Detached but Curious

Spent the afternoon watching the documentaries on the 60s and 70s produced by Tom Hanks for CNN. It was riveting. The first episode I watched was a huge blast from the past, TV in the 70s. And I still know most of the lines. The quotes chosen happened to coincide with some memes floating through my facebook page. Hawkeye Pierce declaring was is worse than Hell, for one. But all my old favorites were there. And the teenager got to see a wider range of shows that her mom and I grew up on that influenced how we grew up. Kinda. In snippets, it's hard to get the big picture. This way at least it is a wider lens even if the image is a bit fuzzy around the edges. The  concept of "event" television still eludes her. With the other episodes, the ones that dealt with inflation, the 76 election, the hostage crisis... well, I know I was there for all of it when it happened. I just don't seem to be able to completely recall it from inside my own body.

It's weird to say. Trust me, it's even weirder to experience. The news announcements seemed familiar, as if I have them stored somewhere in my mind and have glanced at the content here and there. Then, I could see myself as a child with Walter Cronkite and Dan Rather at all of these events and broadcasting. I am sitting and the large brown toned rag rug that filled the living room's open floor, a scattering of toys around me and some of them in my mouth. I can feel the smooth sides of the yellow shapes that go in the red and blue puzzle ball, feel some drool hit my leg and turn from cold to warm. I see myself pick up another toy, wave it around then stare blankly at the TV.

Some of the most significant events of the 1970s happened between 70 and 73. I was 18 months to 3 years old. The news coverage of the Vietnam War, the images from Rather and Wallace's broadcasts made their impression. As I watch myself watch those images, I realize that I never thought it was real. I thought dad was watching World War II movies. Again. The idea that the war was happening as I was being brought into the world didn't even really hit me in history class. It always felt like it was one of those "Mom Things".

There are things that are unique to my formative experience that my mother would never participate in as aa contemporary. The decades that come before us in her formative years influenced how she saw things that happened as we were growing up. That is just how it is. Same with dad. It is probably what accounts, in some part, for the generation gap. There are things, thanks to reruns, that I can't experience the way she did because I wasn't there for the first run. I had no personal connection to Kennedy so the replays when the conspiracy theorists opened all wounds did not cut me at all. My mother? She cried every time. Somehow, even though I know that I absorbed everything that happened around me, I am still detached in many ways from the events around the world.

Detached but curious.

And I see that is how most of my life has really been. I am detached but curious about a lot of things. I am detached from my family relationships, curious as to how this whole thing operates, detached from my classmates, detached from people whom facebook believes are close friends, and detached from people I consider close friends, I am detached from people, not from outcomes. I am detached from the human experience but not from information, I thrive on gaining new input. And sometimes I get really excited about sharing it. But I do not really have attachments to people unless except for cultural icons from whom useful information is gained.

No wonder I have a hard time with the daily activities required to exist.

Tis Brillig but there is no snow

Last year we were under feet of snow and had been since late October. This year, just week or so from Christmas and there is only a threat of snow. The 4 inches we got for Thanksgiving left as quick as it came.

It doesn't feel like the season. And there is no real pressure to do things up for the holiday. I don't want ornaments until there is glittery sugary snow contrasting them. It sure is windy though. Sounds like a hurricane out there. I half expect to see white capes on the little inland lake we live near. It is more likely that one of these trees will cast a limb.

Tonight everything gyres and gimbles in the wabe & it's too cold for the mome raths to outgrabe.

Stupid Things Adult Say to Kids & Sometimes Each Other

Not for all the tea in China

One presumes that Chinese tea is valuable and that the totality of the product grown, processed, packaged and shipped from this country is quite lucrative and profitable.  We assume this is why people say they won't do things even if they were offered all of the tea in China. Should we assume? Should we assume that we know that is what is being said? Should we assume they know the current market value of this commodity and bid ourselves higher in the bribing?

I have more questions.

Would India tea be an acceptable payment?

Is this all the tea that is physically in China? Or do we mean all the tea that came from China period?
If the tea has left China and is en route to a distribution center would that be suitable payment?
If the tea has left China and is being served by, oh sayy... Benedict Cumberbatch, would that be legal tender to perform requested service?

If we are in fact talking about all the tea that came from China period, is that all the tea in China at the moment? Or for the day? Month? Week? Year? In the history of tea leaf harvesting?

How do you even begin to quantify this statement so that it makes tangible sense when negotiating? What the hell was my dad talking about when he said this?

Why do I keep saying this? Why do we say this to kids in the first place? I think we do it just to confuse them enough to make them give up asking questions. We do that to everyone. and it is so unfair.

Unless i am over-thinking things.

If Money Were No Object You Still Have to Set Your Intentions

It would be the 23rd century and I would be a xeno-anthropologist or linguistics geek on a slightly less classier class of starship than the Enterprise. But seriously. And I have to be serious because the therapist wants me to be serious. No gallivanting about the galaxy, or at least the Gamma Quadrant for me. No, I have to decide what I would do if money were no object, time were irrelevant and I cared not a jot for anyone but myself. What would I do?

What would I do?

WHAT would I do?
What WOULD I do?
What would I do?
What would I DO...ooooo?

The immediate answer, and almost as flippant an answer now as the 23rd century comment above, is go to Germany. It's something that I have wanted for so long that it is a pat answer. And I don't think about what go to Germany means any more.

I guess that is a problem for my therapist. It's a problem for her because it means it is a problem for me.

I'm not thinking about me again. I am thinking about all sorts of things now except for what is good for me and what I want. I am not setting goals to achieve my desires. Rather I am building a bucket list so that it sounds like I have things that I want to do. Things that I am going to do and I look like a normal person. That isn't to say that I don't still want to go to Germany. Of course I do. I have since I was 15. But I am not consciously thinking about it.

I am consumed by other things right now: Getting out of debt, Securing my position at work & evaluations. I am on autopilot in parts of my life. And in others I am completely unconscious. The what would I do if I had no limitations part is very much dormant.

It's one of those things that I regret in this very moment. I've enjoyed the new experiences and exploring new ideas with the addition of new people in my life. But in this moment I regret that I have let some key parts of me fall asleep. One of me fears in being in any kind of relationship is losing the parts of me that I truly enjoy, parts of me that people think of when they think of me.

I am more than just a name. I am more than my job title and position in my family. I am my thoughts, ideas, my art work, my writing. I have an intangible quality that defies definition in a few short paragraphs, or long ones for that matter. And I don't ever want to lose those parts of me. For all of my life I have fought someone to preserve them; fought family, fought conforming to my friends ideas of who I should be, fought church and small groups, fought bullies and boyfriends. In some cases I have traded physical comfort and endured bodily damage to protect the most valuable parts of me, Spirit & Soul.

Why do I keep letting these things slip? Why do I let me get lost with these "responsibilities"? Are we only the sum of our duties? Am i simply struggling with the darker shades of an artists soul search because the weather is dismal? Do I only feel disjointed or are things honestly out of balance? Is it time to identify myself some other way? Do I want a new identity? Why do I not set intentions toward achieving my bucket list?

