centers. None if them have any resources nor even
want to hear anything. Unless you're in immediate physical danger and
then they tell you to dial 911. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[4f87f].[1]{comment4616521425781_4314594}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[4f87f].[1]{comment4616521425781_4314594}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[4f87f].[1]{comment4616521425781_4314594}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"> </span><br data-reactid=".r[4f87f].[1]{comment4616521425781_4314594}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:1]" /><span data-reactid=".r[4f87f].[1]{comment4616521425781_4314594}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]">I
asked all of them, So if a person finds the strength to leave a bad
situation and has somewhere to go but needs help getting there, there's
no organization or structure within one to help them? They all said,
nope and two actually laughed.</span></span></span> </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">******* </span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Inaugural walk on leash with Wonton: dismal failure.<br /> Inaugural drag on leash with Wonton: FIVE STARS!!!!</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">******* </span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"> </span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Omg
omg omg I'm sitting in the back of my car, door open, one leg out,
cleaning, and s black bear just walked up to me. Right up to me. I'm
yelling at it to go. It's a yearling but it keeps coming back. It came
up to me the moment I said, You're coming with me Donny. He always shows
up as a bear. It touched me! Kept coming over even when I closed the
car door and said shoo shoo!</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"> </span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]">I've
spoken with shamans and bears don't appear anywhere in my totem. Bald eagle
is my main spirit animal, with ravens appearing a lot and ravens are
shape-shifters....</span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"> </span><br data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:1]" /><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]">I've
been told I'm shamanistic since I seem to attract so many animals in
significant ways but a bear always appears when I'm praying and thinking
about my brother Donny, even when he was alive. As I prepare for this
roadtrip to TX alone, I'm having dreams about my sister Lisa and Donny
and others who've passed over but seem to be wanting to make the trip
with me. I'm not joking when I say this bear seemed gently
persistent in getting in the car WITH ME.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]">******* </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]">A</span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]">s
my date of departure is nearing, I'm getting more signs dreams,
closure and confirmation. I am surer and surer I'm doing the right
thing.</span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]">******* </span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">I
haven't slept all night, not at all. Had 'racing thoughts', an anxiety
thing. Add to that, bone-tired hypothyroid, and chronic fatigue. I just
got up to give Gran insulin and I'm thisclose to hallucinating from
being so fatigued and sleep-deprived that I had to beg off hopeful Gran
who I'd promised to take on errands today. She took it like a trooper,
thank God. An angel calls and says, So and s<span class="text_exposed_show">o
will be there Fri AM and they can take you and Gran everywhere and you
can leave your car at the mechanic, so go get some sleep.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> I'm looking at
piles of packing that needs to get done and laundry too and the clock
is ticking.....but I'm taking something to knock me out cos I can't even
stand. Please send lots of positive energy and prayers. I need lots of
energy to make this journey. Thanks. Now going to snooze on the couch
(cooler room) in my Hello Kitty panties and hope no one shows up at the
door.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">******* </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Today
my gran found the nursing home she'll be moving to soon. We were
sitting outside talking about it, (she's optimistic) while saying
goodbye to her parakeet and my dad's cat who have found sumptuous new
digs. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> My horoscope said an unexpected windfall would occur, and
I've been finding loose change and bills, I'd mislaid and friends are
still contributing to my Psypal account, so everything is <span class="text_exposed_show">falling into place.<br /> As we were talking, I noticed a large bug headed for me, buzzing loudly and got up snf went into the house. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br />
We continued talking inside and I felt something crawling on my bare
back and grabbed a hairbrush to push whatever it was off. Five full
minutrs later, the same giant bug buzzed past my face and landed on the
window screen beside it. Wonton and I investigated. Gran asked what it
was. A giant beetle! (not cicada...they've come to me as well). Soon
Wonton and I lost interest and we both decided to take naps. I sat up
from the couch and found the beetle headed straight for her on the floor
as she regarded it with as much interest as drying paint. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> I got a cup and saucer, scooped it up and set it free outside. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Many many big changes going on. For the most part, it's being accepted and even embraced.<br />
The significant visit of a beetle (which was evidently the stowaway in
my dress) means RESURRECTION. It signifies transformation, change,
needing new sunshine and leaving the past behind.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> And so, we do.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show">******* </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321097}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:2]"><span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0]"><span data-reactid=".r[565n8].[1]{comment4626302990314_4321359}.[2:0].[5:0:right].[4:1].[5:0:left].[2:1].[2:0].[2:0:2].[3:0].[4:0:0]"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Today
I'm spending Sunday inside, kinda resting. I'm in this hot little
bedroom but thankful I had a roof over my head for nearly two years. I
had blankets and a little heater to keep me warm in winter, and two
little portable fans and a lock on the door so I could sleep with as
little (or no) clothes on as possible in the summer. The view outside my
window was always breathtaking and every mornin<span class="text_exposed_show">g I woke up and said, Today is a beautiful day before I began my affirmations. <br /> <br />
Sleeping in the room my baby brother died in, indeed, the bed itself,
is bittersweet. I feel him with me frequently, especially during prayer,
meditation and when I can't sleep at night, but at the same time, know
he is happy and in a safe place where there is no pain and he is loved
by all. I believe when we shed our our physical forms, we can travel at
the speed of thought so when I need him and Lisa and others who have
been perfected or are working it through, they communicate to me that
they're around and they're helping. I know angels both human and
supernatural are at work. <br /> <br /> If not for the donations to my
Paypal account, I would be unable to make this journey on the day I MUST
go. If not for the encouraging emails, IMs, PMs, calls, messages, gifts
and discounts, dreams, cards in the mail, prayers, positive healing
energy, love, and support from human, animal and spiritual beings, I
would be frightened and unsure. <br /> <br /> I am sure.<br /> <br /> Universe tells me every single day and proves it. <br /> <br />
So today I was determined to retrieve things that had fallen between
the headboard and the head of the bed wedged tightly against it. I
couldn't physically pull it away. It was stuck by a piece of loose
baseboard heater. But I found a pair of tongs and was able to maneuver
things and pulled bits out piece by piece. I found papers, both mine and
his, and photographs which I know his widow will appreciate. I found a
plate, bowl and spoon which may have been from his last meal. I'm taking
the spoon with me. I found two things I'd lost, one which I'll mention
here; a piece of clear kunzite.<br /> <br /> Kunzite is a crystal which
helps adjustment and allows healthy functioning. It calms, comforts and
cleanses negative energy and traumatic energy. It helps stressed out and
sleepless or overstressed children and animals, so Wonton will benefit
too while traveling. It also softens the mood while traveling to avoid
road rage and calms difficult passengers (not that the Ninja Pirate Pimp
Diva Warrior Princess will be 'difficult').<br /> It increases intuitive powers and helps repel negativity and harmful spirits. <br /> <br />
Another thing I found is something Donny lost. I was quite surprised to
find it. It was a stuffed black lamb. As some of you might remember,
Donny's favorite color was black. People often think 'occult' when they
see black, but occult means hidden, which is not bad. It means the
unseen and if we have faith, there is nothing to fear, even in total
darkness. There's also another meaning overshadowed by the first. Black
also means 'to trust' and I'm taking this as a message from Donny again,
since he's sending me all these black animals, mice, a squirrel,
yearling bear and now the stuffed lamb, to trust. Trust God, trust him
and those guiding me, trust Universe, trust the friends who are opening
their home to me, and trust myself. <br /> <br /> Sheep often indicate
timidity or followers. Anyone that knows me knows that I'm neither but I
did toe the line for most of my life pleasing others who could never be
pleased and always wanted more, rarely giving or with unreasonable
illogical strings attached. Lifetime grudges held and conditional love
or what their idea of love was and is.<br /> <br /> Donny, on the other
hand was introverted and more reserved but he had many friends who
adored him. He was loyal and loving. The black lamb also has another
meaning. In our family, Donny and I were treated differently. I've
touched on that here and there and feel no need to repeat it, nor defend
it, as I embark on a new life, but black sheep we indeed were.
Unwanted, undesirable, not up to expectations. <br /> <br /> One lesson
sheep offers is that you if you are wishing to move past your poorly
choose actions, you can. A sheep's coat is sheared away and it is later
cleaned and spun into clothing which offers warmth to others. You too
can shed away any dirtiness you are feeling and begin anew with a
scrubbed clean slate. You are not worthless just because you made some
mistakes or believe you made mistakes people assigned to you which you
are innocent of. Sheep medicine teaches that all experiences have value.
You can use your mistakes as teaching tools to assist others not to
fall into the same muck you did, or to offer a helping hand to pull them
up out of their personal muck. <br /> <br /> Because this was not a sheep
but a lamb, it also teaches us to quiet ourselves, listen, and reserve
our energies because we are growing. And indeed, I am.<br /> <br /> Donny is
coming with me and Wonton. So is Lisa, so is my mom and my grandparents
that have passed over but have contacted me. So is Chris Ranski, Scott
Butler and Mr. Peaches. Everyone who felt imprisoned is hitching a ride,
whether they passed on or not. Their chains are broken, were broken
when they left this earthly plane, but they are my fellow spiritual
travelers, partners in crime, and guides, on my karmic journey which
begins very soon. <br /> <br /> The oracle cards I keep pulling are Freedom, On Target, and Blossoming. </span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> I think that says it all. And I am grateful.</span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"> </span></span></span> </span>CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-50612316623749898572013-07-07T16:04:00.002-04:002013-07-07T16:04:22.425-04:00Independence Day<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}">Although
I sincerely wish I could be enjoying some crunchy grilled hot dogs, a
cold beer and fireworks, I'm spending the day packing my belongings into
trash bags, Ziplocs, boxes and luggage. My Independence Day will be a
week from today so I've got to get moving. I haven't bought any food for
the house since I'm leaving but a can of SpaghettiOs will do just
fine.</span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><br /> Last big BBQ I attended was my o<span class="text_exposed_show">wn.
Planned for months, shopped and prepared for weeks, cooked three days
non-stop. As soon as over 50 guests began arriving, ex-spouse
disappeared only to reemerge much later with his 'friend' beside him. It
was lonely as hell. Today, in this little room by myself,.sorting
stuff, somehow I feel less alone than when I was surrounded by friends,
family and neighbors, but rejected by my own husband. Now I'm shedding
the old. Ruin is indeed the road to transformation. Hope all this stuff
fits in the car. </span></span><br />
<span class="userContent" data-ft="{"tn":"K"}"><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Happy Independence Day, USA!</span></span>CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-91337042748593050852013-01-18T01:31:00.000-05:002013-01-18T01:31:41.811-05:00The PsychicsThey all told me he'd contact me again. Many said in two or three days. Many said in two months, no longer. Time would pass by and it would still be two days, two weeks, two months, this or that holiday and I waited and wouldn't exhale. One or two said it will take a long long time. I don't remember any of them saying never. I do remember wasting a fortune on such a fool's errand.<br />
<br />
Some of them said there was something wrong with him. Some said family troubles. One in the very beginning called the color of his eyes before I knew what they were and then one in the end described him to a tee but told me nothing of any other use than picking him out in a lineup. Most of the rest were more adept at picking up my verbal cues and breathing. I've read articles on this stuff, since I've invested so much in it and so many of them are such good actors that they'll have you believing he still loves you after all this time. And then others confuse his very specific characteristics with someone else's very specific characteristics and you put down the pen you've been writing copious notes with and wipe your eyes and say, 'Enough.' <br />
<br />
Eventually.<br />
<br />
Or you keep trying and keep spending money because you have no closure. And your friends (including the psychic ones) berate you for sloppily mopping up the chunks of your heart all over the floor as you slip and slide all over your innards and you mentally send him a message that evisceration would have been more merciful. And a follow-up message to wear a sweater when it's cold and a follow-up follow-up fuck you I hope you catch pneumonia.<br />
<br />
But then one morning (okay, early afternoon) you wake up. And you see the same view out the window that you've always seen (seasonal changes aside) and you stop hearing and seeing synchronicities and cease feeling that feeling you get in your heart whenever you think you feel he's with you even if he's never been in your presence and you begin to breathe again. You don't cry anymore when you hear something similar to something he'd often say and you don't fall apart when you see something he's said somewhere that obliquely references you in front of dozens of mutual friends and while it's subtlety disparaging and typically arrogant, you feel this sense of nothingingness except maybe the guilt you feel when a friend says, Okay, enough with the bullshit while the dozens of friends stand idly awkwardly by and that friend feels guilty for being reactive and the ones who had the option to act didn't and there was even one or two who would have disappointed you six months ago and now you just say whatever, I'm over it and you almost....just almost...are.<br />
<br />
I'd still call a psychic every now and then and ask. And then over time, I'd stopped or it was in fits and starts and strangely they'd ask me, strangers I'd never spoken with before, but perhaps they have a database, about him. 'Your heart is still connected to his.' 'Like hell it is.' 'Well, I understand you saying that, but it's connected and only time will heal that.' I've had plenty of time. I'm done. What's next? Who's next?' and then they'd talk about karmic debt and I'd hang up on them. <br />
<br />
I'd feel so sorry for myself I wouldn't get out of bed for days. Days. I would look at the shower and my pores would moan in protest, 'wash me', and I'd crawl back into bed and cover my head with a pillow or four and every occupant in the house would stand outside my door and draw straws to see who'd ask me when was the last time I ate and 'Look I brought you a sweet tea from McDonald's just like you like it!' and I'd be filled with self-loathing and revulsion at the shadow of the person I used to be and look in the mirror and say, 'Who's fearless now, chickenshit?' and spend another day in bed and look forward to the one day where I could spend an hour and money I didn't have crying to my therapist.<br />
<br />
I don't know what day it was. I know there are people who can pinpoint the exact moment they fell in love or what they were doing when JFK died or 9/11 happened but I began to have less months, then weeks, then days, then hours of misery and decided I wanted my life back and it wasn't him who took it from me. And it wasn't that I gave it to him. I took it from myself and was fully responsible and like all the variables and accumulative factors and shit that contributed to me weighing 700 lbs. at one point and realizing that it would take as many variables and factors and shit to lose it if I wanted to be who I wanted to be, I realized that it would take that much energy to take my life back from numb oblivion.<br />
<br />
First and foremost, I'm a fighter. It's immaterial that I've lost most of the fights of my life. The point is that I keep getting back up and fighting. Which is good. Because the alternative is to lie there and continue to be pounded by whoever sees an opportunity to spit or kick you in the ribs or be run over by a UPS truck because time and life waits for no one and no one likes a victim and since when did I become a victim? What the fuck was I doing being a victim? And did I always always *have* to fight? Why couldn't I just walk away and say, 'Fuck this shit. It's/he/she isn't worth it.'?<br />
<br />
I had that moment before. A few times. The most significant being the time I chose myself over a bottle of narcotics. Yay me. Well twice or thrice, so Yay me cubed. <br />
<br />
So, I began to make a few changes. Like fill up my life with meaningful things. And remove from my life meaningless things, things that no longer served a purpose. That included some friends. That included Facebook, at least temporarily. That included me bitching and whining about being wronged. No more sad or angry or defiant jpgs and song links unless I really liked them and they weren't passive-aggressive messages that only I and a few friends in the know would get but the real recipient wouldn't because they didn't have access to my 'stuff' anymore. That included liking guys who reminded me of that guy and then liking all their stuff and hoping they'd like my stuff and making excuses for them when they didn't and then hating myself for repeating the pitiful cycle. So...out with that bullshit.<br />
<br />
I made a lot of changes. I still have a way to go. And I still have a shitload of stuff I need to address, big stuff, not little niggling things like should I wait two weeks to get nail tips so they're fresh for court but now wondering if guitar lessons will be cheaper closer to home and does a Hello Kitty guitar really HAVE to be my first one? And Tae Kwon Do versus Karate......and hey, I can cross my legs now and what's the first thing I'm going to knit when I start taking lessons I signed up for and who's going to be my guinea pig as I learn Reiki energy work and I think after all the freakin boxalopes that Amanda sent me from the Land Down Under with their ridiculous postal costs, isn't it time I sent her at least one freakin thing especially since I shit all over her every time she encouraged me when I was being a whiny snot-nosed brat and Lara and Kitty and Angie had their own crap going on and still touched base and Bridget and Lissa ALWAYS knew when something was wrong and reached out to me and nobody promises you tomorrow. Nobody. There are no guarantees. I won't tell you what to do but I will tell you what I did, which is I had to stop whining and start doing.<br />
<br />
So I gave myself a concussion at the gym. Someone who doesn't yet know that he's going to teach me how to drive a stick shift pointed out to me that at least I went and I'll walk six miles this time on the treadmill before I throw up and I'm fucking awesome and brilliant and YES someone is going to adore me and love me and cherish me and be my soulmate. But first, I have to be my own. And that's what I'm doing.<br />
<br />
If you see me in a little cafe eating stuffed clams or a Cuban sandwich or some onion rings with a double whiskey straight, you might find me jotting down some thoughts, comparing notes with a server who recommended the mussels marinara or flirting with the guy next to me who just bought me a Belgian White because I really love the orange slices that come with it, you're not going to see me crying, unless it's for you and you need a hug and a friend.<br />
