Space: In terms of family, it’s just a myth.

Today’s Photohunt Theme is “Space”

No matter how much space you have between you and the family members you grew up with, they can reach out and slap you as easily as if they were just whispering in your ear a moment ago.

It’s not just the fact that we are so connected nowadays, though that is what enables it.  But the slap is sharp and quick because they hold a part of you.

No matter how far away from you they are, no matter how long it has been since you have spoken or seen one another, they have the ammunition to bring you to your knees.

They know things that no one else knows.  They are always the quickest to offense and the most equipped to pull you down… and why is it that they always seem to opt to exercise that power when you’re finally lifting your head above your own sordid bullshit?

Many of us have stories that fall into this zone, this space of feeling and emotion.

Sometimes, I just want to stop hearing the ones that play over and over in my head. And I’d like to stop adding new ones to the list.

And if you could successfully edit the reel of memories that plays back inside of you from the past… would you even want to?

Can we appreciate the good times if we don’t have the bad times?

This double edged sword of emotions is piercing my heart today.

Waste away, young lads and lasses. Enjoy your time.

I miss my youth.

Now, before you go brow-beating me about how I’m still young, how I have so much longer to go before I lose my youth, or how much older than me you are and yadda yadda yadda (oh, yeah, I totally just ‘yadda yadda’d’ you), hear me out.

I mean not only youth in body, but youth in spirit, feeling, knowledge.

I miss the bliss of ignorance, the forever stretched out before me. The feeling that anything is possible.

With the passage of time comes experience; with experience comes knowledge, understanding (of sorts).

They say youth is wasted on the young. However, you realize, that is what makes it worth it. If the young knew the value of youth – the desire they would feel to have it back when it was gone… they would never really be able to enjoy it, would they?

With knowledge comes the shift.

The more you learn about the true nature of humans and the things of the world, the more you have to let go of the naive idealism that kept your young cheeks rosy and new.

No, there is no need to let go of hope, determination, and wonder. I am wide-eyed at the world still, believe me.

You could not freely wander the earth with your eyes, heart and mind open and not find a new and amazing thing every day if you tried. This is why I take photographs. Because over and over… again and again, even within my tiny sphere of movement, this happens to me.

So lecture me not on being able to capture the wonder of youth even with age.

But sit beside me for a spell and mourn with me this thing that must happen to us all. Some of us more than others, or maybe just a little bit sooner. But to all of us, it happens, to some degree or another.

The truth is that we must open our hands and let the fancy daydreams of childhood slide from our palms sometimes. Some things which happen steal them from us like wicked trolls, whisk them away to dark places; hiding them from the light. Only a child can pluck them out anew and let them grow for a time again.

My hands are too old to hold onto things which must escape them, already. The effort of trying has worn my fingers tired and weary.

We move through life, rolling along, and suddenly things assault us from this direction or that. The human tendency to ignore these possibilities on a conscious level from day to day allows us to function; it allows us to keep those wheels rolling, greasy and smooth. But no amount of greasing stops a rock from throwing you off your axel. You’ll have to reconsider concepts like need, desire, and love when your cart overturns.

It can take a long time to grease that wheel again. I’m workin’ on it.

I’m workin’ on it.

I speak in riddles because the words are too painful and tiresome to lay out in detail and push around into the proper order. It has been yet another day of remembering so many things that I would sometimes like to forget.

Sometimes.

So many things, some of which I’ve shared before, others which I may never tell you. Time will tell.

For now I close my eyes, take a deep breath in, push a long, tired breath out, and put one hand inside of the other. And hold on.

Tomorrow, I’ll open my eyes, and move those wheels along again.

On a somewhat related note: man, I farckin’ hate PMS.

Of all the things I’ve squeezed with my hands…

Something I may not have shared before is that I’ve always been kind of a crafty dork. It’s just been a really long time since I’ve allowed myself the time to let my Inner Crafting Dork free.

I’ve done a bit of everything. *eyebrow wiggle*  Drawing, painting, sculpture, random bead madness, hemp braiding silliness, all kinds of glue gun insanity, etc and etc.  But college, grad-school, real-job, spawning a human being… so many things replaced my crafting time.

But.

I found this awesome tutorial online recently. And within a day, I was making paper.

I.have.been.making.freakin.paper.

And oddly, this makes me feel… powerful. Bills and junk mail cannot defeat me! I churn them and add flower petals and onion skins! And out comes pretty, crinkly paper.

MUAHAHAHAHA.