In part, it is the introverted world observer that I am. It would be wonderful to be in Germany. But I can almost feel I am there when I read about it, view the pictures, listen to the music and enjoy the food. I've always been able to take in the world through study in a way that is satisfying enough. Yes, to be in person would be better. It would be the penultimate joy. The other part of the answer is that I can not let my imagination lose like I used to. I can not make myself forget the fact that money is an object. It is the object that will get in my way every time that I try to do something nice for me.

Has it really been two months?

I guess it has been. Regular posting is a little tricky. Everything is a little tricky right now. I have never been very good at organizing life when it gets complicated by many important parts. That is why I usually try to keep things to a dull 1 focus at a time. Usually that is work first. Art second. And everyone/thing else competing for 3rd. However, life rarely let's you get away with that for too long. And this year's competition for first has been fierce proof of that.

I've been dating the same guy for the last year. That new boyfriend still has the new boyfriend feel. When I worked only 3 or 4 days a week and why had lots of time to hang out that was fun. And I still got to have time for art, blogging, and cooking. So much time that I was able to and in a pen pal and start a new blog at Wordpress. We had fun and I still got to do all the introverted "I'd rather be alone right now" things that I have been accustomed to these last 20 years of being divorced. Much of this has changed since April.

We started dating as the seasons slowed nature and slipped into dormancy. With a hard winter there were no adventures to be had. And since Winter was so long and difficult on the psyche, when Spring finally came we sought the sun and adventure at every turn. My skill sets expanded so that I would fit into his world. As I mentioned; I learned to fish, kayak, we went on the Unintended Library Tour, toured Lighthouses, went foraging for mushrooms after learning about them a bit, & took scenic tours of the area we live. And we did all of that on the one or two days off that I had each week... if I got them off.

I haven't had a lot of time off. And we filled it with the outdoors to make up for a hard winter. And to prepared for another potentially dark winter of endless night. I also moved this year. Again. Adapting to new surroundings is harder and harder each year. An this year is no exception. I am still living out of boxes and it has been over 6 months.

I don't have a kitchen that is conducive to photography. The taste testing goes well. But the photography is abysmal. And there is no changing it until I am in my own space once again.

And there has been a good deal of depression in the last few months. The frustration of not having a settled life. Of trying to figure out how I am going to ever have my own space again is keeping me up at night again. And we know how I am without sleep. Deprivation makes for a precarious situation when navigating the the world.

And then there is the never being alone.
I am always around people. Even if I am in my room I am still in a place full of people. I am an Aquarius. Our symbol should be a pillow. My spirit animal should be an fluffy overstuffed bed with lots of pretty bedding. I love sleep for the dreams, for the solitude and for the time that my brain is not on overdrive. I am not getting it.

I need solitude. Not and icy fortress in the middle of nowhere. And certainly not an ivory tower with yellow beams of light. Though.... if I could have a room in the turret once it is renovated.... that would be awesome. I have no time to regroup. To indulge in the flights of fantasy that keep my brain happy with all the monotony of the mundane.

And so two months here slips by me without much notice. That and now we have issues with the boyfriend and his need for privacy. I haven't given a name because I wouldn't. And I don't have his permission. But I also have been asked to not  divulge the details of our adventures because he doesn't like to think about his life being an open book. I get it. But I am a character in my own life. And that means that I no longer get to write about my adventures. It is nearly impossible to write him out of stories because he is an inextricable part of them.

Now there is a war withing me between self-expression and respecting another's boundaries.
Sigh

Sometimes We Bully Ourselves

Recently read a letter that I found tucked in and among some things while I was semi-unpacking. That was back in November and it cut me to the core, just like it did when I first read it. The letter, written by a boyfriend who would not be long for my life, accused me of failing to meet the standards of a girlfriend.

You see, the letter came with the downturn in my business caused by a variety of circumstances not the least of which was the beginning of the end of print media. I was having a hard time meeting expenses and being asked to help fund another person's lifestyle. I could not do both without losing my own home. So I did what was necessary to keep my home.

In this letter, I was accused of being devious, that I only will care about things as far as my own needs are met. Of course, if someone were taking care of me and struggling they would have said that they were taking care of business. The only difference between the two stances is that he was a man and I was a woman.

A woman can not, still in this day and age, make the tough choices without being accused of some womanly failing. What would be considered assertive, definitive, level-headed and done of necessity by a man is considered devious and under-handed when done by a woman. The motive is not questioned when a man draws a line. But when a woman draws a line there is always haggling, assumptions are made about her intent.

If we are to temporarily cut someone off for the good of the future we are plotting something underhanded. And if we concede to the whims of those who must join us in sacrifice, and the future collapses, then we are held solely to blame. Women have run households for eons. We are to feel guilt when there are sacrifices to be made and others suffer along with us. But when another makes the sacrifices that cause us to suffer we are to bear the burden with a lightness of being that can only be found in the insipid characters of fairy tales.

Truly though my real crime that caused him to accuse me of being devious was that I refused to feel guilty about the choices that I made. I didn't feel the slightest bit guilty for telling him no. Felt no sympathy at all for him when he had to go without extras while I was going without the basics. I did not put him in his situation. And no one has the right to ask anyone to become homeless to provide comfort to another. So when I did what I had to do to recover my losses and keep my home I felt no guilt at all. Heartless?

Logical.

You have to do what needs to be done to keep everyone together in the BIG PICTURE. You do what you have to do to provide for you and yours, even if yours don't understand.

I can't feel guilty about making tough choices. A friend of mine was recently worried about taking advantage of things available to him as a matter of course. If something is made available to you and you have need of it then accept it. There is no reason to feel guilty. When you have insurance policies it does no good to refuse to file a claim. The claim is there for you to take what you have been paying for in the first place. When a service is offered you accept the service. Guilt free.

Guilt free!

Provide for yourself. We are all old enough now to know that no one looks out for us better than ourselves. Guilt free provisions, that's what I am talking about. We bow down to others when we have a weak sense of ourselves. And we bow down to others when we should not because we lack the faith in ourselves to assert the same rights others have. I think that we bully ourselves long after the other bullies have grown up and been put to bed.

Stop carrying on where the others left off!

Reflecting Today... my cousin Michelle

My Pintrest boards have been filing up with lots of inspiration for the Boho/Shabby Chic lifestyle. I have to say, honestly, if I win the lottery the first thing that I am going to do is commission a Vardo. I don't know how I will use it, but I want it. While all of these images are flooding onto my board, I keep thinking of my cousin Michelle.

I love all of my cousins for a variety of reasons. I think Michelle stands out because she was always different and didn't really care what anyone thought of her choices, her style or opinions. She went with the flow.

Michelle babysat us for a few Summers. We were always barefoot. It was the early 70s so there weren't laws about having to wear your shoes in the car, or stores, or anywhere. And I remember the Summer that I learned the hard way why shoes are important: I split my big toe open on the running board of the Galaxy 500 while we were clamoring to get into the car so Michelle could take us to the beach. She didn't freak. She didn't call me names. She stuck my feet in the sink, hosed me down with Bactine and put a bandaid on it.