<br />
I'm done wasting time and energy and I've moved on. And you don't have to be psychic to know it. <br />
<br />
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<br />CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-76305925508078007952013-01-15T00:28:00.002-05:002013-01-15T00:28:54.924-05:00I Slept In This ShirtMy recollection, though hazy, is that my sister took it off her warm body and because I was too weak to lift my arms, put it on my shivering body, at my hospital bed. I treasure it particularly because it came to me at a time of great turmoil in my life and she was one of the few constants. While I was dying, she took care of me. And then she died.<br />
<br />
My dad insists angrily that she gave him the shirt and he took it off and put it on me, but the rest of the details are the same. I don't talk to him about how I recall it because he doesn't have much and to discount what he thinks he gave me when he's still putting a roof over my head while I go through this hell (Churchill said, 'Keep going.') and I'm not one to tend to bite hands that feed me although I confess to a nip here and there when someone is spiteful or cranky and take it out on me because I'm in the general vicinity.<br />
<br />
Either way, someone who loved me very much gave me the shirt and put it on me. <br />
<br />
Also, I remember barely being able to walk, but home from the hospital and going to the wound care center at least twice a week and I was losing weight so fast and in so much pain that it was basically the only article of clothing that was so big it didn't rub me anywhere and it's made of the thickest, heaviest weight cotton and it's got a giant hood and kangaroo pouch and is a pullover, so no zippers to irritate my injuries.<br />
<br />
It was then that people began referring to me in it as a bell, because it was past my knees and I wore black leggings that could easily be pulled up and down as medical personnel worked quickly to assess, measure, clean, cut, cauterize, disinfect, medicate, pack and bandage the holes in my body being ravaged by uncontrollable MRSA, racing quickly like a NASCAR pit-team before the Fentanyl stopped its magical painless wonderland.<br />
<br />
They would see me walking slowly, using the handrail in the hall or sometimes a wheelchair when I couldn't make it and was loopy from the meds or just too weak. I wouldn't let my family see me because my dad was almost seventy and crying, 'My poor little girl' and at that point had already lost my mother and soon, suddenly, my sister.<br />
<br />
I would beg my ex-husband to stay the night with me. The anxiety was overwhelming and often, he did but he was exhausted and had to work or lose his job. Sometimes he had to say no to me and I would cry so hard I'd get sicker. Years later he told me he'd wanted to kill himself. It was too much. He was right. It was.<br />
<br />
Then the visits to the center became less common and my visiting nurse along with Spouse took care of me at home. I wasn't very functional but stubborn insomuch as I refused a potty chair and no matter how stoned I was from a cocktail of very powerful opiates and muscle relaxants, I made it to the bathroom, even if I had to crawl. Sometimes, though, I didn't make it in time, but mostly I did. There's nothing beautiful about illness. My hair had fallen out. My teeth were damaged from vomiting, and the few times I'd look in the mirror, I saw a monster.<br />
<br />
Still, every time I went out, I wore the shirt, a bright red Dickies hoodie, the logo emblazoned across the chest. Sometimes I only made it as far as the front door because of a long bout of agoraphobia. I would stand in the doorway, holding the doorknob, dressed and ready to go, in fact, having made meticulous plans and looking forward to them but break out into a sweat and vertigo.<br />
<br />
I'd cry and be disgusted and disappointed with myself that I couldn't leave, although the door was wide open and it only took a step over the threshold to be outside in the beauty of the day and my whole body would shake in terror. Often, I wouldn't make it. Sometimes I would. And over time, the 'would' became more common and my desire to be part of the world again overcame the fear.<br />
<br />
Right now I'm lying in bed, under the covers, with only the light from the laptop. It's been a horrible day and more discouraging than words can convey. Tomorrow I will try again. But right now, I'm in my red hoodie with my red eyes and wet face in the dark. When I was little, it was a book and flashlight, but time and technology waits for no one.<br />
<br />
Half of my bed is covered in piles and piles of books and clothing. I like to lay on my side and pretend I'm a little spoon and the pile is really someone warm and loving next to me. A little bag from the pharmacy slips down the pile and a Twix candybar slips out onto my keyboard. I hadn't bought a Twix in years and it was purely an impulsive buy as I hadn't eaten at all today, in my race to accomplish what I could as time and energy would allow. I took the arrival of the Twix as an omen. I take omens seriously especially since I have some prophetic dreams. We should not ignore them. I should eat this Twix. So I will.<br />
<br />
Wonton won't leave the room if I won't leave the room, except to potty when she needs to. She won't eat or drink when I'm depressed and I have to force myself to get out of bed and sit by her china saucer and water bowl so she knows it's okay to eat. I have no child; She's my child. When she's done she looks up expectantly and licks her lips. It's time to go back. I make a quick trip to the bathroom. She sits outside the door. If I spend too much time in there, she lets me know she's waiting with delicate and barely discernible squeaking and squawking. <br />
<br />
I return to my room in the dark. My father calls out to me to please eat something but I can't. I lay in bed and I hear a little bell tinkle and feel her scaling Mt. Books About Zen and Many Marble Composition Pads as she makes her way toward me. It offends her delicate sensibilities to walk on my bare legs so she works her way around my personal K2 until she steps onto my rolled up sleeve and kneads my forearm. She licks my bare wrist and begins to purr a melody. I know in my heart of hearts that it's not just for her. She's trying to heal me too.<br />
<br />
She's, as my gran describes, a 'one-person-cat'. This dismays gran because she frequently tries to buy her love and Wonton can't be bought. She may eat the delicate morsels of fresh tilapia, but then she winds her way back to my bedroom or, if I'm not home, sits by the door and waits for me.<br />
<br />
One would not think she's an affectionate cat. That's because she only showers me with affection when we're alone. In public (ie, the living room), she'll lay nearby or on the back of the couch or chair I'm on, within paw's reach. She searches my face. My father says she's probably hungry. We've been through this before. She's not. She likes the little snackie rituals we have, but she's worried about me. And so am I.<br />
<br />
I have big problems. More people have bigger problems. I don't feel I have the right to complain. The problems grow bigger. They can't be ignored. I feel like I'm going to be covered by a landslide. I've been working so hard to work on everything and still they get worse and seemingly beyond my reach. I wrap my arms around myself and feel the red hoodie and the love that it was given in.<br />
<br />
Things I have done while wearing this shirt:<br />
<br />
Left my husband.<br />
<br />
Sat outside with my baby brother in the woods and watched a bear walk up to us from behind him. <br />
<br />
Pumped gas into my car for the first time ever.<br />
<br />
Had a pic taken of me with my remaining sibling where he has his arm around me. <br />
<br />
Argued with an ex-boyfriend over how he thinks it does 'nothing for me' which is code for, 'I can't see your body' and I laughed while he denied it. <br />
<br />
Was told that my brother Donny had died. <br />
<br />
Was told that my sister Lisa had died.<br />
<br />
Held my cat Mr Peaches in my arms and wailed when he came to me to tell me he was going to die and then the following day, wore it again, as he died. <br />
<br />
Had an epic meltdown after leaving the ex, that made my doctor confront me with the choice of either hospitalization or to see a therapist now. I chose the latter. Best thing ever.<br />
<br />
Joined a gym.<br />
<br />
Gave myself a probable concussion in the same gym.<br />
<br />
Detoxed myself from narcotics.<br />
<br />
Lost 430 lbs. over five years. <br />
<br />
Was surrounded by a gang of wild turkeys. I fended them off by laughing at them. <br />
<br />
Slept for three days straight, got up, put on a pair of jeans and went on errands without even brushing my hair. <br />
<br />
Blogged. <br />
<br />
Returned emails and texts to people who care about me. <br />
<br />
Carried it back and forth to Kitty's house for weekend retreats.<br />
<br />
Learned how to use jumper cables in 15 degree weather.<br />
<br />
Sat on the deck in the near dark, not wanting to go inside and saw a solitary deer peep out at me from behind a tree.<br />
<br />
Played Angry Birds and threw my laptop across the room in rage and frustration.<br />
<br />
Had my heart break into a million pieces by a man from another country.<br />
<br />
Got over him.<br />
<br />
Threw up a hundred times. <br />
<br />
Sat on the edge of the bed and sobbed to my ex boyfriend that I had no hope and listened to him tell me not to worry, stop worrying, I'm stronger than anyone he knows and it would get better and someone would come along and adore me.<br />
<br />
Ran outside and got a hot cocoa delivery from the same guy. Who hates the shirt.<br />
<br />
Told my therapist that I asked God to forgive me on the way over in case I purposefully drove over the guardrail.<br />
<br />
Decided not to refill my Xanax prescription. <br />
<br />
Made appointments and plans to continue rebuilding my life.<br />
<br />
Ate a Twix.<br />
<br />
Thanked my cat and God. In that order. <br />
<br />
<br />
I slept in this shirt. It's faded from washing, but it's magic to me and I won't stop wearing it even when it's threadbare because it's full of love and hope and the past and my future. It smells like me. It smells like my dreams too. It reminds me of everything I've done since I first wore it and of the few material things left in my life, it's a simple pleasure, a priceless treasure. <br />
<br />
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<br />CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-61817850980627214312013-01-13T19:18:00.000-05:002013-01-13T19:18:41.063-05:00You Don't Know MeI had spent a lot of late night talking with men online.<br />
<br />
I'd been at it for a few years. I was lonely and didn't know what I wanted except that vague, 'to be loved and understood', but couldn't put what were desires of my heart into practice, and words made it worse. I would flounder and end up feeling dissatisfied, hollow and sad.<br />
<br />
More than anything, I wanted another human being in the middle of the night to talk to.<br />
<br />
A lot of the men were looking too. No...all of them, all of us, were. Are. Why else would we be online if not to connect. Unless....we were doing research. I met a few of them too. They wouldn't admit to it but would slip up somehow...they were doing a paper, they were working on a film, they had a stand-up act, etc. I was to be their guinea pig or one of several, lucky me.<br />
<br />
Thankfully, I caught on earlier so I fucked with them. As dishonest as they were to their motives, they were so superficially comical that I didn't take it personally. It was the friends and potential romantic interests that I felt hurt by the most. People who pretended to like 'my stuff' or worse, tell me they didn't have time or didn't get to it yet but made sure I received multiple notifications and tags of their own offerings. I began to delete with impunity the work of anyone who wouldn't be mutually respectful.<br />
<br />
Many of them wanted to talk about sex but sexy talk is so intimate to me that I found it nearly always impossible to interact in this manner with strangers.<br />
<br />
Some of them were content to message back and forth on assorted forums and social media. One or two wanted to see me so Skype was the viable option for those I fancied, if distance was a factor. I don't count the streams of men who didn't request but demanded we sex chat, sext, or cam-turbate because I never took them seriously and yes there were one or two I shared a little fantasy with, then logged off and cried, empty, lonely and longing for warm strong arms around me and a kiss.<br />
<br />
How long and how many it took to make me realize the internet wasn't the place for me to find love or even meaningful friendship, not the right fit or medium and the last one in whom I'd seen much more than potential but the genuine admiration and appreciation of his 'now' and he wouldn't be bothered with talking to me without a game or documentary playing in the background or in another window and I felt ashamed and foolish.<br />
<br />
I'd broken my own internet rule made after a very public humiliation and had only myself to blame. I cried myself to sleep. Angry that I felt disrespected and unappreciated and undesired by him but enraged at myself for caring what a relative stranger who hadn't even asked me for my phone number, thought.<br />
<br />
A few days before, on my late sister's birthday, a holiday, I'd written a letter as a way of getting rid of the old in time for the new year. It was a list of people I needed to forgive, to release and be free myself. My own name was on there. For some reason this man's name strongly came to mind and I couldn't push it away although I reasoned that he hadn't really wronged me. Still, I wrote it down, thanked him for enriching my life and for being a catalyst in revealing further how I didn't want or deserve to be treated, and what I did want in a partner. I prayed and meditated, blessed him and everyone else, burnt it and threw the ashes in the icy lake.<br />
<br />
Fast forward a few nights later and we're having our last conversation in which I try one last time to engage him and failed miserably. I finally told him goodnight, that I was uncomfortable and felt bad and I didn't like feeling that way so I'd see him around. He apologized but I knew it was the right thing for me to do. I realized then why his name was on the list. I freed both of us from resentment, guilt or expectation and I was filled with peace.<br />
<br />
Two days later, I deactivated my Facebook account.<br />
<br />
People will strongly protest that one can only be addicted to a substance that alters brain chemistry and they'd be accurate to a point. However, neuroscience tells us that even our thoughts create neural structures and have the potential to cause (thought into action) bad habits, infinite loops, negative thinking, depressive cycles, etc. Additionally, our minds have a built-in negative-bias which means we automatically assume or think the worst and for every negative thought, it must be balanced by five times as many positive thoughts.<br />
<br />
Bearing that in mind, my participation on Facebook, was largely positive and I'd chosen over time to surround myself with more and more uplifting, encouraging, positive people and if they weren't as realized as they desired, they were at least trying very hard to evolve into the joyful people they deserved to be.<br />
<br />
I admired their efforts to continue working to better themselves and to do as little harm as possible and they appreciated me. I wanted to attract the kind of person I wanted to be and met via internet, was blessed with, in fact, hundreds of friends and acquaintances, many of whom have touched me deeply with their love and trust, something I don't take for granted.<br />
<br />
But I felt taken for granted and unappreciated. Ego aside, we do not live in a bubble of rarified air. We need each other. I felt unneeded, unwanted, unlovable. My friends said, but I need you, I want you, I love you, but they didn't understand that one can feel unbearably lonely in a crowded room.<br />
<br />
Part of Zen Buddhism is to let thoughts, ideas and events pass through you, to live in the moment and not be resistant. To even deny a thought was to entertain it, so accept, let it roll and continue to breathe and live and let live.<br />
<br />
However, whenever I logged in, I felt shackled to the memory of my mistakes, my flaws and my own hypocrisy. And there were plenty of people who would pounce to remind me of them. Who'd look for any crack in the new person I was becoming. To dissect the hypocrisy in my self-improvement, condemn me for what I'd said and done in the past, regardless of whether I'd renounced or repented.<br />
<br />
Reviewing my own actions, I'd noted that every time I felt rejected, betrayed or heartbroken, I'd post sad song links, defiant quotes and inspirational statuses to sooth my wounded ego and I clearly saw the inauthenticity of my own actions and that I was investing too much energy into people or rather the internet persona of strangers who didn't know me any more than I knew them.<br />
<br />
Whatever you read here or there (should I return) or in a number of forums, groups and boards, you only see a part of me. What you do see is honest, and funny and yes dramatic and it's all me but not all of me.<br />
<br />
If you live with someone for a great length of time like a spouse, parent or child, you'd be surprised if you haven't discovered already by the whole world inside them that you don't know them. You can embrace this truth as something that frees you because it enables you to anticipate learning more, or it imprisons you because you'll never be quite sure and they can always change (or rather, unfold) and that would affect you in some way so imagine what you don't know about the people you interact with in social media and on the internet at large as opposed to people you interact with in the physical world and here I was crying over a stranger's rejection of me.<br />
<br />
So I had to stop and reassess. I lessened participation in that which no longer served me. I removed a great deal of what I was able to from those places, like photographs and profile data. I wanted to start fresh regardless of what anyone thought. I couldn't live my life based on the approval of anyone, anymore and that included family, romantic interests, and yes, even friends.<br />
<br />
I made lists. What I Love About Myself was a great one. It reminded me of how awesome I am all by myself. Then I made a list of what I wanted to do or at least begin in earnest this new year and then began to act on them. I chose to fill my schedule with as much as time and my energy would allow.<br />
<br />
I joined a gym. What a comedy of errors. On the first day after noob class, I got on a treadmill for the first time ever and threw up after five minutes. To my shame I was only walking at 1 mph if my reading the the screen is accurate (very doubtful though). Then, as I was leaving the ladies room, I banged my head on a door and saw stars circling my head and felt the beginning of the lump it would impressively grow to. I left early, making a new appointment for machine training first because I'm driven to keep doing and living even if it kills me.<br />
<br />
On the way home, my car overheated. Twice.<br />
<br />
I stayed in bed the next day and watched the bruise change colors every time I walked past the mirror next to my bedroom door. I took down the mirror. I felt pitiful and miserable but alive. I'll keep doing because to paraphrase Yoda, '....there is no 'try''.<br />
<br />
I miss my Facebook friends. I feel guilty that some have mistaken my account deactivation for unfriending them especially since those particular people who assume are the least likely I'd ever deliberately hurt and I care a great deal about.<br />
<br />
There was no big announcement that I'd be leaving because I didn't want it to be perceived as some drama-seeking stunt. I told maybe five people who I knew would physically seek me out, to avoid alarm. It wasn't my intention for anyone to be hurt, to assume they'd done something wrong, because I know acutely what that feels like.<br />
<br />
I have to reorganize and take care of myself. There can't be any more tears on Facebook, Yahoo IM, forums, boards and groups, at least, not for myself.<br />
<br />
I've overcome a lot in the past two years, and survived a great deal in the past 11. It's no longer a matter of 'it's time' because I've been doing that for a while now. It's a matter of ...Phase II, perhaps. Last year was focusing on inner-health, spiritual, emotional and psychological. This year, that continues but I want to concentrate on fitness, stamina, flexibility, healthy living and participating physically in groups where I meet like-minded people, so I've joined Lightworker groups, meditation groups, am planning a trip to a Buddhist temple, a Universalist church, etc. I'm picking up guitar lessons and learning to knit and crochet. I want to learn how to drive a stick shift and properly horseback ride. I want to finish at least one book, publish and travel extensively.<br />
<br />
I have list as long as my arm and keep finding new things to add. My life really began a year and a half ago. I have court in three weeks and it's going to be a big one and while anxious I also feel unbelievably empowered and it's not just the radiance on the outside. No matter what happens, I'll know that I'm true to myself and growing and changing. I probably will return to Facebook simply because I miss my friends although it's only been two weeks but I had to prove to myself that this is my life and I am what I make of it and not let addictions rule me. I've beaten every single addiction and bad habit I've embraced and won't be enslaved again.<br />
