"Where Are You Going"

I'm trying my damnedest to stay upbeat because everyone else is telling me what a beautiful place I'm in. If you saw the mouse, or mice, scurrying around the floor like I am right now, you might see things a bit differently and lay off the "It's paradise! Enjoy it!" sentiments.

The timing has been difficult at best. With the stress of last week and everything. With trying to figure out the time zone differences so I'm not waking someone up when I call. With trying to make my commitments to my contracts for conference calls and proposals and writing guidelines and updates in between school and dentist and other kid related things.

For all those who thought I was just joking when I said I don't want kids... well, this trip is just confirmation of those thoughts for me.

Maybe I really am this selfish. Maybe I really do enjoy the peace and the traveling and spending time with my partner, even if right now it's just phone conversations. Maybe I really do want to fly down the highway on a motorcycle. Maybe I do want to make an entire meal out of brie and tilapia and wine. Maybe I want to stay in bed all day savoring my partner's body or a really good book. Maybe I want to travel where the wind blows and see what happens as opposed to having a schedule.

I'm supposedly on vacation. I'm not real sure according to who. I still have things to get done everyday and jobs to apply for in between being a nanny of sorts.

When I travel I like to roam. To wander. To disappear on my own. I really enjoy this. I have for years. To meander through a new town or small antique store or funky boutique. To sit and enjoy a really good meal with wine in some small local cafe or to listen to a local band jam in some little bar. To sit on a park bench and people watch or read or write.

So far... um, nope.

I hope that I really can explore a bit soon. I hope to take advantage of the time I'm here to go see things I've always wanted to see - like Pearl Harbor. I'm sure the Polynesian Center is awesome, but the cost far outweighs my interest at this time. I'll add it to the 'someday, when I can come back with someone I want to spend travel time with, or when I don't have to worry about money anymore' file.

I have taken several pictures of the clouds over the mountains and the flowers, though. I've gotten to swim in the Pacific now (not in a relaxing sunbathing kind of swim, this was a 'keep the girls from drowning each other' exhausting couple of hours), to check that off the list.

I'm trying to find time to just read, but it's hard because I tend to start crying when I find that few minutes and realize the situation I'm in and who I'm missing.

Yes, it's far from ideal right now. Yes, I'm attempting to try. I have moments where it's really nice, but the reality is a far harsher fall.

When I can finally take the time to draw or do something remotely resembling art again, I will. Unfortunately, even with the bit of soul searching I'm trying to do right now, it's going to take me awhile to get my head screwed back on straight. I'm in emotional and mental upheaval and I have to keep it all inside for now.

This is why I write, this is why I blog, this is who I am

Because not everyone hears every story. Because not everyone cares about the stories we do tell. Because sometimes we need to be heard in the void. Because everyone remembers something different.

I remember my grandfather as a hard man. I don't know enough about his life before I can remember being young, because he never talked about it. He didn't share his own stories, even the hard ones.

All we knew was we had to be quiet. We couldn't play "Hungry-Hungry-Hippos" because it was too much noise. I'm pretty sure his main reason for building us a playset in the backyard was so that we could make noise - outside. The reason I remember being told was because he practically grew up an only child, he was used to quiet.

That excuse makes no sense to me now. I don't suppose it did then either.

My grandmother thrived, and still does to a point, on commotion & chaos. Having half a dozen kids sleeping over, playing dress up, making plays, playing games and generally squirreling underfoot was her element. For her, coordinating and planning and talking to lots of people is a great day. She seems to bloom like her roses that hold steadfast in hard caliche and whipping wind only to glow strong and fresh in the many vases placed everywhere you turn.

My grandfather though, could get lost for hours in books. I know he did all these pretty great things like starting swim teams when my dad & uncles were boys. I know he ran a respected business, helped develop this city in many ways, worked on so many projects. I know he helped make laws and brought computers to their business and helped build Prairie Pete Park when it had cool things to climb on. I know he was in the Army Air Corp and ended up at Midland Army Air Field. I know he was raised in Chicago. I know he made a good Colonel in the CAF because he's just ornery enough to fit the criteria.

But I mostly remember him always having a book. Sitting in his chair reading, barking at us to quit tearing through the house. Sitting, quietly, trying to stay lost in his world.

There are things I learned about him eventually. Bits of snippets of his memories as a kid or family growing up or what else he'd done. Either I got old enough to finally hear them or he finally decided to tell them.

He was a hard man. But he got things done. More than one person referred to him as an ogre, whether the referral was affectionate or not depended on who you talked to. He somehow made things happen, and I imagine he growled quite a lot at quite a number of people to make these things happen.