Mom, on the other hand, freaked. And forbade me to be barefoot ever because I could get ringworm, or some other thing. And she freaked out on Michelle for not paying attention. So Michelle and I conspired to more antics that would potentially damage either of us... but not permanently. Michelle was one of those people who challenged the rules, not because she was an anarchists at heart. But because some rules are far too limiting and keep us too safe, too comforable and don't challenge us to creativity or strength. When we are coddled overmuch we do not grow in any productive manner. We only grow in fearfulness.

And that is one of the things that I liked best about Michelle. She was fearless. At least she was to me. I was 4, 5, and 6 when she stayed with us for the Summers. She was exotic in her hippie maxi's with the long hair and big sunglasses. The staid housewives in polyester Carol Brady housewife attire looked at her askance. The uptight men in suits seemed in equal parts curious and appalled by her flamboyancy. We just didn't have many hippies in Traverse City. I guess. We certainly didn't have a lot of people who made alternative choices. And by alternative I mean there might have been 4 shades of nail polish that were acceptable back then, peach, pink, rose and red. And given the choice, Michelle always chose something other than those. Or no polish at all. Which unless you were a farm wife that was unacceptable as well. Ooooh...... danger on the rise!

But truly, I don't know much really about her life and choices back then. I just knew everyone worried about her until she was about 35. Much the same way that everyone worried about me. All I needed to know about Michelle was that she was encouraging, sympathetic, convivial and patient in explaining things to a child. Other than my grandparents, Michelle was the only one who ever explained anything.

She explained why she said no on the rare occasion that she did say no. She explained to me why the things that I was afraid of in my dreams needn't be scary. She explained how things were made (foodwise). She explained how nature cycles worked. And she explained adults to me. Nothing is more valuable to a kid than understanding how the adult mind works in the face of an adult episode of kid rage.

She explained that sometimes adults get mad because the things that we do scare them and they are too busy being scared to know that they are scaring us in turn. Sometimes adults get mad because they forget what it is like to be curious kids and they are too busy being addled adults. And yes, she explained what addled meant. Sometimes, she said, adults get angry because they don't have time to stop and pay attention to the things that kids want explained or to share. And sometimes adults get mad because they don't know the answers to our questions, because it makes them feel dumb. Most of which are silly reasons to get mad at a kid. But with an explanation life was a little easier to understand and navigate.

photo from C'est si Bon! La Joie de Vivre 

Michelle also had interesting friends. She had interesting ideas. And she liked to get out and do stuff instead of stay in the house. As I've been absorbing all the boho-design goodness and thinking about Michelle, I've come to realize that the friends that I have share one quality with her that I treasure the most. They are safe, or make me feel safe by fostering an understanding of the things that I don't know or reminding me of the things that I have forgotten. Not all of my friends share the gypsy aesthetic. But they foster understanding. In some sense all of my friends are teachers; though I doubt all of them would see themselves that way. In a safe environment I feel like I can do anything. I do not see my limitations as a stop sign. I see them as an inspiration to sneak around a roadblock or a fence.

Michelle was sneaky like that. Sometimes evading the rules, bending them and breaking them got her into trouble enough to warrant worry. But sometimes, more often than not I suspect, evading the rules gave her greater strength of character and a whole lot of perseverance. Rebellion is not without its problems. Rebellion is also not the problem that authority would make it out to be. Certainly it makes the figures of authority uneasy, fearing they will be toppled by a pitchfork wielding mob. But for the most part rebellion is how we learn who we are as individuals. Michelle took a lot of chances. She made a lot of bolder choices. Some of them worked. Some of them did not. As a result of the ones that did not work, her life was a bit harder than it had to be.

Similarly, as a result of some of my choices, my life is more difficult than it need be at the moment. But I am stronger than otherwise I would be. I have a mental and emotional strength that I had not thought possible. I might have a few edges that were not there before. But I am stronger. I know that nothing bad that happens is the end of my world. I might not like what happens. But I know that I can survive it. And.... getting back to those friends, I know who will be with me through everything in spirit if not in person.

Perhaps that is the best thing that Michelle taught me. How to really know who your friends are. They are the ones who caution you but encourage you to make your own choices; who cry with you when you make a wrong choice and will hand you the shovel so you can dig yourself out instead of playing keep away with it. It's the playing keep away that annoys me. It is not a friendly thing to do to dangle the tools of self help in front of someone. Real friends also do not defile your personal limits. If you are deathly afraid of spiders they will not dangle one in front of you. If you despise practical jokes they will not play one on you. Friends understand that your fears and limits trump their joy. Really, what kind of friend enjoys humor at your expense (except when of course it is a natural consequence of reality)? Friends don't take pleasure in your suffering. And those who derive the greatest joy from your discomfort can not be called friends.

Somehow, slowly through the years, I have regressed into the people pleasing mode and forgotten a large part of who I am. As I indulge in these Pintrest boards, a little voice says, "You might like this, but others will think it weird." In greater leaps than I imagined possible, the boldness returns, I see Michelle's smile and recall the fabulous patterns of her maxi dressed dappled in the shade of our large maples and I remember more and more what she inspired in me. Coupled with my Gramma's assertion that we are all made differently to make the world more interesting, I grow increasingly confident in my own direction. And I grow increasingly indifferent to other people's opinions.

I am told that there are many colorful characters in my cousin's branch of the family tree. I have found a few colorful characters in the Gerbstadt branch. The part of the tree from which I stem is rather dull by comparison with only Gramma and Michelle there. It would appear I am to be another colorful leaf in the tree.

The Brown Bag Holiday

My history with this particular holiday is turbulent to say the least. While in 2014 I expect it to be vastly different from any other of its predecessors and am actually looking forward to it, I still am experiencing pre-performance anxiety regarding the holiday.

I went to a Catholic school so the fact that the holiday was established as patronage to a martyr who ministered to Christian soldiers during pre-Constantine conversion was not lost on us. The life and death of many persons named Valentinus who could have be The One on whom all prose, poetry and profits rests was oft quickly glossed over to get to the good stuff..... that brown paper bag "mail box" we spent 2 art periods decorating.

The Brown Bag, a ubiquitous and functional fixture in every home, carried sack lunches 354 days of the year with little fanfare and absolutely no banner waving. But on that 365th day it was both a conveyance of unimaginative edibles and sentiments of varying degrees of sincerity. We used whatever means at our disposal to decorate the bags with hearts in every shade of red imaginable. And when we were done with the bags the teacher lined them up under the chalk tray of the blackboard (green in our case) in alphabetical order. This was to make distribution easier. As we were bent over our textbooks, they called for our attention. Luring us down a day dreamy path of expectations.

Art critiques and the planning of how to celebrate friendship with our closest friends & imagining the brilliant smiles when our cards were discovered by our friends interrupted the normal business of education. We hoped for acknowledgement from some and dreaded it from others. We spent valuable educable brain cells running through ideas of design, sentiment, format, color and signature style alongside the normal work required in a school day. I did at any rate. I do not imagine that I was alone in that past time.