<br />
I look at this less as a series of New Year's resolutions that wither when good intentions are forgotten than a period of getting to know me because I hadn't really, for so long.<br />
<br />
This is my life and I'm going to live it. CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-83714650154410022062013-01-09T23:22:00.000-05:002013-01-09T23:22:35.928-05:00A Strange GraceWhen death kisses you with icy lips and turns away, you're left in a void wondering whether you were rejected or spared.<br />
<br />
Sometimes you try to get its attention again, flirt and flutter like a moth to a flame wondering fluttering wondering sputtering wondering singeing your wings in futility.<br />
<br />
You long for answers that may never come to the question which ultimately and painstakingly is reducted to 'why'.<br />
<br />
The longing and pain enmesh into a confusion where there is no fine line anymore. All is vague and gauzy like a veil of only, 'if only'. Of only, 'if only'. <br />
<br />
The exquisite pain of a first tattoo, first love, well...many firsts indeed and quite a few simultaneously our last and yet many of them the gateway to more of the same and more and more and harder, stronger, deeper, longing for meaning where there is none except in that vague veil of faithless faith and meaning sought in suffering. Someone said to me yesterday, 'My joy is my tears, they're my oldest friend' and my comprehension needed no interpretation or narrative. The fire and the ice, tiny bites and gaping gouts of life flowing and ebbing, trying to make sense when in your despair, you seek it but know there is none yet it's better than the numb of nothingness.<br />
<br />
We all hide from something. There are no exceptions, only degree and variation. I think for most, it's unfaceable, indefinable, unfathomable, yet enough feel it and recognize it in others' eyes and decide to acknowledge commonality or deny its existence.<br />
<br />
Hiding from life, my poison, my method, wasn't easy and, in fact, replete with bad choices based on worse reasoning. I hid to protect, to insulate, and defend but it made me more of a target and object of vilification and contempt.<br />
<br />
I had a little friend (not so little, but young as me, then) who introduced me to cutting, self-harm, self-mutilation. and it brought deep pain to the surface, agonizingly blissful in release. I etched a boy's initials into my forearm. Thirty years later, my friends still remember his name. I dragged a wire from a soiled mattress across and around my wrist, gasped with welcome and fear and now sitting at a bar, in the near dark, drinking something more anisette than espresso, I can still see the faint fine delicate line like the vines I doodle unthinkingly and while I agonize about revealing my scarred body to the next man I may love, this one and a few others I consider an artifact of my history and as artful as inkwork, chosen and rendered by me exclusively, not the consequence of some catastrophic accidental complication of illness. I turned against my body as opposed to my body turning against me. Semantics or control? There is a strange grace and extraordinary beauty in ritual that transcends reason.<br />
<br />
So....then....how does one begin to speak of someone one wishes to honor? Have you ever composed a eulogy for someone you loved more than your next breath? Have you ever attended the memorial of someone with countless friends yet only one attended, their grief was so unspeakable? Have you flirted yourself with the void so the surprise doesn't come as a shock to you?<br />
<br />
How do I honor the dead or more directly, the one who some would say committed a most supreme act of selfishness? Even blood relations insist they thought only of themselves, rather than those who would nearly drown in the wake of their act. They can't comprehend which to that one departed soul, life is the more insufferable choice which you yourself have considered. That you will never reveal to them. That it's not romantic or ritual but only release.<br />
<br />
My brother was a sensitive. Not emo-sensitive, not an affectation or attention-seeking drama royal. He was an introvert who appeared relatively social to many, even very close to him. One would have to spend years at his side to sense a vulnerability that he hid so well.<br />
<br />
His endless stream of friends would tell me what a great guy he was and I'd smile because most of the time, he'd sit on the floor, cross-legged, with a cushion in his lap, rocking back and forth, listening. Thinking on this now, people speak of him having uncommon wit and wisdom but none once noted he spoke rarely. He was content to be present, think, and tinker.<br />
<br />
Having a talent for taking things apart and putting them together, working better than when they were new, and with parts remaining, he repaired everything and often did it to unbroken things just to see what was inside and if he could do it. He always could.<br />
<br />
He took other peoples' refuse, bicycle parts stand out prominently, and built new ones and resold them for pure profit. I'd find him surrounded in his mini-shop in my parents' garage like a small messiah with a sizable crowd of disciples. He was truly humble and waved away any mention of a gift, wisdom or talent.<br />
<br />
If anyone raised his ire, no matter what he said or did, whether he was right or wrong, the other person never failed to apologize profusely and request to reenter the fold they were never driven from. It was a sight to behold. But to his own family, he was as invisible as I was. A prophet in his own country....what is that verse? He was very nearly worshiped except by his own. We understood each other. Without words.<br />
<br />
He wasn't always gentle but he was profoundly gentle.<br />
He wasn't always kind but he was genuinely kind.<br />
<br />
Even as children I believed his soul was too good for this world and I watched helplessly as it devoured him through depression and drug abuse until he succumbed while still in his prime. He never knew his value. I hope he believed I loved him, at least.<br />
<br />
He was so overwhelmed that he needed to dull his own senses. It started with weed. Then he had a friend who gave him something else, then dealt him more, then another friend, and as he began to rapidly lose weight (he was always slight even when chubby) I realized he'd graduated to cocaine.<br />
<br />
He was severely injured in an accident in which he was a bus passenger and having lost his job and his apartment, he moved in with our father who was grieving over the recent loss of my mother and sister, so had no room in his heart for love, but only a roof to provide shelter. There was no peace between them, no solace. There never had been, since the day my brother, named for my father, ironically, was born, strangely. Inexplicably.<br />
<br />
My brother spiraled into a depth of depression neither I nor his erstwhile wife could break through. He too was distraught over the loss of our mother, but my sister's sudden death threw him over the edge and his smiles became rare. He spoke less. He drove his friends away. His lucid moments became rarer too and bursts of angry denial over his abuse of prescription painkillers drove a further wedge into my already crumbling marriage while I was slowly recuperating from a debilitating illness.<br />
<br />
One evening, I got the call and realized I would never hear his voice in this life again.<br />
<br />
In the mausoleum that is my former home, just inside the master bedroom door, to the right, there is a mahogany jewelry armoire. It's an object of profound beauty and once contained treasures of profound beauty but now it stands empty save two bottles in the bottom compartment behind stacks of small empty boxes.<br />
<br />
The resident of this tomb may or may not recall their presence but they contain relief temporarily, or irrevocably, depending on one's intent. For a time, they allowed me existence without unbearable pain but barely functioning and when my sister died, I forced an end to our easy relationship and stowed the bottles away for........for insurance. For.....just in case.<br />
<br />
Then, my idea was if we were to be without insurance or medical care, I could still have some relief but the fog of that relief didn't allow me to grieve for my sister. I didn't know that I'd reach desperately for that relief upon the death of my brother, not even two years later. I didn't know that another event would take place which made me hold a third bottle in my hand and stare in the mirror thinking I had no future but I would indeed. I saw it in my own reflection, in the light in my sorrowful and soul-weary eyes. The light that told me that I would know joy and love and peace again.<br />
<br />
I put the bottle down and packed it away.<br />
<br />
I left that lonely house with it. Again, insurance, but I never took one again and in fact, as a symbol of faith in myself and my future, I took a heavy can and crushed the pills into a fine dust.<br />
<br />
If I like, I can ask my doctor for a prescription or even very easily illegally obtain the same means of relief and release but I've passed through that gate and it has locked behind me forever, for which I'm unspeakably grateful.<br />
<br />
I don't know why my brother and my sister left this world so young and without hope. I don't know why I've endured so much as they and find the faith to remain and desire desperately to flourish.<br />
<br />
I'm no more defiant than Lisa nor more analytical than Donny that there is a definable reason for it except perhaps to honor them and share somehow that if I can survive, anyone really can yet that seems so canned, so pat, so preachy. But still, if I can......you could. <br />
<br />
I couldn't save them but I could save myself. I can't tell you what to do, but I can tell you what I did.<br />
<br />
Death comes for all of us eventually. Sometimes it touches us briefly and we'll never know why and sometimes it's to remind us to treasure the now because tomorrow is not promised.<br />
<br />
Once I believed it had rejected me, like everyone else I loved most. Now, I see that I was spared and the depth of suffering was not pointless but to enable me to experience and appreciate the beauty of life, no matter how fragile or short. We are all given grace and sometimes it takes the unspeakable to comprehend the measure of it. Sometimes, an entire lifetime. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-23639179144429364692013-01-09T21:45:00.000-05:002013-01-09T21:45:14.046-05:00Wuv Twu WuvI didn't know she existed. He'd *just* told an ex-girlfriend of his
after I left him that it was best he remain alone because he knew he was
fully responsible for the demise of our marriage so imagine my surprise
that he was hot and heavy with someone and so soon.<br />
<br />
Not that he told an
ex, which was obviously supposed to be communicated to me (I forgot to
block her out of all the mutuals my lawyer insisted I unfriend, so at
least it allowed me to completely close the breach and I reassessed my
security settings as well). But one day I log onto FB and moments later
get a notification that some stranger with no mutuals has subscribed to
my profile.<br />
<br />
The timing was serendipitous. I thought it was some chick
who thought I still played Sorority Life and clicked on her publicly
open profile (better fix that, chica) and in ten seconds saw a display
of pics of them together in clinches and typical lovey-dovey poses I
don't recall ever once doing with him. Ah yes...he hated the camera. Oh
and wasn't much into PDAs and uh....holy shit was she ugly as in hit by a
truck (no offense to accident victims or trucks everywhere) and lo and
behold, larger than life, a jpg of something about her never ever EVER
being unfaithful to him unlike SOME people. And I laughed and blocked
her.
<br />
<br />I felt a little nauseated. He'd been telling people I was
unfaithful. I guess he had to dream up something that made him the
ultimate victim since he didn't have any gunshot wounds or gaping
gouting holes in his head from the pickaxe in the garage but the truth
was he was a sociopath as in certifiable. Not only had I been faithful,
but he hadn't touched me in any meaningful way in four years and
screwing someone on the side, but to this day a year and a half later,
I'm still pristine and nearly cherry. Not even a solitary kiss from
another.<br />
<br />
So I mused on this after blocking this woman and tried to put
myself in her shoes. There were photos of me all over the house (I left
it all behind, all of it) and she had to be curious. I mentioned her
name to a few friends because I was incredulous but I didn't stalk her. I
can't say my friends were as noble. They stalk her to the nth degree
but I tell them I don't want to know.
<br />
<br />I'm not so noble. It's just....she has nothing on me. And I left
him. If they found each other in the same dumpster, who am I to stand in
the way of wuv twu wuv. Whatever access she has to me (my blog, forums I
frequent, etc.) I don't mention her, well....except here, for posterity. I think that's what she's looking
for and my life started for real the moment I left him and she's just a
shadow in the corner of my eye.
<br />
<br />Now they're engaged. I used to pray that he never have an
opportunity to hurt another woman again. Now I hope she has the brains
to find a good lawyer when her time comes. Or maybe a defense attorney.
Heh.CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-82013499347378840582013-01-02T18:50:00.000-05:002013-01-02T18:50:23.725-05:00The Ocean Between UsA friend had written me a letter mentioning that they've noticed how much I've changed in my photographs. They asked me about myself, how I was doing, what I was doing and although I've written much of it here, in this blog over the years, I wanted to share my reply because through so much heartache and yet also experience and wisdom, while there is often an ocean between us, we're only only breathes apart.<br />
<br />
Dear Friend,<br />
There are a few things about me that you should know if we're going to
keep talking. I'm very raw expressing my emotions and thoughts and it
can overwhelm people even if those thoughts and emotions aren't directed
toward them, ie; I'm telling them a story about my life and it's
powerful and makes them think of their own failures, accomplishments,
flaws, strengths, loneliness, etc., so I just want to give you that
caveat if we're going to continue to chat which I really do enjoy. <br />
<br />That
being said, as much as I do share, there is a whole world inside me
that I don't because I trust people in increments because of bad
experiences. It has less to do with trusting them as it has to do with
trusting myself with their reaction and whatever follows once I've
trusted them, if that makes sense. Will they accept me? Will they
embrace me? Will they judge me? Will they love me? Will they disappear?
Will they reject me? Will they misunderstand me? Can I trust them with
more? Will they trust me?<br />
<br />I've had to come to terms with the fact,
for example, that all I've wanted my entire life is to be loved. I was
an abused neglected child. I was treated brutally by family in front of
family and no one stopped it for years. I was told to not 'feel' and yet
I 'felt' and when I did, I felt guilt and fear too, so there is guilt and fear attached
unhealthily to many emotions. I work on cutting those cords and the
negativity carried over from my development and then adolescence. I want
to feel pure undiluted joy without fear of losing it and to be
completely loved without dread of being abandoned and I came to the
conclusion that would never reach any of those desires, dreams and goals
(and many unspoken here) until I realized a few key things:<br />
<br />#1a You have to love yourself fully first. You may find it very easy to love others automatically but many of us don't love ourselves at all. Love yourself. <br />
<br />#1b You are loved, loving and lovable, no exceptions, ever. <br />
<br />#2 You have the right to exist because you were born and the right to be loved for exactly who you are so go back to #1. <br />
<br />#3
Whatever happened to you when you were a child whether it happened to
you or you witnessed it or were immersed in it is not your fault.<br />
<br />#4
Whatever happened to you when you made poor choices, may not be undone
but you can find the lessons and gratitude in them and you'll be freed
by knowing that some of the most horrible things became gifts. This can
be very hard to digest but it's part of processing so it's okay to not
be able to handle this one right now.<br />
<br />#5 You can't embrace the future if your arms are full of the past.<br />
<br />#6
It's okay to have feelings, emotions, urges and even over-think and
analyze everything. Feel them and think them. Accept that they're a part
of you, fully. Embrace them, really. And knowing THAT, move on with the
reassurance that you can revisit them whenever you need to or they
spring up unexpectedly. Don't deny them because they're part of who you
are. Go back to #1 and read it again. <br />
<br />I was born Roman Catholic and
when I was about 15, my mother who was very domineering decided the
entire family had to convert to fundamentalist Christian. First
Assemblies of God, a branch of pentecostalism to be exact. I was the
most reluctant in the family as I was more analytical and rejected their
very unscientific (to me) beliefs. I was also trying to create boundaries with
my mother especially and my family in general because of the past and
because they didn't respect me as an individual in ANY way, even the
most basic ways. I contributed to the church community in some ways to
appease my mother and because they were enjoyable things like running
the crying room (church nursery) and singing in the choir, doing
specials (solos) during services and performing in plays and musicals.<br />
<br />
My family was deeply entrenched in the church community which alarmed
me. My mother was in fact, a board member and they invested a great deal
of time and energy into controlling the private lives of church members and
participants and their families. I was eventually thrown out by the
pastor for not being submissive to basically anyone they deemed was an
authority and/or male. I was relieved. I can't say that I felt anything
spiritual in Roman Catholicism except the spirit of community and the
beauty of ritual and history and in fundamentalism, I enjoyed the music,
the fervor of others and in every religion, the beauty of faith. <br />
<br />When I had
no faith at all, especially since I left the ex husband at the end of
August 2011, I was able to have faith in the faith of others. It was all
I could do. It was enough, though. <br />I would ask people to pray for
me when they told me they were a believer or a Christian or even a
person of any faith. I was angry at God and told him I didn't know if I
believed in him and even denied my belief in him and I raged at him that
I didn't trust him, I didn't trust a patriarchal system that made me a
second class second thought by virtue or failure of my sex and that I
had prayed for a godly husband and was given a brutal cold man and in
fact had remained a virgin because I truly believed in keeping my vows
even before I would meet my husband-to-be and here I was married to a
man who never even kissed me. I was married to a man for ten years who
didn't even touch me.<br />
<br />
Oh I hated God. <br />
<br />I laid in bed at night and
there was an ocean between us. I asked God to make me a better person, a
better Christian, a better wife, a better woman, a better human being,
for years. <br />
<br />I didn't know he was a feeder when we married and his
intention was that he wanted me to get so fat that I would be so
immobile I could never leave him. He admitted it gleefully. I was
married to a sociopath. <br />
<br />If I had known up front that he was a
feeder, we could have worked it out but that he was sneaky and
manipulative about it and took joy in my illness and discomfort was
beyond my comprehension. In the same time period, my mother, my
godmother, my only sister and my baby brother died. I was so sick with a
horrible illness, my ex was told to make funeral arrangements and I was
starving myself. I was sick for so long I have no memory of at least
six months of that time period. <br />When my sister died, I stopped
taking the narcotics I needed for pain, cold turkey, and although I was
violently ill, I wanted to grieve for her. As my head cleared and I
became more lucid for the first time in about 2 years, I realized my
marriage was over and if I stayed with him I would either die or kill
myself. <br />
<br />I would lay in bed at night asking God to free me. Every night, the ocean between us, my husband and I, and God and I too. <br />
<br />On
the night before my brother's burial (both he and my sister died
suddenly) my husband brutally sexually assaulted me while pretending to
console me. I was in shock and pain. I was ashamed that I thought he
wanted to show me love after years of rejection so I didn't even think
to call the police. Instead, when I went home (we were staying in a
hotel near the funeral home) I took a bottle of 120 Percocet and was
about to swallow the whole thing when I looked in the mirror and said,
No. He's not worth it and I am. I put the bottle down and called a
friend and met her at a Dunkin Donuts and she gave me the number to a
domestic crisis center and a lawyer and I carried those numbers around
with me for a few months as he became more openly controlling and
abusive, and now in public. I was a shadow of myself and a friend who
would visit to check on me and never gave up on me said that I was like a
beautiful butterfly that was losing all her color and fading into dust.
