For My Sorority Sisters

This post goes out to my Sorority sisters. No,no, not a real sorority. I am talking about an imaginary sorority, where you still get to sing and dance, and even pull pranks on your sisters, but have to have sex with the same guy every night because you are old and married. Also, you do not need to memorize the Greek alphabet, but instead, get to sing David Allen Coe and Mica lyrics at a high volume in front of frightened elderly couples and children. We are onto something here! I am pretty sure you get to laugh a lot more in our imaginary sorority, but I could be wrong. My research is limited, since I majored in protesting in college, which included protesting the Rush week. I am glad I did so, because they were complete dicks to my orphaned, yet devoutly religious and Republican friend Tiffany. Did I mention that she was an orphan? Within years of her rejection, she became a Lesbian. Parents, watch out, the Greek/sorority system made her gay.

Speaking of homosexuality, I was also not a cheerleader in high school, though people are constantly assuming so, due to my cheerful-as-fuck attitude. I was a cheerleader of sorts, but only for my fellow students dealing with depression, coming out, getting sober, or questioning authority. I didn't really have a uniform, unless frizzy hair and eyeliner counts, and was neither sanctioned by the administration, nor recognized in the yearbook. I am pretty bitter about the whole experience.

I assume that this new imaginary sorority will fill the gap left by a lack of appropriate social interactions, but am hoping not. I am expecting anything but appropriate from my new Sistahs. Welcome to the Ridiculous, Ladies!

Lent is Over, Not My Mission!

In order to truly give up clutter, my surroundings must be fabulous!

(I may still be a bit cluttered, but I am working on it every day! All clothing is now in drawers, hanging up or in the wash. No joke!) I decided to paint the wall exterior to my kitchen,as well. I like it!
I am working on my bedroom now, and a gear closet. Pictures to follow!

* "pictures say a thousand words, so why should I?" What ever happened to my old fashioned rants, you ask? I do believe working graveyard shifts this entire year has made me complacent, literally. Ha-ha!

**Don't you just hate it when people use the word "literally" incorrectly? "My son is literally bouncing off the walls!" Oh? Is there a trampoline involved? Did you send him to space camp in space? Or do you mean metaphorically, but just cant get the syllables out? God bless 'em!
(There, a baby rant. Happy?)

What I Don't Have

Everything I can possibly give will not be enough for someone whom wants something I don't have in the first place. People are imperfect and varied, which is what makes relationships with other humans so special and wonderful.

When The Pin Hits The Shell (er, Primer)

Some objects are more sacred than others.

My Daddy bought me my first gun in 2004, a Sig Sauer P229 40 cal with 3 high cap mags, light rail and trijicon night sights. This came from the man who taught me how to whittle, carry a hatchet, bank a fire and have all sorts of adventures in the big woods, but would not allow me to carry a full sized pocket knife when in civilization.
I was his first born, the only girl child in my family, and the only female among all of my 1st cousins till I was in my late teens. I argued with him, and begged and pleaded for a 9mm Glock in high school. He saw no reason for his vegetarian pacifist artist of a daughter to be interested in such things. so the subject was dropped. I went off to Art school, at Kent State and got lost until I woke up years later in the Canyon one day, knowing not who I was, but what I was made of.

Whilst mi Madre was convinced that I only had to wear a bullet proof vest at my new job for insurance reasons (note: the federal government does not take out insurance policies on its business practices) because no one would EVER want to hurt a Park Ranger, mi Padre acknowledged and supported that which was pulling me forward. We were on the same team, just like when I was a small child in Harfleur, always claiming, through bready smiles, that the end of the baguette got caught yet again in the elevator on the way back from the market. (Firearms and Baked goods are of equal importance.)
Some time later I fell in love with a boy. We had the exact same hand guns with the same features, and took this (as well as some other secrets) as a sign of our eternal compatibility. It was not.