It’s also been calming. And somehow therapeutic. Something about the process and the outcome makes me feel happy and peaceful.

And usually, I only feel that way after mocking someone or making a crass remark.  So this is landmark.

Before long, it occurred to me that I might be able to sell the product of my creative therapy.  Then those nagging bitches, Doubt and Insecurity, ganged up with the insufferable hag called Self Deprecation and threw a party in my head. (With Tequila.  Those bitches don’t play, yo.)  Suddenly, I’m wondering if anyone would actually buy my paper. I’m wondering if my paper is actually ugly to everyone but me.

The banner at the party in my head says, “You think your paper is so great, but PS: YOU SUCK and so does your paper, ya dumb beesh.”  (It’s a long banner.  I have a big forehead.)

I think the paper I’ve made is pretty… but would anyone really buy it?  This is where I turn to you guys, in all your wisdom and awesomeness. I need your vote below!

All Hail The Reader Opinion!

The paper is handmade from recycled (technically, upcycled) product (old papers, bills, envelopes, etc) and natural plant fibers (blossoms, petals, onion & garlic skins, etc).  The paper edges are “deckled” or unfinished – I could cut them straight, but I feel they’re so much prettier this way.

Here are some photos of the papers I’ve made so far. (I’m planning on making more colors as I go along.)

Poll time:  Will you please vote on whether I should try to sell my handmade paper?

(And don’t worry, you can be totally honest.  I have no way to know who you are when you vote – you have to pay for that feature, and I’m one cheap ass bitch. Seriously, who pays for that crap?)

Just vote on the little thingie below. I don’t know if it will show up in your feed reader, or email subscriber posts, so if you use those services, would you mind clicking over to vote?

Then I’ll know if I can give Doubt, Insecurity, and Self Deprecation the finger and send them packing or if I should just bend over and let them shove that banner up my butt and get it over with.

If you are a highly visual person?  So, so sorry about that. (But not really.)

_______________________________________________________

EDITED TO ADD:

I had some concern about bleeding of inks on the pages, and some of you guys mentioned it, so I figured there was no time like the present to go ahead and test some sheets.  It was just a small test, but I used a Blue Pentel Rolling Ball Pen and a Black Sharpie on each of 3 pages so far, and was astounded (happily!) that neither bled.  BOOYAH!  There seems to be a good amount of the sizing (added to paper to stop ink bleed when it is manufactured) from the original paper products (bills, flyers, etc) remaining in the end product I’m creating to hinder bleed.  So far, anyway.  Yay!

But a memory, as I wait for the spark of Spring.

Today’s Photohunt Theme is “Warm”

What it has to be for the flames of this sunflower to lick at the summer sky.

It’s what I long for, especially in the dead of winter. I’m not a fan of being cold. In fact, I’d rather live a thousand summers than one winter. I despise the pain of being chilled to the bone.

Any temperature that raises itself above the definition of “cold” is my friend.  Warm is nice, but I’m even okay with hot.  Dry heat, humid heat, whatever. Take me to daytime Mercury for crying out loud. Oxygen is highly overrated. I just don’t want it to be COLD.

Jack Frost tried to woo me this winter with a love letter.

And it worked; oh, did I swoon. He sent a shiver down my spine, and I was head over heels.

But he is a typical player. It was but a one night stand. His icy kiss faded fast, leaving me with nothing but chattering teeth and chapped cheeks.

Now, as I wait for the spark of Spring to revive, I’m trying to recall the buzzing of the bees. Their song tells a much sweeter love story.

I’ll close my eyes for awhile and listen to that memory in my head and smell the sweet smell of summers gone by, like a dream. Wait for the flutter of a butterfly to tickle my face as it hurries by, on its way to the next yellow beauty.

And when I have to open my eyes and the cold, bleak, gray of Winter is still peering at me with its icy, slate eyes, I’ll just shrug deeper into my sweater and try to concentrate on other warm things until time turns the pages of the calender for me, again.

ishly

new year’s eve

(don’t act like you don’t kick off the new year by taking inappropriate love pictures of yourself with meat.)

And then.

I wanted to lose weight starting Januaryishly.

And not because of some dumbass resolution that I felt compelled to make as I jumped off the cliff with all the other lemmings just because of the scribbled marks of letter and number on a calendar that tells us what we are supposed to call this time in space that we are all sitting in.

Yeah, it was January.  A new year happened. (you can hear the whoopty-frickin-doo in this, right?)

Contrary to my having been “2009′s Anxious Mistress,” nothing magical happened when the clock struck midnight and 2009 rose in all its glory.