<br />
<br />In the middle of Hurricane Irene, I had the flu. We had lost power
and I was sick and on the couch and he walked past me and threw a
flickering flashlight at me and told me he was going out to hang out
with his buddy and he left me alone in the cold and dark, sick and with
no food, water or plumbing. My friend texted me that she was coming to
get me but that the roads were blocked and I told her that I was leaving
him in the morning. The following morning I packed what I could and
told him I was going to my dad's for a few days until the hurricane let
up and power was restored and I never went back. I've never been back to
my own house. I've never returned for my things. I only see him in
court (now he brings his fiancee') so he and his lawyer can scream at me
why I'm not getting my belongings and how they're going to throw them
out on the street. And his girlfriend screams how I'm holding up their
wedding and I think about how he's telling friends and neighbors that I
was unfaithful to him and to this day I still haven't been touched by
another man, to this day, to this day. And he's engaged. <br />
<br />So why am I telling you all this? <br />
<br />To
get to the spiritual parts and to tell you that I relate to the
overanalyzing and obsessing and baggage, family and relational. <br />
<br />To
say I don't judge and in fact you might be reading this and am horrified
and now thinking to yourself, Well, crap. I haven't been through
anything this bad and now I feel like shit telling her my story, venting
and unloading when it's nothing by comparison. It would be a completely
natural feeling and I'd suggest you just feel whatever and let it pass.
Friends let friends vent and we're friends, I think. Or at least, I
consider you a friend. <br />
<br />The point is that if I can reach a point
through all that (and so much more) to love myself now and have hope and
faith, peace and happiness, anyone on earth can and that includes you.
It isn't too much to ask for, friend. It's what I pray for. <br />
<br />I believe
there is purpose to our lives and to our existence in this world, this
universe. I believe in a higher-power although maybe not so much more of
a Patriarch God as a loving benevolent energy that has unlimited
abundance and wants us to have it too. I believe that when we feel alone
and afraid, it isn't God or Universe or Spirit that's pulled away from
us but our own chaos and confusion that makes us feel isolated, even
though he or it is right there all the time. I believe in angels, I
believe in goodness. I believe that there is evil but that it's an
absence or void of goodness and that our love can overcome it. <br />
<br />I
meditate. I find truths in all faiths. I find faith in people of faith. I
don't idolize or put people on pedestals because it's so fucking lonely
being on a pedestal, I know what that feels like. I'd rather be loved,
to be honest than to be gazed upon like a painting in a museum,
beautiful, genius, don't touch. I'd rather be accessible. I still want
love. Now I have the faith to believe it can happen because I trust
myself more. I love myself. I forgive myself. <br />
<br />There's so much more I
could write but now I feel like maybe I'm venting so I'll end this here
now and leave it up to you to message next. Looking forward to it. <br />
<br />And
if it is overwhelming, it's really okay. I do understand. It's very
powerful, isn't it. It's both a blessing and a curse, I think, this
ability of mine to express myself. Kind of like a hurricane.<br />
<br />CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-69045429596105453512012-12-26T22:22:00.001-05:002012-12-26T22:22:14.750-05:00Snow Love<span class="userContent">All my life I've loved snow. Then, over ten years
ago, I got married and something odd happened; I feared, dreaded, and
hated snow and yet found myself living in a snow belt. The strange wonderful
thing is all of that's gone, including the marriage. I love snow again and love as in, new love,
little kid excited puppy love, even madly in love and I live at an even higher elevation!</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"> But
there's no more fear of falling, losing power, freezing...no more dr<span class="text_exposed_show">ead
of 'will it ever end?' or the roads will be treacherous....no more hate
of the sight of it and mess and cold and wet.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> I'm watching it fall
right now in the meadow outside my window, as it covers the
woods beyond and I think of how beautiful and peaceful it is. And I'm
grateful because it's a sign of what's changed within me and what's yet
to come.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show">I wish you all peace and joy in the future, this new Golden Age. I wish you unlimited abundance, freedom, growth, and recovery. I wish you your heart's desires and mine too. I wish you sweet dreams and warm sunny days. I wish you success in all your endeavors and that you always have enough faith to believe in yourselves and those you love. And I wish you to be surrounded by people who love and appreciate and encourage your beautiful light within.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> Happy New Year! </span></span>CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-2901872979249405832012-12-17T20:50:00.001-05:002012-12-17T20:50:52.269-05:00Umbrella<br /><span class="userContent">I remember a story from church about a farming
community that was going through a drought. They were church-going
folk, simple people of faith and called in an evangelist to help pray
for rain. The evangelist looked at the packed house and said, 'Where is
your faith?' It was standing room only and everyone looked at each other
confused. They had showed up, hadn't they? The evangelist waited a mome</span>nt until things quieted down and said, 'If you had faith that God would give you rain, why hasn't anyone brought an umbrella?'<span class="userContent"></span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
<br />
So I was thinking about how I put out to God, Spirit, The Universe,
who/which has limitless abundance that I want a kiss for Christmas. I
know, silly, but it's something to me, because of the events of the past
few years, if you know me, you know....and I was talking to a friend
last night and said, 'Santa is bringing me a kiss for Christmas!' but
then I thought, where is my faith? Where is my 'umbrella'? So I said,
'No matter what, wherever I go, I'm going to doll up, to get Santa's
attention, and to hedge my bets, bribe some reindeer to put in a good
word for me. My friend said, 'Deer like carrots.' Well, shit. I have no
carrots. 'Do they like celery?' 'They're herbivores, so yeah, I think
so.' 'Okay, so celery it is. I'll bring celery with me.' <br /> <br /> Today
when I was leaving, I gave my grandma a kiss goodbye and almost walked
out the door and remembered and asked her if she had celery. She looked
at me funny and said, 'Tak. Take as much as you need.' So I opened the
crisper drawer and found TWO CARROTS and a head of celery, so I took a
stalk of that too, even though I really think the carrots will really
get me in good with Comet and Cupid. Still, it's good to have back-up. <br /> <br />
No, I didn't catch Santa in his sleigh today. The weather was foggy and
drizzly (more work for Rudolph) but every time I looked at my purse, I
saw two carrots and a stalk of celery sticking out and giggled, all day
long. So either I get a kiss or I make soup. Either way, it's win/win.
(And I'm going to the hardware store and buying a big bag of deer corn
tomorrow. Hedging bets doesn't hurt). <br /> <br /> If you're praying for rain, don't forget to bring an umbrella.</div>
CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-71417134551223281832012-12-03T19:15:00.001-05:002012-12-03T19:15:12.469-05:00If It FitsYou, gentle reader, have suffered and sorrowed and some of you have even snickered (I know who you are and it's cool) at my flaws and foibles. You've chosen to deal with the small string of broken hearts and a couple of big ones that I chronicled with, shockingly, more grief than words, which is a feat considering how I like my words. Today a confidante chuckled and said, 'Elaine, you do so love your analogies and metaphors.' It's true, I'm addicted but it's my medium. It's also my comfort. <br />
<br />
As I spoke with this friend, the sunlight sparkled through the windows and she asked me, as she always does because she has impeccable manners, if I wanted to move (there are no curtains; the one wall is literally all glass and wood framework) to get the sun out of my eyes and I told her that it invigorated me. It does. If I'm radiant in my photographs, in person, I glow. The sun feels good on my skin and I soak it in deeply, as if I'm in bathwater. Like the skylight that sits over my former marriage bed, waking me every morning in a pool of light, it is a gift of simple bliss.<br />
<br />
We spoke of many things as we do each Monday and she asked about a ring that I'd never worn in her presence before. It was notable because I'd sold nearly all my jewelry to pay for my divorce and other than costume pieces, I don't have much left. Any piece remaining would have to have significant sentimental value for me to keep and this was one. It was my grandmother's. And I remembered the lesson of that moment as if it were yesterday.<br />
<br />
Two years ago, I weighed around 200 lbs. more than I do now. Five years ago, it was 400 lbs. I embarked on improving my health and saving my life due to illness, the acknowledgement that I was not happy at my size then, and that I wanted to be more active and could not be the person I wanted to be at that size. I celebrate anyone who believes they can and I know many who do. But it was not for me. I did something about it, I was blessed to be able to, although I made a lot of mistakes, some near-fatal, along the way. I also sacrificed a great deal. My health has been compromised. I have horrific scars on my body. My marriage did not survive.<br />
<br />
The night of the ring, I was visiting my father and grandmother. My brother was still alive, so he was nearby. I was in poor health, even then, so I'm going to take an educated guess that it was a holiday since it was difficult to get around. My mobility had been affected by my choices. My former husband was there, because I remember not being able to fit through the small space between the entertainment center and the arm of the oversized sofa, to get to the bathroom, and on my return, I brushed my arm, hard, against the wood and cut myself hard enough for blood to drip to the floor.<br />
<br />
Normally, when it comes to physical pain, I can endure it like a champ. Like my mother had, I've a very high tolerance for it. But this time, I cried out and sat on the opposite couch in the dark (my dad was watching the ever-present football game) and looked at my wound in a daze. It wasn't a little cut or scrape. I might need stitches which would be a first, and uncharacteristically, my ex ran to my side, and soothed me. He applied pressure to my arm, went into the bathroom to find bandages and antiseptic and I sat there more in shock at his kindness (as did my family) than at my own injury. He put the Hello Kitty Band-aid on it (which promptly fell off, but he got points for trying) and kissed my boo-boo, as I had done with him many times. I realized that yes, I had done that many times for him. The only time he would ever show any emotion was if he had a small injury, illness or slight, as if it was okay to be sick, but not okay to actually express feelings. With injury, he felt more free and because I'm a born nurturer, I would run to his side. Although he took care of me without complaint the entire time I was very sick a few years back, he would also always remind me that it was out of duty (and not love) which probably would have hurt more had I not been on strong narcotics for chronic pain. I would remember all of it, though, when I detoxed myself after my sister's death.<br />
<br />
When I went to my father's to ask if I could stay with him because I was leaving the ex, he and my grandmother knew that we were having problems but I had spared them from the worst because I had hoped with all my heart that I could 'fix' my marriage. Their disbelief, however, was not something I was prepared for. I'd hoped they'd say, 'Of course, move in for as long as you need' but they kept bringing up the one and only moment when he showed me tenderness. And I felt terrible guilt for allowing it because here they were saying how could it be, how could it be, he was so sweet to you. I didn't know why I let him. I was in pain? I wanted him to acknowledge me? I wanted the rare kiss, even if it was on my bandage? I brought that up to my friend and she explained that it was completely normal for me to want love especially from my own husband and in the rare moment he offered, for me to accept it, even if the relationship was essentially over. This perspective, well...this truth, gave me the freedom to forgive myself for accepting love from someone abusing me and also the guilt for my family having seen this and assuming everything was okay, as if it were my fault.<br />
<br />
Later, on the night I hurt myself, I was sitting with my grandmother and she was wearing a lovely pearl ring. Anyone who knows me knows that if I see something beautiful, I'll admire it. I'll gush, even. They also know of my affinity for pearls, my personal talisman, so it was no surprise to anyone that I'd tell her how pretty it was but she surprised me by saying that if it fit, I could have it.<br />
<br />
I knew that it couldn't fit. I may have long tapered fingers, but she's very petite with a dainty build and isn't even five feet tall. I'm 5'8" and I'd say my build is slightly larger, somewhat taller than average. It was not going to fit. Still, I thought to myself, 'What the hell' and asked her if I could try it on and it slipped on my finger as if it were made for it. It was impossible and to this day, even taking into account how malleable skin and flesh are...it doesn't make sense but it fit anyway.<br />
<br />
I told my confidante that it took a while to learn the lesson tied into that but I had to experience more for the big picture, for the puzzle to be complete enough to not be finished, but show me the form to continue the process. My grandmother had said that it was mine if it fit, but it, no matter what she intended and what I thought, had nothing to do with size. It was meant for me, so it fit. It didn't make sense, but it fit. And I mused on that and wondered at how much more this applied to my life.<br />
<br />
How many times had I tried to force something to fit? Square pegs in round holes....I'd be so determined, I'd go so far to shave off the corners but it wasn't meant for that. I had to learn the meaning of 'no'. I had to also learn, a bit later, that 'no', might really mean, 'not yet'. No, my marriage could not be fixed. No, my husband was not my soul mate or twin flame. No, no matter what I did, I had to let go and move on. No, the beautiful house and that skylight bathing me in morning sunshine was only temporary, so it was lost but for memories. And no, nobody said there would never be love in my life again. That was a 'not yet'. That was a 'there's something and someone better for you'. My problem was, I was trying to make everything fit. That included some people and a lot of heartache on both sides, before I got the message to relax, breathe, live, breathe some more, enjoy now, give myself a break and love me exactly as I was. I had to be my own soul mate before he would show up. He's always been inside me, as Rumi says, and I think of him that way, wherever he is. I hope he's learning. I hope he's having fun. I hope he's happy. I know I am. <br />
<br />
But what about the other side of the coin? What about all the things that we assume won't fit? The things we think won't work out and we dismiss out of hand because they're not practical or don't fit in with our plans? What if we pass up on rewarding opportunities, large and small, elegant and simple or grandiose and impossible because we limit ourselves? What if we overthink things so much that we let our lives pass us by, still remaining busy, but using that busy-ness as an excuse for actually experiencing joy? Is surviving really living? Is drowning really swimming? I think of that ring that should not fit. It's on my finger now, one of the few belongings I own and now, my treasure. I too am my own treasure and that's how I've come to approach life. Try everything that appeals to me. Shoot for the moon (if I fail, I still land among the stars) and give it a shot because unless I try, I'll never know if it fits. CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-52635001183496084522012-11-10T14:26:00.000-05:002012-11-10T14:26:12.502-05:00Ordinarily<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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I'd bury bodies for my best friend, so loyal am I, and she is so 'there' for
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house wondering why the kitchen lights are on. Well, not her house, well, yes,
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abroad indefinitely and instructed her via voice mail to watch the house while
she was on break from school but didn't even bother to ask her if she'd made
plans. She had, and was indeed well on her way to them, so I was drafted to
medicate the ancient cat, and keep an eye on the place and since I was
conveniently (or rather inconveniently for me) in between places, how could I
say no and I fumble with the alarm code while watching a tall man with broad
shoulders (they all have them, I've noticed) making hamburgers in a frying pan
at the gigantic stove in the lavish and no expenses spared house. He's a
stranger to me and no doubt I'm one to him and he turns just as I open the
door. The cat is snoring in an empty laundry basket on the kitchen island.
