Through the Fire

It is done. I have come through the fire. I faced my demon, and stood up for what I believed. And it hurt. But I feel liberated in a way I have not felt until now.

Now I need to build a life.

The voice I hear

"I will fight for her (my country) for as long as I draw breath. So help me god." ~John McCain

No words cemented my vote more.

I too am my country's man, and those words echo into my own soul. I serve my country in every facet of my life, in every way that I can, and it is not pride that drives me to do so. It is a repayment for every blessing she has given me. It is a debt I owe to the place that has sheltered me, given me hope and oportunities.

Country First. Service.

That is the voice I hear.

High Speed weekend

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Thats me... LIVING ON THE EDGE... you would be awestruck to know how highspeed my weekend was.

Yesterday I helped my best gal J pack for a camping trip with her boyfriend. (Gasp.. the decadence) and then she and I went to see a TOTAL Clamfest movie "Mama Mia" (I think I have estrogen poisoning) and then we went to the grocery store for ICE... and THEN I came home and took a shower and went to bed to watch a movie.

And now... for the TOTALLY racey part.

Today... hold on to your hats... I cleaned and reorganized my closet and ALL my drawyers. **thud** Yes... my shoes are now stacked according to color, old clothes are tossed in the goodwill bag and blouses and skirts are sorted by color once again.

The next brave adventure... tidying up the jewelry box. And cleaning the bathrooms.

I live large, let me tell you. I live large.

Hanging on Joy

I know I should be writing more, channeling my thoughts into coherent text to salve my soul. Instead I am trapped in a motionless place, where no thoughts stray through my head. The constant mental chatter that I have lived with for years, the planning, the dreaming, the ideas, are all gone, lost in the void of stress as I push my way forward to the future.
I'm fighting my own demons right now, trying to remember that all will be as it is meant to be, but the real struggle is to hang on to Joy.

A good friend once told me that Happiness is like a butterfly, it comes and goes on its own, and you cannot predict it or hold on to it, but that Joy is a choice you make every day. What a revolutionary thought, to CHOOSE Joy, even in the midst of chaos, even in a rotten time, or bad luck or a time of grief or sadness. To choose to reach out and be joyful about the gifts we are granted, even as things fall through our fingers like water.

Joy has become the hook I try to hang my hat on. Finding that hook in the darkness is going to take some luck or some skill, but I WILL find it, and when I do, I will hang on Joy. And Joy shall lift me up.

Mocking folk

Yes I realize I havent blogged in like two weeks. My life is chaotic.. sue me. ;)

Today I am sitting at Panera waiting for a meeting watching the people. This woman walks in looking like a Fraggle who has been riding in a convertable all day, blonde 'fro going EVERYwhere, and her grandmom style outfit, tan too tight capris, hot pink button down shirt and birks only added to the image. Fraggle Granny on the MOVE! And yes, ladies and gents she showed up here with a BRAND new laptop. Still in the box. Popped that sucker out of the box and proceded to try to set everything up. Took 3 tables, she couldnt find an outlet (Panera doesnt have many of those darn them) and paper and packing stuff everywhere.

After 20 minutes of frustration, she smooshed it all back in the box, packed out her trash and left.

Oh yeah, and she never bought any food at Panera.

THIS my friends, explains why there is weird stuff on the internet. They'll give anyone a computer these days! LOL

A mother's love

Red's post about her mom made me think of my own mom. Thank gods she never reads blogs or she would kill me for talking about her here. IF she ever does...Mom I'm sorry, but the good stuff writes itself.

I love my Mama. I do. But she is certain she is dying of something on any given day. Some days it is pancreatic cancer or cancer of the intestines. Other days she is sure it is a brain tumor. I dont mind that she worries so much, but hearing the daily recitation of what color someone's poo is, well, that is certainly a conversation killer.

Today's conversation went like this...

Me "How was your day?"

Mom "I felt better today..my poop wasnt red or too chunky."

Me "Um, good?"

Mom "And it wasnt nearly as runny as it has been."

Me "Mom.. I think this counts as TMI."


And thus the coversation switches to something more harmles, like how fat I've gotten, or why I can't find a nice 40 something year old man with no kids and no baggage, who hasnt been divorced, doesnt have a problem with the fact that I have a past more checkered than a room full of Italian tablecloths.

I think I would rather have talked about the Poo.

A whole nother life

I've had a couple lives. That sounds very mystical and cool/crazy until you realize that I'm talking about where I've been in this life time.

There is the girl I was.
The young married pagan priestess I was, with young children and a husband.
The shell I was after our divorce.
The sturdy lieutenant who works watchfully to make sure her family is provided for.

I've been a lot of people. And not everyone who knows me has been able to travel through those lives with me. My family has been drug along for the ride, and weathered it well. A handfull of brave amazon friends have clung to me through the briars and brush.

Like a snake shedding her skin, each change has brought me new lessons, new challenges, new talents. I hated the pain of transformation, but I have loved the results.

I am on the cusp of another transition. A victory over my fears. Ahead lies a path filled with hard work and challenges.

I am so excited.

Splendiferous Decadence

I've had a rough few days at work, and it has fried my brain cells, tensed my muscles, and ruined my mood.

It's time for the cure, DECADENCE.

SO here I sit on the couch, with a soft fuzzy blanket, a bowl of crab, glass of gatorade, and a movie "Untraceable." Later I'll eat my way through a box of fudge rounds, some twizzlers and a couple bottles of root beer.

Ahhhh bliss... and maybe later, if I'm feeling it, I'll blog about something other than food.

Children's television

Children's television has changed dramatically since the beginning of television. From what I remember as a kid it was calmer, less hyper, and less.. weird.

