Pussy Cat, Pussy Cat...

This is truly a tragedy. I mean it. This is serious. I feel terrible about it, but...

I have this cat, I've mentioned her before. She keeps me awake at night because she's constantly ripping up the carpet or pissing all over my life. She's mean to everyone. Sometimes I think, if it weren't for the fact that I keep her bowl full of kibble and regularly scoop the crap out of her stupid shit box, she'd be wicked to me too. Every once in a while she tries to play the whole "Who's The Alpha Female In The House" game with me; she does her best to terrorize me, the way she does everyone else, but... there's only ONE Queen of This Jungle, and it aint her.

If you've been reading my blog regularly, a) you're excited to see something new, b) you're frustrated that I waited nearly a month and a half to post again, and c) you are completely familiar with the ringing of my ears and how irksome that was becoming to me. So all you've really missed is about six weeks of me going back and forth to the doctor trying to find out what was wrong. Well, the cat is what's wrong. The cat that has been the bane of my existence ever since I moved into this little hovel of a home.

When I moved into this space, I unfortunately moved away from a home that was perfect for my cat's personality. She could go out back into this fairy tale yard, complete with fountain and Zen garden, and hang with the group of swaggering felines that patrolled the area, providing a service to the people via pigeon population control. She stayed out all night and came in for the day. She pissed on nothing that was mine and dug her claws into nothing but outdoor trees and possibly other cats, critters, children, and random people who dared approach the "cute kitty." It truly was cat heaven. The only time she came to me was when she wanted some love and a warm lap to curl up and purr on. (Ah yes... those were the days when I could hold my own in the cat vs. dog argument) But when I moved here I basically moved from 2000 square feet to maybe 850 square feet, not to mention I have no private yard and we're sharing walls with other neighbors (some of them annoying drunk neighbors). She hated the move, no cat does well with change but this, for her and possibly for me, was a very unwelcome change.


My initial solution was to get her a collar and let her roam about at night like she did at the house. Wrong. Her first night out I get a call at four o'clock in the morning with this thick Indian accent on the line saying, "Uh, jes. There is thees cat and she has been scratching on the door for hours and we finally got up to see what is going on and it's thees cat and my wife, she open thee door and thee cat got in thee house and we could not get her out of thee house and my wife, she finally got her out of thee house but now my wife, she cannot get back in thee house because thee cat, she is standing in front of the door and she is scaring my wife and my wife, she cannot get back in." So I walk outside and find a lady standing in the courtyard of the building directly across from mine. I start apologizing profusely as I walk upstairs and see her husband staring down at me from the kitchen window with the phone to his ear and I find my cat standing on her hind legs at their front door with her claws out like she's some kind of grizzly bear protecting the entrance to her den (and I have to admit she was quite a terrifying sight... Feral Cat).

After that episode two things happened: I removed her collar because if she were going to roam around and terrorize the neighbors I didn't want to be associated with her wickedness, and she apparently scared herself into never roaming outside our courtyard. The problem is, she's a free spirit that doesn't like being confined in a tiny space (an aspect of her I completely relate to). Unfortunately, this created some kind of cat neurosis that finds solace and comfort in pissing all over my house!!!