In varying degrees we all had planned and schemed from out first experience with this tradition how to improve our fortunes for the following year. The hierarchy of affection determined the quality and size of individual Valentines that we gave. The hierarchy of class caste systems determined the quantity received. Invariably there were one or two poor souls who had on the teacher's contribution in the bottom of their sack, a crushing statement from the peerage of your value and esteem. Then there were those of us who did not have many friends, but friends of great consideration who's efforts to provide a splendid presentation of personal worth, a kind of a claims stake and affirmation of belonging.

For a good many years, 3 in my case, the possession of the frilly overdone exuberance of my closest friends was enough for me. I may have only had 9 cards in my bag, my bag may have been suspiciously devoid of candies and assorted edible treats to accompany the saccharine sayings, but I knew who the 9 people were in my class that I belonged to in some way. It was those poor souls who could not make friends or could not understand the demands of this "holiday" and were left holding an empty sack that prompted a change of policy from the school. It also prompted a change in my anticipation of the day.

It was decided, when too many feelings were hurt with the lack of class support that all students MUST have something in that sack. And any student who failed to deliver a proper Valentine's Day post to another students paper mail box must forfeit the days gains.

In. A. Public. Display.... of humiliation in which you bore the label "antisocial"

And thus my 4th grade year became the seat of a deeply rooted anxiety. Rather than root joyously through the bins of boxed Valentine cards for the perfectly colored, perfectly worded and socially acceptable pop culture icons, it was a sweaty and soul-less search for anything that would not incur the wrath of any number of classmates I had unsuccessfully avoided offending. Scooby Doo may have been cool one year, but the following he was sure to be seen as "baby-ish". Nothing could be too sentimental for the bullies lest they think that I have some design on them. It was a nightmare of fear and loathing that could not be abated for a full week.

Having procured a set of cards with the most innocuous and neutral prose in the bin, I approached that year and every other one with the thought that I could not get into any trouble for my choice. I was wrong that year and every year there after. The cards were chose the first Saturday shopping excursion available. And the box sat and taunted me while I made the cards for my best friends until their distribution. On the Monday before the dreaded holiday the threats began. The child who most attacked me assured me that in no way did he want a Valentine from me. That if his box contained a card with my signature I would find myself eyeball deep in trouble. He reminded me everyday. I told the first teacher that I could not comply with the rules and why.

She was sympathetic but assured me she would take my Valentines away if he did not receive one from me. He didn't. And she did. I complied with his request to forgo a deposit in his bag and still found myself eyeball deep in trouble. By trouble I mean snow. I got my first white wash. The following year the process went much the same. Except I complied with the rules and gave him one.... without, as per request, my signature on it. And I was white washed again. When I pulled myself out of the snow bank to go home, I was escorted by a barrage of ice filled snowballs. And every day, all day, whenever he could, he would sidle up to me and whisper his psychological mantras on the theme of my worth along with his threats of bodily harm. He made good on every threat, sometimes with the help of his recruits.

The following year the pattern became ingrained with a twist. I put off writing the cards out until the very last night before the "Big Party." My pen slipped as I sweat to the old threats repeated in my head. I shook the closer I got to his name on the list. And when it was over I threw up whatever was in my stomach. It wasn't much as I was always too distressed to eat much of anything that entire week. And when I was done throwing up I cried.

Yes I explained all of this to my parents. Dad didn't know what to do and Mom told me boys do that when they like you. My brother heard that. He told his friend, the brother of the boy in question. And when the bags were opened, cards were read, treats devoured and the sugar buzz was in high gear, he slithered up behind me and stuck a thumbtack in my back. When I turned around he told me that my mother was an idiot. Boys don't do this to girls they like. They tease girls they like. But they don't beat girls they like. And just to prove how much he didn't like me, he promised me the beating of my life if I went home the normal way. He ended his monologue with something that I thought for a long time must be true.

No one likes you, no one will ever like you. You're stupid, fat, and weird. And the people who tell you that you are sweet lie. Sweet doesn't mean anything except they are too polite to tell you the truth... the whole class hates you.

Even though I went home a different way I still was caught, and beaten.

I went through this ritual each year we were required. And when it was no longer compulsory the only people who got anything from me on Valentines were my best friends. Handmade, heartfelt and exchanged in our homes not at school. And never to boys.

When I was married there were no Valentines. That was a problem for him. When I divorced and got back into the dating scene 8.5 years later that was a problem for him too. And years after that when I made my third attempt to stick my toes into a relationship, in 2010, I took a chance. I gave a boy a Valentine and the result was the Massacre of 2010. While an apology was made the effect was rather still a devastating one. The very next relationship I gave a Valentine. It was not compulsory. We did not talk about the day or make plans except to say that it was not a thing that either of us was comfortable with. And that Valentine took me right back to that horrible day when I was told everyone hated me.

To the credit of the men I have dated, I haven't been beaten up physically as I was when I was a kid. But the emotional scars are there nonetheless. And the behaviors are there as well. I am not an overly affectionate person in a relationship. It takes me a while to settle into the thing to know where the boundaries are and what is and is not safe to do. I am not demonstrative. I am not cold. I just am wary. And most of the time the men don't know what is going on. And there is a reason for that. They don't care to know.

So since I am dating again this year and we are two days away from it, I feel the anxiety go up. About 3 weeks ago we decided how to handle it. Neither of us wants a big shin dig. Neither of us feels that the commercial dictates of a marketing scheme centuries in the making is a realistic evaluation of a relationship. While that may seem like a cleverly logical dodge, it isn't. It is honest. Since he never met a woman who doesn't want to turn every Valentines day into a mini wedding he had questions.

And for the first time in my life I felt like answering. Honest answers. So he knows. And he doesn't think it weird or anything. In fact, the supportive hug was tremendous. There is no pressure for the day. I feel it. But it isn't coming from him. It is me.... all on the inside. It will work its way out eventually. And it will be fine. We have plans but nothing that will put a bit of undue stress on either of us.

I have done a digital card to email him. I am contemplating a homemade one. And I've been cruising Pintrest for some holiday ideas. But I think that I will actually wait on those as a special occasion thing for those "just because" days. I do want to do something small.... maybe something on a Brown Bag theme.

Pondering

"Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one." -Albert Einstein

 

The voices inside our heads are merely echoes of something someone once said, to paraphrase Sting. They are illusory, most likely false and every bit as persistent as reality. If it is true that what you believe determines your life's path, then the illusions that we subscribe to are either the road MAP or the road BLOCK to our destinations. Perhaps success in life is really as simple as changing a subscription, viewpoints, ideas about what is and is not possible.

 

Whatever it is that makes us succeed in our given fields, excel in a chosen area or simply enjoy in the life that we each live must be in the illusions that we chose to accept as real versus imaginary. If the people who have brought us such fanciful and whimsical things to geek over believed the voices in my head, echoes of things that family and not so well meaning friends have said, then we would not have:
Star Trek

Doctor Who

Stargate

Star Wars

Avatar

Warehouse 13

Fringe

most of the animation that we enjoy

Hugo's world would not have given way to the vast cinematic heritage that we enjoy today. There would be no music. There would be nothing but work and sleep and what ever addiction gets a person from one day to the next. There would be nothing on the horizon but the looming Government Shut Down. Dystopia. Anarchy. Desolation.

