Dear Veterans

Thank you.

Because I'm Just a Wee Busy

Whew. Went and picked Someone up on Monday evening. Got home, did two loads of laundry.

Tuesday, Little Dude was with his dad. They went to see Megamind - Little Dude thought it was awesome. I know because he won't tell me anything about it. Yeah, yeah, but at least he comes by his weirdness honestly. Sister-Out-Law took him shopping for a new winter coat - I have a light one for him, but she found him a nice heavy one for the handful of weeks when it actually gets cold here in Redneck Central. Little Dudeless, Someone and I wound up spending the day on the road running errands. So much for the quiet day at home we were hoping for. Oh, well...we got some tings done that needed doing, and we weren't rushed about it so it was actually something of a nice day.

Today, doctor's appointment (we have officially achieved average, with a weight of about 2 1/2 pounds, give or take) and grocery store, home for a little more laundry and packing, then turn around and drop Someone off at PJ's for one last trip, this time to another Ren Fest. I will probably finish the baby's quilt while he's away.

Tomorrow, I was supposed to meet my friend K for lunch, but we postponed until next week when I can maybe arrange childcare for Little Dude (he's being too sweet to be called Evil Genius, right now) so we can have a grown-ups kind of time. Instead, I will be baking banana bread and pumpkin cupcakes for the new art co-op opening/brunch - the gallery is closing soon, and the co-op is our new artsy home.

Speaking of which - if I can ever get the link to work (right now it just takes me to a blank page, which is not at all useful, but we seem to be having some Internet issues here at Casa de Crazy right now)(oh, right, like that's a surprise) it would be awesome if you'd go check it out and help drive out stat-count up. If I ever get it to work, that is. Sigh.

Friday I'm thinking I'll haul Little Dude and myself up to Mum's. We have a Saturday photo-shoot with the Man Dressed As Santa not too far from her place, and it'll be nice to spend the night hanging out in the hills.

Saturday, photos with the big fella, then home again.

Sunday, I plan to sleep. All day. Really. There are Lunchables in the fridge (what, they're nutritious...all the sodium you need for the week in one convenient package!) and Little Dude can fetch his own beverages, so I figure I can get away with catching up on some sleep. Or, more likely, doing some house cleaning in anticipation of Thanksgiving, sine THAT week I'll be cooking a little every day to get ahead of the game.

Monday, run and get Someone from PJ's. Tuesday and Wednesday, doctor's appointments. Thursday, groceries and (I hope) a date with my friend K.

What're you up to these days?

A Letter (or Three)

Dear Lifesavers,

We've been together a long time. I've always been true to you, shunning other candies that tried to mimic your sweetness, your shape, your style, but could never compare. You were one of my go-to candies when I had low blood sugar - I always knew I could count on you.

Lately, though, you've changed.

I can't trust you any more.

I don't know you.

Once upon a time, I could count on green meaning a burst of artificial lime was coming my way, and red was cherry sweetness. Yellow was lemon, orange was...well...orange...and white was pineapple. I was always the weird kid who wanted pineapple or lime when you were offered around by a generous classmate, and was never disappointed by you.

Now?

Now I don't know what's going to assault me when I pop one of you into my mouth. Watermelon? Excuse me, I feel ill - I have never cared for artificial watermelon flavor, and now I'm dodging it at every turn. Pina Colada? Well...that's not too bad. Neither is Tangerine. Blackberry and Raspberry, though...bleh, bleh, double bleh.

I know you thought you had to keep up with the times. I understand peer pressure - we all do. Everyone has been tempted to cave, to change themselves to suit what others think they should be, but Lifesavers...I loved you just the way you were! I know I'm not alone when I say - bring back the original five!! I miss you...
~~~~~
Dear New England Candy Company (Makers of Necco Wafers),

Well, now you've gone and done it.

Since I was a wee lass, I've loved you. You were one of my go-to candies when I had low blood sugar. I use to happily open a roll of your wafers and sort them by color, crunching up the broken ones first, then devouring them by color. Once in a while, I savor one, see how long I could make it last. Chocolates were my least favorite, so they went first. I saved licorice for last. Lemon, lime, and orange were fine, as was the cinnamon...and I adored the wintergreen snap which reminded me of Canada Mints (I haven't had one of those in many years..sigh...). Your little mini-rolls were a delight to have on Halloween, and have been riding around in my car as an emergency pick-me-up for many years.

But you've done something to yourself. Nothing tastes as it should. What happened to the wintergreen? The cinnamon?

You know, change can be a good thing...and introducing new flavors and product lines is so exciting, I can understand you'd be caught up in the glitz and glamour of debuting an all chocolate roll. But did you have to lose your heads and ruin the traditional pressed-chalk discs of goodness?? Some childhood memories are cherished and should not be tinkered with!!

Please, I beg of you, regain your senses and return my beloved Necco wafers to their original glory!
~~~~~
Dear Georgia WalMart Patron who was driving the baby-poo brown Toyota whateverthatPOSwas,

Perhaps you are unaware, sir, that Georgia is a Pedestrian Right of Way state. Let me break the big words down into manageable chunks for you - that means that when there's someone on the paved surface, especially in the crosswalk, you must actually stop and let them cross.

Never mind that said someone was a clearly pregnant woman pushing a cart with a young boy in tow.

Never mind that there were several signs clearly indicating that pedestrians were crossing at any given time and that WalMart and the state of Georgia mandated you yield.

Never mind that the parade-balloon sized woman was halfway across before you ever turned the corner and approached the crosswalk at top speed.

It is the law, ass-clown.

That you managed not to strike me or my child was more a credit to my own reflexes and still-reliable ability to accelerate my arse to unexpected speeds than to your clearly non-existent braking skills.