I don't know how many of you are familiar with feline urine, but it's one of the most awful smells I've ever encountered. One of the cleaning solutions (I have tried many, btw, and I can tell you which ones are the best so don't go by false advertisement -- if you need to know the best in cleaning cat piss, call me) even advises to ALWAYS wear latex gloves when cleaning cat piss because it's "caustic." No joke -- CAUSTIC. How many times to you hear that word? I've called people caustic, and they're usually the same people that have me doubled over in laughter due to their extremely bitter and sarcastic retorts to life in general, but... Caustic Cat Piss? As in, capable of burning, corroding, or destroying living tissue? So, not only is my cat annoying the hell out of me, she's basically inundated my home with a poisonous fluid that could destroy me? I AM a living tissue. It's like the acid that drops out of Sigourney Weaver's Aliens, but it's lining the baseboards of my home and destroyed a few of the books that rest on the bottom shelf of my bookcase. On top of it all, the caustic fumes, that apparently don't go away after repetitious cleaning, were such an affront to my immune system it decided to man up my nasal passages and swell to the point of closing off the vestibules in my ears which is why (three months later) my ears are STILL RINGING!!! Adding insult to injury, I had to spend $125 on medication yesterday for my allergies and my ears all because of the cat piss that I've already spent at least $600 on in an attempt to remedy the situation. I've read books, I've changed cat foods, I've changed litter and litter boxes, I've played calming music for her while I'm at work, I've put cat nip and cat fermones everywhere, I've used countless amounts of enzymatic cleaner to get the pee up out of the carpet only to watch her turn around and do it again and again and again. And yesterday I had to sit in the doctor's office and listen to the man say, "I'm not going to tell you what to do with your cat, but it's definitely a problem."

So... as much as I love this cat, I think it's time for me to start thinking of her as a relationship gone sour. I can't take this abuse anymore. But... what do I do? She loves no one but me, and even that's questionable at times. Who would take her? Who would be able to win her heart over?


If she were a dude, pissing all over my house in an attempt to manipulate me, I'd dump him without hesitation. But she's not a dude, she's a cute little furry creature that still curls up and purrs on my lap whenever she finds time to love me. If she were a friend that just needed me to constantly clean up her messes, I'd eventually tell her that she's a drain and a waste of my time and energy, she does nothing but take and give nothing in return, and she needs to fend for herself. But she's not human and she can't fend for herself, and I'm not even sure she knows that her urine is "caustic" so... I can't do that one either. But I have to break this relationship off. I can't keep doing this. Something has to change and I'm pretty sure, after six months, I've exhausted all avenues except the "break-up" route. The problem is, whenever I put an end to an unhealthy human relationship, I never have to worry that someone will be euthanized if they can't replace me within the next seven days (though in some cases that might have saved someone else some serious drama).

As frustrated as I am, I cried most of the day yesterday because I feel like I've failed my cat somehow. I feel like there was something she needed I didn't give her and now she's the one that has to suffer because I just can't deal with it. I have allergies that are driving me insane, I have a home that I'm constantly struggling to keep clean and sanitary, and I have this cute furry creature with a personality that has both angered me and given me pleasure. She's been my guard cat against people that should've never been that close to me and she has amused me even when she's frightened people I care about (because it's always funny to see a tiny ten pound creature that could easily be drop kicked wield a presence powerful enough to intimidate 100+ pound people). I've looked for No Kill Shelters, but they only save cats that are "threatened" with death not cats that have to be handed off by owners who can't care for them anymore. I'd advertise for someone to take, but who's going to believe that she's lovable because she's only lovable to me? More and more it looks like I'll be taking her to the county animal control shelter and my heart sinks. I've had her for five years... walking down the hall to drop her off in some cold scary cage that may be the last thing she sees before the end does NOT sit well with me.

Seriously, if anyone out there has any better ideas, I'm open to suggestion.

Disease Of The Eighth Nerve

Okay, so it's day seven on the antibiotics for my ear infections and the ringing is still with me. The doctor had told me that if day seven (today) rolled around and my ears were still ringing I needed to see a specialist (an ENT). To top it off, the paper he handed me had two boxes checked: one for infection of the middle ear and the other for tinnitus. I can make jokes all day long, but the reality is I don't want to spend the rest of my days with ringing ears.

Knowing that today was nigh approaching, I did what every good patient shouldn't do and went looking for information about tinnitus on the Internet. Do I need to admit right now that I wish I hadn't done that? Apparently, everything from high cholesterol, vitamin B deficiency, high blood pressure, ear disease, aneurysm, some constant meningeal fluid, and lets not forget insanity can be the cause of tinnitus. This is another one of those "ignorance is bliss" moments. I should have just taken that referral slip, made my appointment, and walked in saying, "Yeah, my ears are still ringing," and let him look with his ear scope thingy. But no, I thought I'd go look up symptoms and causes and see which ones I could rule out. I know which ones I want to rule out, but seeing as how most of them are silent killers, unknown to you without proper testing and exams, yeah... I did myself no favors here.