My grandparents were married 65 years. As much as we could see them push each others buttons, he loved my grandmother. It was rare, but to catch him looking at her with affection when he thought no one was watching, that is when he bloomed like his rose bushes. He was all thorns and thick rough stalks and dry edged leaves to suddenly surprise you with a soft pink rosebud hidden and blooming.

I don't know how they met. I don't know if he went to school for a degree. I don't know if he had dreams he wanted to pursue.

I do know he read. A lot. I know he was an alcoholic. I know he liked growing the roses and tomatoes in the garden. I know he did things his way. I know he liked his choices in music.

I know I'm a lot like him in some ways, traits passed on that make each of us who we are.

I know I have stories that people will never hear. I know I have stories of things in my life that may never get passed along. Partly because I prefer to look forward and learn what I can from the past, but keep going.

But I write them. I write some for myself, tucked into long and rambling notebooks now covered in dust on the shelf. I write to be read, posting into the internet things that happen as a way of remembering and sharing, sometimes to be commented on by strangers or fiends. I write down my memories of my stories, so that someday later when I flip back through them I can remember what that scent was or where that storm was or who I was with when that happened.

We share these bits of our lives in a public space. We make the effort to put ourselves out there, to share what we see happening with the world.

Because I want these stories of mine to be known, even if the only people who read it are friends I haven't met yet. So that somewhere out here in this world is my version of what I did and saw. So that someday when people wonder about the eccentric woman who paints and gets lost in her own world, they'll know there's more to me than just that. I have more stories than just what I've done.

The ones you make yourself hold the most meaning

I gave my paint tool box away.

It was one of those plastic tool boxes for about five bucks that I'd modified for carrying paints and paintbrushes. I didn't have a permanent shelf or place to store my stuff at the time. It had enough room for several brushes and most of the colors I used, and the tray carried extra carving blades, small wood pieces, random beads, and electrical tape because I learned the blades were sharp before I invested in gloves and used the electrical tape to wrap around my fingers and thumb to protect them at the time.

The tool box had been gathering dust for awhile now. I still used it on occasion for travel or working in another location and it made a decent foot stool a lot of the time. My brushes are scattered everywhere, the paints are mostly corralled in a drawer unit, and I still have random pieces of wood here and there.



Well on Friday night I kept an eye on my cousins while my aunt & uncle had an evening to themselves for dinner & shopping. I won't call it babysitting because they're old enough to take care of themselves, really. I just hung out to make sure the boys didn't set the house on fire or throw cupcakes at the dogs.

One of the boys is kinda quiet compared to the other two, and really good at the science fair stuff and has an interest in painting. They're all three sharp, just different interests. Anyway, he was showing me stuff he'd been working on but had run out of green paint.

So I cleaned off my tool box, tossed a couple of newer brushes in there and picked up some new paints for him, just basic colors to get him going. When I felt better on Sunday I took it over, telling him it wasn't a Christmas present, it was a gift from one artist to another. I told him what I'd done to modify it years ago & showed him the brushes and paints and a few board canvases if he wanted to paint pictures for someone else for Christmas, he could.

It was a little hard. To let go. Of something I didn't use anymore, I know. But when I was in kind of a turmoil-y place once, and I used art as a stability, and I picked up wood carving and took to it nearly every night, well, it was a grounding thing. Carry tools, foot stool, sitting stool, drying dock, everything.

But I know it's gone to a good home now. Pass along something that he can use to make his own art with. And that makes me proud.



The photos are some of the wood pieces.

Tonight I picked up my detail brush and started working on them again. I haven't touched them in over a year and a half, since before eye surgery the summer before last. Because before that all I could see was up close. Details and tiny cuts were so easy. I've partly been afraid to try since, and have kept myself busy with other things. The lines are not the same. The details are not the same. But it felt so damn good to pick up something that I remember and have a groove with.

I apologize for the craptastic clarity, or lack thereof, of the pics. I used the phone camera because I could send them straight to the computer without having to dig out wires and download my camera. I'm lazy like that. And was busy being productive anyway.

17th of December, Part 4

...Part 1, Part 2, Part 3...

This series has been harder than I thought.

The writing has been therapeutic, yes. It's only further proof that some things never completely heal, and some things will continue to surface long after their time has past.

This night was a turning point for me and I'm reminded of it every time I look in the mirror. The difference now is that while these physical scars have healed, there are days when I wonder about the person I've become since then.