I understand that the prime parking spot you wanted was open right then, and I know how disappointing it is when you have to park two whole feet farther away from the door - really, it's so tedious having to walk past all those handicapped parking spaces...they're in carts or wheelchairs, for cryin' out loud, they're sitting down, why do they have to be close to the door when we non-differently-abled folks have to schlep ourselves in under our own power?? So unfair...

But trust me when I tell you that people don't make good hood ornaments, and when we get tangled up in your wheel wells we will slow you to a crawl. Also, blood ruins paint, although in your case I would consider anything an improvement - really, did you choose that color, or did you lose a bet?

Next time you may not be so lucky. Quit being a selfish twit - whatever it is you think you need so desperately to live that's inside the Evil Empire, trust me, they won't run out - they have an endless supply of pork skins, chewing tobaccy, and beer. Isn't a life worth a few extra seconds? Oh, wait, never mind - I think your behavior has clearly answered that question...
~~~~~
So, fellow denizens of the Blue Nowhere...who've you been wanting to write to lately??

Parenthood

Yesterday afternoon, the Evil Genius and I found ourselves watching a movie. We'd met my sister-out-law J, and Bird's dad T for breakfast, come home and done a few chores, and I needed a little break...so I turned on the TV in the middle of the day. I haven't done that in a while, but I was tired of cleaning and shuffling toys, and the mess will be there tomorrow or the next day when I'm ready to clean it up.

So we watched Parenthood.

I adore that movie.

Of course, one has a different take on the film depending upon where one is in life...and right now I'm a mum, I'm pregnant, and I'm hormonal, so I got sniffly and a little scared and kinda thoughtful.

It reminded me of something I told Mum a few years ago. Story time...

A few years back there was a spate of storms that ripped through the Southeastern US, including our little corner of Redneck Central. These storms were quite rude, waiting until the wee hours when folks were asleep to come and party, sending tornadoes this way and that and wreaking havoc.

One tornado thought to pay a call on Big Brother's neighborhood. It missed his his house by a bit, although it did knock down all his trees on its way by. As the storm approached his house, he thought to call Mum and warn her. He told her to call me, too, as he was herding his family into their storm closet and he figured I'd need a heads up.

Mum ended the call, looked at the clock, and went back to sleep. She called me later the next morning.

She knew I didn't need a warning. Never mind why.

When she called and told me about her wee-hours call, she asked "What was he thinking??"

I told her "You're Mommy. No matter how old we get, no matter where we are or what we're doing, you'll always be Mommy. It never ends."

At once exhilarating and terrifying...because it is so very true. No matter how old I get, when things go bad or I need reassurance or comfort, I reach for Mum. I dread the day she's not there, reaching back.

Not matter how old he gets or where his life takes him, the Evil Genius will always be my sweet boy, my heart, my best good thing. Don't get me wrong...the Sprout will be my sweet girl, my heart, and my best good thing. Mums can do that...bend the physics of love around our children any way we like, redefine vocabulary to suit our reality.

I hope that, when my children are "grown", I am as good a mother as my Mum is to me. Gods know, I lean hard on her, more often than I'd like...and although she gets tired, sometimes, of propping me up...still, she does. Because she's Mum...Mommy...Ma...

And that's a job title that we never lose.

Wait, I have HOW Long??

If all goes according to the norm (and we all know better than to hold our breath for that eventuality), I'll have a baby in about eleven weeks.

Oh. My. Blessed. Gods. And. Ancestors.

Um.

So not ready.

There's a room, true. It's even clean. There's a piece of art waiting to be framed and put on the wall. There are some of Bird's old toys and books nestled into the rack of bins I bought and assembled two weeks ago week.

There's the diaper pail I still had from Bird's infancy, just in need washing because it's been in the garage all these years (don't ask).

There are a couple of outfits in the closet - some bigger things and three or four newborn sized items, including the one outfit I (finally) bought for her even though I really couldn't spare the cash but damn it, I needed to have something, anything, that I got for her in the closet. There's the little pack of nappies that the clinic gave us.

There's...erm...yeah, that's about it.

While Someone's sister will be giving us a crib (she had twins a couple of years ago, but they never slept much in their cribs and have outgrown them - score one for us!!), and my dear friend M has offered us her youngest's outgrown stroller/car seat combo...they're not here yet. Yes, I know they're coming...but they're not here now.

There's no dresser, either - I prefer a dresser to a changing table, as I'm tall and most changing tables are inches too low for comfort - bending over to change nappies for the next few years is not appealing.

Sprout's room echoes.

We have no bedding - some is on offer from another friend, I just have to collect it. No socks, no little mittens to prevent baby fingernails from scratching delicate baby face, no bottles or wipes or diaper ointment, no burp cloths or changing pads or....

Excuse me, I can't seem to catch my breath...

It's simple, really - in the end, we will make do with what we have. Even if there was no crib, we have several laundry baskets that would do just fine to begin with. Oh, stop looking so horrified - what, you think back in the dark ages people all had nurseries? They used what they had. Towels we have a-plenty, they can double as burp cloths and changing pads. We don't really need the pack-n-play...they're right handy to have, don't get me wrong, but we can get along fine without one.

I can buy a bottle at the grocery store for a couple of bucks, and we only really need one - it can be washed as often as necessary. Honestly, I'm hoping that this time (TMI alert) I won't have to resort to formula...that maybe this time my stupid boobs will cotton on to what's expected from them and I can feed my kid without having to open a can or heat water.

She'll be born in the winter - all I need is a good blanket (and between me, Mum, and other folks I know who knit, crochet, and sew, we have that covered)(Hah! Covered!) to keep her warm.

I've been through this once before...I know how much we DON'T need. A wipes warmer? Really?? A special bottle rack for the dishwasher...umm...no thanks. An ergonomically designed, infant-sized bathtub? What's wrong with the kitchen sink?? Color coded, age specific toys that rattle, squeak, crinkle, and stimulate baby's mental development? No need...I've been saving my empty thread spools and can string them on a bootlace. She'll be entertained for months, trust me...

