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 |  Life, liberty and the pursuit of sanity. |
My blog in which I make no promises to follow topic or rules.  Current music: AWOL Nation Brian Buckley Band Adele Matt Cardle Mumford and Sons Florence + the Machine  Current books: “I’m Ok You’re Ok” "The Far Pavilions" Read in 2012 "The Fountainhead" "Pride and Predjudice" reread "The Outsiders" "Dog on It" reread "Jheggala" reread "Motivational Interviewing “A Train in Winter: An Extraordinary Story of Women, Friendship, and Resistance in Occupied France” “I Don't Know Much About Indians, but I Thought I'd Write About Us Anyway” "The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks" "A Peoples History of the United States" Quote of the Blog "If at first you don't succeed, don't try skydiving.” |
| And this shall be the end of the line. With regret, I must announce my retirement from WDC. As much as I would like to continue at this site, I simply cannot excuse the expense. Since blogging is currently the only thing I am using the site for, paying blogging dues just does not make sense. I am not retiring from blogging. I find too much stress relief in this form of nonsense to stop. So I am moving. Here is the site from whence I shall now blog. http://gypsy4evermore.wordpress.com/ This blog shall remain visible for a little while longer and then it shall disappear into the unpaid archives of Writing.com. Just thought I’d give ya’ll a heads up in case you have a wish to follow my bread crumbs. My biggest bummer is that I’ll no longer be able to read (all) and/or comment at the blogs here at the site. Losing membership definitely has its downsides. Ain’t gonna lie. I have a hope that some, ok all, of you will meander over to my new place. I am a wanna be writer after all. And while blogging is definitely only a souped up form of journaling, having an audience is still gratifying. *Attempts a graceful bow out, trips over stage paraphernalia, falls, whines, gets up, gives a half wave and hurries away.* |
| Snarl. Growl. Kicks week in the buttocks. Grump grump grump. But breathing. And saying hello. And saying I'll give people a shout back later. But yes, here is proof of life. Ok that's it. Literally just sat for about three-five minutes in an attempt to come up with something interesting to say. In an effort for a truce, I'll leave it at this. Interesting. BOOYAH! |
| Being an American woman has its advantages. There are few, I think, that would disagree with me. I have access to rights and freedoms and such that are denied to so many of my sisters around the world. For instance, it is a miniscule percent chance that I will ever have to worry about receiving a fistula. (And if you don’t know what that is, google it. But not right after eating.) Female circumcision has thankfully gone by the wayside, (on this continent) centuries back and I get to vote and wear jeans. So yay! The safety and freedom that I am able to live in is great and I will never (thankfully) know the level of oppression that so many are born into and die under. I am thankful. I am blessed. I am knees hitting the floor appreciative for being born in this era and in this country. So no real comparison. Yet I did have a few experiences that gave me the tiniest taste of what my life could have been…if I weren’t so blessed. Three separate times, there was an offer to buy me. Or at least, three times of which I am aware. Let me rephrase, there have been three times where there was an offer to buy me while I was present. Incident #1 I was 18 years old, and had been living in Korea for a few months. My roommate, a couple guy friends, and I, were out for the evening in a town about an hour south of home. We were in a club, and I was trying to enjoy the night but by then I was getting weary of the club/bar scene. I was living in a foreign country after all! Yet everyone I knew only wanted to go out clubbing. Every weekend. Sigh. It was a crowded night, more so than even the usual weekends. The music was loud, the lights were dim and it was difficult to hear anything my companions were saying. I was starting to think about possibilities of heading home by myself without inconveniencing the others. (It was against the rules to be solo that far north. If I showed up at the Camp gates alone, I’d get in trouble.) It was at this point that an old Korean man came to our table who was carrying a variety of small flags. I’d seen him around as he attempted to sell the flags to anyone interested enough to listen to him for a moment. He was missing over half of his teeth and his body odor was noticeable, even in the crowded conditions of the club. The old man completely bypassed me and leaned in close to speak with my roommate. I assumed he was trying to sell her a flag, but grew more interested as she suddenly began shaking her head, and saying no with quite a bit of emphasis. The guy friends had bent in to listen and both seemed highly amused by whatever was being said. Old Man Korea finally left and I asked what it had all been about. Well, as I’m sure you’ve guessed, he had offered to buy me for a few hours. Wait, would that be buy or rent? Whatever…some sort of trafficking. This took me completely off guard and I wasn’t sure how I should react. Then, THEN, I heard the price he’d offered and my reaction became certain. I was furiously insulted. $5 dollars and a flag for a couple hours of my time. THAT is the price that popped into his head when he saw me? Even with the exchange rate, it was still horridly cheap and I felt affronted and had an urge to hunt him down and demand an explanation. I didn’t of course, but it did effectively put an end to my clubbing days. It was simply the last straw. Not to say that I didn’t go out to the clubs from time to time, but the every weekend thing was over. Incident #2 This second time was the one where I actually felt a bit of fear, real fear, over the offer. I was 21 years old and in Iraq. It was broiling hot and I was on guard duty. The soldier who was my partner in the guard tower, was not someone I knew or had spoken to before. (Guard duty was a rotating post. Each Troop within the unit had to supply a soldier for a week every week. Since my Troop was a line Troop, meaning smaller, it meant I had the duty more often and rarely shared it with the same people.) Anyway, it was about halfway through our 8 hour shift and, thankfully, nothing was going on, but we were hot, bored and tired. So when the Iraqi’s showed up, we greeted them with some relief. These locals were fairly well known to any and every soldier who pulled guard duty. Most were kids looking for something to do and they came by several times a day to talk to the American soldiers, beg for food or something to sell, and learn more curse words…er, I mean English. There was one, Abas, who was particularly well known to us and sort of the tribal leader of the crowd of kids. He had picked up English quickly and we’d often throw down things to him that he doubtlessly sold to help his family out. On this day though, there were some older locals in the crowd. Abas was a little quieter and deferred to them, though by his body language I could tell he didn’t like it. These new ones could hardly be called kids and I kept an eye on them, though they seemed harmless enough. After some time, they grew more rambunctious and began shoving the others around, one even took off his belt and beat Abas with it a little. There was nothing we could do about that, and Abas was quick on his feet, so he avoided the worst of it. I didn’t like it, but I ground my teeth and decided it was a part of the discomfort of cultures colliding. Abas asked when and if we’d be going to lunch and if we’d bring back something for him. I called back and it was then that the new guys realized I was a female. (Helmets, body armor, and uniforms tend to make gender invisible.) They asked my name and I gave them the one I’d given them all…Minnie Mouse. (For security reasons, we weren’t supposed to give our real names.) They got a chuckle over that and began asking more questions and began getting more friendly than I liked. So I shut my mouth, hunkered down and wished the shift was over. (Side note, due to the rules of engagement, we were prohibited from engaging in hostilities unless directly fired upon. This meant that Iraqis could throw stuff at us, shoot their guns into the air and other such things, and we were required, by law, to not respond. I get it, but really? For real?!) After heckling me for a while without getting a response, they turned to my guard partner. Now while we had exchanged the usual pleasantries that are common when sharing a guard post, (Where you from? What’s your job? How long you been in? When do you get out? This sucks. Great God it’s hot.) we hadn’t hit it off to a degree where conversation had been free flowing. He chatted with them a little and then came their offer. They had a bottle of whiskey, and offered it in exchange for me. (“Hey Minnie Mouse! Get a little fucky fuck!” Yich.) My initial reaction was disbelief and a bit of humor at the brazenness of it all. I turned to share my laugh with my fellow American soldier and found contemplative speculation on his face instead. Alcohol was as rare as hens’ teeth and difficult to procure, it could be managed, but what supplies were smuggled on to Camp had to be well hidden and well guarded. But to consider my sale as an option? For real?! He glanced at me sideways and I knew he was considering methods to convince me to play along. I assured him that it was not going to happen. His expression deepened into one of problem solving and I stared in disbelief. He would have had to drag me down the ladder of the guard tower, across about a quarter mile of enclosed Camp, past the well guarded gate, and into the hands of the douche bags on the other side of the wall. It was a pretty big problem for him and I dismissed it as impossible…until I remembered that the nearest gate was one that I was not very familiar with and I abruptly wondered exactly who was manning it and if they were his friends. (No, I was not being paranoid. Whenever I left my ‘home’ area on the camp, I had to have one of the males from my Troop along for rape prevention. From other soldiers. For a while I had to have someone along even for a middle of the night excursion to the bathroom. So no paranoia. Just reality.) I again assured him that it was not going to happen and reminded him that I had a weapon. His silence continued and his expression did not comfort me. So I shifted my weapon around to a more maneuverable position, unobtrusively took it off of safety and said, a little more emphatically, that it wasn’t going to happen. He hesitated and then called his negative answer down to those below. The remainder of our shift together was notably silent. Ah well, at least I am comforted knowing that a bottle of whiskey is worth more than $5. My price increased. Incident # 3 This one is by far my favorite since it tends to be more complimentary than insulting. I was still in Iraq…not too long after the Whiskey incident if I recall correctly, and on guard duty again. But this time on what we called ‘Haji Guard’. Iraqi workers were allowed on post to do fix up and repair work. They were never left unattended and always had to have a guard. It was a tediously boring duty, but also exhausting since there was always the possibility that one of the workers could be a part of the crowd trying to