My ass stayed fat, my heart stayed broken, my mind stayed confuzzled, and there was no effing prince charming standing here waiting to cram a glass shoe on my foot and tell me how DAMN GORGEOUS I AM.

Which makes him a big, fat doodiehead jerk, because it would have been nice to go to the ball.  Or live happily ever after.

AHAHAHAHA.

I can’t believe I just wrote that.

Because, BLAH.  And also?  GAG.

Resolution Schmesolution, in other words.

But I did want to lose the weight.  The weight that I had ALREADY lost through a lot of hard work and will power (no, I have no idea where the hell I got it from, so I have no secrets for you) Augustishly 2008.

You know, back when I was bragging about being able to pull my pants down without opening them, and being such a womping moron that I posted a video of it online.

And that was the 10lb mark, and I lost at least 5 more lbs after that and I was feeling really great.

But shit, man, sometimes it just seems like life hates it when things are going well.  (I’m so optimistic, it’s disgusting.)

So I got pregnant, and got fat way too fast, because that’s also what life likes for me.  Pregnant = sick-novomit-butlotsoffat.

So 3 months in I got all the fat and none of the baby.  And then the none of the baby part made me do what?  Sit on my ass and eat.  And drink.

Because cookiescakeburgerschocolatewinepeanutbutterpizza = happiness, right? (RIGHT!?)

No.  But still.  This is my reaction.

Yeah, when the worst of the shit of life smears itself across my upper lip, forcing me to think the world smells like an asshole, I can think of nothing to do but cram food into my facehole.

And all that weight I lost Julyishly and gained back Novemberishly got added to, even, Decemberishly.

Causing me to feel quite lardishly.

And so? The desire to lose weight Januaryishly 2009.

And now it’s Februarishly.  And I’ve really lost no significant weight.  My body is still lumpy and plumpy and the fat pants are tight.  Oh, woe is me when the FAT pants get tight.

Why, oh why are the fat pants tight?

It MIGHT be because I haven’t tried in any remotely small way to exercise or get back on my old healthy diet.

YOU MEAN YOU CAN’T GET MAGICALLY UNFAT JUST BECAUSE YOU WANT TO?

Oh.  Yeah. Ok.  But there’s one problem I’m having.

I can’t find the motivation.

Honestly, most of the time all I want to do is sleep.  Just wanna curl on up into a big, fat-roll adorned, snoring, furry (shaving? hah!) ball and EFFING SLEEP.

It’s called HIBERNATING.  And bears get to do it.  Yeah, they are allowed to do this.  They’re allowed to eat like total jerks until they’re fat and gross (and furry, them bitches don’t shave, yo) and then they sleeeeeeeep. And what do the damn bears do that’s so great that they deserve this? Hmm?  What do they do that makes them soooo great?

Nothing. That’s right.  I am giving the bears EXACTLY ZERO PROPS.

I want to hibernate.  And God Help Anyone who tries to wake me.

That’s what the CLAWS are for.

Repeat after me:  “Lotus is sleeping.  We shall not wake her.  We shall make pies for when she awakes. But we shall not wake her.  All hail The Fat, Furry, Sleeping Bitch.”

Tell me when it’s Spring.

Maybe then I’ll feel motivationishly again.

Gear Woser, Cwis

Recently, Sweetney shared a link on Twitter that made my life complete.

“You Make Me Touch Your Hands For Stupid Reasons”

Please note, you need the sound on, and you should read along for maximum FUNNY AS HELLNESS.

John and I quote this relentlessly around the house now, and the amount of laughter it evokes is off the scale of measurable hilarity.

Seriously, if you don’t think this is funny, I don’t get you.  And you definitely don’t get me.

And I might even have to kill you in your sleep.

Indoctrinating Braden into the world of TEH INTERNET CAN HAZ FUNNEH:

PS: He is incapable of sitting still, in case you were wondering.

PPS: My next mission is to train him to use this swiffer thingie I just got to clean the kitchen floor. You can take 2 of the segments out and make it “toddler size.” Best discovery I’ve made all year.

PPPS: I’m all about the child labor.

Dancing to the beat of my own piercing.

HappyCampers:
“When did you get your nose pierced? Did it hurt a lot?”

Tracy D:
“Does Braden ever try to pull your nose ring out? (Mine does)”

Amy:
“This may have come before me but I want to know the story of the nose piercing. Why? How bad did it hurt? How long do you plan to have it? Is it a problem when you’re sick and all boogery and blowing?”