The best and most terrifying description came from a book titled, _Text-Book of Nervous Diseases_ by Charles Loomis Dana:

The disease attacks adults in middle or later life. Men and women are alike affected. Neuropathic constitutions and an unstable circulation favor it. The arterio-sclerosis of old age, cerebral aenemia and congestion, sunstroke, tobacco, and alcoholism lead to it. It occurs often in melancholia and in neurasthenia. Some local disease or congestion in the middle ear is usually present. Tinnitus also occurs in Brights disease, gout, and dyspepsia.
...Tinnitus accompanies insanity, sometimes, and may be the source of aural hallucinations. ...Despite the long list of causes, the chief factors may be summed up as neurasthenic states, local ear disease, humoral poisons and irritants, reflex irritants, arterio-sclerosis.

So, yeah... All of that was written under a large section titled "Diseases Of The Eighth Nerve" also known as the acoustic or space sense nerve. The best part about it, now that I've scared all of you (hopefully just as much as I scared myself, though I doubt it), I stopped giving that portion too much credit the moment I realized the book was published in 1898 (which explains the creepy Dr. Frankenstein tone of the writing, though I doubt he was a Mary Shelley fan). This is not to say that Dr. Charles doesn't have some points, I simply mean that I can't equate late 19th century medicine to early 21st century medicine. I will also say that the information I found aside from this had a little less fear attached to it.

Most made reference to possible cardiovascular causes, but in those cases the tinnitus is a pulsating sound (which I don't have) keeping up with the heart beat indicating something wrong with the carotids. The other possibilities are related to head injury (which I don't have), neck problems/pinched nerves (which is a possibility for me, since I refused to take the advice of the ergo guy at my office), jaw joint trouble, and middle ear infection/disease (which I have right now). The only one that truly scares me would be the cardiovascular case, but given the circumstance I'm in and that my blood pressure two seconds ago (no joke, I checked) was 104 over 69 I think I'm good.

There is, of course, the possibility that I'm one of the thousands of people that go the rest of my life with ringing ears and no one can figure out why. All of the sites, however, assure me that it isn't due to insanity. The tinnitus associated with insanity is the constant sound of voices talking to you. Of course, I take that with a grain of salt because if I ever publish any of the books I plan to, and if I happen to turn out to be the writer no one reads until after I'm dead, one of the things they will probably write in the "background about the author" section was that she was overcome with tinnitus sometime in her mid thirties and it was said her inspiration to write came from long bouts of insomnia and the constant voices in her head.

The Lunch Room

(Misanthrope sits at the back table by the window eating his sandwich. Pandora sets her soup and salad on the table and sits across from him)

Pandora: What’s up, Misanthrope? Been playing Warcraft lately? Up to level 80 yet?

Misanthrope: Eh, my play time has gone down a bit since the semester began and I started getting a bit o’ exercise again, so no, not 80 yet. 72 though!

Pandora: A bit o’exercise? Running again?

Misanthrope: (chuckles) No, better! P90X!

Pandora: P90 what? Never heard of it. Educate me.

Misanthrope: Oh…? Well, it’s a kickass, adrenaline pumped, muscle maximizing, home work out system. A series of DVD’s for working out. From what I hear, it’s actually a legit system with potential for real results, unlike the “Hip Hop Abs” or the “Rosie O’Donnell Diet” series… And from what the last 10 days has told me, it FEELS legit. (looks over his lanky physique) oh so sore…

Pandora: Dude… You’re gonna be RIPPED!!!

Misanthrope: (laughs a bit) I hope so!

Pandora: Totally. Then you could go out back and pull those weeds with one arm, like the true Death Knight you are!

Misanthrope: (thinks about his Warcraft Death Knight for a moment) So you think I could really look like that?!