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(linen, summer-weight, nice) brush against my hand and then he is on his hands
and knees beside me asking me what we're looking for. Ordinarily, I would
suppress the smile playing on my lips and fake outrage, well maybe not
entirely fake, that this stranger hasn't even told me why he's here when *I*,
*I* was given the responsibility of watching the cat and the house and the 1500
satellite stations and the fucking jacuzzi (well, not fucking, but well, yeah,
it could be) and the pantry and bar, and I look down to better keep my cool
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tiny little stone chips, semi-precious mostly, and they're EVERYWHERE as if
something exploded and now I see a bigger pieces around but no more than a half
inch or centimetre or so and I see snowflake obsidian, sunstone, lime green
calcite, ocean jasper, apatite that blue is sort of rare, and I begin to pluck
them and pocket them since I don't have a bag or anything but I do consider a
pillowcase which is just as out of reach as the cord on the lamp and he says,
'I just came in from a movie shoot in Europe (everything is vaguely
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but it's clear on my face as I look up from the floor into very warm brown, no
green, no brown-y green, they kind of dance, eyes mmmm and oh no..I'm not going
to, fuck you, ...well...ordinarily...wait not fuck you fuck you, but you know,
fuck you I'm not falling for that shit fuck you, but he sees it on my face and
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too as evidenced by those shoulders and even on his hands and knees he's a foot
taller than me and I'm kind of tall for a woman and he asks me what I'm picking
up and I tell him that Jennifer has stones and crystals all over her floor and
I'm picking them up and he asks me why and I turn my head sideways and without
thinking I say, 'I really don't know.' I pick up a clear quartz point and say,
'Here', and he takes it and I say, 'Close your eyes and take a deep breath
through your nose, feel the cool air in, and then breathe out through your
mouth, warm air out, don't think, just breathe and feel the stone', and he does
and shock fills his face and he drops it and sits back or up and says, 'What
the hell was that', and I say, 'It's the vibration of the crystal' and I laugh
and at once it's high and sparkles in the air above us and I fall down on my
side and laugh deeper at this, with this stranger, this Bill, how odd this
whole scenario is, I'm hunting for treasures with a giant and I don't feel the
dread or suspicion anymore although a voice in the back of my mind says, Oh
that's the last thought anyone has before their throat is cut and another voice
says, Oh way to go with the melodrama, and I stop laughing and smile at him and
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up and do something but I don't because I like it here with him, talking on the
floor, so I start picking up more stones, crawling around, so he starts picking
up more stones, and begins to ask me what each one is. That one is a celestine
or blue barite, the light isn't good....angelic realms. That one looks like a
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">We talk. I really don't remember
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">'You. You have a great laugh.' </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I think about the possibility of me
prancing around in the baby-dolls I only get to dance around in for my own
entertainment and my heart skips a little and I remember my mother telling me
she was disappointed that I wasn't a virgin for my wedding and then I think
that she would have been even more disappointed if she knew my ex was actually
gay, but probably more in me than him and for the first time ever, I think
about how I don't care what anyone thinks and while ordinarily I wouldn't jump
into such things, I try to say that I'm spontaneous but there are rules and
stuff which means by default, no spontaneous and I imagine myself getting naked
with this guy and stop. The fight inside is relentless but I think the happy is
going to win because it's telling the scared not to penalize him for what
anyone else ever did and I agree with the happy and his next kiss is definitely
that question and I sit back and say, 'I really need a shower. Do you know
where the towels are? I'd be right back. I just need to....hot water,
shampoo...?' He says, 'I'm doing laundry. The towels are in the washer.' 'All
of them?' 'Yes, well, no...there's a washcloth or dishcloth or ten, I think'.</span></div>
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reconsider. Not just the shower but everything. He sees this. He sees this
internal debate and he waits. No pressure. Want, desire, but no pressure. And
he's here with me, and me with him. I can feel him and reach out to him if I
want to and he's here and real and just as I think that, he takes my arm and
runs one finger down the inside to my wrist and lifts my hand to his mouth and
kisses it gently and waits. I feel my entire body relax and I say, 'Carrots' and he
smiles and I know everything will be all right.</span></div>
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CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-82159006773827178912012-11-05T19:21:00.000-05:002012-11-05T19:21:55.232-05:00Perfect OfferingThere is a common misconception that strength means 'impervious' and similar such adjectives somehow construing that strong people have transcended the usual human conditions and no longer have lapses of depression, self-pity or worse, have completely recovered from and enjoy the amnesia of the usual or unusual traumas of life. But that's bullshit. The strongest people I know are those who have suffered and continue to put themselves 'out there' because they believe in life, love, the generosity and compassion of humanity and that not everyone is a colossal asshole and sifting through the rubble is worth it even though if you get tetanus or worse, a papercut on your tongue. Those fuckers hurt.<br />
<br />
The walking wounded recognize each other. We don't wear team uniforms; unnecessarily redundant. It's in the lines in our faces, around our eyes where they catch the tears, the grief and the exhaustion and circle around our mouths where they capture our rueful chuckles and smirks of surrender to reality. This is life and we didn't sign up for it, except perhaps at the dawn of time during some kind of karmic powwow where I saw you and you and you and thought you were awesome and a bright new soul (and you, me) and I could never predict you might become a colossal asshole rampaging through life destroying everything in your path including yourself and I was just in the way and you didn't recognize me because I wasn't wearing our gang colors. I love you anyway, even if you don't know me. It doesn't change the volume of tears but it does change the enthusiasm with which I enter into new agreements and relational contracts. I think that's part of the learning process, spiritual schooling, if you will.<br />
<br />
There is a duality to my nature that those who are...I won't use the word lucky...but perhaps, patient and tolerant enough to endure my frailty and flailing, able to see that the rest of the world, no matter how much they think they know me, never will. There is so much that I do give to everyone that they assume I have a natural gift and complete lack of discretion for dissecting and filleting my everything for public consumption that they don't realize, likely because there's just SO MUCH there, that it's only a part of me. They have some insights into the cracks, nooks and crannies but there are things about me that people who've known me my entire life will never see perhaps because I don't even know it myself. Truthfully, I try to spare them of so much of it because pity parties are exhausting and completely unproductive and when I love someone, it's spirit, mind, heart and soul and that means being unbelievably vulnerable and the very things that you're most vulnerable about, those tender buttons, are the very thing they can and often do use against you when you least expect it or it's most expedient to them and I've had enough of that for several karmic incarnations, thank you. And yet, and yet, I still try. I still want love, to be loved, to give love. <br />
<br />
I have a fairly recent interest in the metaphysical properties and energy frequencies in crystals and stones and how they relate to our own energies, auras, chakras and meridians and at the moment, it fascinates me to no end. It's a fairly inexpensive hobby if you don't lose your mind bidding for the rare stuff on Ebay but among the metaphysical community you make friends fast with some great benefits. Their generosity is quite astounding, actually, and some of the best crystals I've ever received were actually surprise gifts with purchase. One stone I had a quick affinity for and attraction to, I actually did purchase, called a Herkimer diamond quartz, the authentic stones only being found in a mine in Herkimer, NY. The high frequency of the stone is such that anyone can feel the 'buzz' and it's quite stimulating. It's fun.<br />
<br />
The unusual thing about these stones is that unlike other quartzes, it grows from a type of umbilicus so you have an extremely clear crystal with a more often than not little scar, or belly button at the bottom of the crystal. Termination points (the pointy ends) focus the energy and double termination points (one at each end) makes a relationship of give and take with the energy of the stone to you and back to it or the user if they're using it in energy work, like Reiki. Couples can actually get a pair and program them with spiritual or mental images of their love for each other and the beloved can actually 'feel' that loving energy when they hold the crystal. I love this idea and one day would like to put it to the test. I like my own personal singleton Herkimer diamond quartz and carry it in a little bag with me and play with it like a talisman or worry stone and the more I meditate the more I feel that addictive 'buzz'. I'm told that's because my own frequency or vibration is aligning with the Universe or Source or even the crystals themselves and it's not the crystals that have changed at all but me. Which is cool. These vibrations can be measured, both in the stones, in animate and inanimate objects, including me. It's quantifiable, and scientifically proven which appeals supremely to the geekette in me.<br />
<br />
So today was a not so very good horrible bad awful day and on my ride home from a mostly unproductive six hours, I played with my stone and had a good cry in the car. I used to spend a great deal of crying and grieving over the loss of my husband's love, the loss of Spooky Oats' love, the loss of half my family, and for a long time my health and I was fairly tired of all of it and wanted some semblance of a healthy happy life so I decided that the tears had to stop and I had to try something new and I set out on a linear path that ended up being more like a game of Twister, only worse, the sheet was upside down and I had sudden unexplainable color-blindness. In the end (although I don't consider the end 'the end' until I take my last breath) of the beginning of this journey or path, I decided that all of this crap had to stop. I had to patch up the cracks in my heart, my psyche, my body and energy fields, and get ready for a newer better Lainey, a Lainey 2.0, a Super-Lainey but I forgot that all those seemingly negative things are all part of the human condition and there was nothing wrong with the tears, the anger, the loneliness; it was just part of the process of dealing with shit. I had to stop being so hard on myself and accept me for me because I was magnificent even in the depths of my sorrow and that sorrow would end. The well had a bottom, I was in it, the only way out was up and I was climbing, breaking a few nails along the way, cursing up a storm, stopping for a few tears, wiping them away and kept climbing.<br />
<br />
I talked to my angels, I talked to my spirit guides, I talked to my spirit animals, I talked to my intuitive friends, I talked to Father God and Jesus and Buddha and Krishna, and Shiva, et al;, Spirit and Universe and the Vortex and everything and as is typical of me since even before I could enunciate the word 'vocabulary' I relaxed and began to recover little by little. There are fits and starts and a great many leaps backwards after a few teensy steps forward but I see progress and I do see that I do indeed like and even love me, the me that is dualistic, and strong and vulnerable and weepy and clingy and aloof and loony and I held this Herkimer diamond in my hand while driving home thinking about all these things and absentmindedly brushed my thumb across the unlovely little bump, the belly button of the crystal that isn't as uniform or smooth as the rest of it, the scar, the evidence of the beginning and the frailty and flailing and I felt a jolt and a stupidly silly epiphany that the truth is not in the superficial, the perfectly formed beauty without flaws. It was the flaws themselves, the very things that make us vulnerable and sad and thoughtful, the cracks, as Leonard Cohen sings in Anthem,<br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">'Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget
your perfect offering. There is a crack in everything. That's how the
light gets in. '</span><br />
<br />
<span class="userContent">That IS how the light gets in. Where is the joy in flawless perfection, where is the relatable truth of our commonality, where is the warmth and comfort of the cold, austere and rare? How much have I or you overlooked because we're looking for perfect and rare and untroubling and easy when the deepest beauty and joy is the brokenness. This is the source of our strength should we recognize and embrace it and realize that, THAT is our beauty and our perfect offering to the world, to Spirit and to ourselves. </span>CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-45594215788194480692012-08-28T03:04:00.000-04:002012-08-28T03:04:14.009-04:00The War ZoneI once, with a great deal of trepidation, showed a blog entry to the person it was written about. It didn't depict them in a great light, although it was written with much love, which was the reason why, after much internal debate, I decided upon showing it to her. I told her that I had added and changed a few things to make the story more free-flowing but the truth remained and the story told itself. I also wanted her opinion on my writing, as she taught literature, and after she read it, she took her reading glasses off and said, 'Elaine, YOU are a writer. You have a real talent, a natural gift and you have many many books in you. You must write and don't ever censor yourself worrying about how someone is depicted, if you're telling your own truth because you will stifle that gift and that would be criminal. Don't worry about offending me or anyone else.' <br />
<br />
That was one of the best pieces of free advice I've ever gotten and I soaked it in, like a sponge, heart and soul and that's why you read what I write, written honestly, candidly, with my heart and soul, regardless of the cost, because secrets are kept by those who know it's wrong.<br />
<br />
When I was growing up, food was a huge consuming issue and source of great strife. My family had always lived in a two-family house, common in Hudson County, NJ, and my maternal grandparents owned the house, and my parents were their tenants. When we lived in one town, we lived downstairs. When we moved to the other town, we lived upstairs. No matter where we were, we were always under my grandmother's and by association, my uncle's (her youngest, and older than me by only three years) thumb. He was a monstrously spoiled brat and she was a petty tyrant. My grandfather was smart, handed over his check, and never said a word. He spent most of his free time in the basement workshop or sneaking a cigarette when he wasn't working extra hours at a meat-packing plant in the Bronx. When he had mandatory vacation, he would arrange for his boss to call him on the second day to tell him to come back because of some fabricated emergency and my grandmother had free-reign to rule our world. She did with the zeal of a Grand Inquisitor.<br />
<br />
In her own capacity, I knew she loved me, us, all of us, by varying degrees but it was overshadowed by the ability to make even grown men shudder in fear or avoid her at all costs, nevermind little children. She felt (and still does) she had the right to run my parents' marriage, our upbringing, every aspect of our lives and often tag-teamed with my mother in terrorizing us with threats, shame and humiliation. We were beaten or whipped with switches regularly. My father was not a reliable breadwinner and she made sure that he was aware of that even when he was working regularly.<br />
<br />
Although he'd been to technical schools (and would earn several technical diplomas over the course of his lifetime) he didn't have any jobs that had anything to do with his schooling and could only find work doing menial labor, usually as a warehouseman. When he did come home, my mother would have dinner waiting, and then he would either lie down and read or watch TV in the den. I would often join him until a certain age where he told me that I was 'too big'. I've mentioned my complicated relationship with my dad before, but most of the bad stuff revolved around food. In fact, most of the bad stuff with everything was permeated by food dysfunction.<br />
<br />
My mother often begged my grandmother for money so we could have milk or bread because she couldn't make ends meet from payday to payday or my dad just wasn't working. He would mysteriously quit or lose jobs and it was always someone else's fault. Often, my grandmother would waive the rent or let my mother float it. Both women were in charge of finances by sheer necessity. The men were neither interested nor skilled in household finances. This was rather common in our area, so it wasn't odd at all, in fact, this was the case in most of my friends' families.<br />
<br />
To teach my mother a lesson and shame her, my grandmother would make her beg for food or money and there was always an atmosphere of tension and anxiety in the house whether or not there would be enough of anything. My grandmother also made my mother ashamed of each of her pregnancies (I was born six months after the wedding) and reminded her of the humiliation the family (meaning she) suffered because my parents had 'no self-control'. The night of my sister, the youngest's birth, my father came home ecstatic to tell them all about her and my grandmother was shocked because my mother was so afraid of her that she hid her entire pregnancy. My grandmother cut-off my father's happy descriptions and demanded that he 'stop production' or she would throw them out on the street. To this day she sees nothing wrong with this behavior. She fed us grudgingly and we ate fearfully. If we didn't eat what we were given (and we did, we did) we would be given a beating instead and food, for as long as I can remember, was used as a weapon and the threat of its lack, a torture device. <br />
<br />
My mother was cowed by her mother but she had additional concerns. She was 26 with four small children and desperately needed help. She was very overwhelmed. Neither her mother nor her husband could be counted on for emotional support and rather than look for work, my father would spend his days across the street at his mother's house. His mother didn't approve of my mother because she wasn't Italian and my grandmother was offended by this and it further stoked the coals of resentment in her heart against my father and by association, us children who should not have been born. <br />
<br />
My mother and father were both fat. In today's world, they would be considered 'chubby' but in the sixties and seventies, it was fat. My mother never spoke about her size nor did she even put me down for mine, as I was the oldest, and the heaviest child. I look at photographs of me from back then and clearly see that I myself wasn't fat, and barely chubby but was made to feel that way by my father and his mother. I don't ever recall my mother dieting, or discussing dieting, nor did she put any of us on one. She cooked healthy meals on a very tight budget and there was no money for junk food of any kind. When she had a good coupon for a sugary-type cereal, we would descend on it like a pack of wolves, because we believed we might never see it again. That would be the tone in the household when it came to treats or extras, feast or famine. We learned no moderation because we were always afraid there wasn't enough to go around. We gobbled everything up and often would later be sick. At holidays we would eat to discomfort and sometimes vomit, and then eat again, so afraid that there would be no more. The truth was that we never starved. Having a grandfather who was also a supervisor at a meat-packing plant had its privileges. He was allowed to bring home the bacon, literally, and my grandmother kept an old-fashioned ice-box in the basement full of bacon only. She knew exactly how much was in there so we could never go and take anything although she had a king's ransom of it. Instead, my mother had to prostrate herself as usual, and endure the litany of her sins, and I think that there was some small rebellion in my mother that wasn't beaten out of her, that she refused to beg, hence we had many oatmeal and macaroni weeks. <br />