When I moved to Texas because of a certain person in 2002, I was planning on finding a job working in mental health, or some such job that would allow me to use my psychology degree.  A teaching job at a University or Community College would have been really nice, but that was what we like to call a “fat effin chance.”  Which, by the way, really doesn’t make sense when you think about it.  Because it should be a “skinny chance,” as in slim, as in very little chance. Now I’m annoyed by that phrase.  Great.  Anyway.  There were no new “Soft Sciences” teaching positions being created (and don’t even get me started on how that term irritates the shit out of me) because even way back then, the economy was already heading shit-face first into the fan.

I actually had a job offer at a community college back in NC, but I had to turn it down when I didn’t finish my degree on schedule.  And that?  Sucked.  But it doesn’t pay to keep being upset about it now, so lets move on. (I’ll save it for a day when I’m feeling more bitter and looking for something to bitch about.)

For a couple of months I was just a total, mooching bum.  And I think John was really excited to, you know, have brought the cow home to his pasture without buying it.  So he didn’t really mind putting up with my unemployed ass.  I lived with him and he totally supported me, financially and otherwise.  And from July through October, I was just floating along from day to day, just kind of existing.  I looked into this and that, but nothing good was coming my way.  By October, this and that lookering was getting old.  I was starting to feel a little too much like, what is it they call it? Oh, yeah.

A TOTAL, ASSBAG LOSER.

So I sucked it up and filled out an application at a mall retail store with a referral from a good friend.

Part-Time, Temporary Holiday help, my friends.  That’s what you earn a BA and MA to do.

Riiiight.

By the new year, as I had impressed my boss enough with my immense intelligence and hardworking attitude (or maybe she was just really desperate), I was offered a regular position.

And because I so enjoyed the life of a “mall worker” (John referred to me as such ONCE and ONLY ONCE because he likes his testicles and prefers walking without a limp) I worked diligently and flashed my winning smile at everyone who would look my way.

And when they weren’t looking I ripped and tore at my face, made demonic sounds, and banged my head against the wall in the back room. (If you have ever worked retail, you know that it will drive you to such behavior.)

Long story a little less long, within a couple of years time I moved through the ranks… Part-Time Temporary Seasonal Associate, Part-Time Regular Sales Associate, Second Assistant Manager, Assistant Manager, Store Manager.  (The word “ass” was in a lot of the positions I held.  Mere coincidence.)

During this entire time I had normal, long, brown hair.  Never, you know, purple like it had been years before, or anything like that.  And the thought of a facial piercing or visible tattoo?  A POX ON THAT!  I’d have lost my job.

For almost four years, my appearance was restricted to what my employers felt was acceptable.  And while it didn’t bother me all the time, it nagged just below the surface.  I’d always liked the idea of dying my hair funky colors or someday getting some type of facial piercing.  On top of that, right around the time I started working there, I suddenly developed a piercing allergy in my ears.  I’d been wearing cheap earrings in my ears since I’d had them pierced at age 11. One day when I was 26 my ear-holes started burning, bleeding, and crusted over.  I can’t put anything but real gold there now.  Frankly, I don’t make it a habit to purchase tiny, excessively expensive things.  It’s like BEGGING the universe to just swallow my money whole and then blow a big, juicy STINK BURP in my face. So no more earrings for me.

And I guess you could say the desire to wear a nose gem was intensified by my inability to wear my earrings any longer.

When I found out I was pregnant in February (which would mean leaving work at some point), and shorty after that learned that John was changing jobs and we were moving to another state? (Translation: I was losing my job.) I took it as my chance to FINALLY RELAX.

One of my friends/employees made my hair lovely for me.

First it was orange and red.  Eventually it looked like this, and I maintained it myself.

And then she did the proverbial Hand-Hold-Go-Along trip with me to The Nostril Stabber.

Because I wanted to have a huge, sharp, metal stick jabbed into my face.  I am nothing if not mentally STABLE. But at least I was a little scared of it, so I brought her with me.

Oh, did I mention I was pregnant?  Yeah, I’m not endorsing doing stupid things to your body when you’re pregnant.  (Lecture me about it, though, and I’m going to show you one of my favorite 2 fingers.)

I sat on the edge of a cold metal table; Tasha stood next to me, kind of smirking.  The Nose Stabber positioned himself in front of me, made a mark where I said I wanted the piercing, and then raised a huge sharp stabbing tool at my face.

[Totally sexy, right?  You want one right now.  I can sense it.  Yeah, baby.]