kill us. There was one worker who was better known to me. He was a generator mechanic, intelligent, and picked up English at a fairly fast rate. On this particular day, we were having an actual real conversation since his language skills had progressed beyond that of the simple necessities. He told me a little about himself. Before things had gotten bad in Iraq, he had been more than a simple mechanic. He had owned and sold generators, still did actually, and not small cheap ones, no. But the very ones he was working on for the U.S. Army. These things were huge. As in semi-trailer huge and I learned that they were worth about $500,000. Wow. No kidding! I viewed the rumbling generators with a little more respect, but honestly, since I worked on and was responsible for a piece of equipment worth around $13,000,000, I wasn’t blown away. Anyway, he inquired into my reasons behind my being in the military, specifically why a female would be in. Since he asked respectfully and with genuine wonderment, I told him a little about myself and the financial reasons behind my joining. This appeared to be a new concept for him. I don’t think he had considered the idea that Americans’ could be poorish. We continued to chat a bit throughout his rounds and work. We exchanged cultural differences, viewpoints and such in a pleasant manner. Then he returned to the idea of why I had joined and offered to give me one of the generators. I was flabbergasted and taken aback. I immediately turned him down (politely) and didn’t really know how else to respond. It was only later that, deciphering the context and communication, I realized that it hadn’t been offered purely as a gift, but as an enticement. Whether or not it was bait for marriage (aka American citizenship) or simply his offered rate, I don’t know and will never know. But hot damn! Half a million is certainly a better price tag than 5 bucks and a flag! So those were my brief brushes against the fringes surrounding the ownership of women. Again, thank God I’m American. Even though there are plenty of sexist assholes in this country, I have been raised to assume that I do not have to lay down and sell myself just because a dude would like me to. And that’s nice. And something I hope to never take for granted. |
| So, for those of you who have been perusing my blather, you know that I’ve got two jobs (neither full time, I’m not insane) and am working at an internship…where I sadly do not get paid. Yet. At all three of these places, there is an impressive mix of people who I am honored to work with and learn from. Most of them have a degree or three and are licensed in different ways, have a ton of training and then, of course, have a few decades worth of experience. They are sane, rational, empathetic, caring, intelligent and knowledgeable people. Ok, now there is the baseline for what comes next. My field is what is known as a ‘soft-science’. It is not a science like chemistry where there are precise measurements and absolutes. I work with people after all. But, there is a science behind the research that is done. And I am one who respects research and values its importance. As one of my professors says, “You can only spend money once.” And I would rather spend that money on a system or method that is effective and does not purely rely on the “But it FEELS good and SEEMS like it’s working” technique often used when working with people. Nope, I’m a give me the facts folks, prove to me that it is working and that we aren’t spending this time/money/effort on something that makes ME feel good. Sadly, despite my honoring of research, I abhor conducting research. Which is good, since that abhorrence will keep me far away from any stupid ideas of getting my doctorate. Anyway, despite my advocating the necessity of following research proved methods, there are times that it all goes by the wayside and that is RIGHT. Or…something happens or something needs to occur that is not research based at all. We are working with people after all. For instance, there is a common encouragement to “go with your gut” or “what does your gut say?” when in a room with a client. This is not a measurable method. But, if the clinician has any skills, it works. 10 to 1 when a clinician goes with his/her gut, that clinician is right. (I am of course speaking of clinicians who are GOOD at what they do, including, and especially in, the researched realms.) There have been countless times where I’ve gone to one of my peers/co-workers/advisors with a doubt or question about what I should do, how I should deal something or if I had called something correctly. And again and again, I am asked what my instinct/gut said. As a result, I am having to accept my gut as a therapeutic instrument of measurement. It’s odd, it’s weird, my brain disagrees but IT’S WORKING! Ok, so now I’ve established that there are effective methods that no one yet has found a way to successfully measure. Now I venture into something that borders on the “Woo-woo”. Before I do, I would again like to point out the expertise of the people I work with. I am learning that it has been a long accepted phenomena that around the time of the full moon, client’s of certain diagnosis will…act up. Or act out. Or misbehave, relapse, go off their treatment course…whatever label you want to give it, it happens. When I first heard this, I put it up to the clinicians believing it was supposed to happen and so seeing what they expected to see. Even the best and most professional of people are apt to do that. Well, my tune begins to change. Lately, things have been happening. It is weird. WEIRD. Are you hearing me!? I have heard separately, from multiple different sources, professionals and the like, that something is going on with people who have disorders. This isn’t a random sample, this is almost an epidemic of sweeping craziness. These are people separated by miles, have never met, are not connected and yet certain behaviors and such are becoming a viable pattern. And it’s tragic. Because this pattern involves crap like relapse, confusion, going off of meds and suicide attempts. Too often of late, successful suicide attempts. It sucks. And there is no answer. There is no reason. But SOMETHING is happening outside the rational, reasonable, and measureable world of science. Or at least of science as we know it. And saying that makes me feel embarrassed, vulnerable and angry. But lives are suddenly being destroyed, lives are being lost and so far, the only culprit that people more experienced, intelligent and knowledgeable than me have posited, is the fact that we just passed the summer solstice. But even that is uber ridiculous since it isn’t a pattern from years past. *banging head on desk* |
| Well that was effective. Cut me off from my blogging stress relief valve and voila! Book ended. And I mean just ended. I literally struck the last period, saved (and resaved a back up copy) not even two minutes gone. I have written a book. Hot damn. T’was a little magical. I was struggling along, looking for that “The End” moment of conclusion and closure and then suddenly, there it was on the screen before me and I was done. Well this is a new and different feeling. Not sure what it is. I’ll have to process things before I know what it is. Hunh. I’ve written a book. La dee da! and hot diggity. Or, to put it more appropriately, a book length item. And no, before you start worrying, there will be no, none, nada requests for anyone to read and review. So relax! Ya’ll don’t have to cringe away from the pseudo duty of volunteering an interest in reading a rough ROUGH draft of some weirdo blogger’s pet project. No tip toeing around wondering if excuses should be made or if feelings will be hurt if reading isn’t done and so on and so forth. I’m not even posting a copy here on the site. Right, book ended, back to blog mode. Yay! \o/ I have found the true culprit of my latest face plant‼ It wasn’t (completely) due to my natural state of klutz! My slippers are falling apart. The bottoms are getting separated from the tops leaving that flapping shoe mouth that makes catching on little things so easy! See? I am excused. And yes, I am a slipper person. What? Deal with it. I like them. They’re cozy against the cold, keep my floors from gathering gunk from outside shoe wear and protect my tender feet from the abuse of hard flooring. This last reason does embarrass me a little considering the fact that in my younger years I had wonderfully thick calluses on the bottoms of my feet that allowed me to walk across grass or gravel without really knowing the difference. Sigh…those were the days. The barefoot days of yonder years. The carefree it doesn’t matter era. I still sometimes miss my hardened ‘dogs’. I blame the Army for my loss of weathered feet. All day every day they were stuck in boots. Protective boots that did their job all too well in keeping my feet away from anything that would cause them to build up resistance to walking across anything except carpet. Softened by sweat, protected by wool socks…it was hopeless. But they did build up a different sort of hardiness. The hardiness of standing absolutely still for long periods of time. It’s no joke. Try it sometime. Try standing still for an hour or three in one position. Yes, your whole body protests, but it’s the feet that it really abuses. Poor feet, suffering in the heat, bearing all the weight as some jack ass with a lot of rank on his collar drones on and on and on and on and on about crap no one really cares about except his peers who already knows what he’s saying but he says it all anyway because of tradition. Stupid ceremonies. Stupid parades. Standing and standing without relief, sweating our asses off. Which is also upsetting, because I am not a fan of sweating my ass off! Don’t get me wrong, my ass has some weight, but then I’m not exactly a believer in this whole flat pancake ass movement that is being heralded by designers and pedophiles as a thing of beauty. My point is, I think there should be a healthy amount of badonkadonk going on in the gluteus region. It is rather baffling and I plead ignorance on how it has become attractive for a woman to strive to look like a pre-pubescent boy. But then again, I have already given an entry explaining my lack of knowledge surrounding the HAWTNESS of women. Back to the badonkadonk. Here is my theory. There has been a massive misunderstanding. See, it isn’t the lack of badonkadonk that is desirable, but that the waist to hip ratio is “supposed” to be curvy. As the ideal of slenderness became more and more important in society, the size of the badonkadonk decreased along with waist size resulting in the tragic loss of badonkadonk. It’s either that or (WARNING!: MAJOR SWEEPING STATEMENTS SURROUNDING RACE AHEAD‼!) it was a reaction of fear from the white crowd as people with brown tingeing, or more than tingeing, their skin began to gain footholds in society. White folk grew nervous and subconsciously began looking for ways to continue their dominance and so a new standard of beauty was forced upon us since many brown skinned peoples have respectable, healthy, and lovely badonkadonks and we white folk trend toward a tendency of pancake ass. Sigh…one of the many reasons I wish someone, or several someones, in my family tree had branched out and reached for the pepper instead of the salt. Or I’m just talking out my…well, you know what. And, by the way, how the hell did I end up talking about this? Seriously folks! This begins to cause me to believe that I need to plan my blogs better instead of sitting down and rambling. But then if I did that, it wouldn’t be my blog. It would be a book. Like the book I just wrote. That had (some) planning go into it. And now I’m going to strut off into a blog sunset because hey, guess what? I can strut. I wrote a book. That’s right. P.S.: Due to partydudes comment on my last entry, I have entered the realm of serious on getting a middle finger emoticon created. I’m thinking of drawing up a petition. |