I'm not trying to whine, here. I am feeling a little overwhelmed. My house is a mess and Someone's mom is coming for Thanksgiving. That's only a couple of weeks away. I'd like it to be possible for someone who isn't a contortionist to walk through the living room or down the hallway. I'd like to have a slightly smaller dust-critter population and floors that don't look like we're collecting petrified cat hork in our spare time. I'd like to have clean bathrooms and a dining room table that we can, you know, dine at. Actually seeing the top surface of the kitchen table would be a bonus.

Then there's Yule, then Christmas, then...

Uh...breathing...breathing...whew...

There's more weighing on my mind, but I think I'll just spare you.

Right now I'm just muddling along, cleaning a little here, a little there, doing what I can and trying not to dwell too much on how much I can't...because ready or not, in about eleven weeks (I hope), there will be a new resident at Casa de Crazy, adding to the joyful chaos...

Oh My God It's Moving Toward Us!

Twenty-eight weeks in, almost twenty-nine. We're in the viable delivery (although still terribly complicated) zone.

This past Wednesday I had my weekly appointment with the specialist. He started seeing me weekly in September, when he determined that (TMI alert) I had low amniotic fluid and the Sprout was "small".

Umm.

Define "small", please.

He really couldn't...but eventually, through a visit with my regular OB's office, I got some numbers, something for me to latch onto. I like information...lots and lots of information...to help me figure out what's not right and how to deal with it. The specialist is used to working with women who have some pretty severe problems (either with their own health or with foetal development), women who face terrible choices and information overload and may be overwhelmed by it all. He tends to play things a little close to the vest to keep us from worrying ourselves sick...but in my case, I worry when I don't know. We've gotten better at communicating with each other these last few weeks.

So...small.

She started out measuring (give or take - there's a margin of error even with these marvelous modern machines) in the sixth percentile. That means that out of one-hundred babies, she would be the sixth smallest. Small.

M'kay.

Small enough that he began bandying about ideas like "It's better to deliver at twenty-five weeks and maybe have a live baby than to have a baby that stops growing and have a still birth." Oh. Uh...yeah...

The low fluid was worrying, too.

I don't know what the unit of measurement is - ounces, litres, cups, drops, squirrels - but I know the number he gave to my fluid level. Seven.

So he decided to see me every week, and measure the baby every two weeks (it's pointless to measure every week because the margin of growth would be somewhat negated by the margin of error)(at least, that's what I think he was saying- I'm not entirely convinced he wasn't speaking in tongues).

Next time she was eleventh percentile, fluid level unchanged.

Then twenty-third percentile, fluid still at seven whatsies.

This week, there was more fluid. Apparently a lot more. In a happy way. He decided not to measure her but to wait an extra week because she's looking...erm...average.

I'll take it. For once, I'll take average as being exceptional. He'll measure her again next week...and I'm hoping to hear something close to fiftieth percentile and normal fluid levels. Despite their predictions, I would really like to carry to term. I don't want a holiday baby, or one too close to Bird's birthday, and I'd really like to NOT have another Capricorn in the house (which means after January 20, thankyouverymuch). Yeah, yeah...

Meanwhile...back at the closet...

My clothing is usually loose and comfortable, but not right now. I'm wearing some hand-me-down maternity pants (thanks K) and my big-girl jeans, and some days I still feel like an over-stuffed sausage. I'm tellin' ya, I'm reaching house-like proportions, here.

I feel huge. Ungainly. I feel sorry for the stairs when I go up and down - I don't blame them for creaking. I feel like handlers with long ropes should be maneuvering me past parade crowds in New York City.

Small, my Aunt Fanny! I'm having Gigantor the Mega Baby, I just know it...

Home

Home is where the heart is.

Home is where you hang your hat.

Home is...more than a cliche.

I live in a house. I call it "home". It is my home in the traditional sense - it's a structure wherein I dwell and keep all my crap priceless family heirlooms. The house does not belong to me, but it's mine. Maybe some day I'll explain that.

But is it...home?

I think home is more than a receptacle for junk, a structure.

Much as I love Casa de Crazy (drafty, energy inefficient, not-green, monstrous cracker box thought it be), and its location...it's really just a house.

Home, for me, isn't a place, it's a feeling.

Home is with the Evil genius, Someone, and Mum... When we are together in one place, whatever that place, I'm home. Home is within the circle of Someone's arms, or the Evil Genius's small embrace, or the comfort of Mum's calm, sure voice when I call her in distress. It's the purring of happily nestled cats, content to pass the night curled up around me on the bed, nesting in the blankets. Home is in the small, fluttering, insistent movements of the Sprout as she wriggles and shifts, kicks and jabs, lets me know she's there and has taken up Irish dancing to pass the time.

Home is an abstract sense of belonging, of love, of comfort and solace.

It's devilish hard to define, isn't it? Where's home, for you?

Quiet Thursday

I meant to post some photos from Samhain earlier this week, but between sewing for PJ and getting Someone packed and ready to go with her to FPG, and a little drama from the power company thrown into the mix for fun, the week sort of slipped away. Yesterday was a day for running errands, doctor's appointment, and spending more money than I wanted (but nonetheless needed) to spend on winter clothing for the Evil Genius. Whew, they do grow, don't they??

Today we're having a day at home. Since I woke earlier than the lad, I went on downstairs and worked on the baby's quilt. I may get the top finished later tonight or tomorrow! We'll go to Borders tonight for our usual Thursday thing...I miss Someone when he isn't here, and it helps to keep busy.

On with the pics, eh??

I made a crockpot roast for dinner:

And of course, pumpkin spice cake with vanilla spice buttercream frosting:

I'm a fiend for roasted pumpkin seeds...can't get enough of 'em. Luckily, we had a few:

Here are the punkins:

Someone carved a small swan for the baby:

I decided to forgo the fancy stuff and go with an old-fashioned grinner to frighten away evil spirits:

Mum liked the ghost...it turned out nicely:

Someone also did this creepy, crawly 'rachnid:

T brought Bird home a bit later in the evening, but there was still time for the lad to draw his own design. T helped him carve it out:

We had a peaceful night of it on Sunday - only a small handful of trick-or-treaters came by, so we listened to music, watched baseball, and eventually did our dumb supper. While I missed having my whole gang here, it was nice to have the quiet, too.

How was your Samhain/Halloween?

I'm Voting Anyway

These days it's like trying to pick the nicest turd in a pile of shit.

Sigh.

Samhain

Partial reprint with some new stuff mixed in, just to keep you on your toes.
~~~~~
Samhain. All Hallows Eve. Hallowe'en. Halloween.