There was a pricking sensation and a bit of pressure.  I waited for the real pain, ready to hold my breath until it was over.

The Nose Stabber stared at me. I looked at him.  I looked at Tasha.

TNS told me it was done.  Huh?

That’s right.  There’s a quick pricking sensation, a bit of pressure, and then it’s over.  And you have a gem in your nose.  And your nose is super sexy and wonderful.

You take care of that bitch with EXTREME CAUTION for the next couple of years because if you don’t, it will hurt like hell.  You AVOID AT ALL COSTS ripping it out of your face with: your shirt, your sunglasses, or your own stupid, flailing hands.

Heh.

You clean it, bathe it with warm salt water, and whisper sweet nothings to it every night at bedtime.  In the morning, you awake and smile at it prettily in the mirror.

And if your husband hates it?  You say, “TOUGH SHIT, BUDDY, THIS IS THE ONE THING YOU MAY NOT HAVE DOMINION OVER.” (Okay, one OF the things.)  And he will get over it.

(And even when he says all wonderful and gushy things like how beautiful your face is without it, you just roll your eyes and tell him that’s great, then, the tiny little gem will not mar your INCREDIBLE BEAUTY AND CLASS.)

The inside of it is a little twirl, like a curved L.  That keeps it in with minimal nostril blockage.  But yes, boogers do sometimes get crusted onto it.  And no, it’s not really all that gross.  You get very used to blowing your nose and cleaning it while it’s in.  I’ve had trouble putting it back in on occasion, but all things in life that are worth it usually require a little extra effort, right?  I sort of believe that nothing worth it is ever easy all the time.

Braden has never snatched at it.  Since he was a little baby I told him what it was, and to be gentle and not pull it, and I let him touch it whenever he wanted.  He often touches it very delicately and says, “Nose tud!” (stud)

One day not long ago, he touched it carefully, and said “Dwum.”  Kids notice the most amazing things.  It does, literally, look like a tiny drum.

And this tiny drum has become as much a part of my face now, to me, as my eyelashes or my freckles.

It’s a little glimmer on the side of my nose that shines even on a day when I feel dull.

It winks in the light even if I’m not smiling.

It’s there every day, unchanging.  Always a source of happiness for me.

Sometimes, that kind of rhythm is better than any beat you can tap out.

He’s not losing sleep over the sunglasses.

He’s more pissed off on a regular basis about things like why he can’t have a million and five cups of apple juice in one day and our infernal, never-ending desire to torture him orally with that weird plastic stick that has bristles, under the guise of “keeping his teeth strong, healthy, and clean!”

But the sunglasses?  Meh.  He’s so over that.

And I just can’t help myself.  I beg that no one gets offended, but I feel like I have to say, as per some comments on yesterday’s post, that Braden actually has not only 2 pair of sunglasses made to actually fit his face, but he has been given another pair of my old sunglasses to delight himself with.  So, no worries, he has sunglasses to play with.

I hid the broken pair from him that night (after he tried to wear them with one side broken off and got a bit annoyed when they wouldn’t stay on), and he never even cared.  I gave him the replacement pair a day or so later, and he happily put them on and ran around, no questions asked.

They are really manly, too. Silver Leopard Print, Baby.  Yeah. (Of course, again, he couldn’t care less.)

Eh… uh… about yesterday’s post… the sunglasses per se really weren’t the main idea I’d intended for the article to focus you on, rather they created a situation that made my mind stretch a little and my emotions warble and dance. I wanted to share with you the little emotional jig that was being performed in my head and my heart… see if maybe you could dance the steps with me.

By the way (*huffs and puffs, theatrically*), I’m pretty good at figuring out how to fix the silly little things that my 2 year old worries about, in a practical way.  Gimme a lil bit of credit as a mom, folks, dang.  I’m not a TOTAL moron, really! (No, really.  STOP LAUGHING BEHIND YOUR HAND. I CAN SEE YOU, DAMNIT.)

And no offense to anyone, cause I adore you guys (you commented, that means you gave a shit, and I adore you), but there is no amount of super glue or duct tape that could hold the metal/plastic together for long enough to withstand even 30 seconds of  Two-Year-Old-Boy-Play.  Braden can look at things hard enough to break them, sometimes, I swear.  So that made me giggle.

So, anyway… I was just making some connections between this little thing and larger emotions and issues… painting a small picture that mirrors a large and complex one in the adult world?

Bah, sometimes a girl just doesn’t get her point across.

I should stick to fart jokes, right?

*poot*