 

There is a real crisis looming if the information circulating my Facebook feed is even one tenth accurate. And there is nothing more loathsome to contemplate than a future akin to Revolution or the Kurt Russell thriller Escape from L.A. There is hope in imagination. There is little hope in the reality that we are being shown from Congress, our President and most of the media. Who can live under the oppression of such a reality?

 

Today I went seeking imagination. If I need to develop better coping skills, expand my sphere of influence to survive the coming meltdown that our President seems determined to inflict on the rest of us then it is imagination that will see me through. Not chocolate. Not Dr. Pepper. Not the things that get the sheeple through the night. I was never one of them. And I have learned that I can not live like them. There is no reason to.

 

Imagination is everything according to Einstein. Imagination lets you chose your own illusion. It is the only freedom that is left to us. Imagination heals and feeds the soul. And that is the only thing that lives forever.

 

I have to believe it is also the thing that lets us truly withstand the trials and tribulations in the world. Faith and Imagination are close to the same thing. They both involve seeing what isn't smack in front of your face & making things happen when you can not see the outcome. Imagination made the world. Imagination made everything.

 

It all starts with God (however one defines him/her/it) asking "what if...."

 

 

 

 

 

 

General Quarters: All Hands to Battle Stations!

The klaxons have been going off in my body for a while now. From the moment that I started the process of forcing my brother to finish up the terms of Dad's will with a lawyer of my own, my body has been telling me that there are Romulans to Port and Klingons to Starboard. I can not see an enemy vessel in my vicinity. What that usually means then is that the attack is spiritual in nature.

Someone I love is going to need my emotional support and any positive energy for defense and encouragement that I can send. I hate that. I hate it because that means someone that I love is going to need to go through one of those horrible life experiences that build character. It is always a lot of pain. And while the pain is as temporary and fleeting as a bit of gas following baked beans it still stinks to high heaven. And there is almost nothing that I can ever do to prevent it.

And I don't know who is suffering. I can not help. And yet the red alerts have been going off for a year now. So for a long time I expected to hear Matze would divorce. That is something that my righteously indignant self can rally behind to send comforting energy. But there is not any reason to think that will happen. Thankfully he seems to have found in Sarah the best match of his life. Which is great because he truly has had to suffer enough at the hands of the fickle. So then I thought that maybe the doom that falls next would be something with my sister. I've been out of contact with her for almost  year because she lost technical support.

But no. She is back up and running and the whole family is great and there have not been any issues. And she has filled me in on all I've missed from the people on her end who I do like but do not keep in touch with. And they all seem to be doing great. So this sense of doom that has been lurking around me seems definitely to come from the realm of "Things that I am a Fan of".

Which meant that my heart dropped when Randy Travis went into the hospital last week. You would think if that was it that when the announcement was made, having identified the possible cause for that warning that the warning would stop. It is not stopping. Matze is fine. Randy is doing better. There is nothing on the radar of possible heartache or physical pain for Armitage, Cumberbatch, Tennant, Smith or anyone else that has captured my attention so intensely. Wheatons are doing great. So what is it?

What is making me feel defensive? What is making my batleth hand twitch for action?

The last time I felt this cagey was the week leading up to September 11. And nothing about that last time felt personal. Something terrible is headed my way and I can not see what it is.

A New Year and a New Outlook

Depression is often my closest companion in the months leading up to Christmas. And by that I mean close like a suffocating plastic bag over my mouth and companion like every bully I ever had in school rolled into one super destructive force. It starts in August when the history of loss begins. And it never really stops until the Sol makes it 's presence more prominent about this time of the year after months of being curled in the fetal position when I am not at work. This year there was no fetal fits that lasted days on end. A few days it did seem like I was waiting for the sky to fall. But nothing so frightfully traumatic as last year or the year before. Two things can be credited with the ease of my survival this Winter...

Music and Support

I know that I have gone on and on about how music heals; the composer is a kindred spirit because they have already processed a similar event and are either commiserating or guiding. How music gives our minds something to do besides rehash the thing that consumes us and leads us into the dark demonic woods of depression. And I will say again that one of the reasons that I really like the schlager musik is that it takes me out of my American mindset. First because I have to really pay attention and engage in the music instead of leave it in the background where it becomes just noise. And second, because with Matthias Reim, in particular, he has the kind of voice that can be background music without being ignored. His voice is so expressive that I can have him sitting on my shoulder as a guardian angel or in my fast like a drill sergeant trying to get my fat butt over he mountains on a long hike. He sounds in turn like a sage father, wise teacher, patient counselor, a bar buddy or the guy with the knee weakening voice you want to take home with you. In America I think that it is exceedingly rare to have someone who can be all those things in the music. Sting is close. And Billy Joel to some extent. But the music itself all starts to sound the same after a while.... white noise.

But with some of the pittance I got when my brother was done with the estate I sent away for music. Apparently the angry open letter to the Universe and EMI and whoever else was listening worked. Amazon now has the ability to convert USD to Euros and worked out the shipping issues. Yea! So I replaced more of the CDs that went missing. Got one that I never had. And pre-ordered the new one which Matze's website this time did not tell me was impossible. Unmoeglich is goofy enough sounding that I don't get too upset when it shows up... but it was always so disappointing to see. No more!!!!!!! Of course I can't win any of the offers because I am overseas.... really who has a couple of thousand dollars to drop what they are doing and hop a transatlantic flight to go see a concert being offered with only 3 days to make plans? I get it. But it would have been nice to be able to win the autobiography. At any rate... the music is here.

And it has helped tremendously. Unverwundbar, invincible, invulnerable or impenetrable, is one of the healing albums. I don't know which marriage that it followed. It doesn't matter. In the title track you find strength. He has set boundaries. And with those boundaries, intentional and otherwise, he isn't going to fall for the same old crap that he always fell for (though in Unberechenbar he will declare that no matter what happens when she moves on he knows she will still want him. Who hasn't been there?) because he will not fall in love. He also declares "Men are stupid" (a ground pleasing call/response portion of a MR concert), a statement that I can get behind. In "Als ich fortging" everything goes to shit when he goes away, every time he leaves some catastrophe befalls his life. Been there. In "Wie Man Liebt" he explains why men and women can't always connect on a love level... men are taught to make war, care about science and math they are taught strength and power but not love and tenderness. Makes total sense to me. "L'amour s'en va"... When love goes....
I think that you see where I am going with this.

All that I am feeling is in this music. He lives. He survives. Every time someone knocks him down he gets back up. And he is thriving. A lesson there. He is someone that you can have walk your walk with you and feel encouragement in the phrase "life goes on" not the dust off that you get from others who are too busy for you. With a CD he is never too busy, he won't tell me to go off and do my own thing while he does his and see what happens later. Matze has his life. I have mine and I never feel left alone. I do feel lonely. But that isn't the same as being left alone to sort out your own crap because you are too much for someone to deal with. I miss my last boyfriend and feel sad that the promise of continued friendship is not fulfilled to a common standard. I miss Sir Knight. I miss my dad. I count all the mistakes that I make at work, with relationships, with family. I count the missteps. I count all the lies that I have been told... and then I have to have the music because something has to keep my mind busy on happy things.