While little (and not so little) people are out extorting candy from strangers (On the one night a year Mum and Dad aren't telling them NOT to take candy from strangers, and isn't that a mixed message?)(And if you don't think it's extortion, think about it - "Give me a treat or I'll play a prank on you" is exactly that - extortion), more than a few pagans are spending the evening in an entirely different fashion.

Samhain (pronounced "sawin") is sometimes called the Witches' New Year. It's thought to be the time of year when the veil between the worlds is thinnest, and so best suited for speaking with our dead, with those who passed on in the previous year. On Samhain, our living God dies, and until he is born again on Yule the Goddess and all the world mourns him. Poor Goddess, carrying her child alone for the next two months - throughout eternity she must suffer this loss before she can know her joy once more. Don't worry if you don't get it - it's a cyclic thing, a nature thing, and a deeply, weirdly Pagan thing.

Some will have large meetings, solemnly chant and circle the fire, call upon the gods of old. Some will dance wildly around bonfires, drumming, singing, shrieking, leaping the flames, looking for all the world like the imps and devils we were once purported to be. Some will just hand out candy and let the night pass, and some will put out the lights, draw the blinds, and pretend not to be home. A few (Pagan and non) will look for and find trouble. Most will feast, drink, and hold the dumb supper - the meal placed out for the those who've gone through the veil - whether alone or in numbers. These days, none who are truly Pagan will sacrifice anything more than a glass of wine and/or a plate of food to the fire, the earth, the old gods.

This year I don't know who will be hanging about - Mum, for certain, Someone, me. T has Bird but will bring him home in time to carve a pumpkin and go trick-or-treating (I am hoping both in out neighborhood and in one where there's a bit more action...it's gotten a little lame here). I don't know if anyone else will be about - I haven't been a proactive with the invites and folks are busy. The house is a little messy, but it'll do. At least one room is clean - the baby's. I have a few pumpkins to carve, one each for me, Mum, Someone, and Bird, plus a few small ones to be made into puree for cakes later in the year.

Of course we'll roast the pumpkin seeds because the baby needs them to live I adore them.

We'll carve pumpkins, the lot of us, and nosh the snacks I've put out. I'll roast the seeds and may even share them. At dusk, we'll light the jack-o-lanterns and take the kids (or the kid, anyway) out for their bit of begging.

If the night is fine, we may fire up the outdoor fireplace and sit out on the drive reminiscing about the past, about family and friends long gone but not forgotten. I may or may not mull some cider and have some cups to ladle out portions for the adults trailing the kids who will start coming around soon. Heh - come and drink my Witch's Brew - you won't fly or turn into a newt, but it'll take the chill off. I may or may not have a bit of whisky or rum to add medicinal value to the drink.

I will make a special dinner for Samhain night. I don't have anything traditional - this year it's a crockpot roast, potatoes, carrots, and pumpkin spice cake with cinnamon spice buttercream icing. I try to make something that my ancestors or anyone I've lost in the previous year would like to eat. The first portion of each item is carefully plated and placed at the head of the table or on the altar. A bit of whatever's to drink will be placed with the laden plate - probably whisky for Snake and cider for B (she just got her one-year token before she died).

Later tonight, after we've eaten, handed out candy, taken the kids out for some socially sanctioned begging, we'll take food and drink down to the woods and leave the contents for our ancestors. We may or may not name them. We may or may not sing a song for them. We will honor them, wish them well, and remember. We will ask their blessing in the coming year. It will be short, but heartfelt - we don't need a lot of ritual, these days, just a few quiet minutes with our Gods.

It's an odd hodgepodge of a night - some modern traditions that were founded in the old, and some straight from the days (and nights) when our people could be openly themselves, could worship the gods of field and wood, or river and rock, without fear of censure or death.

Blessed be those who have gone before; blessed be those who live now; blessed be those who will follow after. The wheel turns once more, and blessed are we who turn with it. Blessed be.

This year, I celebrate: one year ago, Someone made his first visit to Casa de Crazy, began the process of coming Home.

This year I honor: Aunt D, who passed last spring; my friend Snake; my friend B, and old friend from the track who died suddenly and unexpectedly last month; my grandfather, who passed many years ago but whom I still miss.

Oracular Gratification

T has Bird until tomorrow afternoon.

I'm spending part of today at Border's in Buford, telling fortunes. I may or may not make any money at it - I don't charge, but rather accept donations. While I'd like to make my (hah!) fortune at it, I usually make just enough to pay for a round of coffee.

My friend S will be with me. If we don't do anything else, we'll sit and gossip for a few hours.

Either way, should be fun.