| Couple things before I get to the primary topic of today’s blog. 1.)Ever since my mention some time ago about that ONE normal dream I had, I’ve been dreaming on a consistent basis. And I mean dream dreams. Not nightmares, but actual, run of the mill, weird, senseless dreams. This development leaves me leery as I wait for the other shoe to drop and the nightmares to show up again. But a good chunk of time has passed and I’ve yet to sleep in terror. Knocking on wood. 2.) I’m making a resolution. From this blog forward, I shall not blog again until my book is finished. Ok, not FINISHED, but ended. The finished product is still so far off that I can’t even see the possibility. But the end…yes, that is in sight. And I want/need/have to end at least one book that I begin. So I can say, “I wrote a book. It’s not very good because so much editing needs to be done, but I wrote a book.” Not that I’d ever actually say that in conversation since that would mark me as a notable freak and a weirdo and may get me punched for being a pompous, boring windbag, but to be able to say that to myself…yes. So! This shall be my last blog entry as a bookless writer! Next entry, it shall be ended. You may never see me again. And now back to the regularly scheduled blog entry. I love well written characters. Probably more than I should, but they are what makes a book or story good and enjoyable. Purely plot driven tales annoy me to no end. It really irks me when the characters do something that is out of character just so the plot can move forward or in a needed direction. Imagine that happening in real life. “No! You can’t do that!” Says a voice from heaven. “You must go the OTHER way or else this other thing won’t occur!” “But I have no reason or desire to go that other way,” you answer. “But you must!” Says the voice and suddenly you are propelled into a situation or decision that is entirely senseless. The story line should develop around the characters, not the other way around. I mean, I love a great and intricate plot! Don’t get me wrong! But my favorite books contain complex characters who live and breathe and are separate from a flat page. All which lead me to today’s topic. My all time favorite fictional characters. Originally I was going to keep it limited to a list of five per the rules of Scarlett…but this proved impossible. I nearly had an anxiety attack trying to narrow them down. So, what follows is a list, in no particular order (since the order changes all the time) of the fictional characters who are closest to my heart. I’ve chosen the following since they have been my companions for quite a few years. No one on the list is a recent entry. That is the qualifier. I need to have known them for at least 3 years. Miles Vorkosogan. And with Miles I will already break my statement that they are in no particular order. Miles is my favorite. He has been in the number one slot for so many years that I’ve lost count. All other spaces shuffle around but Miles always remains favorite. *Pets Miles* Why my favorite? Well, first, he is the hero of a wonderfully written series of books that has been around for over 10 books. This means I’ve gotten to know him rather well and his consistent character development is a compliment to the author. Plus, he is just a fascinating, wonderful, flawed, imperfect and hyperactive little dwarf of a man. Ok, not really a dwarf, but little. Little but unstoppable. In book one, as an 18 year old, he accidentally gained control of an army. Accidentally. And illegally. And without the Army really knowing it. They almost, lovingly, followed him home but he had to find a way to discourage them of this since his mother and father would have been very upset. Scout. You know, Scout, from “To Kill a Mockingbird”. She’s just awesome! And to watch that sad tale from her point of view gave that story an unforgettable voice. Peekay. Main character from “The Power of One”. If you haven’t read that book, just plan on it sometime in your life. Please do. Peekay inspires without trying to. He is who I would love to be when I grow up. Well, minus the boxing and the being a man bit. But spirit wise. Edward Pevinse. Oh Ed. *Swoon* Out of all four of the Pevinse siblings, Ed is my favorite. I love all of them, but he went through the most growth and struggle and change. He met himself, failed miserably and picked himself up again. (Granted, with the much needed help of Aslan.) Peter became a good king, Susan eventually forgot who she really was, Lucy stayed the same, honest, truthful, lovely girl, but Edward…Edward evolved. Perhaps my favorite scene from a book EVER is one from “Prince Caspian”. It was when Lucy saw Aslan and told everyone else that they needed to go a different path than they were. And Edward, despite his doubts, backed her. He learned from his past mistake and decided to go the risky route. Of course, the rest outvoted them, they ran into trouble and death was narrowly avoided. But my FAVORITE moment was when after all that, when they met up with Aslan again, and he turned to Edward and said simply “Well done.” To go from being the traitor to being the true one. Oh…..just good feelings! Good feelings! The Winchesters. I nearly left them off since they are TV characters and not written. But then TV characters are also written, so I’m counting them. And I’m counting all three of them under one slot since I love them all the same. John, Sam and Dean. Who knew that something on screen could bring as much enjoyment as a book? Not I. So big hats off to the writers of that show. Vlad Taltos. An assassin with his own limited moral code and yet he is still lovable and likable. Cordelia Naismith. Mile’s Mother. She is so freaking kick ass‼ And smart and awesome. Helen Huntingdon aka Mrs. Graham. She is one of the few female protagonists in a book with that level of determined honor. She had her beliefs and stuck by them because to give in would have destroyed her. Chewbacca. What? Oh come on‼! He’s a badass, he’s big, he’s loyal and intelligent. Plus he’s furry and I bet he gives the biggest and best hugs imaginable. I want a Chewie! He’d make such a great friend. Oh wait. Look at that, I just added another on screen character! Hunh, didn’t even realize. But I LOVE Chewbacca! Besides, he completes the three current big cultural methods of storytelling. Books, TV and movies. And that is where I’ll end my list since I fear I’ve carried on with this game for longer than would interest you. There are many, many other characters who I love, but those above are ones that warm my heart as friends do. Other fictional characters, such as Legolas, Gimli, Strider (and many others from “The Lord of the Rings”) are characters I love, but I don’t feel as if I know them. They are legends, untouchable and beautiful, but somehow not real. Of course there is Scarlett O’Hara who is incredibly real, but I simply do not like her! I own the book, respect it and re-read it from time to time, but Scarlett…ohhh, her I’d like to slap. Then there are characters who I really like, and could step off the page (Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy for example) but who I highly doubt would really enjoy my company. Too many cultural misunderstandings. Alright! Alright! I get it. I’m done. Done and it may be some time before I return. But I am determined! What about ya’ll? Any specific beloved characters? |
| People confound me. Complicated, strange creatures we are. (That was totally said in my best Yoda impersonation voice.) I believe I’ve mentioned before that I have a Spanish uncle. He and his family have been twice generous in welcoming me to be their guest in his homeland. This is all well and good, especially since the experience of Old World hospitality is not exaggerated. On both of my visits, conversation brought the subject of Generalissimo Francisco Franco to my attention. And that man now fascinates me. My historical and very brief introduction to knowledge of him was a minimalist recounting of him as an evil man and a cruel leader of Spain who hobnobbed with the likes of Hitler and Mussolini. (Sigh. History in American schools is so nationally centered!) Beyond that, I knew nothing. As a young man, my uncle and his mother fled Franco’s Spain and found work in South America. Eventually, they immigrated north to the U.S. and Uncle met my Aunt and our families converged. So the tales of Franco’s cruel grip, the poverty and the iron rule he held over Spain were not exaggerated. Uncle and his family remember. But the black and white picture of a heartless man crushing a country under his boot is far, far from complete. For one, despite the (from everything I heard) consensus that he ruled without compassion, he is remembered with some fondness. No…fondness is not the right word. Respect? Admission of greatness? Awe? Nostalgia? There are monuments built to him, his gravesite is a national treasure and huge. It can be seen from miles away. But even with that, Franco wouldn’t have caught my attention. It’s what he did at the end of his rule that piquet’s my interest and fascination. Understand, as of now, my knowledge on these matters stem only from what I’ve heard from Uncle and his family. While firsthand accounts are generally to be trusted, since this is on national affairs, the political and historical accuracy may not be 100%. When Franco took over, the then king of Spain was deposed. Time passed and Franco promised the ex-king that he would give kingship (though not the power) back to his son (Juan Carlos)…but only if his son lived as one of the people. So off the young 16 year old prince went, to live as one of the people. He went into the Army, not as an officer but as a lowly enlisted and lived in poverty among his Spanish people. He was given no special privileges, no attendants, nothing to set him apart from others. Decades past. Franco ruled. The fifties, sixties, and halfway through the seventies Spain remained under Franco. People lived in fear and destitution; Spain struggled to overcome drastic financial hardships and mostly remained a poor, third world country while much of the rest of the Western World prospered. Franco neared the end of his life, and with this ending in sight, he set his affairs in order. Upon his death, he decreed that Spain would become parliamentary country. In short, Franco ruled that with his death, Spain would belong to the people. And that’s how it happened. This blows my mind. It doesn’t seem possible, does it? I mean what? Why? HOW‼‼! Hunh?! What! What! WHAT‼‼ What other instance in history is there, where a ruler, a despotic dictator owning so much power, willed power back to the people of the country he had ruled with cruelty? And THEN IT HAPPENED. Not only did Franco do this, but it succeeded. Even after he was dead. No other flunky or power hungry Politian leapt in (or succeeded in leaping in) to fill that void. A Parliament was established, voting commenced. And if