I changed how I travel. I still prefer to drive and I love to travel, but now I give myself plenty of time to get anywhere and stop for naps if I feel I need it. I got my motorcycle license last year and love riding. There is a freedom and balance to being on a bike that feels like flying.

I quit wearing a watch. Time didn't matter. Time doesn't matter.* Yes, I have a lead foot and like speed, but I don't care if I get anywhere on time. I'll get there when I get there.

Family matters. A lot. My cousin was killed instantly in a car wreck just a few years before. This scared my family, dealing this and me. It scared me, the thought of losing all this support and love.

I survived something I shouldn't have. Those pictures my parents took of the truck? I saw one, once. I've never seen them again. That one photo showed a small green pickup truck that looked like it had been picked up and twisted in different directions by the Jolly Green Giant. It's hard to explain other than I saw that photo and cried. How in the world did I survive that? I don't know.

But it let me know I'm still here on this earth for some reason. And I've spent the last eleven years trying to find my way on my path.

Just over a year later I moved to San Antonio. I had a wonderful experience with theatre there and formed a long lasting relationship. I traveled all over the state for auditions and commercial things. I later moved to Ft. Davis and met my best friend.

Then came Massage Therapy classes where I learned so much and loved it all. Yes, the human body is freaking amazing and yet so very fragile.

And I've dabbled in everything that catches my interest since then. Why not? Life is short enough, right? So I might as well try things out and see if I like them. I like to think I've continued to jump in there to take those chances, but sometimes I know I haven't.

Fear will stop things before they have a chance to begin. If the worst that could happen is something I've lived through, then I tell myself to go try it out.

I meet fascinating people and have great conversations this way. I once asked a parking lot painter if I could paint a stripe but he said he'd rather not see me mess up my skirt as we were on our way to the bar. Seriously. Ask Amber.

I took the leap for nude modeling and loved it. I leaned in to kiss a guy during a cold audition and landed the role. I flew out to Charleston to meet someone I'd only talked to for six weeks and that turned into a relationship. I submitted my writing for several projects and landed a few of them, some of which continue now as I develop more skills. I took the motorcycle classes because I really, really, really wanted to learn to ride and wasn't dating anyone with a bike anymore. I took a chance on a personal ad, drove to El Paso a week later to meet the man I will eventually marry.

I've played it safe plenty of times, too. Having a steady paycheck is nice, it's the draw of a desk job.

But the part of me that knows something is off, knows. And I've taken a few steps toward the next leg of this path I'm on, figuring out what still fits and what doesn't.

All in all, I'm an artist. I love creating. I love whimsy. I love helping make people feel better whether by massage or by finding answers. I love the human art form and expression. And I love passion.

The scars are still here. Reminders of what happened. Reminders of where I've been. It's always moving forward from some point. It's a long, winding path with many detours. My life is a journey. When I pay attention and see the signs, I stay on the road, when I don't, things get all topsy-turvy.

Thank you for letting me express a bit of myself here. I hope you come back on occasion to see where I'm at next.


*"Only life matters." - Guess what movie that's from?

17th of December, Part 3

...Part 1, Part 2...

The Hospital

Backboards suck. I was coherent, in pain, scared, could barely see, cold, strapped down, and nobody had called my parents yet. So I was also pissed.

When I'm in pain my very obnoxious, very dark, very annoying, and very twisted sense of humor shines through. This is true when I stub my toe as much as when I hit my funny bone. So multiply all the tense whiplashed muscles, lots of blood, and pieces of my body that were not in their rightful place, and I was quite venomous with the bad jokes.

I wanted off that backboard. I knew my back was fine. I could sense it in my body. When I tried to tell the poor nurses or doctors who were working on or around me, they did. not. get. it. "My back hurts, please let me off here!" "If your back hurts, it may be broken, please lie still." "NO! It hurts because I'm strapped to this godforsaken FLAT piece of wood and my spine is not FLAT! It curves! How do you not know this? Didn't you take anatomy?"

See? I was annoying. Even better:

"Hello? I'm cold. Please, a blanket or something?" "Here, here's a warm towel, is that better?" Well, it was ok, for a few minutes until the warmth was gone and it was a cold towel barely covering my knees. "Hey, I'm cold again." "Here, here's another warm towel. Is this better?" "No. I tell you what, you take those towels out of that warmer and just put me in there, ok?"

No one laughed but me. I tell you, I have a warped sense of humor.

The rest I remember parts of. Fuzzy parts here and there. I know they took X-rays sometime. I know my parents were finally called, somewhere around midnight or one am. My parents were working two jobs each at the time, both too exhausted to make the drive right then, so they came down the next morning.