Later, I'm going to drool over new cell phones and maybe replace my poor, broken, little blue sweetie. Now it's not only missing the flip-plate part, it doesn't ring when I receive a call...so unless I'm looking at it when it rings, I have no idea I'm missing anything.

The party never stops around here...

What're you up tot his weekend?

Just...Breathe...

Back in '09 (when the world was new and my knees didn't creak), Someone posted this on his blog. It made me cry...and miss him (he didn't live here, yet)...and wish he was here. I played it until it echoed from the timbers, until I heard it in my sleep, until it whispered through my days...

Sometimes I forget to breathe, so caught up in the moment am I...

When Someone holds me, tucks my head into his shoulder, wraps his arms around me...oh, how I love to breathe him in, his scent, that indescribable something that is HIM. I am comforted. it's the absence of that touch that hurts, when we forget and are caught up in momentary occurrences, anger that will pass because anger cannot be sustained forever...and why would we want it to be?

"Oh I don't want to hurt, there's so much in this world to make me bleed..."

Yeah.

People are...odd. Difficult. Stupid. Just plain mean.

So caught up in their own moments, so caught up in their own hurt...they parcel it out, little bundles of ugliness meant to distress, to bring others into their circle of misery.

Last night, Casa de Crazy was hauled into other people's misery, and we forgot to breathe. This morning, we've found our balance again...we're breathing...

And through it all...we're loving...even when we're in our moments, bound up tight and choking on thoughts, words, hurt...we're loving.

Not That it Matters

I was attacked three times tonight. Not physically, but it didn't hurt any less.

First by someone nameless, faceless, who sent my ex-husband an e-mail meant to anger him, meant to cause him to call and make accusations, to infer that I don't care about my son, that I don't care about my word, that I am selfish and a liar.

Second by my ex-husband, who called and was accusatory. It doesn't matter that I spoke the truth, that I own my life and my choices, that I always have, that I never lied to him. He believed the words and intimations of someone else over me and made me a villain where there was no villainy.

Third by Someone, who was part of the accusations - unjustly so, might I add. He was hurt and angered and lashed out...not by striking me, but by withdrawing, pulling away, leaving me alone to struggle with my hurt. Just when I could most have used a loving touch, a kind or gentle word, a supporting presence...I was given hard bitterness and cold loneliness.

In all three cases my words...these words I'm supposed to be so good with...these words which are supposed to have such power...were meaningless.

It didn't matter that the person who started this knew better and could simply have spoken to me about their assumptions. They chose to go another route, to cause as much pain and strife as they could. It didn't matter that T should have known better, that he should have known I would not let my son come to harm. Despite all he knows of me, he chose to believe the worst and force me to defend myself against an accuser whom I could not see. How can I defend myself against an invisible attacker?

As for Someone...whether he meant to or not, he made it clear that he didn't want any of me or my words, not in the slightest.

So I went downstairs and began working on the baby's quilt, seeking solace in the familiar, in something hopeful.

I cried and could not see the ruler or the rotary cutter. That blade is sharp, wicked, and I had to cut carefully or ruin the fabric I can't afford to replace or cut myself. I nicked my finger, wiped my eyes, kept working on it.

Bird came down several times, once to say goodnight and once to bring his inhaler down because (he didn't know this) I was crying so hard I was choking on my breath and started coughing. He thought maybe I should have his inhaler to use if I needed it. Bless his sweetness...

I have not eaten dinner - frankly the idea nauseates me. I have not taken my evening medication - I have to eat dinner to do that. I don't honestly think anyone gives a damn right now...and I'm having a difficult time mustering any give a damn, myself.

I'm thinking maybe I'll just stop speaking, stop singing, stop making noise and sounding my yawp...because no matter how hard I try, no matter what I say or do...people will persist in twisting my words, twisting my integrity, making them into barbs and spikes with which to pierce me, and I'm sick to death of all of it. Why should I say anything when it'll just be called into doubt over and over again?

I'm hurting, and angry, and tired of all the stupidity, tired of people assuming the worst because they can't fathom simple honesty, because if they are liars and manipulators, I must be, too (despite continued evidence to the contrary). My gut hurts, my head hurts, and my heart hurts, and I feel alone and empty...and clearly, clearly, it doesn't matter.

What With Upcoming Elections and All

I thought I'd post this again:


Feel free to share...I know the creator and lent my voice to some of the harmonies.

Just a Day

I had unsettling dreams this morning - murky, amorphous, shadowy things that eluded definition, slipped from my mind's grasp without leaving more than a damp, fog-kissed sense of unhappiness and loss.

Here and there were glimpses of small fears, unreasonable but no less real - something happening to the Evil Genius, to Mum. One moment when Someone was gone, just...gone...without a trace, leaving me bereft. Loss of the baby.

It was a gloomy morning when I woke, dark and cloudy, rain falling in sheets and blankets, thunder rolling along, bouncing from the walls and rattling the bed frame. I lay quietly awhile, trying to shake the sticky cobweb fragments of dream from my mind. I swear, I could feel Someone holding my hands in his, smell him, hear his sleepy murmur in the half-awake place that isn't here, isn't there, isn't anywhere. Comforting.

I spent the morning running errands. Went to Target and bought a rack with bins for the baby's room. Bought some hangers in hope to soon have clothing for them - wee pink ones! Drove through DQ and got the Evil Genius and me ice cream cones.

Spent the afternoon cleaning out the baby's room - it's been Bird's play room and general storage for a while. Cleaned out the closet and found, much to my surprise and delight, several useful baby-type items - a Bopy pillow, a back/front carrier thing, Bird's old baby-gym/play mat (the John Lennon one, no less), some toys from his infancy. Assembled the rack, put the bins in. Hung a few pieces of clothing my friend K found at a thrift store and couldn't resist. The room is completely the baby's, now...I just need to scrub the woodwork, hang a piece of art that K brought back from her Vegas trip, and wait for the promised crib to arrive (via Someone's Mom and sister, who are bringing it down sometime soon - his sister had twin girls who never used their cribs, so we scored one heck of a hand-me-down!). I hope to make the quilt soon, too.