this was Franco’s intention, why didn’t he begin while still alive? The genius of the man! To lay ground work during his lifetime that would ensure that no other man would attempt to fill his shoes. He planned so well that his wishes were enforced beyond the grave. But he did not give up a stitch of power until his death. That is both confounding and incredibly impressive. And then of course there is the psychology behind the actions. He, Franco, as a person…who was he that he meted out these actions? He hoarded power and control but would not allow any other to hold the same. Instead he gifted it back to the people he had abused for so long. Who does that? It confuses me. He is officially on my list of guests at my dinner party for people that are anyone from any when. Of course, at said dinner party, he would be compelled to answer all and any questions honestly. But since this dinner party has a likelihood of zero chance of happening, I have to content myself by reading his Biography. It rests quietly thick in my living room, waiting for me to finish my current book and take up the life of this complicated man. I do hope that the author focuses on him and not solely on the historical events his life has written. Oh, right. The young prince Juan Carlos’s fate. He lived those decades poor, among the people. But also received some tutelage from Franco himself. Upon Franco’s death, as promised, the crown went back to him. He is king. He lives with his wife, the queen, in wealth and is much beloved by the people. His power is a sort of “In case of emergencies” button. In a national crisis, he has the ability to claim authority so that any and all must listen to him. He appears to have no interest in doing this. His position is one that appears both attractive and horrific. Attractive in that he can do no wrong in the eyes of the Spanish. From everything I heard and saw, there is not a bad word that is said against him. He really is beloved. As Uncle said, “When bad things happen, the king shows up and weeps with the people.” That literally happens. He speaks with those who have been wronged or injured and listens to their woes. That he can’t actually do anything about them except draw attention, is apparently accepted as par for the course and he is lauded as a good man and good king. He seems to be a sort of uber celebrity that everyone loves. It does seem like an attractive position to be in doesn’t it? The Prime Minister gets blamed for everything and the king gets all the love. But it would also be horrific. From the, granted, extremely brief exposure to knowledge about him, I believe he is a good man who loves his country and its people. To always hear these tales of woe without any real recourse to solve them would be a heavy life to lead. And the King Carlos’s son? The current prince? He is following his father’s footsteps. While I doubt that the prince has to live in as much privation as his dad, he too is being required, by his father, to live as one of the people. All in all, the entire story is fascinating and rather like something from out of a fairy tale or work of fiction. The powerful, cruel, genius of Franco, the king, the pauper prince, the gifting of countries and crowns…apparently there is even a romantic story surrounding the (gorgeous of course) queen. Why hasn’t a movie been made? Or at least an American one. Ten to one there is a Spanish one around somewhere. I just hope it has subtitles. |
| So I believe I’ve mentioned before that I’m on the tall side, right? “Right,” says you the reader. “You have mentioned it. Ad nauseum.” Well, it has been a part of my life for most of my life. I grew fast as a kid. By 12 I was pushing 6 feet and at 13, when I entered high school, I towered above students and teachers alike. To get to that point, I grew like a weed. I didn’t really bother with nice clothes or shoes (I’ve bought my own since I was a 6 yr old) since I would outgrow them so quickly. I bought sneakers purposefully large and within a few months my toes would literally be coming out the other end. I never thought of it as a big deal, it was just a part of life, as was the always expected exclamation of “You’re tall!” from other people. The biggest bummer about fast growth is the growing pains. They are no fun and I’d managed to mostly block out their memory until my brother mentioned them a short while ago. That he remembered my pain was both touching and an unwelcome remembrance of how bad they actually were. One of the worst bits was how helpless my parents were against it. That was scary. Anyway, racing vertical also left me with a large side effect of clumsiness. This clumsiness is one of the many reasons I didn’t try out for sports. I could simply be walking and fall down. Falling, tripping, and so on became a regular part of life. Skinned knees and holes in my jeans became an accepted and permanent part of my existence. With more years, and the stoppage of growth, I became accustomed to my body and how to control it. Or at least control it to a better degree. I’ve never fully shed the remains of my klutzy beginnings. I still catch my feet on the floor from time to time and for some reason, I STILL have trouble going through doorways. No, I’m not kidding! There I’ll be, minding my own business and then WHAM! my shoulder will knock into the doorframe. And stairs…those puppies keep me alert and wary. I’ll never be one to lightly descend a staircase. They must be approached with caution. So why all this whining? I’ll tell you. Yes I will. I just tripped and fell. Rather badly. *sniff* I’m at home right now and will post this later when I’ve internet access. My knee is skinned and my toe is stubbed and I hurt. And my Mommy is over a hundred miles away and I want to throw a little pity party. So this is it. And I haven’t tripped that badly in years. Not where I take the full plunge and get to closely study a corner of my floor and how I missed it the last time I swept. Not where I sit and think things through before getting back on my feet and wait a few minutes before checking if there’s going to be blood. So yeah, my inner little girl has her lower lip in a wibble and I wouldn’t mind a cuddle and a smiley face band aid. It’s an old house, an old floor but tell me, how does one (I) stub one’s (my) toe on a flat floor? |
| Disclaimer (necessary because I’m being brainwashed into robotic PCness): This entry will be chock full of overgeneralizations and stereotypes. I get that everyone is an individual and so on and so forth and that much of what we think of as innate is cultural conditioning. But in this entry, I’m ignoring that. Men are hot. Let me rephrase. Men are HAWT. Ladies, may I get an amen! Don’t get me wrong. Women are beautiful. I can take a gander at another lady and recognize the beauty…just like I can look at a sunset or a mountain range or a horse in motion and see beauty. But I’ve yet to look at a woman and see HAWTNESS. Nope, that is guy territory. Some men and lesbians may disagree, but whatever, they don’t know what they’re talking about. So yeah, guys are fine to look upon. This appreciation dates all the way back to Eve when she opened her eyes to see Adam (the first dude perfectly made and thus HAWT factor infinity) and found joy in being alive. Cuz, among other reasons, she got to gander at First Dude Adam. (And in a brief sideslip to a nearly parallel topic, quick fist-bump to God for inventing sex. Seriously good idea.) The great thing about guys, is that they have the capability to be hawt even when in situations that wouldn’t seem conductive to hawtness. Take, for example, sports. All logic points to it being a turn off. Sweat, literally dripping, faces contorted into incredibly odd expressions, oftentimes there is blood, strange uniforms and alarming body noises; but when I do choose to watch sports, it is for one reason and one reason only, the eye candy. The passion, the gracefulness, the body control, the effort, exertion, single minded determinedness, and the intensity with which those men throw themselves into the moment just makes me smile. Of course the fact that their bodies are those of trained athletes doesn’t hurt. Not at all. Note, it seems this does not apply to women. If it did, then professional women sports would be more widely watched by drooling fellows. Whatever hawtness we women possess, apparently does not translate well into athleticism. Though if that petition to get pole dancing accepted as an Olympic sport goes through, I may have to revisit this subject. Perhaps the one of the hawtest things about men is when they find a passion and express that passion. I don’t care what it is, whether it is classic cars, comic books or cancer research; when a man decides to dedicate himself to something, champion a cause, idea or even a hobby, it is so sexy. It may be something I find completely mind numbingly boring, or something I completely disagree with, or something that I can’t comprehend, but to see his eyes light up, that determination and motivation and passion and dedication enter his voice, body language, speech patterns and posture…yeah, that is hawt. It is knock the strength out of my legs hawt. It is also much rarer than I would like it to be. Not that I blame my brother humans, it takes a hell of a lot of bravery to be shameless and upfront about a passion. In that documentary I recently watched, “The Cove”, there were two men interviewed who stood up for a cause against popular opinion, economic sense and to the danger of their livelihoods, maybe even their lives. Physically, they were not attractive. There was terror in their faces, in their eyes and the way that they held themselves. But they took a stand for what they knew was right…and my belly did that little flip flop thing and I puddled out onto the floor. Heroes are HAWT. Know what else is hawt on guys? Body parts. Oh yes. Ladies, I know ya’ll have your favorite pieces that you enjoy gawking at and objectifying and so on and so forth. And yup, I’ve my favorite(s) as well. And nope, I’m not going to tell since I’d like to attempt an effort to keep SOME sort of respectability for this blog. To misquote a well known Book: Men are fearfully and wonderfully made. Very. And I am eternally grateful for my eyesight. Other hawt things, the deep, gravelly, bass voices of men, the scent of a fellow- even after (though granted not always) a long day of work, and the gentleness that can be found in a strong pair of hands. Actually hands, capable hands, are hawt. Of course no discussion about the hawtness of men would be complete without a decent into the topic of Hollywood men. Specifically, the men who get the roles of the heroic lead. Men who, as a part of their job, have to take extremely good care of their physical appearance…God bless ‘em. Men who do hit that gym on a daily basis, get the manicures and the pedicures and the hair cuts and allow make-up to be put on them so that we women can stare at a screen and set impossible standards for the poor blokes out on the street. No matter the reasons or the method, they are HAWT. Yes, yes. I do have a Hollywood crush list of men who I hope to never meet so my idealized picture remains pristine. Some are of the obvious kind: Kevin Durand, Christian Bale, Jared Padalecki, Bruce Willis, Daniel Craig and…yeah, you get the picture. Others not so obvious: Rupert Grint, Mark Ruffalo, Rob Benedict, and Kevin James. But all have hawtness. Actually, men in general have hawtness on some level, Hollywood or not. Know what’s really hawt? A guy that will argue with me. Not fight, or dismiss what I have to say, but will exchange ideas and differing opinions and will listen to mine and come right back at me even if I get obstinate or pissy. A guy who isn’t afraid to argue with me. And if it’s a discussion where winning is to be had, a man who isn’t afraid to lose against me…or hold his ground until he wins. Yeah, that’s hawt. It seems I need to close this thing up. There is more, ever so much more, I could express on this particular topic. But I think I have rambled on long enough. In closing, I would encourage my fellow sisters to appreciate how we live in a world filled to bursting with the male sex. Seriously now, think of how terrible it would be to live in a universe solely populated by females. Guys are far from perfect, but I’d rather live with ‘em than without. Besides, without men, the HAWT factor of the planet would drop into negative numbers. And that would be tragic. |