<br />
My father himself could cook because his parents had their own businesses and he was a latch-key kid, meaning he had a key to the house on a string around his neck, during the Depression. My paternal grandmother owned a beauty salon and my grandfather owned a barber shop and kept the entire extended family employed during the hard times. Because of the power they wielded over the livelihoods of everyone, they were highly regarded and all swore fealty to them and had to make an appearance at the mandatory Sunday Dinner where my grandmother cooked a feast for the entire clan but during the week, my father, as a child was on his own and had to cook for himself because after work, his mother and father would close shop and play cards all night long. My dad consoled himself with food. His mother told him, that because she had him at 40, he ruined her beautiful figure and never let him forget that and that he was fat. She would continue to berate him for his size, while feeding him and the rest of the clan. She especially loved Eugene, one of my father's brothers, who carried on a family tradition of running the last of a chain of butcher shops and would bring home choice cuts of meat for my grandmother to make for Sunday dinner. Eugene, or Genie would lord over the entire table, and had first pick. My father, the youngest, was persona non grata, it seemed, everywhere. He continued to and still does, console himself with food, his only friend. <br />
<br />
My mother refused to bow and scrape to her mother-in-law, I would imagine because she was really tired of being the scullery maid to all the lords and ladies, her own mother included, yet they shared a common hatred for my father's mother because she rejected my mom and her family. There is nothing like a common enemy to make two enemies allies and that was yet another spire in the crown of the food dysfunction, so many, so many, as a child it was too dizzying to comprehend that everyone hated each other, or was offended or dismissed this one or that one or thought who the hell they were.<br />
<br />
My childhood memory of the dinner table, and the dining room table on holidays is one of dread and the silent prayer that it be over soon. My brother Donny, for some reason had always, seemingly from birth, displeased my father and in fear, would always knock over his glass of milk at dinner, like clockwork. In response, my father would backhand him and my brother (smallish) would scream in fear and pain and this would replay at every meal. My father's worst abuse of Donny was at the kitchen table and even in Donny's high-chair. My mother, for some reason, didn't defend Donny, ever, and I think out of survival, nor did my brother David. It would be easier for a child to not be a victim by playing up to an abuser than risk injury, though at the time, and for a long time after that, I didn't understand this and hated David for this. I loved him for so much more, but this was unforgivable. My sister, the baby, was treated as a treasure by all of us and escaped most of the harm, or so I thought. Later, after she died accidentally in her sleep at the age of 35, I realized that she had not escaped. To have witnessed abuse is to also be abused and all the shielding that I could manage for her and Donny were in vain. I fought my father. I fought my mother. I fought my grandmothers and I fought my uncles. There were very few men, women or children I could trust as a child. Food became my consolation too.<br />
<br />
As I grew older, there was a lot of manipulation and mind games when it came to jockeying for position for favor with regard to who would get the extra pork chop. There were never leftovers. If I called ahead to the house to tell them I would be late coming home from work and to please save my dinner, most of the time, my father would have eaten it. Even if he wasn't hungry, it was there, it was his, he was showing his dominance by taking my own dinner. I retaliated by picking up my dinners on the way home from work and eating them during the commute home. My diet consisted solely of fast food and a lot of it, but with little nutrition and I packed the weight on. I told myself that I deserved it, especially since my mother would confiscate my paycheck because my father couldn't keep a job and I had to go to work to become a breadwinner, although, ironically, there was no bread for me to come home to. I was the only child in the family who was forced to pay my mother 'rent'. For a brief period, I think my brother David did, but then he decided not to and she never pressed him after that. He found an apartment with a buddy and moved out and my mother needed my money even more. Since my sister was in school, my mother was no longer a homemaker and worked full-time herself. We still fought to make ends meet. I remember asking her for a dollar of my own money and her crying because she said that dollar was going to be her lunch, a diet decaf Pepsi from the soda machine in her office building. Her tears made me feel guilty for wanting any of my own money because she said she sacrificed more and here I was secretly gorging myself on Wendy's and Burger King. I was ashamed and ate even more.<br />
<br />
My brother moved back into the house to begin saving for a wedding. Of course he could not pay rent. Another mouth to feed, and I was working overtime already. My hopes of going to college were screwed. My father told me I didn't want to go to college and their church pastor came to the house and had a talk with me telling me the profession I would have chosen was ungodly and not acceptable within 'our' faith. My parents forbade it. With no support and no self-esteem, I continued to work overtime, working my way up slowly through the ranks of customer services and sales offices. Like my grandfather, I would work on weekends and through my vacations to meet the financial demands of my family and to avoid them. I had no idea that I could be independent and have a life of my own. I was told that I didn't want this or that but I wanted this or that (whatever was to their benefit) and I was miserable.<br />
<br />
I don't know why but in my mid-twenties, I got a bit of wanderlust and the roots that I felt chained to, couldn't keep me from going on short road trips alone and soon I found myself wandering Amish Country in Lancaster, PA. I felt that someday I would live there. I mentioned it to my mother and suggested she come for a weekend with me and she loved it so much that she joined me on many trips. She became more relaxed and would talk about it to coworkers and one mentioned that she had a trailer up on one of the lakes in the Poconos and offered to let us use it for a weekend. We had a blast and I remember standing on the deck saying to myself, 'One day, I would love to have this place, here. It's so beautiful.'<br />
<br />
I began to look into jobs in that area with the hope that I could relocate. This was a gigantic step in independence for me. I went on a few interviews but soon found that the employment situation in the area was dire, especially in my field. I still hoped for that trailer, with that beautiful deck.<br />
<br />
My paternal grandmother died and my father inherited a moderate inheritance and my mother purchased the trailer and began talking of relocating. I felt as if she had hijacked my own dreams and began for the first time ever to establish healthy boundaries which she would challenge and challenge again and again. Eventually, the military base my mother worked at closed and she relocated to the area anyway and found a house and sold the trailer. I found an apartment and discovered the simple pleasure of cooking for myself, putting food in my refrigerator and opening the door, day or night and the food would still be in there when I looked. I could bring leftovers home and let them rot if I wanted. I could eat junk if I wanted or healthy and I chose a reasonable mixture of both. I lost 100 lbs., naturally in less than a year. I also noticed that any food aggression and hostility or anxiety about it was gone. I felt as if a great weight was lifted off my shoulders. <br />
<br />
I lost my first apartment and luckily found a second as a tenant to an old friend. She had her own issues with food which alarmed me, but we didn't eat together that often. I still was in charge of my own intake, my own refrigerator, my own choices. Then my mother was struck down with stomach cancer and my whole world caved in. Then 9/11 hit and I lost whatever inner-compass I had left. I quickly put on weight. My boyfriend was delighted with my weight gain and encouraged me to eat. I was miserable and only wanted my mother to live. I got engaged and when my mother's prognosis was given, we had to rush the wedding for her to attend. It's a blur, I don't remember a lot. I do remember so many people helping us to make the wedding a beautiful reality but to me, I didn't even feel like part of the event. My mother was dying, my mother was dying, my mother was dying.<br />
<br />
On Mother's Day, the week before my wedding, I shaved her head. Her hair was falling out in clumps from the chemo. A friend would lend a gorgeous wig. My mother and I both cried. I kissed the top of her head 'for luck' and I gave her the last thing she would ever eat, a St. Joseph's zeppole, which to the uninitiated is vaguely like a giant Italian cream-puff. From that point on, my mother would be unable to eat or drink. My wedding was her last social outing. She lived off the remaining fat of her body. She told me at the end that she secretly always wished she was thin. She told me she was sorry she was so hard on me. She asked me to forgive her. I wept at her feet and washed her forehead, face and shoulders with a warm soapy washcloth and helped her pick out her jewelry to give to others as a token of her love. She was dead six months after my wedding. I ate to console myself.<br />
<br />
I began to gain weight, alarmingly so. I became nearly immobile and suffered debilitating anxiety attacks. My husband delighted in my size and weight although I felt as if I was waiting to die. My aunt died suddenly. My godmother. I became sick, in fact had been sick for a long time and was hospitalized with pneumonia. A bariatric bed which also served as a scale was brought in for me. They tared down the bedding and then had me sit on it and then asked me to wait in the bedroom to finish putting on the sheets and blankets. My husband excitedly came running in and asked me if I wanted to know how much I weighed. I said no and he insisted and told me I weighed 679 lbs. I wanted to throw myself out a window. I wanted to die. I wanted to live. I decided during the course of that hospital stay that I would live and would do something about it. I stopped eating.<br />
<br />
My husband retaliated. He stopped touching me in any meaningful way. He wouldn't sit next to me nor would make eye-contact. I begged him to pay attention and as I lost weight, I did everything I could to seduce him into loving me back. He retaliated further by controlling every aspect of my life, including sabotaging my now slightly healthier eating. I considered having weight loss surgery and he forbade it. I lost 200 then 300 lbs and I became invisible to him. The war of food had never ended. The parties had changed, the battlefields, but there was no end in sight. I was so miserable, I considered swallowing a bottle of pills. I became sicker, sicker than ever and then my only sister died. I quit the painkillers I was on so I could grieve for her and as I became more lucid, I began to recover. I also realized my marriage was over.<br />
<br />
I would try to fix it. I would try to fix me. I even went so far as to gain 80 lbs. back to please him but he didn't want me anymore. My brother Donny suddenly died and the night before his burial, pretending to want to comfort me, my husband sexually assaulted me. He degraded me to show me he was boss. He shamed me for wanting more of life and less of me. I considered the bottle of pills again but instead began to plan an escape.<br />
<br />
One year later, I am legally separated, soon to be divorced and am 150 lbs. lighter. I am happier and healthier than ever. I don't know if I'll ever fully recover from the damage I did to my own body through the eating disorder of restrictive anorexia, something I struggle with daily. I don't recommend what I did to anyone. It was absolutely NOT a diet. My war with food is not a war I started, but a symptom of family dysfunction and it will finish with me. Food is not the enemy nor is it a punishment or reward. It is fuel that I can enjoy freely and with responsibility. I do not live to eat; I eat to live. I have lost 400 lbs. in five years and have no illusions that this will be a cakewalk from this point on but I am alive and able and am finally my own person making my own choices. CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-29830694751781577002012-08-20T23:18:00.000-04:002012-08-20T23:18:20.270-04:00PasswordI hand it to her and she rolls it over in her hand and asks me what it is. I explain that my newest hobby is collecting stones and crystals and researching the metaphysical qualities and histories of each glittering rock and pebble, some rough, some polished, their genesis, their lore, their mysticism. We sit on her back deck steps, the stoop, we both call it; she, using a term from her homeland, and me from growing up in an area that was originally settled by great farmers from her homeland, many hundreds of years ago. Some of the streets still bear the names of the settlers, although my hometown is now as ethnically diverse as New York City (being so close to it) and the denizens don't know any of those people, no memories or legacy save the signposts. She rolls it around and around while I look at the stream at our feet behind the giant clay Buddha. We're both barefoot, painted toes in muted tones of green and blue for me, and cherry red for her. I look up into the sun. Where I live, an hour away, it's pouring rain, but here the ground is dry and when she arrived a bit late for our appointment, I seized the opportunity of escaping the stuffy office by suggesting we go out for some fresh air one day and she said, 'Let's do it now', and here we are.<br />
<br />
It's a black tourmaline, called schorl. I tell her that it's hers, but she has to pass it on to someone else who needs it. It's a balancing stone, enhances energy, releases tension, removes blockages. More importantly, it removes negative attachments. I ask her to give it to a patient she might think needs it. Someone who might be in love and needs to and wants to be released, and her eyes light up with comprehension and she says, 'I have someone in mind'. I said, 'I know. I dreamed of this conversation last night. Tell them that I have the sister stone. Whether they're a man or woman, tell them I am their sister too.' <br />
<br />
I hand her another stone and tell her that this one is for her, alone. I've already cleansed and activated it and it belongs to her. I knew it belonged to her the moment I saw it and after it was in my possession, I further researched its history and my intuition was correct that it was meant for her. She holds it up in the sparkling sunlight and asks me what it was called. I put down my water bottle and say, Hollandite, the Blessing Star and yours is extra-special because it's a Lightbrary stone, meaning that the main stone, the master, mentor or teacher is surrounded by smaller crystals that cling to it in a cluster, rather than push off in opposite directions. The smaller stones are students, disciples, acolytes, etc. The stone alone is full of the energy of joy and laughter, and balance, and as a Lightbrary, full of wisdom, like her. She tells me she's never seen one and I said, 'They're extinct. A vein of them was found in another stone mine and has never been found again. Whatever is out there is all there is, so it's pretty special, like you. It's not payment for anything, but a token of gratitude and affection.' She tells me she loves it and I can tell she does. That was in the dream too. I told her that a long time before we ever met, I was told that an older wise woman resembling her would counsel me and someone together and although they were wrong about that person and I even said, not possible because he lives in another country, they were right about our working together and she chuckled and said, 'It's so funny the way the universe works.' I agreed and updated her on the goings-on with the latest shenanigans of the ex. 'Well, your decision is very mature. You've grown a lot.' My eyes cloud over and I watch the whirlpools in the water. The cicadas serenade us. <br />
<br />
<br />'Are you crazy? Really, what the hell? Are you going to do anything?' We're sitting in a pub in Port Jervis because she forgot that her favorite tiki bar is closed and she's disappointed. I'm overjoyed we're able to catch up and it's contagious because she's happy again. I'm asking the waitress if the mussels are any good. She interrupts the server to tell me their nachos aren't so I shouldn't trust the shellfish and the woman looks at me and says quietly...hopefully, 'We sell a lot of them every night. The steamed clams and stuffed clams too.' I take a chance and order the mussels. 'No...no....I don't intend to do anything about that. He wants me to react. I feel more sorry for her.' 'Tell me honestly, did you feel a pang of hurt when you saw a pic of them together?' 'Honestly, I felt nothing.' It was true and it felt good. The food arrives and the mussels are green New Zealand, my favorite and so pristine without a single grain of sand. The marinara sauce is full of fresh basil and garlic and I listen to her grumble as she delicately picks at a slice of bread like a piece of rich cake. I notice the window box is filled with basil and remember my grandmother's garden and how the largest plant, she had nicknamed, The Dragon. I suck down the mussels, the sauce a perfect balance of hot and sweet and I haven't had mussels in so long, it's like finding an oasis of luscious flavor. I took a chance and it paid off. 'So let me get this straight....you left the courthouse and went straight to the tattoo studio?' 'No, I left the administration building and went straight to the tattoo studio.' 'And you got a tattoo?' 'Yep'. My mouth is full of garlic bread. I grin anyway. 'Can I see it?' I twist and show her my shoulder. She pulls the fabric aside and gasps. 'Wow. I didn't expect it to be so pretty and I didn't expect you to ever get one. You just went in and got one just like that?' 'No, the week before I stopped in after I picked up a sandwich at the deli and wanted to just ask about a price but I was kind of impressed that the artist looked like Jerry Garcia and he was speaking cryptically, so I started speaking cryptically and just when the flirting got good, I turned around and told him I would be back, so I went back.' 'Did he remember you?' 'Not at first. But he remembered the word and then he remembered me. He said it sounded like a cleaning solution you use at the Vatican. He did it in ten minutes and then I went to therapy and she was more shocked than you are.' We both laugh and I dip an onion ring in ranch dressing. 'But it will always remind you of the sadness, that you were set free.' We split the bill and step outside into pouring rain and walk quickly to the parking lot nearby. 'No, we see things differently. It will always remind me of the freedom that I was able to set them free.' 'Okay, I'm going to text you tonight to look at that thing....' I make a mental note to myself to never order the Riesling there again, it was that bad. 'Okay. Love you.'<br />
<br />