I feel better.

Now I have to fly out the door - Someone is almost home from 'Bama and I need to go pick him up. I hope he likes the new trash cans (a wonderful gift from Mum)(yes, I'm weird), the new microwave (because I killed the old one, and then it got left out in the rain because I didn't know it was going to rain and thought if I put it by the street someone might come along and rescue it, maybe fix it, and have themselves a useful appliance)(just 'cause I can't fix it doesn't mean it's really, truly, all the way broken - I'm not exactly ept with tools and gadgets), and our little girl's room...

Enter the Vortex

I wrote a bit about last week's string of events that made up one big cluster-fuck sundae for Someone...but the fun didn't end there.

Friday, Mum came down to stay so she could hang with Bird while I worked. She got all the way to Casa de Crazy before she realized she forgot her medication and had to drive back home to get it. Ouch.

I had a doctor's appointment in Friday afternoon. They have a clearly posted "no children under 12" policy. It says children are not permitted in the office - not the waiting room, but in the office. I have often had the Evil Genius with me in the waiting room - he's always hung out with Someone while I went in to see the doc. This time, I didn't have Someone, but I brought books and a bottle of water, and it wouldn't take more than a few minutes with the doc, so I figured I could settle Bird in and it'd be fine.

When I approached the counter to sign in, the nurse/tech/office lackey beckoned to me. "We have a no children policy" she hissed. This is an OB's office, by the way. No children, huh? I said I knew, that he would wait there on the couch when I went back to see the doctor. She frowned. "No, he can't even be in the waiting room."

I said "You're kidding! I've had him in here lots of times!"

"Well, we must not have seen him." Was her rather snotty reply.

WTF? We've been seated right in front of the counter before! Not caring to argue, I said I'd have to change my appointment, then. For several minutes she asked me for information...then told me I'd have to go over to the appointments desk. Double WTF? Why'd she just waste all that time??

I sighed and headed to the appointments counter. All this time, Bird was sitting quietly, reading his book. You would never have known he was there!

The sweet young woman working the appointments desk asked how I was. In a sugary voice I said "I'm having a craptastic day and it's just getting worse. Thanks for asking, though!" She smiled uncertainly and asked how she could help me.

"I need to change my appointment."

Another recitation of my information followed. She gave me a puzzled look. "Your appointment is at 2:15...you can't wait?" It was a few minutes past two by this time.

"No, ma'am, I can't - I have my son with me, and apparently he can't even be in the waiting room, so I need to change my appointment, please."

"Can you come back later in the afternoon?"

Umm...as he'll still be my son later in the afternoon, no I can't come back. Urgh.

"No - I'm a single, home schooling mother and I don't have child care, so he has to be with me, but since I can't even have him in the waiting room, I'll have to reschedule, please."

She made me a new appointment.

I plan to take this up with the doctor. I understand not wanting young, fidgety kids in the office. I understand not wanting disease riddled youngsters spreading their plagues around an office full of pregnant women, infants (who ARE allowed if they're contained in carriers), cancer patients, and assorted other folks.

But a healthy, quiet child? There have been alleged adults in that waiting room who were rowdier.

I have asked them before what a home schooling parent is supposed to do, and they've shrugged and chuckled. I'm not accepting that response this time. I really want to know...what the hell am I supposed to do, leave him in the van with a box of Cheerios and a bottle of water and hope no one calls the cops? Considering that I've had to wait for over an hour past my appointment time to see the doctor, in the past, I don't think that's a feasible option.

Yesterday was ok - a few follies on the track, but considering the number of Porsches we had out there (this was a Porsche Club driver's ed weekend), it wasn't too bad...just enough to keep us slightly behind schedule all day.

Then this morning, I was trying to make my breakfast and somehow managed to kill the microwave. All I wanted to do was nuke some biscuits. The microwave had other ideas, and wouldn't open. The door was stuck shut! I tried asking nicely, pushing the latch again, all sorts of things...no dice. I had to get to the track, so I forwent my hot breakfast and snagged a banana. This evening when I got home, I tried again to fix the trouble...to no avail.

I resigned myself to being nukerless, but Mum had other ideas...so off to The Evil Empire we went. Casa de Crazy is now the proud home of a new microwave, about the same capacity as the old one but taking up a bit less space.

We don't get a tree through the roof, or a car through the living room wall. We don't have floods or fires (knock wood). No...we have tiny, niggling little things constantly piling up on our plates.

Mum has decided that it's not Someone and it's not me...it's the house that's a vortex of doom. Enter at your own risk!

So...how was your weekend?

I Didn't Know They Did That in Alabama

Someone is off helping PJ at some Alabama Ren Fest for the weekend.

Can they even spell "Ren Fest" in 'Bama??

I was supposed to do some sewing for PJ this week, but managed to do almost nothing useful instead, for two main reasons - first, because Monday evening something crawled into my respiratory system and began to wreak havoc (and is still doing so), and second because my sewing machine decided that nylon lined pleather is hateful and refused to sew any of it. In the machine's defense, it's used to lovely cotton fabrics and I can't blame it for finding that synthetic crap material to be less than ideal fodder.

Sigh.

I did cut pieces for a number of small belt pouches...but couldn't stitch 'em together here at Casa de Crazy.

We went down Thursday afternoon to help PJ load up the van and so I could drop Someone off (so he wouldn't have to leave a truck parked at PJ's all weekend), so I brought the pieces of fabric with me and finished 'em there...but not after we had the chance to compare notes about our respective days.