Pandora: Well, sure… minus the pointy ears, horns, and the cloven hooves. Biceps, tricepss, and power quads… sure. (she winks)

Misanthrope: …I’ve got hooves…

Pandora: What? You’ve worked out with that thing for ten days and it gave you hooves? (she takes a bite of salad and starts pointing with her fork as she talks) You may want to return that equipment. I think it came from some twisted Disney studio artist. The more you use the machine the more you’re going to turn into some kind of Beast. I mean, you already have the set up for it. You’re pretty much a Hermit, with a creepy garden of death in the back. All you really need now is to become The Beast….maybe some talking utensils and singing candlesticks… and that’s that. Plus, there’s no way you’d ever find a Beauty to come save you because… well… you never leave your house, and there’s no reason for Beauty to go investigate a mysterious tract home because… well… it’s just one more pink house on the block sitting next to another pink house on the block – there’s nothing mysterious about a tract home. (she takes another bite of salad) Your parents might bring a good church going girl over to try to save you, but chances are, given your cloven hooves, she’d think you were demon spawn and run. And, unfortunately for your parents, this would do nothing but make you laugh because I think you think your transformation is just proof of Darwinian Theory. (she points her fork at him again) But you’re wrong. All you really are is some victim of a magical Disney writer who hates his job because the bad economy forced Disney to lay off 300 writers and he now sits in a cubicle writing advertisements for workout equipment. He totally hates his life. And you, my friend, are doomed because of it.

Misanthrope: Hmm… This could be bad. What if I put up an ad on Craigslist? “Looking for a Beauty to complete my fairy tale” Many women would apply because they’d think it’s some cute, sweet, prince charming type request, right?

Pandora: Oh sure. They’d respond to it, but they’d run away screaming right after they saw you, just like the poor little church girl. And, the only reason you would do that is to keep yourself entertained. You know, watching women run from you. It would get old though. And all of those ladies would report you to the police who would come and investigate, which may then lead to a few science experiments -- you being the test subject of course. And now that I think about it, that’s how you’ll meet Beauty. There’ll be some crazy female scientist that works the night shift in the observation room and you’ll start telling her all about your addiction to Warcraft and the weeds you never pull and your random trips to the middle of nowhere in search of radioactive materials… It wouldn’t take long. She’ll start looking up from her clip board more and more and eventually you’ll be saved: true love’s kiss (via Science) will bring you back to normal.

Misanthrope: I like where this is going! What kind of timeline am I looking at here? I AM an impatient hooved-foot hermit, you know…

Pandora: Well, given the fact we still have to fill in the details of your development, the time it takes for the whole Craigslist fiasco, and the transfer from Police custody to Science project… not to mention the whole falling in-love issue… I’d say about six months, which is great, quite honestly! I mean, in six months time you’ll no longer be a menace to society? How lucky is that?

Misanthrope: 6 months?! But I’m so impatient! (despondently sits back in his chair) Well, I better resign myself to the opposite then. I’m going to sell my Disney workout equipment, plump up to grandiose roundy proportions, and find God. (sighs) I’m going to miss these hooves...

Pandora: What?!!! No! You’re ruining my story! And what’s this plump up and find God stuff?! You’ve been the Chaos Theory Guy as long as I’ve known you. You’re the Chaos Theory Big Bang Man Of Science and I’m The Lady Of Providence; there’s no changing your archetype in the middle of the story!

Misanthrope: You’re right. I’m sorry. Guess I’m just in a slump.

Pandora: Well snap out of it. I can’t take it. You can’t be stuck in a slump. Who’s going to lead the rebellion if you grow plump and roundy?! That can’t happen. (takes a sip of water) Okay. How about this: the timeline is a six month span but the story runs like a feature film and you really reach the happy ending in two hours

Misanthrope: Ok. I’m sorry. No more slump, but this two hour deal does have me intrigued. So, can you make it so I’m able to fast forward through the boring, monotonous parts of life? …like in that movie Click? I like where you’re going with this. Continue…

Pandora: Fast forward? Boring and monotonous? I happen to believe that were I to actually pull a story like this off it would be far from boring and monotonous.

