Saying yes...

Sunshine on my shoulder does NOT always make me happy

I'm sure I'll regret saying this, but there are days when the sun gets on my nerves. I love the sun. I love a blue sky, but not all the time. Yes, I know, I've probably have at least 30 posts bemoaning the lack of sun. I guess I'd just like it if the sun were on my schedule... in sync with my moods. I'm a Leo... ruled by the sun, but really, Leos supposedly think they rule it all... including the sun... and today I'd like to tell it to go away. I'm not in the mood... just like the chirpy person you don't want to talk with because you're having an interesting enough conversation inside your head and are one insight away from the answer to everything... they're a distraction... the sun is being a distraction.

Too much sun in late autumn/early winter makes me cranky. I love the early darkness, love the world being lit by incandescence... love the warm yellow pouring out into a world of deep blue. I generally like getting up in the dark during this time of year and like that the dark doesn't stay away so long. I like the turning in and focusing on things inside.

But today, instead of being a blustery November day where I can revel on indoor projects,  it's sunny... it's nice out. It's mild...  the sun is poking it's head inside my window, asking me what I'm doing, do I want to go out... do I want to go here or there...  it won't shut up.

You Just Don’t Care... You Just Have to See Them...

A ghost from my past came into my present in a way I never expected today and made me think of this song. I love this song... some of it is just the song, some of it, the memories it evokes. When I hear it, I can vividly remember being on either side of the equation... the white dress side, always the more powerful... the person pining... not so much.

Many, many years ago, while living above a bar, I lived less than a block away from a musician who had captured my fancy. We worked together at a theatre and got to know each other there. He wasn't my type... or so I thought. Over the years, I've realized many men I was interested in were not my type until a few years ago a friend pointed out that I was looking at the wrong criteria. When people speak of types, they so often speak of physical attributes. Sure, I had my list, but I've often been with or interested in men who didn't fit that.

I liked very smart, funny men bursting with creativity. If they had that, the package didn't seem to matter. It would be nice if women got the same advantage, but I'm guessing breasts/legs/youth make up for what might be lacking in a personality.

But back to the song and being on either side of the equation... I can think back to times when I knew my presence was causing pain... and I can think back to a time when the mere proximity of another, another person who was not available, was a stick in the side... that presence, fueled by a drink or two, was torture... Even worse? If the person was performing at a bar and had written a song for you.

I don't care what people say, if someone who can sing and effortlessly play an instrument writes a song for you... you'll be swayed. You'll be sitting there, drinking your drink with friends... and then you'll hear that person playing something with your name, singing about things that only relate to you... and you will feel a cocktail of pain and elation, but mostly pain.. especially if you're not together.

That is until a much smarter and more creative man, someone who you didn't think was your type, comes along, tells you this person was an ass, and woos you with their wonderfulness... and suddenly, you'll be back in the white dress... and living happily ever after.

Confession

A recent discussion about dehydrated soups reminded me that as a child... an animule-loving child... I was so certain that the "golden egg" in Mrs. Grass Soup was real, that I pilfered one and tried to hatch it.

It didn't hatch... and I believe I got into trouble for ruining the soup. It was a huge disappointment. I'm also wondering if I was the only kid who attempted to hatch one of these... I noticed they now refer to the egg as the "golden nugget"... filled with chicken-rich flavor... not a chicken...

Words That Make My Head Want to Explode

Ok, I've confessed to hating the word, panties, before... gads, even typing it makes my face start twitching... but the word... or words that can potentially make my head explode??? Well, come to think of it, it's not the words themselves, but the pronunciation...

I heard this particular pronunciation on one of the Sunday morning news shows and let out a roar/growl so intense that the youngest lamblet spontaneously started to pick up her toys...

The word?

Strength... or length...

The pronunciation?

STRENTH!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! Lenth is just as BAD!

Even worse? Shtrenth.