I can sum it up with this: Our vocabulary list for Thursday has two words on it - "cluster" and "fuck". Can you use them in a sentence, boys and girls?? I knew you could.

Whew.

Let me give you a sampling of the day: We were to meet PJ at K's house to pick up K's van. trailer, and whatever she was sending to the Fest (she isn't going, but PJ agreed to take her merchandise). I tried to sew pouches until the last minute while Someone packed. We would have left on time, but we kept forgetting things and having t run back into the house.

When we got to K's, she told us that she couldn't find the trailer keys so PJ would have to cut the locks off and buy new ones. Meanwhile, I called PJ for an ETA and was informed that she just discovered that her basement had been flooding for several hours thanks to an overzealous toilet. She was up to her ankles in water and was a mite busy.

K sent us on to PJ's, sans her van and trailer because PJ was going to pick them up later. I wondered why we didn't just take them right then, but figured there must be a reason. Next time I'm asking, because...

We got to PJ's and learned from her mother that she'd just left with D to pick up the van. We asked why we didn't just bring it and were told it was because they thought we were in two vehicle and they didn't want us having to leave one behind. Umm...huh...whoopsie...

I started sewing.

PJ got to K's, collected van and trailer, and returned to her house. En route, K called her and reported that E (K's husband) had a spare set of trailer keys, which was a good thing because the locks on the trailer? Bulletproof, apparently, and un-cutable. Without keys, they were going to have to leave the trailer behind or use a can opener to get into it via the roof! K would bring them right over.

A few minutes later, K called PJ and let her know that E had taken the kids in K's car, leaving his truck (and the trailer keys) with K. The truck is a stick shift, though, and K only drives automatic. Aww, dang. Out PJ went to collect the erstwhile trailer keys.

Meanwhile J was sewing buttons on belt pouches as fast as she could, but her hands were paining her, so I offered to finish sewing 'em and then do the buttons. I had to cut off all the ones she'd done, though, because she hadn't done them the way PJ wanted 'em. Poor J...all that work for naught.

While PJ was off fetching keys (and pizza for dinner because by this time it was getting late and we were all a mite peckish), Someone was hauling equipment to the driveway to stage it for loading. I kept sewing buttons.

PJ got home, and luckily the trailer keys worked. I got the belt pouches done. PJ's basement may never be dry again, but at least they stemmed the tide.

I got home late and despite nearly running out of fuel.

And Someone? Looks damn good in my old black RenFest boots - I extracted a promise from PJ that she would photograph him all dressed up in Renny garb...whew...look out, 'Bama...

Because It's On My Mind, That's Why

Brace yourself...more thoughts on polyamoury...

It occurred to me as I was writing those posts that I was taking a chance, risking the loss of readers, of friends (those well known and those as yet met only here in the Blue Nowhere), and even of family contact. This is an aspect of our lives that we haven't exactly advertised. It's not a secret...but like many things that can draw censure to a body, it's something we've chosen simply to live, to discuss if it came up or we were asked about it...but certainly not to wear on our t-shirts (not that I wear t-shirts), tattoo on our faces, or carry placards for.

So why write about it? Why make it so very public to friend, family, and stranger alike? Why invite confusion, disgust, scorn, anger, judgement?

Well...

In part because I use my writing to help me clarify my thoughts. And in part because I'm not ashamed of loving...and don't think anyone should be. Last summer I found myself wishing that I could love freely, love fearlessly, love without regret. It's something I wish for us all.

I truly believe that when one is honest, open, communicative, and (this part's awfully important) doing no harm to any one else involved (safe, sane, and consensual, people), there is no shame in loving.

I'll be the first to admit that my sexual and emotional histories are...ermmm...unusual. I lived a very sheltered life...right up until I didn't. In that sheltered time I was sexually and emotionally abused, silenced and marginalized. It will take a lifetime to soften the scarring from that...

Once free of my old life, I began to look around and see that there were many types of people, and they weren't all out to do me harm. Some of them loved a little differently, but they weren't inherently evil.

While I never practiced it, I was part of the BD/SM community (club secretary for a bondage club, I'll tell you about it some time) and learned a lot about so-called deviance. I learned a fair bit about traditional love and how it can flourish...and how it can imprison.

I've seen family's torn to pieces over who or how someone loves.

I don't want to hide.

A lot of the conversations around Casa de Crazy have been about polyamoury, of late...especially about Lady R and her situation, caught as she is between the beauty of love growing and the stones of tradition and mainstream thought. While Someone and I managed to find our way through what could be a very rocky shoal with each other, she is largely on her own navigating the waters.

If "love" hadn't been turned into "own" somewhere back in time, none of us would have this trouble.

If J could see how R shines when she's with him, how her love emanates palpably from her in his presence, and how it pains her to think of losing him...he would not fear her loss. He would know that she could no more move on to another, leave him behind, than she could separate herself from half of her soul. If he could see how she lights up with Someone, detach himself from jealousy enough to see her happiness, he would wish her joy in the association, in the loving, knowing as he would that she may love Someone...but J is home for Lady R, as I am home for Someone.

While it pains me to think that I may suffer loss because of this...it pains me more to think of the loss we'd all know if we had to bind ourselves up in a restrictive definition of what love is supposed to be.

Once again I find myself unable to put into words what's fizzing about in my mind...so I'm certain I'll touch on this topic again. If it's uncomfortable for you, dear reader, then I am truly sorry, and I hope you'll be patient with my need to write and write and write until I have found the words I'm looking for...and meanwhile, I'll try to give you some warning as to the subject matter so you can skip these posts entirely and move on to less discomfiting entries.

Morning Mourning

I'm declaring a national day of mourning.

Why?

You mean, you didn't know. Oh, dear...I'm so sorry to be the one to break the news...

Mrs Winner's has closed.

Wait, you don't know Mrs. Winner's?