Misanthrope: I like your spirit. It’s definitely encouraging. But, I dunno… Could you maybe shorten it to commercial length? You know, run like one of those black and white, romantic perfume commercials? With me, the hooved-beast, frolicking on the beach next to the beautiful Ms. Science?

Pandora: …a perfume commercial? You’re killing me.

Misanthrope: And at the very end of the segment, the backdrop of myself and Ms. Science blurs and in the foreground, a hideous looking cologne bottle appears to the side. And a low, sexy woman voice whispers, “The Beast. For Men.” And then a normal voice chimes in on fade away, “Gift packages available at Macy’s and Dillards.”

Pandora: So… basically you want to remain the musky smelling hooved creature with a hot scientist standing beside you?

Misanthrope: And in the gift package? A half gallon bottle of The Beast, in the form of a mini fire extinguisher, a heavy duty file for hoof maintenance, and a mini pick for getting the rocks out of your horseshoes.

Pandora: (stares at him) I can’t believe you. I wrote this great love story to transform you back into a human but what you’re telling me is that you want to be this half horse half man thing, you don’t want to go back to normal, and you want to keep the girl. …and you want me to write it as a commercial for men’s cologne. What are you doing to me?! You’ve basically just turned me into the Disney writer who cursed you in the first place! I’ve gone from writing screenplays to writing crappy cologne commercials?!

Ok. I’ll write your crummy commercials, and your science girl can create the cologne -- she’s going to need to because you’ll probably smell bad anyway. But you better prepare yourself, because I’m going to hook myself up with the bitter Disney writer and have him teach me the ways of dark writing magic. Yes, heed my warning, Misanthrope. All those men who use your cologne will turn into Little Mermaids and attract nothing to themselves but a bunch of singing crabs and flounders. Then, I’ll take my bitter Disney writer man and we’ll go on strike.

Misanthrope: Ah, I’m so sorry! Don’t do that. You’re right, you’re right… this is your tale. I won’t try to take control again, I swear! No more cologne or commercialized beach frolicking…

So going back… I have 6 months then, right?

Pandora: What? Feeling bad for the transgendered mermen surrounded by singing crabs?

Misanthrope: Yeah, you’re very quick to toss the curses about… I need to watch my words carefully, me thinks…

Pandora: (sits back with a smirk) Yes, six months. But, because you’ve seen the light, I’ll write your beach frolicking commercials, after the film is released, and I promise not to curse the cologne.

Misanthrope: No. No cologne necessary. Let’s just see this love story out…

Pandora: Love story it is. I’ll let you know when it’s ready for production.

Poe, Tinnitus, and The Ringing of the Stinking Bells, Bells, Bells, Bells, Bells, Bells, Bells...

My ears have been ringing for three weeks. Yes, it's annoying.

I woke up around 2:30 this morning, got a glass of water, and went back to bed. I laid there, trying to go back to sleep, but the silence of the room left me nothing but the sound of the damn ringing in my ears. The more I tried to focus on relaxing and sleeping the louder the ringing became. There was nothing but this constant high pitched tone consuming my mind, like a dog whistle that no one can hear but me.

I started analyzing the sound. There is a sort of break in it, a very slight variance in pitch from time to time, but there is no rhythm. I can't keep time to it. I can't march to it. It's just there, endlessly ringing, but not like a bell.

I started thinking about how annoying it was, how it could potentially drive a person insane. Then, for whatever reason, I started thinking of Edgar Allen Poe and how annoyed I always was by the poem _The Bells_.

Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,
To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells -
From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

I love Poe and his writing, but this one poem always drove me nuts (kind of like this ringing in my ears). It drove me nuts because it seemed that the teachers never "got it." They would stand at the front of the class and clap their hands together with joy and say something stupid like, "Oh, I just love this poem! Doesn't it just ring like a bell? And look at all these bells: wedding bells, golden bells, silver bells... Poe must've been really happy when he wrote this one." What? Happy? Poe? No. At this point I think it was more like he had tinnitus and laid awake one night listening to the "tinkling" and the "jingling" in his head so he decided to get up and write something.