While my less than crisp, clear esses have dogged me through my life (Your S is bordering on sibilant my dear!), it now appears to be ok to say sh for ssssssssssssssssssssss.  Adding the sh to the already mispronounced word is just rubbing salt in my wound.

I can't take it.

I can take many, many forms of pronunciation. I can find reginal differences to be charming. I can even deal with the occasional "matooer" instead of "machure" that I prefer. I could deal with the geomotry teacher who said, "mazeyoor" instead of measure. Lit-a-chure has been known to make me clench my teeth and need a moment to regroup, but strenth?? AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!! JUST TYPING IT MAKES ME WANT TO THROW SOMETHING!

And it doesn't matter if I like you or not... doesn't matter if you could get away with any other infraction... strenth could make me have to turn and on walk away.

Even Elvis Costello, whom I dearly love, nearly lost me on this one... and I liked this song to start with... liked the song, loved Elvis... what could possibly go wrong!?

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!! Yes... God give me strength to not stop listening to you Elvis!!! God give me strengggggggth to remember your scratchy voice drives me crazy. God give me strength to ignore.

One Day...

I know it's not Christmas yet and we shouldn't even be discussing Christmas, but the commercials have started in earnest and I remembered something I wanted to do, but never did... something that would have been ideal in a ratty old apartment, where you didn't mind messing up the walls. I wanted to cover an entire wall (or maybe an entire bathroom) in pine branches. Real would be ideal, but fake probably would have worked better... I'd staple 8 inch pieces of pine branch all over the wall, layering it like shingles (now I've got Shingle Bells in my head)... and then run lights back and forth and hang decorations all over it. A whole WALL of Christmas tree!!! Or even better... a whole ROOM of Christmas tree. I'm thinking it would have been amazing and disturbing all at the same time.

Love and Marriage

I woke myself up in the middle of the night due to the fact that I was talking in my sleep. I don't talk in my sleep on a regular basis that I know of. I'll occasionally make the muffled scream as I dream about falling off a cliff or something like that, but I've never been one to speak clear, coherent words... which is why I was so surprised to hear myself talking.

As the talking continued, I slowly woke, only to hear myself clearly say, "Shut up, Grizzled!" Oops. That was a little harsh. Had Grizzled heard?? I sheepishly fell back to sleep.

This morning, Grizzled asked me what I was dreaming about last night... said I was talking up a storm and that he believed at one point I told him to shut up, even though it was apparent I was the one who needed to zip it.

I honestly don't remember what I was dreaming about and don't recall being particularily angry in the dream. I'm guessing Grizzled was just using what the lamblets refer to as his "explaining voice"... when Grizzled is in his explaining mode, even the most patient person will find it hard not to ask for silence.

Life After Death

Five years ago I got one of those calls you just never expect, but most of us will get at some point if we associate with the living. It was my mother... someone was dying. It was my brother's wife. I stood there and could not make sense out of it. Apparently there had been a massive brain bleed... she was brain dead, but they were waiting until all people who needed to be there could be there since she was an organ donor. Aside from the pesky brain bleed, she was healthy.

My sister-in-law dropped dead just months shy of her 50th birthday. My brother went from planning her surprise party to planning a funeral. My brother went from being a happy family man to being a widower with 3 children. He lost the woman he had been in love with since high school (I met her when I was 7). I would have crumbled. He did not. Does this mean he flew through the grief? The loss? No, I'm sure there was plenty of ugly, plenty of anger, and he deserved it. He was allowed to go through it, but go through it he did, he didn't stay.

A couple of months ago I was at his house, it was a rare time where nothing was going on, I wasn't over there for a function, my husband and kids weren't there. A couple of his kids were rambling around, but otherwise, it was just us two. He was sitting on his bed watching a ballgame and I joined him. We half watched, half talked, and I spilled out what a stressful number of weeks I had had along with all of my doubts about mankind while leaning my head on his shoulder. I felt almost selfish, knowing my hard weeks had been nothing like the challenges asked of him, but gracious as always, big brotherly as always, he listened and gave me hugs and said he had been to dark places and that they're just not worth staying in no matter how hard they are to crawl out of. He said he had been in the worst spot and he never wants to be there again, will not allow himself to go there again, no matter how bad things are. He and his business have been hit upside the head by the challenges of the economy and yet he was still remaining upbeat. Not only was he remaining upbeat, but he was bucking me up.