| I wasn’t going to write a blog entry today. No, no I was not. Plan was to pop on here and check out the blogs I read and then hop back off because it’s been a long day and I’m tired and weary of staring at a computer screen. But here I am, fingers tip tapping away at the letter keys. Why? I’ve no idea. Mostly guilt I suppose. I had decided to do this blogging thing again and now it feels like there should be some level of responsibility attached. Which is weird because I am determined that blogging should be fun and not a responsibility. Waaaaaaaaaaaaait a minute. It just occurred to me that I am now blogging about how I don’t want to be blogging. Cry me a river! BoofrigginHoo! I’m going to need a little cheese with this whine and welcome to Boring Central Station. My apologies to one and all. So now I need to write about something else. Will have to delay again my promised journey into the land of the Shallow since that entry will need some time to appropriately express my appreciation for all things male. Not that I appreciate EVERYTHING that comes from the male species…but you catch my drift. With all this rain, it’s been indoor time! Which has meant a lot of movies. This pleases me since I like movies. So a few quick notes on this recent brainless, wonderful pastime. 1.)Whenever I see the titles say that the actors will be listed in alphabetical order or in order of appearance, I jump to the conclusion that there were some ginormous actor ego’s on set and it was done that way to avoid the conflict of deciding who’s name will come first. This is probably very judgmental and erroneous on my part but that’s what my brain does. 2.) I finally got around to watching “The Goonies” since it was on my list of Movies That People Freak Out Over When They Discover I Haven’t Seen It. Frankly, I must have missed the boat because I didn’t crack a laugh once, found myself horrified over the cruel and thoughtless treatment of Chunk, even while I found him incredibly annoying. In a moment of self-punishment, I then watched the Cyndie Laupner music video in the Special Features and firmly believe that people in the 80’s were all on crack cocaine. They had to be. They HAD to be to find that enjoyable. On a similar note, I also knocked Ghostbusters off aforementioned list and am tempted to buy it. Friggin fantastic. 3.)I may be in love with Kevin Durand. He is my newest Hollywood crush and really belongs in my future Male Appreciation Blog post. 4.)’A Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy’ is stupid. I don’t get why people put that one on my list. 5.)”The Cove” documentary is incredible, well done and horrific. I love dolphins. Why did I watch that movie? It’s like a filmed ‘Aschwitz’ for dolphins. Bright side, I now know not to eat tuna. (Hint, it’s not because dolphins may or may not get caught in the nets.) Ha, list of 5! |
| Well, the initial plan for this blog entry was to splash happily in the shallow end of the human depth pool. It’ll have to wait since my fingers are following another train of thought. I went to prison. Yup, that’s where I was and it did feel rather nice to be able to leave. It was an interesting visit. We were allowed within the walls and the pods themselves, past the visiting rooms and such. I found myself in the general population having a nice conversation with men who would not leave for years. With some men who had been in as long as I have been alive. And with some who would not leave for a few more decades. Yup, there I stood and there they sat. We chatted, they told some stories, a laugh or two was shared and then it was time for me to go. And them to stay and stay and stay. While we definitely received some stares (ok, a LOT of stares) from the inmates as we passed through their spaces and living areas and yard; and there were a few comments (though mostly quiet), it was expected since the majority of we visitors were female. In an all male prison. Frankly, their behavior was quite gentlemanly. I can’t say much about the visit for confidentiality reasons. Believe me, I would love to go into more depth about the experience, I fear even skirting on the edges of what I saw and who I met and what I heard. These people have so much taken from them already. They welcomed me into their home and into their stories. That should be respected. Some of my companions expressed a nervousness once we were behind the fence and the locked doors. But I did not. It felt familiar in a way. The lay out, the guard towers, the razor wire and high fences, the commonality of uniforms, the sense of high security…it reminded me of my year in Iraq. And that felt oddly comfortable. Not comforting…but not unknown either. Not much more I can say on all of this. Which is a bummer, since I would love to share more. |
| Sooooo, the Wisconsin trip is a no go. Even though it was a scholarship, they wanted money up front and THEN reimburse. Well, I don’t happen to have a couple grand lying around and neither did the county. Sad. Sigh. And I’m over it. Or at least going to pretend to be. (DOWN GYPSY‼!) This morning I was mulling over how I want a wife. And then I read partydude’s comment and it now warrants a blog mention. It was my mother who first brought it to my attention. I was griping about my busy life and how I don’t have the energy or will or interest to cook myself healthy meals. She then began to promote the idea of me having a wife. Now by ‘wife’ she meant it in the old fashioned sense of unpaid slave labor. You know, a handy dandy cook/laundress/maid/ect. I agree. I would LOVE to have one of those. Sadly, I am not a promoter of slavery and so I am relegated to having to pay someone. It’s either that or find a lesbian wife who doesn’t believe in women’s rights. This doesn’t work for several reasons, the primary one being that I’m not a lesbian. Stupid details. Anyway, I do now have dreams of pulling in enough cash to hire a maid. Which makes me feel somewhat elitist and weird and snobbish. But I’m gonna be a professional dag nab it! I am one! Why put in a full day only to come home to a house I have to clean, a lawn I have to mow, and food I have to prepare? I mean seriously. So yeah, one day, granted, years and years and years down the road, I hope to hire myself a wife. Unless by that time husbands are hirable. Which, in a big jump, is a segue to one of the sad things about the world being male dominated for the majority of history. I am a great admirer of men in both the shallow and the unshallow sense. But I often find that my shallow admiration gene is met with a deficit of resources. Where’s the poetry? Where’s the artwork? Where are the sonnets and tributes and songs and praise? Not common enough‼ Dammit! Women can enjoy chauvinism as well as men! Sure, there was Davinchi and Oscar Wilde and a few others…but those were MEN. I would love to hear/see some artistic expression of admiration from the female perspective. Honestly, men are quite the pretty creature. It is almost sad that guys have to be attracted to women. They don’t know what they’re missing. But it does keep the human race alive so it’s a good thing. Hmm, I feel a shallow pool opening up in endless and extensive ways and bays. Best to stop now and/or continue this wade later. |
| There are moments where I glance sideways (and figuratively) toward the majority of the coupled human race and just pity ya’ll. Okay, I admit, it’s more than moments, it’s the majority of my life, but I know that it is supposed to make you happy and you want it and it’s assumed to be this awesome, fantastic thing involving love and mutual support and blah blah blah blah blah. Whatever. Luckily most people don’t think like I do or the human race would have died out a long time ago. (Adoption sounds rad, but there’s no way I’m putting my body through that punishment.) Where was I going with this? Oh yes, my weekend. I found myself with nothing planned this past weekend which came as a surprise and a relief. Even nicer, most my crowd is out of town so I had no one to call (lying but I didn’t call) and nothing to do (lying but I didn’t do). The point of the matter is that I did not HAVE to call or do and thankfully had no bothersome partner to put the pressure on of “But I’m booored!” Instead of calling or doing or cleaning or any of that, I indulged. Big time. Sure, some much needed errands were accomplished, but other than that I took a lazy, lazy weekend. Chocolate, donuts and movies baby. Oh yeah. I love life in this century. |
| No idiot I. Nope. I have intelligence. Some. While I’m no super brain, I’ve been blessed with SOME intellect. This took me a while to admit to myself. I happen to have an older brother who is naturally good at, well, everything. He’s athletic, smarter, excellent in social situations, good looking, and has a quickness of mind that leaves me in the dust. As a result (and the mishandling of me by a certain teacher) most of my life had me certain of the fact that I was mentally deficient. I accepted it and a belief was created that I needed to try VERY hard to succeed. At anything. At everything. So in a way, it was a blessing, because I’ve gotten fairly far for a chick from the backwoods of Montana raised on the lower spectrum of the middle class…ok, under middle class. (Upper-class poor?) Good on me. The Army and the sexism I faced while in (something I have only recently been able to admit) did not help in the estimation of my abilities. It really has only been in the past year or so that the concept has FINALLY caught up that I’m not actually stupid. (WHAT?!) It’s a bit of a shock actually. Yet here I am, accepted into a program that is highly competitive to get into, getting straight A’s and hearing quite a bit of positive feedback from people who I respect. This isn’t to say I believe intelligence is measured by school grades. Nope. There are some prime idjits who graduate with honors. But as various achievements pile up in my wake, so my confidence grows. Until here I am, able to say with confidence that I am an intelligent person. That I was even able to write that sentence is an achievement. All that said, there are times when I look at myself and am startled by the blindness and, yes, stupidity, with which I enter certain situations. Apparently street smarts are not one of my blessings. My oblivion to a variety of circumstances and things can be rather embarrassing. For instance, take my latest wake up call to my personal daze. My new job is in the court house