Doctor, Doctor

The X-rays came back and a doctor started to tell me what was wrong with me according to that see through piece of paper. "It looks like both your ankles were broken, and..." I cut him off. "What? No, they're not! My ankles are fine!" And I proceeded to roll them both this way and that, up and down, as far as I could while being strapped down. He said, 'Well, I guess that must just be scar tissue then." "Yeah, I jumped off of a lot of fences when I was a kid. Also took dance." I was not so confident in this doctor at this point.

I asked if my shoulder was dislocated because it hurt so bad. "No, it's probably just whiplash from being pulled on by your seat belt." "But it's my right shoulder." "Yes, it was probably from your body straining against the shoulder strap of your seat belt." "But IT'S MY RIGHT SHOULDER." "Yes, it's probably from your seat belt. When it held you in place, your body strained against it, it'll be fine."

I gave up. Yes, my right shoulder has a slight permanent shift to it, a slight dislocation that even massage can only quell so much. And it was not from the seat belt that was going across my left shoulder.

My hand was smashed. My left hand. It was bloody and hurt pretty bad and sorta numb, too. They couldn't tell what was broken and since they were just an Emergency Room, they just wrapped it up in a whole lotta gauze.

My left eyelid was cut going back toward my temple. My right ear had been sliced nearly off. I had dried blood and broken glass all over me.

Another doctor came in, apparently a plastic surgeon on night call. He was there to stitch me up. To sew my ear back on. To sew my eyelid back together.

When you're at a broken & beaten point, strapped to a effing backboard, dried blood in your eyes, one eye swollen closed, and someone is leaning over you with a needle, what do you do?

I chose to scream.

It's not like I didn't warn him. I told him I know what he's doing, I know he has to do this, and I know it's not really like my eyeball, just my eyelid, but I'm going to scream anyway. And I do. And I have a damn good scream. He says knock her out.

Finally.

According to the bill I got for those stitches though, I must have screamed good. He charged a thousand bucks a stitch.

I was still on that gurney or whatever the next morning when I came to. A family friend who lived in San Angelo came by to check on me, my parents had called him, he was like my other dad. My parents came in. They moved me to a hospital room. They explained their version to my parents.

Sometime in there they gave me lemonade with Barium in it (I still have a tough time choking down a glass of lemonade because of this), and sent me for another test, I guess to see if I was bleeding internally. The thing is, I'd been strapped to that board for however many hours overnight, I'd probably had a large bottle of water or two as I usually do on long trips and had not stopped for a bathroom break yet. I was planning on stopping in San Angelo, another 10 minutes down the road... but I never got there. And now a plastic cup of lemonade? My bladder was full. I told them this before we left the room.

They put me on that machine for an MRI or CAT or whatever anyway and I told them I needed to pee. So they brought me a bed pan.

Have you ever tried to pee into a bed pan? I'm not male, I can't aim like that. I was in too much pain to be too embarrassed, and I'm not proud of it at all, but I peed all over myself and that pan and whatever gurney or machine I was on.

This is another reason why they should listen to the patient.

Anyway. No internal bleeding. They kept me in the hospital for the next four days because my "blood was too low." I told them to "quit coming in to take it every other hour" and it would be fine.

My iron count was too low - I was anemic. Didn't matter to them that I'd pretty much always been and that I'd just finished my period a few days before. They pumped me full of these very toxic iron pills until my levels were to their liking before they could release me.

I slept a lot. I couldn't see anything because they'd taken my contacts out and I didn't have my glasses. Not that that mattered, I couldn't wear them anyway, the stitches on my ear and a broken nose. Oh, yes - a broken nose. From the damned airbag. I hate those things. Seat belt saved my life, an airbag broke my nose.

Anyway, yes. My body was beaten and bruised, so I slept, a lot. My parents stayed with me, I think sleeping in the chairs. I asked for peanut butter and bananas, a comfort food. The cafeteria or nurses station only had peanut butter crackers. My dad offered to scrape the peanut butter off the crackers for me. Turned out the peanut butter crackers they had were separate, so he didn't have to.

Somewhere in those days my parents went to get whatever was left of my personal stuff from the wreck. They went out to the site. My mom told me they could tell where it was from the smashed bottle of nail polish across the ground. Also the broken glass and bits of truck. They took pictures. Of the site. Of the truck. Or what was left of it.

Sunday came, they said I could go home as soon as the doctor released me. The doctor was apparently busy watching the Cowboys football game that day. I was antsy. I was feeling better enough and I wanted out of there. I'd had enough rest and wanted to go home. My body was ready.