You see, these teachers come from the old school that poetry is all about rhythm and rhyme and the poet's ability to wield it like the masters that they are. The problem is, by focusing on just the rhythm they miss the big picture and lose the opportunity to show their students the true art of the poet.

This poem is written in four parts: the first being silver bells and the "world of merriment their melody foretells;" the second being golden bells and the "world of happiness their harmony foretells;" the third being brazen bells and a "tale of terror...their turbulency tells;" and the fourth and final part being the iron bells and the "world of solemn thought their monody compels." Monody, people! The final stanza of the poem tells of Monody which smacks of lament, of sorrow, of mournful loss, of tragedy. Now, that being said, shall we all clap our hands together joyfully and say how much we love this poem and that Poe must have been happy when he wrote this?

The true art of the poem is that this rhythm that makes these teachers clap with innocent glee is a subtle reference to the rhythm of life and our blind following of the "time time time" that it keeps. The repetition of the bells, bells, bells indicates our repetition of a pattern: there is birth, there is love and romance, there is alarm and warning of all that is destructive and burns like wild fire, and there is death that inevitably tolls like an iron bell for us all. This is the "Runic rhyme," the one written in stone somewhere by a supernatural force that won't allow us to do anything but eventually die. Additionally, there are people, like ghouls, hanging about the steeples, ringing the bells of death. That is their only job and they don't get to do it unless we die. There's a sense of sick pleasure in the death because now they have purpose -- to ring the bell after you and I kick the bucket!

Now I ask you, does this sound like a man that woke up happy from his bed, or does it sound like a man that couldn't sleep because of the damn ringing in his ears that could be interpreted as an "alarum bell" indicating that the "iron bell" of death is waiting just around the corner? I'm pretty sure you know what I think.

(and if you're worried, I did go to the doctor yesterday. I have an infection in both ears, hence the ringing, and I could go off on the symbolism of that, but I won't.)

http://www.online-literature.com/poe/575/

Stalkers and Valentines

I wasn't going to write anything related to Valentine's Day at all. Nope, nothing. Despite the special requests that were sent in by a couple loveless people, I was going to let it go... I was going to make my way past that stupid holiday and say naught about it. But after yesterday, I decided The Universe wasn't on my side with that one and I am now forced to say something.

It's difficult to ignore the "romance" and my lack of it when I basically spent Valentine's Day weekend driving out to Rhedondo to have dinner with my ex-husband and his new wife in an attempt to help them smooth out some blended family issues with the kids. Need I go into detail over the mixed emotions that later tied me in knots that night?

So I had to play nice with the enemy, so what, right? So I had to sit in their new home and eat food prepared in the kitchen of their beach house, big deal. I can shake that off, no problem. But when I came home Monday night I came home to some flowers. (Don't bother with the "oos" and "aws" because this is me we're talking about here and it wasn't like that.) There was no name on the card, so I stood there with the flowers in my hand running through the mental files of who I knew that would possibly send these to me. I have a few friends that could've sent them, knowing how miserable I was over the weekend, but none of them took credit for it. So I just stood there with dread in my stomach because I was certain I knew where they came from.

Back in August I went out to dinner a couple times with a man who instantly fell head over heels for me. After dinner number two, I knew he was nuts and I also knew it was a waste of time to do anything more with the man, so I politely explained to him that I was not interested. It seemed to me, being thirty-something, that we both held enough maturity to shake hands and part ways and wish the other well. Apparently this thirty-something man adheres more to "the menace to society" idea than anything else because he proceeded to stalk me.

He called me incessantly, sent crazy text messages telling me he was in love with me and I just didn't realize that I was in love with him, showed up at my home unannounced a few times, left gifts at the front door and so on and so forth. I had told him in September that this was harassment and, aside from a random love text on Halloween, it seemed to die out.