right? I was (am) thrilled to be where I am. I really believe that some good can be done for my clients, that I can be of real use, that it is a good program and so much positive work will be accomplished. It is satisfying to be where I am. So what was the wake-up call? Well, apparently, when working within the judicial system, I will have to deal with politics. Yup. Shocking, I know. *face palm* Despite what I’ve seen of the world (personally) the slavery, the violence, the cruelty, the fear and the joy others take in that fear, the blind hatred…I still have these unrealistic expectations and hopes of people. Why do I do that? Idiot I. Idiot I after all. This past week at work, I’ve finally had a chance to process through what has all happened. Basically, several times I found myself in situations where I was confronted with a field of emotional and political landmines where I had to step extremely carefully. Not with my clients, no, whatever they throw my way is par for the course, but with my peers. And yes, I find it shocking. WHY do we need to be at odds if the entire purpose of what we are doing is to provide support for our clients? WHAT good will it do to put up barriers and obstacles when we’re all after the same thing? See? Idiot I for being surprised. I should know better. I do know better…yet my surprise still remains. So much of my energy was expended, not on my clients who NEED it, but on people who should be walking beside me, having my back as I want to have their back. One day in particular, I walked out of an office and my legs actually felt weak from the emotional drain and effort I’d exhausted on building the tiniest foundation of rapport with a man who should have already been a solid ally. It took almost two hours of solid work to make that minuscule connection. Two HOURS not spent on the people who I was hired to support. And it frustrates me. Idiot I for not expecting it. Idiot I was blindsided by something I should, by now, take for granted. Well now I do know. And I am planning out my following work week so that there is time set aside, devoted, to creating the necessary bridges and relationships and brown nosing and sucking up and crawling through mud needed so that the services that should be openly available to my clients, MY people, are accessible. I have no idea if I’ll be any good at this, but I need to be. It takes a village after all. A village, a city of support, to create the environment and opportunities for success my client’s need. Guess that makes me the village idiot. Bah! Now I’m beginning to wallow. Never mind! Never mind! Give me a bit of time and I’ll find a way to laugh at the absurdity of it all. In other job news, I had a meeting with the judge (me boss) for a crash course on the judicial system. What a rat’s nest of a mess! The judge gave me a stack of reading material over a foot thick (I’m not exaggerating) so I could get a look at a basic overview of the system. Lawyers are nuts ya’ll. NUTS. So’s the people who created this conundrum of an arrangement. Insanity. |
| Well it’s done. I am now more broke than I have ever before been in the entire span of my life. I’m not just talking about the alarmingly low levels swishing around in my bank account, I’m talking about the loan I just took out for my last year of schooling. (Please God let it be my last. Let no foolish hankering for a doctorate come to plague me.) It’s frightening, though I feel a little embarrassed complaining. This IS my first loan after all. My classmates already have years and tens of grands piled up behind them. But the pressured panic of being in debt is already beginning to eat away at my stomach lining. I can feel it. I despise being in debt. Owing money. Owing. OWING. Slaved and chained and shackled by a promissory note. How do people walk around like this all the time? It feels…is there a word? It feels disgusting. But that’s the way of our culture right? Owe owe owe. Or it should be, owned owned owned. My choice though. I’ve sold myself into indenture freely. Odd turn of phrase. What a strange world to exist within. Moving on. Now this may sound odd, but there are times I surprise myself when looking in a mirror. “Wait. THAT is what I look like?‼” Which shouldn’t happen. I’ve had this face my whole life. It’s evolved over time, no baby face I. But the basics remain the same. So being startled by a stranger in a mirror shouldn’t be possible, right? I mean, I KNOW that it is me. It has to be, laws of physics and whatever all other laws govern reflections. But there are moments, more common than they should be, that there is a sense of detachment from what looks back at me. “That’s not me.” Or even “Who is that person?” Not that I have any clue or image or idea what I think I should look like. It just seems strange that the people who use their eyes to move through life call up the image of that face when there is a moment to recall me. It just doesn’t seem complete. I’ve never really been one to really look at myself, so all this is probably my own doing. And when I do use a mirror, it is more often than not to look at a piece or portion of my face than the whole thing. “Any chocolate in my teeth?” “Crap, is that a zit?” “That’s a radical black eye from rafting! “Where in the hell did my earring hole go?” But taking in the face as a whole…that isn’t as common. Surely I’m not the only one who does this? What brings all this up? All this nonsensical blather? Well me new job has me now practicing the strange art of makuping on a constant basis. Yup, the long practiced tradition held in so many different cultures of putting goop and paint and colors and whatnot on my face. It’s never really been a part of my daily routine before now. It’s a frigging pain, time consuming and makes me terribly self conscious at times. But the lure of adhering to a more standard professional appearance has me (very reluctantly) abandoning my jeans. And now, globbing the gook on my face. All this involves mirrors. Which still has me examining only parts of the face while I do the paint ritual. Unless there is another way to make-up up that I am unaware of. That is a portion of ‘girl-training’ that I missed growing up. “Dab here, brush there, don’t poke out my eye and go!” But the finished product does tend to catch me off guard sometimes. I guess I’m used to the strange un-made up face I catch glimpses of in random mirrors. But the new one, the fancified one, the weird face on a body that matches my movements…that has me doing double takes. “That can’t be me. Can it?” Surely I’m not the only one? Now just to be clear, I’m not complaining about my face. It’s a fairly good one I think. And this isn’t about looks and the ‘Golden Ratio’ and all that appearance crap. Just the shapes and forms and bulges that create a face. An attractive face does not necessarily make a good face as well as vice a versa. So I think my face is a good one. People seem to trust it, which I find odd and surprising, but they do. This face often times gets called “sweetie” and “dear” and “honey” by strangers in settings that are inappropriate for such. And I have difficulty matching myself to any of these monikers, but apparently they go with my face. Point is, it is a face that has gotten me this far in life, so that’s good. But to look at that face and try to fit myself INSIDE of it. To confine myself to the contours and bends and depressions does not seem to be comprehensive. When I see my hands, wrists, arms torso, legs etc, I am comfortable in placing me within them, or at least with owning them. They do and walk and handle and work and reach and bend and are me. The face though…what is it? Isn’t it something like over 80% of communication happens through facial expression? I know that over 90% is non-verbal, but how much depends on the conglomeration of nose, lips, eyes, forehead, and so on? Too much in my opinion. Much too much. Now here is what really bends my mind into painful contortions. If I know I am so much more than this face that leads me into the eyes of others, then how much do I miss when I look at another face? At each individual face that has a whole person lurking behind the skin and muscle and bone? It’s like trying to consider eternity. It hurts! How long is eternity? But that’s the point, eternity is NOT long. Endless, no beginning, no end, no place or cause for measurement. No “It’s longer than…” or “It’s like…” Nope, eternity. Impossible to fit within my thoughts. So then there are these people hiding behind the face. Each one full of memories and wishes and thoughts and hopes and personal jokes and hurt and laughter and privacy and love and relationships and meandering day dreams a million miles away. Every person I meet, see, know, catch a glimpse of and watch; each has a person, a WHOLE PERSON tagging along with the face. It is a concept that straight up terrifies me sometimes. That when I’m in a room with someone, it isn’t just me in that room with my own opinions and whole self, but another with equal weight crammed in there with me. And a room full of people…! It is much too much for me to grasp and I tend to run away from such thoughts when in crowds, even small crowds. Others have expressed such ideas long before me and in much more eloquent and succinct words. But the enormity of it all…well, I needed to let the pressure out. |
| Me: “I’m cold!” Montana Weather: “Turn your heat back on silly girl.” Me: “No! It’s May and you gave me a week of warmth already! And I don’t want to pay another high electric bill!” Montana Weather: “You’ve spent most of your life with me. Did you really expect me to be warm this time of the year?” Me: “No.” Montana Weather: “Turn your heat back on. Be wise.” Me: *pouting* “No! That’s what blankets are for.” Montana Weather: *Wearily* “Sigh…” Memorial Day, when we remember vets and those who have died and have barbeques and a day off. No barbeque this year since I’m recovering from 12 hour shifts and I need to do laundry (and it’s cold and rainy). I don’t particularly need a special day to remember vets and those who have died, though I appreciate the gesture. Deeply. It does bring to mind the fact that this past semester was the last semester that I will receive benefits from the GI Bill. I have tapped that well dry. Not a bad deal. A damned good one actually. I’ve gotten five years of schooling paid for. One left. One more year to go and the payment is mine alone to answer for. Problem is that I don’t know how I’m going to do that yet. I applied for a grant and was denied since I am in Grad school and not an Undergrad. Scholarships are my next best bet I suppose. And I know, I know, I should have taken care of this MONTHS ago, I just am not accustomed to having to deal with it. New territory and all that. I’ll figure something out. I have to after all. Still banging away at “The Fountainhead”. My revulsion for that book grows with each turn of the page. (“So quit reading fool!” I know, but I’ve committed.) I have fallen to the point where I am skimming. Skimming a well written, intelligent book. Is this person I? On a dissimilar note, I watched the documentary “Facing Ali” and really enjoyed it. I may be just a little bit in love with Joe Frasier now, and maybe Ron Lyle…which is a bit scary to think on. And have a legitimate crush on George Chuvalo. I don’t like boxing. I don’t like watching it, am a bit unnerved by the entire idea, and am disgusted by many of the Powers and money mongers surrounding