Poor deprived soul...

Mrs Winner's is a cash-only fried chicken joint, fast food that isn't awfully fast. They serve...served...breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I adore their coleslaw, and their fried chicken, but most of all...

Sigh...

How I will miss my occasional breakfast treat - a steak, egg, and cheese biscuit. Country fried steak, scrambled egg, and cheese on a hot, flaky biscuit. Oh, my...delectable...

I have started many a long road trip with one of those biscuits and a large half sweet, half unsweet iced tea. I introduced Someone to Mrs. Winner's when he moved here, and he took to her like a swan to water - when we had somewhere to go early in the morning and there were a few ducats to spare, we got our biscuits and hit the road.

There was always something, some indefinable flavor to the biscuits, that kept us wondering. We tried to pinpoint the flavor, but it required lots of research, many biscuits eaten in the name of scientific research...

Now, without warning, the franchises in our area have closed. Not a word of warning, no indication of why a successful, fairly popular place is just...gone. We found out when we wanted breakfast on the road...and had to go to McD's instead. What a disappointment. Even the Evil Genius was stunned, and said he couldn't understand how such a popular joint (his words) could close down.

Now our only hope is that other franchises are still open...and maybe, on occasion, we can still get our fix.

Join me in wearing sackcloth and ashes, won't you??

Poly Wanna Get Interesting

When we discussed being open, being polyamorous, we didn't have much idea what that meant beyond being open to the possibilities of loving others as well as each other.

When Someone discovered that he felt quite strongly for Lady R, it prompted much discussion between us, and we came to agree on some (for lack of a better phrase) ground rules: open, honest communication at all times and with all involved; don't bring home any plagues.

Someone and I have never had difficulty communicating...or, rather, while we may struggle to find the right words and have (on more than one occasion) found ourselves frustrated in our struggles...we have never shied away from saying what we felt and dealing with those feelings.

When he knew he loved Lady R, he told me so. It can't have been easy. While I may worry that he'll leave me for another...he must have wondered if I would be enraged or hurt enough to send him packing. It takes courage to tell somebody "I love you, and I love this other person, too, equally well..." and let yourself face the consequences.

Poor Lady R...

Her partner (she is in a relationship) had said he was fine with an open relationship, but until now she'd never acted on that. She was worried about acting on it, to be honest...worried that she would hurt a man whom she loves deeply. She's not looking to replace J...and she certainly doesn't want to lose him.

She didn't tell him, at first, about her burgeoning love for Someone, nor that she had consummated it.

I will admit...this troubled me. While I feel I have less to say on the matter than anyone else involved (because I am less directly involved in R's two relationships)...it troubled me. I understand, deeply, the fear of loss...how like walking off a cliff it must feel, and how much faith must one have in one's loves and in one's self to speak anyway...

It bothered Someone, too, that Lady R had not spoken to her partner...he didn't like being a secret, didn't like not knowing how he should act, that he would have to restrain himself in J's presence (he loves not only with words, but with frequent touch, with all of himself - such a loving is not easy to curtail...like breathing with only one lung)...but he and I have both respected Lady R's need for her own process and have not pressed.

She finally told J a bit about her feelings (although I do not know if they have had full disclosure...this kind of thing sometimes needs to be eased into. Please don't judge; she risks losing not one but two loves, risks having her heart broken in so many ways. I feel for Lady R...and have told Someone that, while I hope she never has the NEED, there's a place here at Casa de Crazy for her if it's wanted).

J was hurt...and fearful...but he has not (to my knowledge)given ultimatums or retracted his offer of an open relationship. He is looking his fears in the face and owning them. He has spoken of them to Lady R. He has not, yet, had an opportunity to speak to Someone or to me about his feelings and sound us out on ours...but I am hoping that one day he will, and that he will find his fears allayed. Someone isn't looking to replace J, nor is he hoping that Lady R will supplant me. He simply wishes to follow the dictates of his heart and...love...

Our first foray into ployamoury has been illuminating for me. I am not jealous...although I have owned that I may have moments of envy, little pangs for things that they share which Someone and I do not. There are things which Someone and I share which he and Lady R will not. In the end, it is what we have that matters.

I believe it helps that I like the lady. I believe it helps that she likes me well enough. I believe it helps that all of us - Someone, me, Lady R and J - are capable of being honest with ourselves and each other. I believe that it helps that we can and will communicate and strive to understand each other. I believe that it helps that we are not looking for another couple to be co-spouses with...a whole other form of polyamoury that I am not yet ready for. Sure, I can share my beloved...but not my living room.

I know it helps that, even after this beginning, Someone calls me home...and I believe him when he tells me that it doesn't matter whither he will wander...he will always come home.

This journey isn't over...it's only just beginning. I haven't looked outside my relationship with Someone, haven't tested those boundaries yet. I don't know that I ever will...I lack the confidence that more than one person could love me this way (if I'm being honest). I can love in the abstract, and do so easily...but physically? I am still amazed that Someone can call me beautiful...especially when I see the women he has loved, still loves...how strong, vibrant, intelligent they all are...how on earth could two people have the same delusion feel the same way about me at once??

I don't regret setting out on this path, though...and look with interest to where it may yet lead.

I don't believe there's such a thing as too much love.
~~~~~
I feel compelled to add that this was written from my viewpoint...and while I strive to be impartial, things will be colored by my experiences and opinions. If Someone, Lady R, or J should happen to read and feel compelled to add or discuss anything, I welcome their words.

I left a lot out, because this was long enough as it was. If you think I jumped about, have questions or wisdom to share...tell me. It is a simple and yet deeply complex issue, and so far outside the normal experience...while I've had many conversations about the subject, this is the first time I've tried to tackle it in writing...and I feel I have not done it justice, but have done the best I can at the moment.