He finally came, signed the forms, we loaded up to go. They gave my mom the iron pills I was 'supposed' to take. My body smelled like rust from that stuff. I didn't take them.

We went home. My mom took me to a couple of doctors over the next week to check the stitches and my left hand. They unwrapped it for the first time since it had been wrapped on Wednesday night of the wreck. Several days of dried blood, major bruising, and broken glass. It smelled bad and hurt worse. It was three sizes too big, purple, green, yellow, blue, and disgusting. I joked that someone had removed my hand and replaced it with a prop from a bad 'B' horror movie.

One bone broken though. In all that mess, just one broken bone. A tiny one, a metacarpal. But the rest was swollen and bruised badly. I'd had my hand on the steering wheel as I rolled, smashing it. So I got a soft cast and six weeks of showering with a plastic bag over my hand.

I slept a lot more. I couldn't drive for awhile. I relied on my family for so much.

Things changed for me that night.

Tomorrow I'll expound further.

17th of December, Part 2

Part 1 here...

Rollover on the Highway

I had a truck. A little Ford Ranger. Green. It had a crack in the windshield from a rock chip from the resealing of city streets the past summer.

I was tired. I'd been awake since sometime around 4am. I'd taken some form of over the counter sinus stuff the day before for allergies. (Did that play a role, hardly, but I've since gone homeopathic & don't touch the over-the-counter stuff at all.) I'd driven the six hours out to Austin, done the audition, and driven more than halfway back home. I wanted to be home.

But I was tired. And I couldn't tell that the street lights up ahead were for a different road that went one way while the road I was on curved the other.

And I swerved. And I panicked. And I over-corrected. And I tensed up every muscle in my body. And I said "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit..." And I remember the track the CD was playing. I remember the song. I remember where in the song. I remember the lyrics at that point in the song. I remember being very, very unhappy at what was happening.

They tell me I rolled several times. My parents told me they unwrapped my dog tags from around my rear-view mirror three times. I went across the median. Into oncoming traffic. Rolling. Rolling across the median. The truck stopped on the passenger side on the other road. Where another car hit my truck and sent me spinning in it.

I was the scene people slow down for. To see what happened. But I couldn't see what they saw.

My view was a very different perspective.

My left eye was bloody and swollen shut. My right eye didn't want to open until the blood covering it dried. My right shoulder hurt. My left hand was excruciating. My feet were cold. And I was in the cab of that small truck looking at a swath of dark red blood across the ceiling above me.

The back window had popped out somewhere on that roller coaster. The front window was smashed. As were the driver and passenger windows. I had enough of my wits about me to turn off the engine. I released my seat belt which let me drop the last few inches so my feet were on the ground through the passenger side window. Good thing I'd waited till the truck wasn't moving anymore, because had my feet drooped through that window before the spinning, they would have been cut off at the ankle. I leaned back on the seat with seatbelt locks digging into my side as voices shouted and hollered outside.

They asked me where I was going. "Home. To Odessa." They asked me where I was coming from. "From Austin." That can't be, they said. I was on the wrong road, they said. I must have it backwards, they said. I must have been going to Austin from Odessa. "NO!" I said. I was hurt, not stupid. I hadn't lost my brain capacity. I was angry.

I offered to try and climb out. They told me to stay put. To wait for the police and ambulance. I told them, someone, anyone, to find my purse. Please. It had a cell phone in it, please find it and call my parents. Just let them know. I know now that no one did.

More questions. Asking what happened, what hurt. Eventually I was told they brought in the Jaws of Life. I figured it must be pretty bad to get that. They put a sheet over my head to protect me from the shards of glass and metal it would be cutting away. Someone placed the neck brace thing on my neck even though I told them my neck was fine. They slid in a back board and strapped me to it. They rolled me to the waiting helicopter and flew me into town to the hospital.

My first helicopter ride involved me being strapped to a backboard, not able to see anything, and was really cold because one door was still open and it felt like my feet were hanging out.

The wreck happened around 10pm. I was on the road into San Angelo, right around a tiny little area called Wall. They've since put up those big yellow arrow signs on that curve, because I apparently was not the only one to not realize the road curved. The sheriff or police officer, I don't even know which, told me I would be given several tickets. Failure to control vehicle. Failure to yield right-of-way or going into oncoming traffic or some such. And something else. I honestly don't remember what else.

It didn't matter to me. I was in pain. And the wreck was just the beginning...

...to be continued...

17th of December, Part 1

I am afraid. Yet the date comes and goes and I drive the same road several times a year. I persevere.