My gun totting, tree hugging, granola crunching body broke my wrist whilst sliding across the ice on the way back from the recycle bin. I fractured a tiny moon shaped bone, called the Lunate, and then fractured it over and over again until the marrow seeped out, whilst trying to improve my suddenly declining firearms skills. While my wrist is healed, my grip changed, as did my once passionate love affair. I can shoot a Sig 45 with great accuracy, but the 40 cal just does not sit in my palm as it once did, nor does my love sit inside my soul.

My love told me at one time in the past, that he would buy my Sig from me if I wanted to sell it, so that our matching pistols would always be together, and I could more easily afford a 45. He mentioned this again the other day in an email regarding the final serration of all our belongings. He has a new love, a young love, in his home and, hopefully, in his heart. While I am perfectly blissed out in my life, I would feel more comfortable were he to give his object of affection my entire collection of lingerie then ever give her the opportunity to pull back my 10lb/4.5lb double action/single action trigger.
--------------------------------------------------------
Lyrics of the Day by Drive-By Truckers

PIN HITS THE SHELL

You can lie to your Mama,
you can lie to your race
but you can't lie to nobody
with that cold steel in your face.
And the same God that you're so afraid
is gonna send you to hell
is the same one you're gonna answer to
when the pin hits the shell.
Your sister's been blaming everybody.
I don't blame her, man,
I guess I'd blame them too
if you was my brother, man,
I'd probably stand by you.
But you ain't, man, so I got to go my way.

And I ain't gonna crawl upon no high horse
Cause I got thrown off of one
when I was young and I ain't no cowboy
so I ain't going where I don't belong.
It wouldn't do you no good to let you know
that it damned near killed me too
so I ain't gonna mourn for you, man,
now that you're gone.

Me and you, we liked our pills and our whiskey.
But you don't want your head full of either one
when the house gets quiet and dark.
Having fun used to be so damned easy,
racing trains from 2nd Street to Avalon.
Take a trip down memory lane,
You don't see no friendly faces
all the houses have been painted
and nobody knows your name.
It's enough to make a man not want
to be nobody's Daddy,
when all he thinks he's got left to hand down is guilt and shame.

And I ain't gonna crawl upon no high horse........
Cause I got thrown off of one
when I was young and I ain't no cowboy
so I ain't going where I don't belong. I
t wouldn't do you no good to let you know
that it damned near killed me too
so I ain't gonna mourn for you, man,
now that you're gone.

You can lie to your Mama,
you can lie to your race
but you can't lie to nobody
with that cold steel in your face.
And the same God that you're so afraid
is gonna send you to hell
is the same one you're gonna answer to
when the pin hits the shell.

06-11-2008

Mmm, Phishy Phish!

Phish vs The Grateful Dead: I was too busy listening to Industrial music and carving a trench in my soul, to get into the dead when they were touring. I never saw them live, so I do not have that most pure experience to reference. Recently I took the time to open my mind and ears to both Jam Bands. I like Phish better. If you are the type of person to tell me that my personal taste in music is inappropriate, or even heresy, I am pretty sure Jerry himself would tell you to ef off. Music is experienced differently by everyone, and I'll be damned if I pretend I like something better, just because it is trendy.
09-19-2007

Is that the Acid or just the Autism?

Well meaning ass holes constantly approach his mother in public comment on what they view as her obvious lack of parenting skills. What kind of kid throws himself on the floor in public, right? He does not look like a special needs person so it must be her fault, right? Funny how they never care enough to engage in an actual conversation. Then they would have to see the error in their judgemental ways and apologize. This blows my mind, and gives me pause. I think a bit more before I scowl at folks with loud or differently behaving children.

While his lack of empathy is the source of so many misunderstandings in his life in this instance it allows him a greater freedom.

I recently found the perfect dance partner in this Autistic child. I am used to rocking out in my own special way, but Zachary has brought so much joy into my life with his particular brand of choppy movement. His signature move is a series of downward robotic homeboy slices. No matter the size of the crowd or lack of fellow dancers, he always agrees to dance, or even asks me. He dances in earnest, in his own private world, which I am gifted in sharing. Zachary truly embraces the joy of the dance in a way that acid droppers nation wide can only dream of. I am secretly his understudy.

09-01-2007