And then there is the support system.
We are our own first line of defense. But when that doesn't work there are others. My therapist is awesome. Sometimes I think all I am paying her for is t be my cheerleader. I might feel bad about that. But if it is true that it takes 7 positive things to wipe out 1 bad thing that you have been told then I guess I am getting my monies worth. And it doesn't matter why or how I hear some things. There are things that I have to be reminded of.

• I deserve to be healthy
• Boundaries are okay
• I am loveable & deserve to be loved
• My talents should not be hidden

for starters. And then there is the life coach that I saw for a while. I got some very good information on how to change some things, short cuts to help me get around myself. And then there is also the encouragement to take back my life.

My facebook community had brought old friends closer and made friends out of old classmates that I didn't get to know before. Every.........




edit: every once in a while Blogger decides to impersonate our schools old computers and eat half of my homework. Sorry.... this post ends really abruptly and for the life of me I can not remember how this one was supposed to end. But I do know now why a couple of people aren't talking to me any more.  Hmmm.....

There's a life lesson in there somewhere

You know what the best part of being forced to walk every where is? Nope, not the health benefits of regular exercise. Nope, not meeting nice random people on the street. Yes there are nice random people. And yes, sometimes they even stop to chat you up. Yes... even when you are in a hurry and it is painfully obvious that you are trying to politely walk away when every muscle is straining to force you to run screaming. And no, it isn't the random puppy or large dog love that you get from woefully under training pets.

It's being able to crunch the fall leaves like you did when you were a kid. This Northern Michigan Autumn is kinda weird. And I don't mean that in a bad or complainy way. It's weird because while we have had such a dry and hot Summer, most of the ornamental plants are still thriving, the daytime temps are only a few degrees cooler than the Summer norms which is still seasonally warm. We've had some frost advisories but nothing close to normal. The average night time temps are cold and in the mid to low 30's but there are still pockets of warm air. And until just yesterday the deciduous trees were still fairly green.

And that is what is weird. Beginning with the Summer Solstice the nights have lengthened in ever increasing amounts which, by most accounts, allows the leaves to change. The amount of sunlight we recieve allows the trees to photosynthesize and therefore maintain a brilliant green color. Without sufficient amounts of light you get foliage in their natural color. Yes. Green is artificial.... sort of. So really the leaves should have changes a week or two ago. Weird.

This is really the twighlight season; it is not quite Summer and not quite Winter. But this year it is not quite autumnal either. So on my walk to the grocery store today there were plenty of Summer flowers in bloom. I passed a house with a white wooden fence that is lined with hydrangeas. Some were gradients of blue and violet, others gradients of pink and green and then some bold rose to raspberry blends. And above? A canopy of brilliant yellow, orange, reds and burnt sienna. Weird.

And while the leaves are down they are drying. So Summer flowers are still suple from the watering they still recieve and the fallen leaves are brittle. Everything about this season is a contrast between what can be expected and what is.

It seems as though there could be a life lesson in there somewhere...

I Saw that Episode....

You know. The one where so and so did something and then this happened. I find that I've been using the phrase "I saw that episode." to head off commentary on how I should know something. Or to very elegantly and simply announce that a detailed description is not necessary. For instance:

To describe a relationship as being "Ross & Rachel", or "Castle and Beckett". Then there is my personal favorite "Charles & Caroline".
A ditsy girl as being a "Phoebe"
Or "Samantha" or "Jeannie" to describe phenomenal domestic powers at the bidding of a spouse
When I am being geeky, "That's so Leonard." Geeky AND arrogant "That's so Sheldon." or for the gate geeks out there "That's so Rodney."

Today, what set me thinking about my dependence on geek culture and all things geekdom to help me form analogies, I was talking with ACG about a work situation. I think that there is some fishing going on because one of my co-workers has changed his style of communication. So I said "I saw that episode of Happy Days." You know the one. One of the guys had asked Ritchie to help him figure out if he had a shot with one of the girls that he was interested in. And in Cyrano de Bergerac fashion it backfired. Since I saw that episode all I had to do was sit back and enjoy the stymie.

Then the other day I was writing a short story. To avoid to gory details of a body being schmeared on the road by a semi I simply said. "I know you saw that episode of Criminal Minds." You know the one. It's the one where Wil gets flattened while running away from Hotch and pals.

Our maintenance guy has been filling me in on the doings of our lively little town. A string of armed robberies has left the populace wondering if we live in Mayberry or Barney Miller has been letting Fish do all the leg work in the precinct. I mentioned that and got a chuckle out of him. So he says to me there was something that he didn't understand about the newspaper article. Sadly for him, and much to my unending joy, he had scratched his head and said "There's just one thing I don't understand..." I cut him off with "What's that Columbo?"

I miss Peter Falk.

No matter what the situation is in the last week I've been using "Yeah I saw that episode" a lot to describe my utter non-plussed-ness because I am just not surprised by much any more.

And on that note...
Good night John Boy.

Mining the Depths

So... apparently I have things buried so far into my head it will take a few lifetimes for me to dig it all out. Remember two years ago when we were talking Valentine's massacres? Well I chose the term Valnetine Massacre because I knew I was being funny in an Uncle Willy (not that one) is rollin in his grave over yet another pun (yep, that one) kind of way. But for the life of me I couldn't pinpoint WHY. I was fairly certain it had nothing to do with the guy for whom the arrow flies. And I was nearly 100% certain that the church didn't start a crusade on a February 14th even though you never know what a jihadist by any name is going to do. So I resigned myself to not knowing and not caring enough to Google it. Just incase it wasn't previously used that little bit of head in the sand behavior would let me think I coined a perfectly good phrase. Called myself clever. Called it a post and said Good night to Mrs. Kallabash.

As historical footnotes go this one has been pretty successful. My girlfriends who are in the know use it as a handy reference, as it was meant to be, whenever we need to discuss the individual involved in launching the first salvo of that 3 month battle. It has also been handy as code when discussing other people's boyfriends' insensitivity. You know, as in "It could have been worse, ie... VM2010." Seems to convey quite accurately both the power of a poorly worded and tmed meltdown and also, in the intervening years the model of forgiveness. Odd right?

Well imagine my surprise as I lay watching TCM and host Robert Osborn starts talking Rod Steiger and Al Capone. Turns out, there was a St. Valentine's Day Massacre.  On this day in 1929 5 members of a gang were killed in Licoln Park near Chicago. Al Capone hired men outside the city to execute his competition in his bid to take over the whole town. By many accounts, there was little left of the 5 men killed that day. Thompson sub machine guns tend to shred human tissue. Two men didn't have faces left. What a bloody mess.

And that is how I felt then. And what was done had been done by a friend. There was nothing personally wrong in the relationship between Capone and "Bugs" Moran, the target. It was just business. Unlike the 1929 massacre, there are survivors. We both done some growing since then. The friendship has survived. The playfulness in the interaction returned. I ended up with someone else for a boyfriend and he has dated a few people since then.