Yo Gabba Gabba. Seriously, if you have never seen this show you won't believe they make this show. It is 5 "toy" creatures that come to life on a old style sound stage. One creature looks like a cat-ish-thing. One looks like a pink drop of something wearing flowers, another is a yellow robot that looks like it was made out of a PAM can. Then there is a green stripped thing that looks like an alien tried to mix a raccoon and a pickle. And then... there is the walking sex toy. I'm not kidding a long phallic shaped red thing with bumps all over it. Throw in some arms and legs for her pleasure... and BOOM you have your cast of a psychedelic kids show. Have I mentioned the weird skinny black guy with HUGE teeth and spandex suit, orange spaz fur hat and huge black glasses.

And then there is the LARGE woman in glitter gold spandex dancing. With a bouffant hairdo and Elvis fringe. She is like some horrible High School dance team hold over who doesn't realize that she graduated 15 years ago and that there ARE regulations about who should wear lame.

And that's JUST the visuals of this show.

They sing, they dance, and they attempt to teach some sort of crude lesson about liking bugs or not being afraid of the dark. Nice thoughts, but its more like "I LIKE BUGS" sung over and over and over about 500 times. Out of tune.

Please. Someone, bring back Bugs Bunny. Tom and Jerry? Winnie the Pooh? At least back then the sex toys didn't talk to my kids.

Finding Feet

Someone said to me today:

feet are good to control
feet can stand
feet can run to and from things
and feet can kick the living shit out of someone

And I’ve been pondering that. I lost control of my feet a long time ago at the tender age of 18, by allowing my love for someone else to drown out logic, reason and self. Every thing I knew was subject to change at the whim of someone else, and I could never predict what would change next. Like the girl who puts on the red dancing shoes, my feet belonged to someone else’s tune. And like the girl in the story, I grew weary and lost my will to fight against the dance.

Then unlike the girl in the tale, the shoes came off. And there were my feet again. Mine to control, solidly planted on the earth, naked and strong, carrying me forward to new adventures and beautiful days.

And they are able to kick the shit out of someone. But I haven’t tried that yet. I’m saving it for a rainy day when I am wearing good boots.

The Rationale of the Muse

So, you submit to the peer pressure and become a “blogger.” Unbeknownst to you, the seemingly care free world of internet posting is not some random word spatter that can be tossed up willy-nilly like a kid's gyroscope painting. No, now there are people out there READING your posts, discussing it with their friends, commenting where the whole world can see (my world is like 3 people, but still) and suddenly, your words are under a microscope and you find yourself fretting over the content, the style or the font. “Am I funny enough?” “Am I well read enough not to sound like a total mouth breather?” “Does what I say make any sense to anyone BUT me?”

Ahhh …the angst of Blogging.

You once scorned the frivolousness of blogs, and dismissed them as meaningless chatter by under motivated 20 somethings whose only aspirations are to date celebrities, and get drunk and famous simultaneously. But now YOU are a blogger and you find yourself trying to birth great prose, as though all civilization hangs in the balance. Perspective is a funny thing isn’t it?

And then there are the "Topic Issues." What should I write? What shouldn't I? What is worth saying?

For some, the topic problems center around not wanting to hurt those around us, so we don’t chronicle our latest break ups or break downs, the fight with our mom or the scorn of our children. We fail to write about those things out of a sense of compassion and protection. We don’t want to hurt those we love, even in the quest for Blog-fame.

For others, like me, the greater fear is that something that I say will somehow be tangled and twisted and used against me by those who wish me at the very least ill, if not actual harm. And before you wave that off as an over active allegory, well, I wish that were an allegory. But some people are just controlling like that. (All you Ted Bundy and Charles Manson types take note, we ARE aware of your ways, and the game is up.)

But looking at those two reasons for hesitation, those blocks to blogging, I would have to counsel the blogger to write on, even against those impediments. Write what you feel, put it out there. Take the time to craft it into a piece of work that speaks about your place in time, what you see, what you believe. If you hurt, write it out. Don’t hide your pain. If you love, write it. As you ponder, consider and tell tales, speak the truths you have seen, and allow them to be heard.

At least, that is my advice to myself. Not to hold back for fear of harm. But to celebrate what I see and think and love. And blog it, baby.

The Blame Game

This game starts at the moment we realize there is punishment for poor choices, and THEN we discover that as long as the path of an action doesn't STOP with us, that we are in the clear. Usually we make this discovery somewhere around the age of 2 or so. Hopefully sometime AFTER 2 we learn about responsibility, but that's a whole nother blog.

Today's blame is being placed squarely on the shoulders of the quirkiest non-susan redhead I know. (And before you ask, every Susan I know is crazy, quirky or downright mad as a hatter - haircolor aside. And yes it is my mom's name. Doesnt that prove my point?) But I digress. Today's blame goes to Red aka Christen for getting me hooked on this blogging thing. Yes, that's right, because of her, my tawdry wit will be revealed for the whole world (aka audience of 3) to see. And I am sure that at some point, some random writing will be dredged up and used against me in a court of law to show that I am the queen of darkness, that I have minions (got them on sale cheap at Wal-mart, but you have to buy the ones with spanish labels, the others talk back too much) or that I am a horrible mother.

And who knows, maybe I am all of those things, which brings us back to the Blame Game again. Because if I am the queen of darkness, then we can always pin the blame on whatever made me that way. Perhaps I wasnt picked first for the sports teams as a child... oh wait, I was an all Star basketball player my freshman year of high school.. so nix that.. Maybe I wasnt loved by my father enough and I... no wait, my father adored me from the moment I was made till the moment he died, and probably still does from beyond... so scratch that reason too. Well..poo. So much for the Blame Game. I must be the way I am, because it is the way I am.

But I am still blaming Christen for this blog. Somebody has to take the rap for something.