The text surprises me. As usually agreed, I call her but I'm delighted and later even find an old voicemail that I somehow missed. She tells me that usually I'm always there when she looks for me and she's a bit unsettled that today I'm.....not and where the hell am I, what the hell? I laugh while listening and my father asks why I'm laughing but I shoo him off. She was looking for me, it would appear, a week ago, and I remember that I needed her and was crying. She responded but by that time I had bounced back and was proud of myself of that new ability. I can live and work and play in the same place with someone I once loved. I'm remarkably okay all things considered. I recall our conversation last night or the night before and she had asked me how I came by the nicknames I gave him and how he came by mine, if it didn't bother me to talk about it. She always wondered about the name Spooky Oats and I said it didn't bother me to talk about it but when I started talking about a pink unicorn I became quiet and she said she was sorry. I was holding a beautiful polished carnelian that Wonton had rejected in favor of a golden healer sunstone which was bought for her anyway and I thought what a clever girl she was knowing what was hers and what was mine. She rolled her stone around the floor and I admitted to myself that I'd had the carnelian for two days now and already had an affinity for it and as I looked at it, talking to my friend on the phone, I saw a unicorn with wings, a pegasus/unicorn and laughed because I didn't believe the shaman who read my animal totem wheel and told me that pegasus/unicorn was one of my totem animals, as was a dragon, come to think of it, well, four dragons, four directions, what did it mean and I burst into tears. 'I shouldn't have brought up the nickname thing' 'No..no...it seems I got my unicorn after all.' I explained and she asked me to take a pic no matter how bad it came out so I did and now it's somewhere in a Facebook album. My grandmother asked me who painted the unicorn on the rock and I tell her God, Mother Nature, the Universe. My cell phone however keeps dropping out and she asks me how I feel looking at his name, seeing his picture. She warns me to stop mentioning him, that it feeds his ego. I don't care. How fragile an ego that must be, then. I tell her I feel nothing and it's true and it feels good.<br />
<br />
Her burr is not as thick as I'd imagined when we spoke on the phone and Yamz even went so far to say at times it's incomprehensible but I think that could be chalked up to too much conversational wine on both sides of the Atlantic ocean and besides, I grew up living with immigrant grandparents, and my siblings enjoyed being a mini United Nations, marrying people from distant lands and languages so I have the unsung talent of clearly understanding the thickest accented English but today it won't be needed in a private message. 'Do you want me to delete the fucker?' Actually, it said much worse but the point's been made. 'No..no. It's unnecessary, but I love you for caring.' 'I want to say something. I feel like I should say something, call him out or something.' I told her not to bother. If he never responded to anything I said, he won't respond to anything you say, and it's over all over, let it end here and now. I'm not a victim. He has his own demons to bear but that little turd who added him, him, I wouldn't mind you eviscerating.' She asks me again if I'm sure and I am. And I'm happy.<br />
<br />
When I first began dating the one who I shared ten years of my life with, he would run up the side staircase, two flights and knock at the door and I would delightedly run to the door and stand there and whisper, 'What's the password?' He would say, always, 'Password' and I would say, 'Awww come on, play with me.' He never did. I think he was incapable. He didn't know how. No matter what I wanted, he couldn't be that person, didn't want to be that person, and never was that person who would play with me. I was mistaken and it would be a mistake I would make again, looking and overlooking but never quite considering what I needed and wanted and couldn't ever settle for. No matter how much love I had to give, there was something that I was forgetting in the process--myself. Everything I wanted was for them, every dream their dream and none for me.<br />
<br />
Because the ex has someone in his life who is curious about me, and has made several overtures to at the very least, know what I'm up to, I preemptively changed my passwords, all ten revolving words, which also revolved around the men I loved, names of hometowns, nicknames, inside jokes, meaningful then, meaningless now, except as memories. Now I've picked out exactly what I should have chosen all along. Words like the one now on my shoulder, meaningful to me and not as some proxy or projection of my undying love to someone who hasn't earned it and has lost a treasure, whether they know it or not. Life is too short to shed tears on the undeserving when you can be celebrating it with those who embrace you with wide open arms.CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-70908361377398578992012-06-26T20:59:00.000-04:002012-06-26T20:59:14.978-04:00St. Catherine'sThe city on the rolling hills<br />
Where sound will never carry<br />
Those voices I will never hear again<br />
But tonight I have no choice<br />
And so I cannot tarry<br />
And the volume is turned down 'til I don't know when<br />
Out of respect for those who sleep at St. Catherine's <br />
<br />
Everyone here I love<br />
Is resting in the night<br />
But I drive in restless silence<br />
Until I see street lights<br />
<br />
I'm leaving in a few days<br />
But I must say farewell<br />
And I don't know how to even try<br />
But 'to try' I always will<br />
<br />
In the dewy morning<br />
Again I drive up the hill<br />
Cross the entrance and get lost <br />
But find myself (I always do)<br />
<br />
I see two marble angels<br />
And muse that they had class<br />
Then down cross the tiny bridge<br />
Near the pillows in the grass<br />
<br />
Teddy bears and dolls <br />
Tucked in among the stones<br />
Little ones remain<br />
Who never will grow old<br />
<br />
Then the chapel<br />
Where I once swayed<br />
Should have thrice<br />
But swept away<br />
<br />
Still, I can recall the doves in the stained glass <br />
Make a left at the marker of a nondescript pine tree<br />
Left I guess or was it right? <br />
It all seems wrong to me <br />
<br />
I slow down to examine<br />
More angels and an obelisk or four <br />
The fine wrought-iron work<br />
That filigrees a lavish door<br />
<br />
And there's the bench<br />
And now I'm finally here<br />
To say hello I miss you<br />
To say goodbye and shed another tear<br />
<br />
There are three here<br />
But just two names<br />
(Because there's still discussion<br />
over who is paying)<br />
<br />
I wish I had the money<br />
To end the noise<br />
But my misdeeds are many<br />
So therefore I've no voice <br />
<br />
It's cold here<br />
And the ground is colder still<br />
I wanted to bring him here<br />
To share with you<br />
<br />
(He ran before I could)<br />
How could I know<br />
That just because he wept with me<br />
Didn't mean he had a soul<br />
<br />
<br />
When all else fails you can rely<br />
On sorrow to be a friend<br />
Standing steadfast as you grieve alone and lonely<br />
At St. Catherine's<br />
<br />
I left Her at St. Catherine's<br />
She's resting at St. Catherine's<br />
He lingers at St. Catherine's<br />
These three, they all live there<br />
<br />
I'm the only one who ever leaves<br />
And everyone leaves me<br />
<br />
Whether elsewhere or at St. Catherine's<br />
The Sun will set and rise and burn<br />
And no, I guess I'll never learn<br />
The peace that fills St. Catherine's<br />
<br />
It's not as if I have a choice<br />
There's still so much I'm forced to do<br />
I swear, I swear that I'll return<br />
I cannot not remember you<br />
<br />
No matter what my legacy<br />
Bedim in another's memory I grow <br />
I swear, I swear that I'll return<br />
I cannot not remember you<br />
<br />
I cannot not remember you<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-50332446446087878142012-06-22T23:00:00.001-04:002012-06-22T23:00:45.396-04:0088 and The Twelve OpossumsGrandma is sitting on the edge of my bed. It's 9PM, time for her nitro patch. It helps her sleep through the night. I don't think she'd mind me telling you that she's 88 and has had a double bypass but God has still not seen fit for her to 'kick da bucket' so she's going to keep talking to Him so he doesn't forget her, in case she's in the bathroom or something when He's looking to take her home. I tell her there's no chance of that, since she's closer to Heaven than any of us, but she says, she has to make sure so she's still gonna keep talking, morning, noon and night.<br />
<br />
She sings too. As she gets older, she forgets herself and half speaks and sings in Polish and English and when I can't figure it out, I say, ENGLISH, ENGLISH but I try really hard to not disturb her because until tonight she didn't know that I was listening. I had to come clean that I was eavesdropping but not exactly because you could hear her through a thunderstorm, to be fair but I thought she should know. At the same time I debated because although I had no faith in God, I did have faith in HER faith and liked to listen to her and would even awaken early and sneak closer to listen. <br />
<br />
I had lost my faith in all things good, not just spiritual. I lost my compass through a series of deaths, illness and a really painful end to a marriage, and also a sweet and meaningful friendship I thought would last for life. I lost my home and then got sick again and although since childhood, I knew better than to ever ask if it could get worse, it did anyway.<br />
<br />
I was asked to return to my faith, and I angrily refused. Unlike Job, I did curse God. I lost more than he did, and was lost, I said to God, 'Fuck you, kill me or I will live to spite you.' I guess He chose the latter because I'm still here.<br />
<br />
People are shocked that I say that but why? He's God; He can handle it. I laid in bed for days and I stopped eating. I developed an ulcer and I screamed at God. I was still talking to Him, you see, my belief in His existence was still intact, but His love was another story so I told Him what I basically felt about the last few people who hurt me. I don't trust you. I never will again. You're a liar. You're a fraud. You deserted me when I needed you most and I held my breath expecting lightening to hit me. Nothing. He didn't even care even to rain fire and brimstone on me. I truly was pitiful. <br />
<br />
My doctor and therapist were trying to figure out the mind-body connection with my energy levels and chronic pain and my condition with the lumps had returned. I'd conveniently not told them I'd stopped eating, but reasoned that I was taking gummi vitamins so it wasn't technically a lie. I was only fooling myself. I lay on the couch for weeks. My eyes were dry. I wasn't even drinking enough water to make tears. I said screw you to that too.<br />
<br />
Job had a few friends who stuck around after he lost everything but his miserable wife who told him to curse God and die, (I one-upped him on that, I didn't even have a husband anymore) but those friends didn't hesitate to tell him where he went wrong. Thing was, God Himself said Job was righteous. Now, there are some preachers who try to find some kind of loophole that he wasn't, but that's baloney. Of the 66 books of the bible, I know this one by heart, and Job was the good guy who was being shish-kebob'd in a game between God and the devil. God's personality here, I have to note, is a lot more in keeping with the Northern gods--Loki or Odin, I'm thinking and that just didn't flush with me, I didn't care who He was. What kind of loving god...blah blah blah.....never mind religion or faith--God was on my shit-list.<br />
<br />
My gran is nearly stone deaf now so when she sings and prays, I can hear it from anywhere in the house, even outside. I hear her crying too and it breaks my heart. She has lost so much too. Who emerges unscathed from burying both her daughters, two grandchildren and a husband of over 40 years? No wonder she felt left behind. We both did, we both lost the same people, in fact and I think of this as we do this little crooked dance of trying to fit into each other's lives with love and as little damage as possible so because her fingers are so gnarled from arthritis, I offer to put on her patch and she slowly makes her way through the house to me, because she says she likes how it feels in this room and how the cats all sit around us in here. <br />
<br />
My father grouses and grumbles that he doesn't see why HE can't put her patch on for her but she reminds him that he gives her her insulin shot, so be quiet and besides, his fingers are too chubby and I think she isn't keen on flashing him since it goes directly above her breast, but it's also because she wants to talk with me in the light and sweet smelling room, as opposed to the dark paneled pipe-smokey room.<br />
<br />
We have a ritual. If I haven't put my laptop down, she asks me who I'm talking to. She asks me about 'that jackass in Germany' and I've stopped trying to explain she's got the wrong country but I tell her to let it go, let it go, just...please...let it go and I look down and take the packet out of her hand and rip it and pull the covering off and press it against her skin, smoothing it out so there's no bubbles because she hates bubbles. I give the packet back to her because she keeps it on her nightstand as a reminder to take the patch off in the morning. If I stay out for the night, she forgets the patch, and forgets to take off the old one, but never forgets to tell Wonton I'll be home soon and not to worry. Neither will sleep if I say I will be home that night. If I don't, she tells me Wonton lets her baby her to a degree but in all her life has never seen an animal more devoted to someone than she is to me. <br />
<br />
She makes a little appetizing hot snack for Wonton and puts it on a china saucer and Wonton never eats it, she says, but looks out the window for me or lays by the door, waiting, but she thinks Wonton likes the ceremony of her making her something to eat. I know she does. She also says Wonton is just.like.me. and I tell her that regardless of whether it's intended as an insult (as my ex would) or as a compliment, I'm taking that as a compliment. It's a peculiar little dance between us but I have so few dance partners now, and her years left are uncertain, so we need each other. I think this isn't accidental which is also a part of faith.<br />
<br />
I told her, as I handed her the packet that I had heard her singing and praying. She was taken aback. 'From where?', she asked, 'This far from here in this bedroom?' I said, 'Yes. Grandma, you may be hard of hearing, but God isn't and neither am I.' I said, 'I hear you say that you look at the pictures on the walls and tell Him how much you miss everyone. That you see my wedding picture and you ask Him to never let my ex hurt another woman again, please, and to take good care of that stupid jackass in Germany because he must be crazy and you cry,' and I start to sob that this 88 year old woman who has had a life of great hardship, and cries for a granddaughter who too has a eerily parallel life, still thinks to pray for someone she's only heard about and probably never gave her another thought save one conversation through me on IM two years ago on Thanksgiving. I once told him that those who love me would love him because I love him which he doubted, but here was 88 year old living proof. <br />
<br />
She tells God not to let her die until she dances at my wedding and I stop to say, 'But you did dance at my wedding,' and her eyes twinkle and she says, 'I did not dance at your wedding but I won't die until I do. I will dance with your husband when you marry again,' and I don't know whether to curse God or bless Him but I know not to mess with this little woman with gnarled hands who used to make me applesauce and butter sandwiches and crochet hats and mittens for me and made my Communion dress, and she says, 'I know I talk to God too much but I figure He has to answer me sometime just to shut me up, right?' <br />
<br />
My legs are bare as she sits close to me and brush my hands across the bumps and scars that disfigure me and I tell her, 'I don't know who will love this scarred body, now,' and the tears fall down my face and she brushes them off and says, 'Elaine, God keeps your tears in a bottle. He knows their number and He knows what hurts you and who hurt you. He hasn't forgotten you. Someone will love you, all of you and not care about your bumps and scars. They won't matter to him. No one will reject you anymore. He will love you because you are beautiful inside and outside.<br />
<br />
I am a humble woman with a third grade education. In Poland I was rounded up like an animal by the nazis and their slave on a German farm for three years and am lucky to be alive but I am and I am not stupid. Don't give up on love and don't give up on God. God took care of me in Germany and the farmer and his family loved me like their own. Their son was going to marry me when he came back but he never came back from the front line in Russia and I met your grandfather at a Sunday beer garden and that's the funny way life turns out.'<br />
<br />
Then she began to tell me the bible story about Jesus assuring his disciples that he would come back for them and if it were not so, He would have told them, so she was demonstrating that He cares about our feelings and fears too and began, 'When Jesus was in at the Last Supper with the Twelve Opossums...'....I giggled through my tears.....she said, What? I said..nothing, sorry, nothing...She said, no tell me...I said, you said 'possums...like the animals outside...She threw her head back and laughed. 'Imagine', she said, 'a painting of Jesus with all those 'possums' and we both laughed.<br />
<br />
She apologized and said she was sorry her English wasn't so good still after all these years and I said, 'Oh grandma, it's because of your English and your accent that I love accents. Probably one of the reasons why I loved that jackass from Germany so please don't say you're sorry. I get it. I really do. And I like to hear you pray and sing. You're a little Polish canary and I don't want to think about the day that I won't hear you sing anymore so don't shut the door, okay?' <br />
<br />
She got up and nodded in that resolute way she has when something is finalized. 'Okay, but only if you don't give up either, okay?'<br />
<br />
Okay. CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-65436733001023769192012-06-18T19:06:00.000-04:002012-06-18T19:06:01.876-04:00Tiny Bees and Gigantic Whales<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
I wrote this over a year ago for another great blog that I was thrilled to be part of while it lasted. I thought I'd repost it here, and although the romantic part has changed, the story is still interesting and I wanted to share. </h3>
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
</h3>
<h3 class="post-title entry-title" itemprop="name">
Tiny Bees and Gigantic Whales
</h3>
<div class="post-header">
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_130585364885840">
Millions of bees are dying due to a
phenomenon coined Colony Collapse Syndrome. No one is quite sure of
the cause. Some scientists blame pesticides, malnutrition, genetically
modified crops and climate change to name a few but one stands out
starkly because it seems to be following a pattern; electromagnetic
radiation or for the layman, cell phones. We are probably killing off
billions of bees because of technology. <br id="yui_3_2_0_2_13058536488582235" /> </div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_1305853648858398">
<br />
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_1305853648858399">
It doesn't just end with
bees. One might say, well okay, so no more honey (which is for you
trivia buffs, the only food that can't 'go bad'--found perfectly sweet
in wrecks of Viking ships and royal Bronze Age burial plots) but
thousands of plant species are dependent upon bees for pollination. And
thousands of insect species, and mammals and so on are dependent on
those plant species. This is why the word 'Collapse' is in there. The
house of cards is facing a catastrophic typhoon, proportions of which
we can't even comprehend the toll and if you ask the next person if
they've ever heard of it, they'd probably shrug, 'Bees. They sting. Good
riddance'.<br />
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_1305853648858666">
<br />
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_1305853648858667">
I'm no granola crunchy
hippie tree-hugger. In fact, until a few years ago I was positively
disgustingly smug conservative until it dawned on me the only thing
vociferous conservatives are interested in conserving are their own very
specific special interests and not at all as I understood it to be
which was to conserve, like the grasshopper and the ant, to work and
save for the winter for everyone but now winter is here and everyone is
saying 'what's in it for me' and it makes my heart hurt. Forget 'what
about the children'. What about the bees because it's gonna affect the
children and we have to do something now. Luckily for the bees it
appears that they might be gaining in numbers so I'm hoping they all
fall in love and keep making more honey and pollinating like crazy kids.