One of the girls at work once said that if you can be friends after you break up then you either weren't  really in love to begin with or you never stopped loving each other & let your shit get in the way.

Words to ponder.

Now.... I wonder what else is lurking in the dark spots of my brain.

Talk about a Mixed Bag

Sooooo where did we leave off on the whole relationship issue? I forget. There are too many lables here to write stories for. I wish that were a joke. Any way so I have made friends in my online game. It's a social site with gaming ability so I am still calling it a game. But the people are real. Meaning not like the barbarian that runs out of food because I can't get out of a maze. Real people. Real feelings. Real emotions behind their avatars actions. I know I dismissed the thing casually as playing Barbies. But that was before I found people there who are genuine geeks looking for their tribe. The odds on that are kinda slim though. Out of the 48 friends I have there, I only talk to two of them on a regular basis. Of those two, one I know in real life besides.

And almost everyone i talk to is European & a fan of or has at least heard of Matthias Reim. So that is the ice-breaking conversation. And today that European friend told me he loved me. I do not know how I feel about that. Nothing more than online communication can happen because I will most likely never be in his country. And he will most likely never be in mine. So what is the point in being in love with someone you will never meet?
What are we doing? He has friends and a family there. I have friends & family here. What is missing that we find in each other so much more easily online than in life? I know I am more my authentic self. I am afraid to say nothing because the consequences of doing so are non-existant. If they don't like what I say, do or build then they can unfriend me. it isn't like I have to cut them out of holiday photos or will burn all the letters in a beach bonfire. There are not associated memories of events to complicate the dissolution of a friendship there. So I can be whomever I really am.

That must be the larger appeal to online gaming such as this. And it is usually what I assume the safety net would be. No complications. And how do I feel about him?

I enjoy spending time with him to be certain. In my real life I am conflicted with the men in my life. Those I want for friends, for lovers, to avoid forever and to explore possibilities with have such complicated lives themselves that right now it is safer to have only my online friend. I do not think my feelings go as deep as his. But I would rather spend time with him than a half dozen of anyone else. Though I would still prefer to spend about 40 hours a week decorating.

What is missing in real life that this assuages?
Das ist die Hoelle!

So this is Christmas?

The tree is up at work. Dave worked on the thing for two days. The first day did not go smoothly at all as many lights lost their twinkle. As it is a pre lit tree there is little recourse but to try to re-seat each bulb that is dim. Or use the special tool they make for such occaissions... just saying. At any rate... he and Richard got the thing done the second day. A few staffers put together the spikey glitter flakes straight out of a 1950's graphic wallpaper... which actually look pretty amazing once they get in the tree. I imagine that Deb and Sarah are flinging more ornaments into the boughs today while I am off. And in other parts of the city: my friend has his tree up and sounds none too happy about it after we'd made a trip into town for more lights. And from what I saw it looks fabulous against the crisp new paint on the walls, so I am sure he is just being uber critical of himself. The crane was out last weekend to put the enormous tree up downtown and the crews are stringing white lights through the partially clothed deciduous trees lining the streets today. Other hotels have their maintenance men slaving away with the festooning. And me? Well... I'm staring at Matthias Reim's new album cover.

No not that one. The red one.... with all the CHRISTMAS SONGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah. Two albums in one year. And me with a frakked speaker system. yes. frakked. and I did it to myself by misunderstanding the application of a few mouse clicks. I have somehow rendered the  computer mute... just in time to enjoy a new Album von Matthias Reim!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Gah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

There are flakes in the air and it smells clean and crisp outside. I'm craving grampa's holiday yeast cake and missing everyone terribly. I am also craving a peacock themed tree and the answer to a question burning in me: how did my Jewish grandma cope with the Christian holiday?

I am working on my online designing and planning to deck some halls with a liberal hand. And contemplating what to do for Christmas cards this year. I am thinking simple glittering watercolors. But how simple? And what size? And how many can i do before I get bored?

So I ask myself, this is Christmas? I do not feel it. Maybe it is the very un-Michigan-like lack of snow for this time of year. Which I am thankful for; it is not a complaint but an observation. Or maybe it is the lack of certainty in myself. Though that is precisely what traditions are for, an outward expression of the certainty of cycles and the hope of many more cycles to come. Traditions are made for man so that man can mark time with something slightly more substantial than a faint promise that things will be different later. Though oddly... assuring ourselves that there will always be the tradition/season. That life goes on.

And I guess that is where I am at with the holidays this year. I am in need of the assurance that the setbacks of the past two years are only of the past two years and that there will come a time when I again am hosting a celebration rather than being the guest. I am not comfortable in this role. I was brought up to host. In the church, at school, at home... groomed to be a little Martha Stewart before we ever knew who the heck she was. I've had seasons to host. And now it is time to be the guest. But I'd rather host. So for now there is work and friends and Matze.

And the faith that this is only a season that too shall pass onto a lighter season of frutifulness.

Boss

Catching up on 4 episodes of Boss. I see the same ubergeek information junkie in this guy Tom Kane as what was in Frasier. But this guy is mean and well... bossy. The "seamy underbelly" of politics is so much more real than a news article makes it seem. And more real than those old gangster movies of the 40s and 50s. It's funny really, as a big Art Bell fan and thus Alex Jones, hearing all the conspiracy theories back in the day only made me kinda numb to the whole dialog. I mean really... can ALL politicians be scumbags? After watching 4 episodes of my beloved Kelsey Grammar being that guy that Marty Crane would have shot on site, I have to say I do believe they are. And I do believe that they need better supervision than what we can currently give them.

This show really tackles everything. It will be interesting to see how the whole asian carp fiasco plays in this. And Kelsey Grammar is a great bad guy. But there are  circumstances that pull sympathy for the character when you do not want to feel anything but loathing and contempt for the guy. An actor that can do that is a national treasure.

So when is National Kelsey Grammar Appreciation Day?

There is a weird thing that happens to me. I tend to think that it is a geek thing and not a plain old people thing. And then I think well maybe its just an Aquarius thing. And I don't really know if it is a regular people thing or just a typical Sherry thing. * It's just this thing that happens with me that I think does happen with other people. And it begins with my self image. We won't confuse that with self esteem because that is different. Self image is the way that you see yourself, it is how realistic you are about your appearance. I think most days I am balanced in my estimation of myself.

I'm 5 feet 8inches, nearly 6 feet in the right heels. I have calico colored hair, as I have said before. Every color except black blends itself in creative ways on my head with the beginnings of a Rogue** white stripe in my bangs.  My face is very Germanic, I have a permanent blush because of rosacae, a long oval face with a Jewish nose and heavy Jewish eyelids. My eyes change from blue to green and somewhere in between depending on what color my clothes are. I'm rather round everywhere since I am a bit overweight... 40 pounds give or take, depending on what medical guidelines you go with. I'm rather kinda plain I think. I know I have really nice legs, when I am thinner and running my ass off with work they get all Barbie like. And some days, when I'm not bloated I can be said to have a pretty face. I'm no super model. I especially do not look like a supermodel in my work uniform. So when I get attention from men it always puzzles me.