Some part of you is going to read this, sickly fascinated by what happened, because it's something that draws everyone. It's what makes us slow down to see what happened and be thankful it wasn't us.

And some part of you may have no desire whatsoever to hear read about a twisted, mangled pain that may have healed to the best of healing ability in the physical manner - but still aches as a reminder.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December 17, 1997.

A Wednesday. Cold enough for Winter in Texas, but not as bad as the sudden 10 inches of snow we would get a year later.

I wanted to be an actress. I'd wanted to be one for years. I did the community theatre, the high school shows, the after school children's productions. I did the modeling and training, the late night rehearsals of Shakespeare and musicals. I wanted Broadway, but being practical about my chances as an actress as I was about college, I didn't go.

A friend wanted New York, too. We decided on Austin as a stepping stone to get to NY eventually. Austin from Odessa was a huge step. We decided to move in the Spring, after the holidays with our families.

I like a plan. Whether I stick to it or not, I like having some sort of framework to go with.

We had a plan now. So when I saw an audition ad for "Angels in America" by Tony Kushner at an Austin theatre, meant to be performed a few months later, I decided this was a shot! A chance to audition for a show and move to a big city and see what I could prove!

So I figured it out. My day job at the time was as a graphic operator or sound tech for the local morning news show. Sometimes commercial stuff like helping to dub or make the phone number go across the screen. This Wednesday I would get off work around 11am. I left and headed out toward Austin, taking Brady and Llano across - a road I'd driven a few times before. I remember stopping to pickup a few things as Christmas gifts for my family. A couple of puzzles for my younger brothers, coloring books for cousins. I'm not sure anymore really.

I remember I had time to grab a sandwich and find the theatre. I remember sitting in the hallway going over the lines before the audition. I remember I wore my best blue t-shirt and a blue denim jacket with my best blue jeans. I guess I probably had tennis shoes on... oh, that's right, I did. White Keds. I remember thinking I did pretty good, but I was nervous, so I knew it wasn't a 'knocked their socks off great' audition. But I wanted that role. I wanted this show to be a sign I should move to Austin.

The drive home

Yes, it was dark, but I didn't think it's be a problem. I'd borrowed my dad's cell phone (because at the time only busy business-type people had one, really), so I was going to call my parents when I got to San Angelo just to let them know I was about two hours out. I also didn't want to use the roaming minutes and San Angelo was close enough it wouldn't.

Good. A plan.

It didn't happen like that. My parents got a call several hours later from either the hospital or the officer, I don't know, to let them know their daughter was in a car accident.

...to be continued...

a little bit o' the crazy

Partly expression, partly depression, partly wondering (aloud and in my head) what I'm doing.

The ideas and the other websites are going, slowly, but going. I'm impatient, I want it done now! But suddenly my neck launched into an allergy attack that has had me clawing at the sensitive skin for nearly two weeks. Am ever so thankful for homeopathic medicine and the wonder of the human body. Still haven't figured out what I got into, but my neck looks less like a rabid raccoon has attacked and more like I have a really bad sunburn. Still, ick.

Rob is coming in for Thanksgiving, and thus we will be spending as much time as possible together, and when we're not kissing we'll try to work on the Ride & Rub stuff.

I need to get back to writing for real, it's been too long. So, that's a plan too.

But for now - Happy Thanksgiving! I'm thankful for family & friends & that I can finally see Rob again!

this title is yet to be determined

Here I go again, trying to type in a title for a post I'm barely beginning to formulate.

I don't work that way. I should know this by now. Really. I should.

It's one of those things, that my brain starts somewhere in the middle, or the end, and works backwards or outwards or whatever, filling in the puzzle gaps along the way. All those writing assignments in school where we had to turn in a title and outline and synopsis like weeks before the actual writing thingy was due - well, that sucked for me, because I never had a title until I was done. More often, after the reprimands & bad grades for "not completing work on time", I just made shit up. Whatever, it worked to appease the teacher who wanted a title & outline on her desk by a certain day. I figured out it didn't really matter if I changed it later after the real stuff was written.

That's how I do things. It's how I roll, baby.

That has very little to do with what I want to write about, though.

Today is the day the world holds a collective breath to see who is going to be head stormtrooper, puppet, poombah of these United States. Lots o' hype leading up to this circus, we're all tired of it.