Yes, he was remaining optimistic. We spoke of things we wished for in the future and he said he didn't need to find the end-all love he once sought as a young man, he had already found that... no he just hoped for some companionship. This past week marked the 5th anniversary of his wife's death, I emailed him and said how proud I was of him and how relieved I was that he had miraculously found some footing. He then told me he had met someone and was just enjoying spending time with another person, someone who wasn't looking for all we think we're looking for in our 20's. He said:

Like I told X in regards to the anniversary, because she was aware of the date, I said it is a day to remember, but not one to mourn anymore, because life continues and what has happened will never change, but how we move forward still has value and opportunity, so we are where we are and maybe it's time to start the next chapter and live for those who are left and enjoy them all the more......like friends and family that have carried me all this time, so it's nice to share time with someone who can appreciate these sentiments and not judge or think me crazy........my family already knows I'm a bit TOUCHED!!

My heart sang when I read that. I believe I also told him thank gawd he was touched, to which he responded, "That's right, we're normal, they're all crazy!" :)

I'm not quite sure why I'm posting about this... although I'm pretty much an open book, I do have plenty of stuff I keep private and believe should remain private, whether my own story or someone else's. Also, my brother doesn't read my blog and I'm not quite sure it's fair to post something so private in such a public space, but I guess I'm just really proud of him and amazed at what he's been able to weather. Does that make sense?? I guess it's also a reminder to myself not to linger in bad places even though they're sure to come. Shit will happen. Horrible shit may happen, but we can choose how we react. Why stay in a bad spot if you can think a slightly better thought? Followed by another and another.

The other reason for posting this? We were told that my sister-in-law, through donating her body, most likely helped around 50+ people. 50+.  That's a lot of people. I realize people have their beliefs, but if you're not tightly wrapped to any and have not signed your license...  you might want to. We don't need our bodies once we're gone and someone who is ready to write their next chapter might need something.

But... I didn't know what I was saying!

Last night, as Squirmy Little Dog was trying to weasel his way onto the bed, Grizzled yelled, "Boogie! Get Down! Come on Boogie! Get Down!" I barely noticed, but rather, was focusing on the fact that the lack of foot room was distracting me from my reading.

A few sentences into the article, what he had said finally sank in. It was something we had said so often, I barely noticed. We could not say "Get down" without adding the Boogie. It was part of life'sl shorthand, the inside joke that almost releases its tether from the original event. Last night, the original event sprang back to mind and I cringed and blushed all over again.

Many, many years ago, while still in college... living in one of those dilapidated houses that holds a mishmash of changing roommates and changing faces, I had a roommate whose boyfriend had a dog named, "Boogie". Yes, Boogie... The roommate was not mine, but was connected through another person. The boyfriend? The boyfriend was just a pain and a creep, but he had a wonderful English Sheepdog named... Boogie.

Boogie was a sweet pooch that was often ignored. We all did our best to look after him where we could, but often, he'd just be left out, left to roam. On occasion, one of us would haul him in or go looking for him, afraid he'd get hurt, or afraid he'd unintentionally hurt someone else. He was a BIG DOG and he liked to jump up on people.

I remember coming home one rainy night and seeing him darting about through the yards and street. I was going to have to get him. I called out, "BOOOOOGIE!" He didn't respond. I called again, "BOOOOGIE!!! Come on, BOOGIE!!" At some point, he realized who it was and over he came... only to jump on me with big, muddy paws, at which point I found myself yelling words that echoed throughout the night, "Boogie! Get down! Come on Boogie! Get down! BOOGIE... GET DOWN!!!'