<br />
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_13058536488581063">
<br />
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_13058536488581064">
Then there are the whale
strandings or what most of us know as 'beached whales'. Multiple species
of whale are falling off established migratory patterns and if you do a
Google search, the same reasons are given as for the bees and in this
case, in the Pacific and Atlantic at least, where whales need to go
North to mate and give birth--they're getting LOST. How the fuck does a
whale get lost? And you read 'cruise ship noise' and you do a facepalm
because we're killing them too, tiny bees and gigantic whales. Signals
we need to communicate over distances to each other are affecting and
threatening their existence. </div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_13058536488581553">
<br />
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_13058536488581554">
It dawns on me. Distance.
It's always distance. Mixed signals like the telephone game, where the
message is totally beyond comprehension at the end; funny when kids are
playing it at a basement birthday party but not so funny when we're
trying to communicate. <br />
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_13058536488581633">
<br />
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_13058536488581634">
We're so far away from
each other and the internet brings us so close it gives a false
intimacy as if it's real and to many it is but to many it's the perfect
foil to hide behind anonymity and pretend you're one thing when you're
another. It's so easy to be tempted. Years ago no one would have ever
dreamed of the possibility of romance with someone 1000 miles or more
away and now not only is it happening but it's thriving and people are
moving great distances to be together and some of them end up going off
course and getting lost and never reestablishing their old patterns. <br />
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_13058536488581781">
<br />
</div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_13058536488581782">
Now I'm at the end of one
relationship and fingers (but thankfully not oceans) crossed, may be
embarking on another after a brief period of FREE FREE I'M FREE but have
the dumb luck to find the most common with one least close
geographically. And proceeding very very cautiously because someone once
told him it wasn't real and someone once told me it wasn't real and
this one was burned and that one was burned and even though BOTH of us
thought it was real with the other now have to check our sonar and radar
and cellphones to make sure it's not mixed-signals. And it pisses me
off. </div>
<div id="yui_3_2_0_2_13058536488582169">
<br />
</div>CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-65914647801394135282012-05-28T21:57:00.000-04:002012-05-28T21:57:08.263-04:00Flying Into the SunDuring summers when I was a kid, my friends would often disappear with their families to the Jersey shore or the mountains to paddle in the lakes and I would ask my dad when we would go on vacation. He said, 'You're a kid. You're always on vacation.' and the conversation was OVER. I didn't know that it was a matter of having (or rather, never having) the money and the hours at work for him to take time off; I just accepted it as my reality that I was to eke out my own recreational endeavors, because my other choices were limited to babysitting my siblings, playing handball against our concrete stoop (while babysitting my siblings), making kites in the garage out of construction paper, Elmer's glue and Tinker Toys a la da Vinci, or submitting myself to the mercies of my grandmother who regarded me as a mini serf available to scrub every step in the house, to gut the garage and basement and to clean cobwebs from the attic and closets, to name a few. She was pretty creative with torturous household chores. If I was good, I got an applesauce and butter sandwich. I said fuck that shit and looked for a way to disappear.<br />
<br />
Every Saturday morning, my grandmother would make a sumptuous breakfast for anyone who woke up early (and put their slippers on; bare feet was an offense worse than profanity) and then she and my mother would go out and shop. For the record, I rarely made it to her breakfasts. I was an inveterate insomniac and didn't finally fall asleep (if I did at all) until dawn. This routine of mine was always met with disdain and a prediction I would amount to nothing. I figured I could fry my own damned bacon in peace and BAREFOOT once they left.<br />
<br />
First they'd hit every yard and garage sale on the entire eastern seaboard. Then the thrift and consignment shops, then they'd end the day with the weekly grocery shopping. Often, they would stop at the house to have the available serfs (us kids) unload the full tailgate, so they could continue shopping, and woe if one was in the house but did not answer the cruise ship horn of the Mercury Grand Marquis station wagon, which evoked as much terror in me as the sound effects of the martian space crafts in The War of the Worlds. I had been requested to join them, assimilate, be one with them, but they already had my toddler sister and I knew these were not joyful women-bonding events because they enjoyed these weekends with the grim and determined faces of ruthless consumerism. They just wanted me to run up and down aisles grabbing stuff they'd forgotten or tend to my sniveling, bored and hot sister or carry bags to and from the car and one day when I could not escape them, I stood at a bulletin board near the exit doors of Shop-Rite and saw a piece of paper that changed my life. FREE DAY CAMP.<br />
<br />
I ripped it off the board and folded it up and shoved it in my pocket as my mother hollered for me to grab my sister's sandal as she kicked it off while sitting in that seat in the carriage, that seat I wish I could sit in and swing my little legs but I was always too big, too big but now I figured, too big for that but not too big for this so on the day noted I arrived at the day camp with the required dollar (couch cushions are veritable bank vaults) with all the other rag-tag kids in my neighborhood. I discovered quickly that there was one of these camps in every neighborhood and the city paid for everything, except a dollar, so as long as I had that covered, theoretically, I could spend every day on the bus going somewhere awesome.<br />
<br />
I learned to sing On Top of Spaghetti, Hello Mutha Hello Fatha, Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall plus every top-forty song because when the bus' radio wasn't working, I had my trusty Radio Shack Realistic lime green transistor radio and I absolutely without any remorse whatsoever would cannibalize every single appliance in the house that used the batteries required to make my radio sing. Oh I may not have yet become an intrepid shopper, but it appeared the ruthlessness known to the women in my family was innate in me and was in fact, sharply honed by self-preservation and a little bit of bloodthirsty desperation to never ever EVER be at that house when that fucking car showed up blaring, COME OUTSIDE, COME OUTSIDE, LET'S GO, LET'S GO. I was already long gone.<br />
<br />
I didn't make any friendships during those trips. It wasn't a conscious decision. I guess I considered my friends on vacation were still my friends and I had no desire to play little girl games which might distract me from the claw games and carnival rides at shore towns and boardwalks up and down the Jersey shore or hiking up a mountain at a state park in Pennsylvania. My biggest concern was conning my parents into signing the permission slips until I mastered their signatures. At that age, I had not yet learned to cave to their pressure and disdain for my independence and still had disdain for their disdain for me. I put on my sandals and Snoopy shorts and walked three and a half blocks and through a park to meet the bus everyday.<br />
<br />
If it rained, we made crafts in a municipal building on site. I learned how to sew and made a bunny rabbit hand puppet. I also learned through another intrepid explorer, how to make a noose. I would later be thrown out of my first Girl Scouts meeting for showing another girl how to make one to hang her Barbie dolls too, because no one had the forethought to tell me it was illegal in New Jersey to teach someone how to make a noose, no matter how tiny or ornate (some of mine were delicately woven with satin rosettes and pom-poms stolen from my grandmother's sewing room) but then, I was learning how to survive and if that included eating ants or hanging upside down from the highest monkey bars in the playground to prove how tough I was, I was willing to take the risk of incarceration or my ass beat with my father's belt.<br />
<br />
We often went to the same places which was fine with me. I got to know them inside-out and enjoyed the little corners never discovered by the usual tourists. I spent a lot of time at the Newark Museum for Children, Suntan Lake, Turtle Back Zoo, Keansburg Amusement Park (too rich for my blood, never went inside but played the games on the boardwalk) and Bertrand Island, an amusement park where it seemed all dangerous carnival rides went to fall into further disrepair and die in rusty murky obscurity. I loved Bertrand Island because it was indeed a small island worthy of Peter Pan and his Lost Boys and I'd wander the park listening to the Magic by Pilot and Afternoon Delight by Starland Vocal Band on the loudspeakers, hoping to find magical sprites and exotic birds and animals. Instead I found the Whip-It.<br />
<br />
Four round cars rolled around on a giant X that whirled around and around until you were sure you'd dry heave and then it would snap and throw your car into a long cool tunnel bumping along while you screamed in the dark. The workers there were bored as hell and hardly ever took our tickets and often kept the ride running for ten minutes and it was the most exhilarating thing in the world. I have no idea how I never got whiplash and I never saw that ride at any local summer carnival but it was the one thing that my heart thumped for all summer long for at least three years.<br />
<br />
Every now and then, if the Whip-It was down (actually, it frequently was probably due to lawsuits) I'd have to find another ride to try out. I was a pretty loyal tenacious little kid and stuck with what I liked but I had a taste for the unknown and exotic too so I found something called the Torpedo of Death. Okay, that was probably my name for it and I can't find any record of it in the history of the park (Woody Allen filmed some scenes from Purple Rose of Cairo in '83 there, which seems to be its biggest claim to fame) but it taught me one of the most profound lessons about my own character.<br />
<br />
I was lonely. I was ten, eleven and I felt unwanted and unloved and invisible to my parents except as a servant. My father had the habit of telling me my ideas were stupid and I didn't want what I wanted, that I wanted what he thought I wanted and I was no longer allowed to sit on his lap and watch monster movies with him, and my mother was always too busy or would give me weekly Silent Treatments over some mystical infraction and I was spending a lot of time avoiding two uncles whom my parents never seemed to notice were paying way too much attention to me, so my feeling of belonging anywhere was at an all time low. My insomnia increased with everything going on at home, and I was sleepwalking when I did drift off but still I'd wander, wander, looking for something I didn't think I had but wanted really bad.<br />
<br />
So I stood there contemplating this ride which was pretty simple in appearance. It was a circle somewhat on its side and in the tracks were rockets that a body would lie in, while the circle would speed around and around until centrifugal force would make one flatten against the seat but nobody told me that that would indeed happen. I stepped inside my rocket, which had seen better days and probably had been part of the early Soviet space program so I imagined myself a cosmonaut. If a dog and a couple of monkeys could do it, so could I, I reasoned, although I worried that they had helmets and I'm pretty sure, seat-belts and I did not. However, it was too late to turn back. The ride began and I held on to the sides of the car.<br />
<br />
I remember it was a really sticky hot day in August and one of the worst because it had rained in the morning and the sun was merciless. These were the days before sunblock so although I had my dad's dark Italian eyes and hair, I had my mother's Polish snow-white skin and even that day, I recall looking at my pink swollen arms and legs, knowing that I would pay for it later that night, tossing and turning and never having a cold enough side of the pillow. That was the price for being a voyager into the unknown and I took my lumps as I always had. This trek, however, would be different.<br />
<br />
The ride began to speed up and I began to have difficulty sitting up so I attempted to lean back but that meant I would lose my grip on the sides of the car. There were no real handles, so I was literally white-knuckling bare metal in one hundred degree weather and the palms of my hands and my fingers were burning and I felt as if my muscles were tearing as I held on screaming not in joy but in terror because I was certain that at some point, like the Whip-It, my rocket would be released and I would be flung straight into the sun without a helmet, without a seat-belt, without any damned sunblock and still I hung on screaming, screaming, screaming, the tears flowing up my forehead rather than down because of the force of direction. I didn't think. I just held on. I held on and I held on and finally the ride began to slow and then stop. We all staggered off and I felt as if my arms were a foot longer than they were when I got on. The pain would last for over a week but I survived and not only that, I had beaten the ride. I did not lie back and I did not let go. I didn't question my ability to hold on, nor did I analyze the odds or my options. I held on because something inside me said I wasn't invisible, I wasn't unwanted, and I wasn't going to die. At least, not on that day.<br />
<br />
I have done things and made decisions in my life that I'm not entirely proud of, in fact, things that shame and disgust me. I have experienced, endured and in some ways been the architect of my own wreckage but there has always, as long as I've been conscious of it, a theme in my life of rebuilding, starting over and recreating what was thought to be lost and even now, I'm rebuilding against seemingly insurmountable odds but I don't intend to just survive. I remember those carnival rides and both feared and loved them and faced them anyway and still found delight in my humble couch-cushion discoveries. I intend to be like that little girl who nobody told what was supposed to happen, and pretty much nobody cared, and fly off into the sun, on my own terms, in my own time, with my own indomitable spirit. Hopefully with sunscreen. And maybe a helmet. <br />
<br />
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4iiryJwvDtc<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-465610020399640710.post-52783983853233036212012-05-20T19:34:00.003-04:002012-05-20T19:34:38.457-04:00What Are Your Qualifications For the Position?<div>
"If you're doing something else I can let you go....."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
'No....no...I'm sorry...you know when we're here on <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1304209539_0">Yahoo</span> chatting and that little notification comes up that you've got mail, well, not 'you've got mail' cos that's <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1304209539_1">AOL</span> but"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Yeah, Lainey, I get it...your point?'</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Oh...panties
in a twist today? Fine. You know how I get all these declarations of
love and promises of devotion and fantasies of pure delicious filth on
FB and that forum I talk about from people I don't know, how some are
quite entertaining?'</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Yeah, you've posted a few gems as your FB status. In case you haven't noticed everyone in my family and most of <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1304209539_2">Lubbock</span> has friend requested you because they find me rolling on the floor in tears and want to be in on it."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Ahhh...I
was wondering how Bradley and I became friends....and then there are
spin-offs where your friends friend my friends and my friends friend
your friends and those friends friend those friends."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Lainey, there's a shampoo commercial in there, I know but ffs, focus, please."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Sorry, anyway.....I'm hungry. Hold on, please."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"You pull this shit all the time. Damn, might as well potty break myself, brb."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Back"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Me
too. So anyway, there was a new one today from someone who isn't even a
friend and the email was in Arabic but it included a pic."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Oh Christ. Am I going to regret asking 'of what'?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"A pic of me."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"So?
Remember that stalker you had that did collages of you and him and
photoshopped hearts and did morphs of your future babies together...he
was from Zyzaroplokikistan or something wasn't he? He was harmless....."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"A pic of me with what I thought was soft focus and there was an indecipherable caption underneath so I put it through <span class="yshortcuts" id="lw_1304209539_3">Google Translate</span>."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"What did it say?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I splooged all over your pic and my keyboard, sorry you are my angle. Can we be friends."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Angle?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"THAT gets you but the splooging part doesn't?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Was there a glitch in Google Translate? Angle, huh?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
*sigh*</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Well,
much as I like to hear about your gazillion conquests here and
internationally, why don't you just change your security settings so you
don't get unwanted messages anymore?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Because people who I *do* want to contact me that I've lost touch with wouldn't be able to contact me then."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"True, rabbit, true. You also have four thousand fucking friends. I think everyone you know has found you, Lainey."</div>
<div>
<br />
</div>
<div>
"Oooooh, Racketeer Rabbit....oldie but a goodie. Oh and he sent me a pic of his junk."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Wait...WHAT? Why do YOU get all the good pics. Was it a good one?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"
It was respectable. I miss the good old days when people just sent
greeting cards, valentines, roses, chocolate..mmm chocolate."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Maybe in his country it was a culturally acceptable form of interest."</div>
<div>
<br />
"I asked him if he'd show his mother or sister that pic."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"What'd he say?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I don't think he's figured out Google Translate. I *do* think that might work in my favor. Meanwhile, I'm blocking him."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Send me the pic of his pecker?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Sure......"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"What's wrong?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I got a love letter, a poem no less, in French from a lesbian German porn star. It rhymes in English."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Wow. All hail Google Translate."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"No, I asked the guy I liked if he knew any French and he figured it out for me."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Which one? Not...?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"NO. And anyway, he's pissed off at me, now."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Oh God. What now?"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Well,
this other woman he was crushing on, friend requested him and he was
thrilled and then she friend requested me and he mentioned it to me and
I said, relax that's just a coincidence but turns out it isn't."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Why? Is she trying to keep tabs on you or something, like you're competition?'</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"No. Evidently she used him to get to me. She likes me likes me."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA. He thought you were cockblocking but he's vagblocking. Oh God."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Maybe I should figure out and post an application form on 'gettin' wit me' to cut out the riff-raff."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"I could only imagine the interview process."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Yeah.
What are your expectations for the job? What did you like best about
your last position? What have you been doing since you resigned? Work
history: What were your starting and final levels of compensation? What
did you like best and least about your last boss....hey this could
work."</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"Don't get carried away Miss Ego. Remember, there is no "I" in 'team'"</div>
<div>
</div>
<div>
"No, but there is a 'M' and an 'E'.</div>
<div>
<br />
</div>
<div>
"You're fired."</div>
<div>
<br />
</div>
<div>
<br />
</div>
<div>
<br />
</div>CastingPearlshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16857161825006241393noreply@blogger.com2