I voted for Obama/Biden. Do I need to explain? No. I don't need to. I'll spare the stuff that you don't need to know about me or care about anyway and just say that I want to be able to look forward, not backward. I believe every person on this earth has a right to love and be loved, no matter their skin color or sexuality. I believe that women deserve far better in so many situations and am thankful a man like Joe Biden has stood up for those rights. I believe the man that Barack Obama is shines through in the way he treats his wife and family over the rest of the political dancing. The things like taxes and the war and the 'promises' do not matter as much to me as the ability to keep calm, make decisions based on how they will affect his own family as well as others instead of the quick-temper reaction that does more harm than good, a quick-temper reaction that I know all too well in my family.

I'm ready for the hope to move forward and make changes.

Personally.

Not just as a nation.

Personally.

So I bought (at least I think I did, it takes '24 hours to process') a domain name. But it's not the name we wanted, because the one we wanted is already taken by someone else. grumble. We're creating ideas & developing these lil' guys and their stories and having fun, and we want to share this with others.

But I know enough basic html to make a mess, and I'm good at picking and gleaning from other codes to figure a few things out, now I'm freaking out over the "How the hell do other people do this web building stuff?". Because I'm hard-headed (no kidding, really?) and I want to figure it out and do it on my own. Because I figure I'm capable and should know how to do this, so why don't I?

I also jumped on the NaNoWriMo bandwagon again this year after not doing it last year (something about driving back & forth from Florida & no regular internet connection & job hunting being a priority at the time, but whatever. excuses, excuses). I have maybe 600 words towards that 80k total by the end of November, and I'm using it as a chance to push myself and develop a few things.

One is the bunnyflies stories with Rob. One is the command of customer service stuff with Amber. One is an article on the boot camps that daddy & Papa Earl do for the museum. One is a piece of fiction that has been rolling around for awhile.

The best advice for NaNoWriMo is to just write - clean it up and edit later, like in December. So what if I'm using four different things to gain that word count, I'm trying to make it happen and learn about myself as a writer along the way.

There will always be some level of crazy going on. Election or not. Economy or not. Seasonal or not. Relationship or not. But I still have words to put to paper, I still have things I jump into the middle of and feel my way out of. And I'm looking forward to the day I can show off my stuff and be proud of it, because I learned something along the way to making it happen.

and this here is a pretty lil' piece o' land, just right for the pickin'

For this one night I have no pressing deadline. I do have bills, but I can't pay those till I get paid later this week so they don't matter tonight. I could do laundry or cleaning or any of the other tens of things on my mental list of "things I think I oughtta be doing", but you know what? I'm not.

Tonight I've attempted to watch Grey's, but that's not happening for various reasons. So instead I had it on Ace of Cakes, I cut out words & pictures in old magazines, I put away some clothes that have been sitting here since sometime a week ago when I laid them out to air dry. I am choosing to continue to ignore the hundreds of emails in my inbox because I still can't bring myself to care what might be in there. I'm using a can of Pringles and a jar of sand as my foot rests. (shrugs) It works.

I'm actually proud of myself for having enough money in my bank account to buy a new battery for my car (proud too that it lasted from October of 2001 till now) but the only reason I had enough in there was I was saving it to pay for my car registration renewal this week anyway. C'est la vie.

I'm back from Jacksonville and missing being in Rob's arms. A long weekend of holding hands and kissing and snuggling and now back in separate worlds. And it sucks worse than screaming children scratching their nails on chalkboard during a fire drill. Or something equivalent to being numb & depressed & angry & annoyed & tired all at the same time.

We drove to Tallahassee for his aunt Susan's service. I met more family there. She was a passionate & spirited lady who was a delight to get to visit with when we went through several times. Cancer took her body, but it didn't take her spirit. I love how supportive and caring and creative and supportive his family is. My own family has it's own way of being supportive, but theirs is a lot calmer and loving through all the generations. Mine, well, sometimes I feel as if I don't live up to what everyone expects of me, and that can be tiring in itself.

We took complete advantage of sleeping late, curling into each other and reading "Peter and the Starcatchers" to each other all weekend. Dinner with friends one night, dinner with his parents another, dinner watching the sunset on the Intercoastal another. Being able to say exactly what was on my mind, usually to hear him say the exact same thing. We connected and it felt so good. The hard part was getting on the plane to fly back, alone. Damnit.

Yes, the papers on my desk at work have been multiplying like over-caffeinated rabbits and has me a bit stressed in the hours I have to be at work and doing job-related things like answering calls and writing newsletters. Then there is the explosion that is the remnants of me moving furniture and art supplies around my room, as well as the leftovers of Airsho which I pretty much just dropped wherever there was an empty square inch. Soo, umm, yeah. There is plenty for me to do to keep busy for the next two months when I can see him again.