At some point it dawned on me what I was yelling... what I was yelling in a post disco era... I grabbed the dog and hauled him home, me hoping no one had seen or heard me yelling at the top of my lungs, "Boogie, get down!" in the middle of the street. I was mortified. I still kind of am...

The protective filters are down and the mouth is open...

I was talking with a friend a number of weeks ago, I don't remember the progression of the conversation, but do recall ending up talking about what artistic projects I was working on when this little nugget came out... He said, "It's too bad you haven't been successful with your artwork."  He said I had not made much money, or if I had, I had not been consistent.

I sat silent for a moment, confused... It was so strange because in my heart of hearts I could reel off a hundred ways in which I had been successful with it and they were very important ways, ways that meant the world to me. The money part seemed so insignificant at that point. I was thinking instead of my artistic victories; it was so odd to hear someone sum up my entire creative path in terms of money. I understand how he could have done that. I've done that at times, many other people have done that, but when it came right down to it, too much had gone well for me to dismiss it. 

I've treated my artistic abilities like a loyal pooch. No, that's not true, I'd treat a dog better... I've treated them more like a high school boyfriend... there when I need it, dismissed as soon as something more intriguing comes along... and there again when something intriguing doesn't call or live up to the hype. You get the idea.

I don't think I ever set out to have a serious artist career (to be said in deep booming voice!). I love painting, but never wanted to be Julian Schnabel. I always liked Pop Culture a little more (yes, I said it!)and would have been happy making one silly thing that the masses embraced as a touchstone.  And I wasn't even sure of that.. other paths were often more intriguing, but when they paled or life's direction changed, art was there waiting for me. Sometimes I treated it as dismissively as a party trick, other times I realized I might have underestimated it. As I've gotten older, I've relied on it more and more... appreciated it more and more, taken it for granted less and less. I've slowly realized it's not a separate part of me, but was just me... me needing to make things, needing to capture things, needing to express in various ways.

I've made a lot of discoveries over the years. They haven't stopped, if anything, they've increased. I think back to the artistic person I was in high school and in college and then as a young adult, times when I thought I had reached all there was to reach, that my vision was complete, and I laugh because I've realized over the years that I will never stop learning new ways of seeing things, new ways of experiencing things, and with these new ways will come new ways of expressing. It's never-ending, thank God.

I felt I was all that in my 20's... but my 30's held creative changes I never would or could have expected. My 40's have been just as eye-opening. I keep moving forward, keep feeling and seeing things on different levels, which is why it was so funny to hear my entire artistic success summed up in terms of the bottom line. It's ironic because looking back, I probably made more money on things that were nowhere near what I am capable of today. I'm almost ashamed I took money for them...

No, my artistic success cannot be summed up in mere dollars. If anything, my lack of consitent earnings over the years has proven I've failed at marketing and business. Or I've failed at being concise and knowing exactly what I've wanted to do or be when I grew up.  I haven't failed in art, I've failed at making money, I've failed at focusing and choosing. I haven't failed at what I've created or how what I've created has evolved and how I feel about it. I haven't failed in how I see things or feel things. I haven't failed at having ideas, THANK GOD. You have permission to shoot me should my imagination ever give up on me and leave. No, I just honestly could not say I had failed. It was nice to see it like that, to feel it like that, probably for the first time ever.

Brain Cramp

Every once in a while the phone will ring and I'll go to it expecting to see a blogger's user name on the Caller ID... They can get in touch with me via email, why not the phone, or so my distracted mind thinks...  I'll find myself thinking, hmmm, I wonder if it's so and so... even though I know most bloggers don't have my phone number... and even those that do, don't use their user names for REAL LIFE.

I've spoken with BG a number of times on the phone... the times when she called, it never said, "Blue Girl"... And yet, my mind still wouldn't be surprised if at some point the phone rang and the Caller ID said, "Zombie Rotten McDonald" or "Snag" or "Almost Infamous". I don't think I'd pick up if it said, "Pinko Punko".  :)