such a violent sport. But at the same time, I hold a great deal of respect for those men who step into a square ‘ring’ and test themselves body and spirit against another man for the eternity of 15 rounds. It would be one way to get to know oneself. A harsh, honest, horrid, painful, glorious way to meet self, see self, and find self’s limits. And then to bring that bare self into contest with another bare self. To test, push, hurt, strive, respect…yes, there is something good there. I also find that my mind is slightly hypnotized by that catechism of Ali’s trainer. Not so much the well known “Float like a butterfly…” but the end. The end. “Rumble young man. Rumble.” It’s echoing pleasantly around the recesses of my soul. It tastes well. No idea why. My black eye is sadly already fading into faint redness. My cut is nearly healed. All good things I suppose since I’ll be in court again come Tuesday. But my body remains upset that I put it through so much physical excursion with so little warning. FYI-If you’re going to use a paddle for white water rafting, be kind to your core muscles and work them out a little first. A lot first actually. I’m still moving like I’m 90. It’s embarrassing. The results of my survey are in. And the results show that those of you who read and are not members are happy to remain silent. I feel quite humbled and am reminded that ostentatious activity from an author of any kind (perhaps especially the blogging kind) is intrusive and unnecessary and maybe a bit offensive. I did enjoy the feedback I did get because ya’ll who took it were lovely nice. And strokes to the ego are fun. But I’ve learned me lesson and will abandon all such future pursuits. I also took an unexpected adventure into Twitterverse. The blame for this I lay at the feet of Partyof5. The man has not blogged in so long that I’m going through withdrawals. So I glanced over and saw a gateway to hel…I mean Twitter and in I clicked. Good news, I made it out alive. Surprising news, apparently Danny Rehberg, Montana State Representative, follows Partydude. Which makes me like Danny a little bit more, good sense. Even if he now seems a little stalkerish. Actually, I now feel stalkerish. Sorry Party, but yes, that was me peering in your windows. Anyway, still struggling to ‘get’ Twitter. I’ve been offered a scholarship to attend a conference in Wisconsin in a few weeks. Not sure if I’ll be able to go yet, but I really would like to. A: because it means travel and I’m aching to travel…even if only to the non-exotic location of Wisconsin. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Wisconsin before, though I may have passed through it on my Coast to Coast drive. I’d have to review the route I took. B: because the conference sounds fantastic. It’s about treating addiction in rural areas…which is basically my job. I read through some descriptions of the presentations and now have that nervous excitement in my belly and hope that it’ll all work out. It’s about a 5 day conference and would mean flying, staying in motels and not eating food I’ve cooked. All things that have my gypsy foot tingling to go. I’m yearning for a good road trip. Last summer, I took a nice short one to South Dakota and Wyoming but I’m feeling the need for more. More. MORE. I have to be careful not to think on it too hard. My gut gets all hard, my heart speeds up and all the various chemicals in my body urge my mind to drop the plan I’ve been working on, climb into my car and simply go. Go where? Does it matter? No, no it does not. Open road, strange faces, unknown towns, fresh scenery, freedom, flight, music, blowing wind, unplanned schedule, maps, sunsets from the hood of the car, ocean breeze, late night motel clerks, sitting apart and alone in restaurants-watching, streaming thoughts, getting lost, impulsive changes and on and on the reasons for the road call. “Go. Go. Go and find but don’t really find. Simply go.” The yearning is so real that it’s physical. I took a drum class some years ago. We each built our own African drum from wood and the hide of goats. We also learned some drumming in drum circles. The calls and responses. The sore hands, the thump and thunder and melody of voices. It was an EXPERIENCE. You get me? There was this one we learned that has stayed with me. The first line of the single verse. Where ever you go, there you are. No matter where I go, what I do, to what far flung outreaches on the planet I find myself; I’ll still be there. And that bit of realization is what keeps me from climbing into my car and answering that call of “Go.” See, I’ve answered that call before. And it was wonderful. But…where are the words? Where are the words?! Gypsies, real gypsies, take their homes with them. They are never homeless. I have yet to find my home. And while the road gives the illusion of home, it is not home for me. Not really. So I guess I’m searching. The yondering urge, the itch, the desire to shake free from the shackles of permanency…these things I’ve tried and home was not found. So perhaps if I stay still, it will come to me. Or… Or maybe, it will always be my lot to hear that whisper of “Come” from the road. To never have my heart be fully satisfied in stillness. And that, well that would be far from a bad thing. |
| First off, thanks to all who took the time to participate in my exercise of narcissism/curiosity/whatever. I plan on looking at the results, but just not now. I’ve other things to brag, I mean, write about. But before getting too carried away, I would like to say that there are times I can be an absolute idjit. Truly. How? By indulging in some piss poor prior planning, that’s how. And right now, yes, this very moment, I am paying the cost for one of these excursions into idiocy. In fact, by the time you read this, I’ll probably still be paying. But it was SO worth it! Yesterday, I rose from my comfy, warm, wonderful bed (ok, I need a new mattress but it still does the job) at 0530 and readied myself for the planned white water rafting trip. Oh yes, yes indeed. I met up with the crew and soon we were cruising down the road to Idaho (Idaho? U-da ho! Hehehe). We geared up in wet suits, life jackets and helmets and stood around shivering since it was a day in May in the Rockies. I do believe it stayed below 60F for the whole day. Then we piled into the rafts and we were off. 20 miles of gorgeous river, kick ass rapids and adrenaline pumping paradise. I’ve never rafted so early in the year before, so it was a new experience. A chilly one, but the river was running high and fast, the rapids were larger and I LOVED it. Time and again, we’d hit some rapids and I’d find myself looking up (and up) at a wall of white water, then it would be down upon us and I’d be fighting to keep my paddle moving, to continue to ‘spear the white whale’. A couple times, the power threw me and my raft mates around and I’d find myself lying on the bottom of the raft or scrambling for the high side so we wouldn’t tip. T’was wonderful, wonderful. Now I’ve been rafting a few times in my life, and I had never been thrown out of a raft. The guides on this trip were continuously speaking of the likelihood of ‘going for a swim’. Now I had no interest in swimming the river. That’s why I was in a raft. The day was chilly, the river full of snow fed, freezing water and plus the idea of taking a dip in a raging current sounded unappealing. Frankly, the idea frightened me. So there we were, coming up on the one of the roughest spots on the river…the Falls. Over we went and suddenly we were swamped by a wave, then another and then ANOTHER and I found it difficult to tell if I was in or out of the raft. Then, yes, definitely, I was leaving the raft. The one thought in my mind (underneath the scream of adrenaline) was “Crap! I hope I’m not the only one!” (Cuz that would be embarrassing.) I was under, hoping to find which way was up (thank you life jacket) then my head popped up, I located the raft, saw the bobbing heads of all three of my raft mates and swam toward the raft. (Yay! I wasn’t the only one! We ALL got dumped.) And I even managed to hang on to my all important paddle. The guide (who had barely remained in the raft) hauled me up and then I assisted in hauling the others up, except for one who was picked up by another raft. So yeah, that was my first river dunking. And it was AMAZING! Fear of it disappeared. It really isn’t all that bad. Kinda awesome actually. I’m rather grateful to have that particular anxiety taken care of. It makes rafting even more enjoyable. Anyway, once the surge of adrenaline died down to a more manageable level, I reached to wipe some water from my eyes and found blood instead. I think a paddle, probably mine, had become well acquainted with my eye and I now have a lovely shiner that I’m rather proud of. The whole day was amazing. Often cold, but that makes it memorable, full of fun, laughter and screams. Oh yay. When we got back I discovered that we’d been being photographed all day and I was able to see some pictures of my dunking. My favorite is one where I’m just being pulled out of the raft. All that can be seen are my arms, paddle, and my feet sticking up ridiculously into the air. The rest of me is submerged in white water. Rockin’ man. Rockin. So why was/am I an ijdit? Well for some reason, I scheduled myself to work the graveyard shift. (Not at my new job but at my other job.) So upon driving home, I crashed for about an hour and half, then it was time to get up and here I sit. At work, at 0130 on a twelve hour shift. It’s going to be a looooooong night. |
Ok, so it did not work yesterday. The survey could NOT be used by non-members which totally defeated the purpose. Though I do appreciate those who did. And I am now going to primarily talk about the color of socks I'm knitting for my cat.   Sooooo, this is a bit of a repeat since I have now run to Survey Monkey for help which will allow any and all to complete it (or at least those who want to). Take THAT WDC restrictions! And I know this is silly and such but I now feel like a dog with a bone or a squirrel with a nut or me with chocolate. First, a reprise of yesterday's (now deleted) blog. Hi. Yeah, hi, I'm talking to you. Yup you. The other person on the side of this screen. Looking at these letters that make up words that turn into sentences and create a scrambled blog. Whatcha doin'? Seriously, what are you doing here? Don't get me wrong, I am THRILLED that you are here, but I want to know MORE. I'm greedy like that. Of course, if you actually wanted me to know that, you'd have your own blog. So this means I am now expecting to invade your privacy. SHAME on me. Big time shame. So instead I have created a short survey to satisfy my craving (in part) to know more. If not about you, cuz that's none of my business, then what brings you here. No worries, if you have no interest in answering the survey, then don't. But here it is. Take 2. Survey Monkey to the rescue! http://www.surveymonkey.com/s/FKMTSLN Man, this had better work. In other news, I've been given a mission. When I was home looking through the mountains of stuff from the move, I ran across a bunch of vintage hats. I'm talking TRUE vintage 50's and 60's, rediculous I can't believe this was ever in style hats. Grandma asked me to see if there is a market for them here and so I now find myself visiting antique shops and vintage clothing stores in the hopes of unloading 30-50 (I didn't bother counting) ancient headwear for ladies. To my dismay, one of these shops was right next door to a shoe repair shop. On reflex, I went in and inquired if the owner was in the business of making custom made boots. I was ready for the customary "no" but instead I got a "yes" and I now am on a waiting list to have a $700 pair of boots I don't need made for me. I don't have $700 dollars. Especially not for a pair of boots. But *cringe, yes I said but* the waiting list is over a year long! That should give me time to save up, right? I mean, I'm also saving for the celebratory graduation trip to Florida next Spring, and the move I'll be making, and the school debt I'll have to pay off...but they are CUSTOM MADE BOOTS! I've mentioned before that I hate shopping. Know what I hate shopping for the most? Shoes. Know why? Because The Powers That Make Clothing do not believe that women who wear a size 13 like cute shoes! Or shoes at all for that matter. Apparently we size 13's are not supposed to enjoy the painful adorableness of sexy stilettos or bad ass boots. Nope, not at all. And so I find myself on a wait list. |