This whole financial 'crisis' that seems to be a scary big-deal for the rest of the country does not seem to affect us here in the oil fields of West Texas. We are a remote bubble in so many ways. I work for a non-profit with no benefits, so whatever was left of my 401k I cashed out in January, well, I have no idea if there is anything left at all now, and I wonder if I shouldn't have just cashed in the whole thing and done a few things my way at the time. That's what I get for not listening to myself.

Things will change here eventually, they always do. I keep up best I can at work, I try to keep up the article writing, too. And yet, I still have the itch to be working on something I want to be working on, to be making something, to be doing something for myself.

It's not easy. At all. But some nights the hardest part is when I actually prefer to cry myself to sleep rather than open a tube of paint or glue. And that's not right. Because I do actually remember a part of myself that would rather paint or carve or sand things till the wee hours of the morning rather than sleep. Something got switched and I don't know when.

There are things in this world that still give me hope. I look forward to finding them again. In the meantime I'll stumble along and ask for whatever guidance the universe is willing to send my way.

I have these thoughts, you see... I know they can be something, but I'm not sure what just yet.

6 feet of beat up wood

He told me it originally came from Denver, he bought it from a lady selling off stuff up there a good number of years ago. He used it for several projects, repairing or putting together his own stuff. Now he & his wife are moving to a smaller place and getting rid of lots of stuff (awesome old stove, but I didn't have the $995 to pay for it...)



It has this musty oil & dirt smell that I'm hoping to work out a bit, maybe sand it down as my brother suggested, maybe work in some orange oil or beeswax to help the wood. Yes, I know, it'll just get messy again. But now it's mine & I want to clean it up a bit before going to work on it.

It's sturdy. Thank you to Momma, Daddy, Lawrence & The Gina for helping with the loading, wrist twisting, unloading, and general maneuvering of this thing today!

It was a price I was willing to pay for something with history and something that will handle what may get thrown at it. It has a grinder, a vise grip, six drawers, and a wood grip. The backboard (seen leaning against the wall in the photo above) has hooks for tools like saws and hammers, and three rows of metal screw on lids for the box full of jars - meant for screws or nuts or bolts or small nick nack things. Since I have jars full of art stuff on my bookshelves already - things like beads, copper pieces, cloth strips, brightly colored condoms, confetti, my great-grandmothers knitting needles, necklace charms, and mini-nail polish bottles - I figure this will be a good place for them all!

This work bench is not made of mdf board or a kit. This is heavy, thick, sturdy wood. I am in awe at the find and everything fell into place for me to get it. And! When we went to pick it up, there were about a dozen small blue & grey butterflies flitting about where we parked in their yard. To me, that is a good sign.

Now, well, now I have to figure out where to put it, get the wiring fixed (cause it's severely old and shredded and looks like it was made before the light bulb was invented), and then actually start using it. (hmm, I almost typed 'losing it', but that makes as much sense because I do tend to pile things on top of things and never see them again... let's try not to do that with this...)

Oh! I also have this little round thing, almost like a stool, no more than a foot across and maybe five or six inches high, with three little feet on the bottom, that I picked up at an antique store last year for 3 bucks - turns out it was an ice cream blending board from Blue Bell. Crazy. Can perch this on the work bench too!

Ok, so I like the wood. (totally not meant to be an innuendo... seriously. really. but if you actually know me, well, then... you know...)

Enough. Have also been clearing things here and there, and am now to the moving of things around part. Sorta. It's getting there. But I'm giddy at having a new (to me) work bench, and the ideas and thoughts that come from the creative freedom to think of what I want to do next!

Memorial Day - catching up

Rob was in town for the weekend, doing some job hunting and hanging out with me, which I enjoyed very much! He took the MPD tests and did well, now it's paperwork and wait & see. He helped out with the Memorial Day services at the American Airpower Heritage Museum, participating in the 21 Gun Salute. There was a great shot by Cindeka Nealy in the Odessa American newspaper of the Salute, with Rob in the front. I love the way he looks in uniform anyway, but I was so proud of him!

The Flag Folding Ceremony was beautiful, the cadets were so crisp and did a great job.


The Veterans in the crowd stood during the Sun Country Gentlemen singing of the songs from each military branch. Watching their faces, seeing the pride for what they've served for, seeing the dignity and respect they demand and deserve for serving this country.


My grandparents sat there, on the front row. It was a great chance for me to take their picture, too!

Weekend over, everyone back to routines and work. I'm not much in the mood to write much, so I figured the pics would help. It's tough now that Rob is back in Florida again, I miss him, I don't feel like writing much, except to him! The texts are flying again!