Extra Helpful Email

Has anyone noticed that your email accounts now give a list of other "possible friends" you might want to send said email to because they are somehow associated with the friend you ARE emailing to?  Does this bug anyone else?  My contact list is MINE.  If you want an email address for someone ASK for it. The fact that our computer's are being so ultra helpful and following our shopping and search history is bad enough.  When it comes to personal contact information BACK OFF.  Oh, wait.  Nothing is personal. Your relationships are probably a matter of national security. 

Big Brother anyone?

Out with the Old

I've decided that doing the stuff you used to have fun at hoping to rekindle the fun is a bad idea.  Especially if you're cramping out the first day of your period.  Keep moving forward, kids!  However it was in the beginning does not come back.

Hot Chocolate

One of my coworker friends brought me the gift of Starbucks cocoa in a can so tall there are probably 18 ounces in it.  Holy WOW.  Makes me wish I didn't have to skirt 10 feet around every Starbucks in the vicinity to avoid passing out or throwing up from the coffee smell...can you imagine what would happen to me if I went INSIDE?! 

Anywhoo...I just got cocoa on my nose and felt all sorts of little girl giggly inside.  I love a good rainstorm (even one that is cold enough to keep snow around its edges) and I'm learning to love the parts of my job that allow me to get to know the people here in the office.  I really love when I go home and Sam-man wakes up from his too late nap to snuggle on my lap for as long as I'll let him.  Last night, that was a long time.  I didn't even get up to finish dinner or wash dishes and there is still flea and tic powder (yes, the dog has flees) to vacuum out of the carpet. 

I promise I won't become a slob (the smell is too distracting), but for now, I'll keep the chocolate on my nose, thanks, and waif for the boss to wonder if he's hired a brown-noser.

Wings of a Dove (1997)

First, I should say this isn't intended as a movie review or a critique.  I wouldn't even recommend this period piece with an intriguing plot after it's total comtamination at the end-scene.  (Seriously, Hollywood, I don't want to watch other people having sex!  When we tell people in real life to "get a room" we extend that to our film watching and are hoping you will close the door...)

This movie made me wonder about the political movements of the world.  I wonder just how many plots have been spun by the mind of a woman whispered into the ear of her lover.  Greek literature, Shakespeare, in this case, Henry James...was even the dreaded Genghis Khan fulfilling his lover's fantasy of power -- she wanting to share the bed of a god who ruled the world instead of just a general?  There are little details of influence we will never know, but it causes me to pause and remember my own influence.  What twists and snarls can I weave in the hands of fate under blinking lashes?

The second thing was the art and the body of a woman...in this movie, the three main characters bump into each other at a museum  featuring the art of Gustav Klimt -- so much color and nakedness.  Last night, in my bacterial infested brain -- thanks cold and flu season! -- three things kept playing around.  One, Helean Bonham Carter's (Kate) bony, pointy body curled up in a fetal position on the bed.  Two, the rounded edges of a woman in the same pose depicted by Klimt.  Three, me...and my thirty pounds. 

When I was a girl, even as a young mother, I weighed in at a bony, pointy edged 120-125lbs.  It took a huge family and a broken coccyx to slow me down enough.  Staring at Kate's thin frame and desperate face, all I could think of was hunger -- the kind that aches in your belly, to the back of your heart, and whittles away at your brain.  How can love be offered from a place of desperation?  I wonder if that is why painters have told the story with curves...curved shoulders, rounded hips, swollen breasts...fullness, softness, and plentitude...as if the love would never run out.  Why is it our culture still spends so much time trying to be "skinny" and not enough time just being at peace with ourselves and our journey anyways?

Yes, cold medicine + odd movie = strange dreams. 

Identity Crisis

The tigers took first place today.  Not the football team, but the ones who work harder -- the marching band.

My oldest came home early, but only because I wouldn't "drop [her] dress off at the door" of a girl friend's house where homecoming dance preparations are working themselves up into a frenzy as I write.

I cried when I dropped her off. I tried not to.  There was a time when we shared everything with each other.  And now...I'm pretty sure the only reason I remain like a sometimes needed excessory is that she doesn't have a license.  Yet.

I always thought the transition between teenage daughter to grown up stanger would be gradual.  That, somehow, we'd completely skirt around the pitfalls of generational gappage and such.  I always thought our teenage home would be full of teenagers.  The fridge always needing to be restocked. The late night, make up, boy crush giggle fests would rock on with the speakers way up into the night. But, none of the kids even come here.  Not even my own.

And it is the first time in my life that I regret having born them.

What is the point, really, of all of this giving if, in the end, it means nothing to no one -- especially not the ones that matter most in all of the world to you?  My mom and I spent years not saying two nice words to each other, but I still let her in for every important moment of my life.  I wanted her to share it and mine can't get far enough away fast enough.

God bless you all.  I know I haven't.

WORK -- and other four letter words

Recently, I became part of the full-time workforce...underemployed if you consider the financial needs of a large family and overemployed if you ever take a glimpse at all of the things I have to do in a single day.  Now, I have to tell you, that while my paying job is far from the dream career I had planned for myself (how many of us get that?!) I am not afraid of work.  I tackle my tasks at high speed with a good attitude.  This is true for my home life as well.

But, here's the thing:  at my paying job, my coworkers and I are all striving together to get things done.  We understand that each of our time is interconnected and dependant on what others do.  But at home?  Well, this is the place where "work" has become a bad word.  The word "chores" is spoken like "C*%$@!" and everyone has a list of more important uses of their time.

I honestly don't recognize my daughters right now.  Before I went away for pay to keep a roof over their heads, we cooked, cleaned, and danced together daily.  They would see an overfull garbage can and take it out. Work was just something we did.  Suddenly, it's an option -- a stinky option, the one you don't want to get on your skin.  I don't get it.

I made the decision to not argue with my family about chores.  We have precious little time together as it is now.  The little girls who used to be so helpful have completely disappeared and become self-absorbed, obnoxious, and, well, not my favorite people.  My husband, meanwhile, is back to working the hours he always has and calling it enough.  He's SO tired, you know?  I mean, he IS working "full time" AND going to school "part time."  Give the guy a break right?

All I have to say is F&*% this S*%$!!!  Yep.  That's how I really feel. 

Now, I'm going to go make dinner, wash dishes, fold laundry, bake a fruit pizza for the work party tomorrow, tutor people with their math homework, sweep the floor, wash the counters, put the shoes in the closets where they belong, pick up the frontroom, vacuum the floors, organize the mail, walk the dog, and nod my head to all of the "I love yous" I hear before bedtime.

Have you ever read the Five Love Languages?  Mine is service and I'm beginning to look elsewhere.

Wounded Dog

Today, it seems as though everyone is talking about that "unspeakable" thing that happened ten years ago on the morning of today.  Even Sunday football commentators waxed poetic about remembering those who sacrificed their freedom by "relaxing while playing football."  ...I don't know if that is just obnoxious or just American... maybe it is both.

Today, my kidneys and are are locked in battle again.  It has been days and nights of constant, stabbing pain.  The knife in my back from the betrayals experienced literally coming through to me under my own skin.  I snarled at someone I love today when I didn't have any more words and it was a burden to keep speaking, to keep defining my own boundaries.  It is easier to live with this pain when it comes and goes, stabbing quickly through by back and sides.  The constant pressure is exhausting.

I could take the time to list and wax metaphorical the various battles these two ladies face -- myself and my nation -- but I don't really identify with the country of my birth as presented on the news channels and the psuedo-historical books of the world any more than I do the woman others see me as and some merciful part of my body is calling me back into sleep.