| Ok, so I'm totally going to cheat for this blog entry. I'm in a hurry but really am wanting to give an honest effort to this blogging thing again. A while back, I mentioned to PartyDude that I'd written a sort of tongue in cheek paper for a psyche class about prejudice and then threatened to post it. Well, this is me fulfilling that threat. Keep in mind, it was for a prerequisite class in my first two years. So...it isn't my best work. But I had fun writing it. One of the most common, though benign, forms of prejudice that I’ve run into personally, is about my size and body type. Since I am above average height for a woman, there are many assumptions made about what I do and what my interests are. In some cases I’ve been treated differently and definitely looked at differently. It’s often been assumed that I play, or have played, basketball. But I’ve never felt an interest for the sport and in truth have little athletic ability. When I try to tell this to the people who assume my basketball skills, I’ve gotten mixed reactions. Some disbelieve and once in a while there is even an affronted person to calm. I was once told that my height was wasted on me! At times there has even been pressure for me to learn since I apparently have to be good at the sport. While this hasn’t happened often enough to make my life difficult, it’s been done enough that I now have a definite aversion to ever learning to play. My height also can simply draw attention. I am long used to receiving double takes, stares and the surprisingly common comment from strangers. While this can, at times, make me feel self-conscious, the reactions are positive overall so that I’ve learned to either ignore or respond with a smile. Once in a great while I do receive a negative reaction, as if it were my own doing I grew so tall. The most memorable was a time I stood up and a girl near me realized my height. She turned to her companion and in a venomous tone called me a Barbie. For a fraction of a moment, I actually felt guilty about my height before catching myself. I’ve also come to accept that others often view my height as up for public use. There are countless times that I’ve been approached for help to reach items on top shelves in stores. I’m often called upon by friends and co-workers, despite what else I might be occupied with, to take or put something up high. While I am usually more than happy to help, I’ve found that refusing or delaying can annoy some people. Another connected prejudice I’ve run into is about my size in general. While I am tall, I’m also proportional which leads to some mistaken and, in my opinion, hilarious assumptions. It seems that since I am fit, I must fit into societies beliefs about fit women. That because I am a woman, I must be lighter and wear smaller clothes than a man of the same height. I’ve been in discussions where, to my amusement, it is believed that I can weigh no more than 160lbs and wear a size 8. In truth I usually weigh around 190lbs and wear a size 12. This simple fact is often met with disbelief and even argument. I realize that prejudices running in our society feed this; a size 12 is considered fat and 170lbs nearing obese. For a while I worked at a therapeutic boarding school where many of the residents were overcoming eating disorders. I soon learned to use this societal prejudice to my advantage to break past some of their own beliefs. Overall, they thought me ‘skinny’. When the conversation turned, as it often did, to weight, I’d have each of them guess my weight and clothes size. They would always under guess and I’d correct them. In their initial shock of having their prejudice negated, I’d lead the conversation into a more positive discussion about body image which wasn’t dependant upon a scale. Another aspect that I run into is when clothes shopping. This is perhaps the only truly frustrating facet of being tall since companies do not produce clothes in mass for my body type. When I ask store clerks for help, I can get negative reactions when I divulge the size. When I tell my size, I’ve received once-overs, as if there is a hidden belly or my hips had widened in the past few seconds. There have even been a few times that the level of service declined as if my size decreased my value. Again, this is not such a common experience that it takes away from my quality of life, but frequent enough that I dread shopping and refuse help when I do go. For the most part people accept my height without comment. I enjoy being tall and would never trade my inches away. Correcting mistaken assumptions about me and responding to requests for help have simply become a part of my life so that I did not even think of ‘heightism’ as a subject until wracking my brains for this paper. |
| So I’m home right now. Home meaning the soon to be officially sold house and land of my ancestors. Or at least my Great-Grandmother, which is basically ancient ancestry in Montana. At least if you are white and not native. I have wandered off topic. It’s been a nice visit so far and I’m bummed it’ll be over tomorrow. Since everyone is in the middle of moving, there is stuff and boxes strewn everywhere. The attics have been emptied and loads of things have been taken to the dump and more loads of things will be taken to the auction. Many things have already been given away or sold. My Grandmother pulled me aside, showed me some things and then informed me that anything in the massive amount of material goods was mine for the taking. This is now a problem. I lean toward the vocation of pack-rattery. I like pretty, shiny things and things that are a little odd or old or whatever. My apartment is small and I KNOW that I have another move ahead of me in about a year. I do NOT need more things. I now have more things and I have not yet even started glancing through the majority what is available. Some of these things are pure vintage. Useless, but vintage. An intervention may be needed. Moving on. The t-ball game was fabulous. I am sincerely grateful that I live on a planet where something that cute exists. There were kindergartners wearing oversized helmets, attempting to hit a ball off of a stick that was often almost as tall as they. The best bit was that no matter where the ball was hit to, the team on the field rushed to get it. All of them. And sometimes they’d struggle over the ball as the hitter made his run. Or else the ball would be retrieved and the player would then WAIT until the runner got to the base before throwing the ball. And the game was tied the entire time since score was not kept. It was wonderful. And I now want pro-ball to be played by these rules. No score, ALWAYS run to get the ball, even if that means deserting your base (dog piles allowed), and while not immediately engaged in the game, you must play in the dirt. Plus, larger, oversized helmets must be worn. THEN, and only then, will I watch baseball. As an extra bonus to my day, I was able to visit my other Grandparents. As always, it was an interesting and surprising visit. I learned that Grandma almost burned the house down while boiling socks on the stove. They made it home in time to find the bottom of the pot completely gone, the socks turned into glowing embers and the house filled with smoke. Then Grandpa told me some more stories of his time living in German occupied Norway. About seeing the starving Russian troops in concentration camps (He said, “That, it stayed with me.”) and how he and his father accidentally ended up on a train going to a concentration camp. (They were eventually able to get off). As I said, an interesting visit. OH! And I finally remembered to take a picture of a piece of Grandpa’s woodcarvings. The man is considered one of the top ten of all time Norwegian artists. He is a painter and a wood carver and was named the best fairy tale artist and also named in the same lists as such artists as Edvard Monch. There is a carving of his that makes me smile every time I see it in their home. It’s a carved fist flipping the bird. I LOVE it. No idea why. Oh ya, and I also learned that I’m cousin to one of our Senators. How that piece of information escaped me before, I don’t know. His wife stopped by while I was there. Visiting Grandma and Grandpa is never dull. So that has been my weekend so far. The drive up here was pretty great. I listened to music, sang along and had a good old time. I love road trips. But ya, the music. As a rule, my music is rather, well, emo. A friend recently pointed this out to me. There isn’t much in my collection that could be called happy or peppy. Her observation made me a little self conscious and I began keeping an ear out for when my i-pod shuffle would play a happy song. I am surprised to say that they were rarer than hen’s teeth. Finally, FINALLY, a song came on and it made me happy. I proceeded to replay that song for more times that I bothered to count and every time it caused my serotonin levels to rise and my endorphins to increase resulting in a smile, laughter and a wiggle-dance in my driver’s seat. This lead me to a search of my happy songs. I’ve got plenty of the other kind, but I looked for the songs that would simply make me happy with one listen. There are three. Three songs that no matter the day or circumstances, can elevate my mood. No idea why, they just do. Song 1: “I’m Gonna Be (500 miles)” by the Proclaimers. Oldie but a Goldie and also my go to karaoke song. This is a song I love to belt out at the top of my out of tune, tone deaf lungs. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tbNlMtqrYS0 Song 2: “Young Homie” by Chris Rene. This one surprises me every time. I’m not much of one for reality tv, but I somehow ran across this link on YouTube and found good feelings. If you have time, I strongly recommend watching the full clip of the audition. While there are cleaner “better”, official versions of this song out now, I love this performance. It just makes me…happy. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EpGOFmAlniw&feature=related Song3: “CooCoo” by The Brian Buckley Band. I began listening to this band last summer and have yet to stop. Most of their music is down right depressing (I love it!) but this song, the one I just replayed in my car again and again, somehow always makes me happy. It give me good feelings. http://ie.ex.fm/#!/song/54112/Coo+Coo-Brian+Buckley+Band |
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