I describe myself here with adjectives that are nouns. I am an artist, a jewelery designer, a foodie, a writer, I am an empath. I'm just me. But I have been getting a lot of attention from men recently. In most cases it is very flattering. I do find it odd that I find men who are not my boyfriend staring at me more than I find my boyfriend staring at me. But I might not be looking at him at the right time. So no crying foul on him...

It's the rare cases where I do not feel the slightest bit flattered that I am thinking about today. See the other thing about me is that I'm a smart ass with people I am comfortable with... especially our maintenance man and general manager, and executive housekeeper. I'm uber comfortable with being a smart ass around my brother and a couple of choice friends. But for the most part I am not the "perky cheerleader" type. I'm not really the "sexy librarian" type. I do not laugh coquettishly at every lame ass thing that a man says to keep his attention though I laugh like a horse's ass when he is being genuinely funny. I'm just not the kind of girl that gets a lot of attention. I guess. So I'm just being me. I'm doing my job and the job requires an amount of sincerity that, in desperate times, can be construed as something more than "chick doing her job."

So I get a call that a guest needs extra blankets. Totally normal. Front desk runs me upstairs. I go. Guests always want something more so no big surprise there either. And I get to the door. A guy answers in just jeans. Again... pretty normal. So, just like I always do, I ask, "Do you need anything else tonight?"
He finishes the top down visual inspection that was already making me uncomfortable. Then he focuses his gaze on my boobs. Then on my crotch then looks back at my face and says "Nothing that I feel right in asking for."
I had felt like I was being checked out. And in that 30 nanosecond conversation in my head I managed to tell myself that it was imagination and he was probably one of those guys who just can not look a woman in the eye. When I realized I had been hit on, I just chuckled and walked away with a lilting (which I could have shot my self for) "Have a good night." and barreled down the corridor at Warp 1. Yikes!!!!!!!!

When I got back to the safety of my station I breathed a sigh of relief. What makes a guy say something so inappropriate? On the one hand I could be flattered. That has never happened to me before in the hotel. It's happened on line. Of course I always quesion the validity of any compliment given me on line. And in the course of my 25 years of work experience I have had a few co-workers express an appriciation for my form. But mostly everyone loves my art and my sense of humor. On super rare ocassions my prowess with Star trek trivia has gotten me the rapt attention of a boy at work. It was a little confusing. I don't think of myself in those terms even while in a relationship. So being confronted with the obvious oggling was a little strange.

Stranger still is that I went to a room a few minutes later to make up a sofa bed for a family and essentially the same thing happened when mom took the little one to the bathroom for a tubby. What kind of an idiot hits on the housekeeper with the wife in the next room? oh yeah... Arnold. Well trust me this guy was no Schwartzenegger. Not ugly. Kinda my type. But still... no one you take a chance on. So what was he thinking?

Seriously. What was he thinking? Someone tell me. Because I do  not get it. You proposition the Gretchen Bundschens and the Elle MacPhearsons of the world. Not the weird little gypsy wannabe housekeepers who by all rights should walk around wearing a drndl to make my extra weight look normal if not part of the show.

I just don't get it. And maybe I will never understand how guys think. Maybe it isn't even about how guys think. Maybe this is about me learning how to see myself differently so that I can make some changes that are good for me. And maybe this is showing me that I do not want to be sucked into somehting that is not good for me. Though it is hard to imagine getting sucked into something that creepy.


*I think that is the first time I mention myself by name. That to me sounds weird too. But again...
**Rogue, coincidentally is my favorite Marvel girl. Kinda even out ranks Storm.

Kid Magnet

I do not know how this happens. It just does. Ever since I was old enough to care for other people's kids I've been a kid magnet. It used to be just animals. Where ever we would go as a family I ended up with a Hamlin trail of pets. Everybody with a "killer" dog would freak out when the dog would take off after my little toddler ass. But the dog always overtook me, ran in front of me and threw itself on the ground legs up til I petted it. And those Demonic Horses that hate even the rider? Angels. I can even ride them reins-free and without using the stirrups. Freaks the trainers out every time.

So its back to being kids again. Some kid at a class party this past Summer (I think I mentioned that) ran up, threw herself on to my lap for a huge hug and sat there until her parents told her that she didn't know me. Didn't seem to matter. This weekend I was at a garage sale with my brother. Same thing.

Little 4 year old girl had been squirming to get off her mom's lap the whole time we were looking over the very sparse and somewhat disappointing offerings. Bro went to pay for his meager purchase and she finally got away from her mom. She ran at me like she had screaming banshees on her heels. Bro saw her coming and just waited to see what would happen. He said she never took her eyes off of me the whole time I was on the property (I had not really noticed her). He eyes never left me the whole time that she was running. When I finally noticed her it was because bro said "Wow you're right." and pointed. She came to a dead stop right in front of me, looked up at me and grinned from ear to ear. I said "hi." and her smile got even bigger.

I don't know what it is. Some little 18 month old did that to me at work the other day. And everywhere I went she followed me. When I took off for the laundry room she screamed until she found someone who would carry her down there. Sucker. I so would have laughed my ass off if she'd suckered the maintenance man into that. What a lark!

I used to say "Geez, too bad I can't get a guy as interested as these dogs (that's what it was at the time) are." Now I'm glad that the Universe didn't decide that was an invitation to one bad joke after the other. Could you imagine if I had a string of panting guys behind me all damn day? How embarrassing. I don't really know how to handle the kids, dogs and horses.

I guess there are worse things. I could have a ton on money and attract nothing but golddiggers.

Decision 2011

I am being asked by my therapist to make a choice, emotional freedom or hold on to it to be a great writer. If I chose the EFT then I will be emotionally disasociated from the things that I write about. I was only joking about the people who make money with their memoir type stories (ala Wheaton). She said that if I was serious about doing that then we can't do the EFT.

EFT, which I will write about later, would disconnect me from the things that trigger panic attacks and make it easier to get work in a "real" job. So I am at a point which means that I have to actually depend on those skills, writing and art to do anything that will sustain me. Or I have to chose to let that go and do the work that others do.

In a sense I would welcome that only because it would mean that I would finally fit in better. But I have fought homogeny along with other forms of tyranny forever. Orson Welles as Harry Lime in the 3rd Man said that in the most bloody period of Italian politics that society produced DaVinci, Michaelangelo and established some of the greatest art legacies in history while 500 years of Swiss peace produced only the coo-coo clock. Struggle produces. Saftey stagnates. Cookie cutter people and cookie cutter lives to me to seem to be the dry bits that we are forever trying to wash out of our throats with entertainment and invention. Yes vanilla comforts and soothes. But chocolate excites. Chocolate with a bit of pear, or cherry and some chili is an adventure. I am afraid that if I chose to do this then I will lose some of the adventure that makes art making and storytelling so compelling. if I lose that then I lose the biggest definitions of who I am.

What am I if I am not an artist and a writer? Yes a little neurotic. And a bit high strung in certain situations. But if I am not writing and creating I am nothing more than the sum of my job at any point in time.

I am more than a laundry folder.

Am I not?