The week before Christmas I came home and found more gifts from him at my front door (expensive gifts at that). Knowing that I have the ability to break necks and rip out trachea, I was unafraid when I packed up his stupid gifts, drove out to his house, and handed them back to him saying, "You have disrespected me and my requests to be left alone. You have shown up at my front door unwelcome and unannounced for the last time. Contact me one more time, in any manner, via phone, text, email, snail mail, gifts at my door, anything and I will contact the police, I will file a report, and I will place a restraining order on you." His dumbfounded wide eyes were an indication that he understood me and I hadn't heard from him since.

Obviously, while holding a bouquet of flowers in my hand with a note saying, "I hope this isn't weird, but ..." I assumed that in the past two months of silence, the man had forgotten my threat and the promise I would follow through. I instantly went into battle mode; it was time to get the evidence and make allies of the police. I called the flower company and learned they can't give out the sender's name without permission. I let them know that if I didn't get the information from them I would have law enforcement find it out for me. An hour or so later I get some text message from a number I don't recognize saying, "Hi Pandora. This is Leonard...from Walgreens. Did you get the flowers?"

...the Hell?! Leonard?! From Walgreens?!! What the hell is going on with my life?! I can't even pick up a prescription with a smile without someone looking up my information in a computer and feeling the need to send me flowers?!

I have never wanted to be tied down by the sacred bonds of matrimony more than I do right now. I'm not joking. This is getting old. I hate dating because it's always some lame story, but the fact that I can't even walk around and be polite to the local Walgreens cashier without the dude thinking he might strike up a romance with me by dropping me some flowers (on phone and address information that I didn't volunteer to him)is just silly and creepy! I had to stop getting a cup of morning coffee from the Circle K because the old bald guy behind the counter believed I was coming in to see him. Now I have to change pharmacies?

The Mormons are right. If you're not married and getting laid regularly by the age of twenty-five, you are a menace to society. Circle K has now lost business because of the menace working behind the counter. Walgreens is about to lose business because of another menace working behind the counter. And I'm a walking talking apocalyptic menace to capitalist America because companies are losing money due to the fact that I'm not walking around with a nice big rock on my left hand to deter these idiots from saying or doing something stupid.

This whole single thirty-something mess is really starting to bug me. It's as if The Super Power Forces are having too much fun toying with me, but it's really starting to feel like this has crossed over from "the slightly irksome" to "the downright ridiculous." And Valentine's Day, one of those happy little holidays with cupids and hearts posted on windows everywhere, did nothing for me. My friends are always amused. One friend, after the Walgreen Guy Flower Episode, likened me to the Cameron Diaz character in _There's Something About Mary_, and until yesterday that's not how I would've seen myself. Unfortunately, the thought of a pizza guy pretending to be a crippled architect, a private detective hired to spy on me, and a past boyfriend with a stress related rash sounds a little too much like the men in my life. After laughing at me, my friend did her best to remind me that Mary was going to tie the knot with Bret Favre and that maybe this means I have Kurt Warner waiting in the wings for me somewhere. You and I know better though.

I Blame Tornadoes and My Ex

Though this is the first night with no sleep in the past eight weeks, the usual insomniac cycle is one week on and three weeks off. I can't really tell you what triggers it either, depends on the circumstance I guess. If I lie down to sleep with an overactive brain I never really relax and all it takes is one significant something to pull me out the rest of the way. (Tonight it was the stupid drunk man downstairs that shouted out an extremely complex sentence consisting of mostly slurred F-words and one final resounding F-word to prove his point.) So I've been up since 1:30, killing time on the Internet until I started asking myself when these bouts of insomnia really began. I used to blame it on graduate school and the constant writing and research I did while loaded with caffeine and nicotine. But as I sat here tracing my sleep patterns backward, I decided the true origin was somewhere in Enid, Oklahoma where I had to endure tornadoes and a husband that slept with earplugs.

I'm from California and, though I fear and respect the earthquakes, I would much rather endure an earthquake than a tornado. Earthquakes are unpredictable but you can live for years without experiencing one and, unless you're extremely close to the epicenter, most of the time you just get a good jolt and you're on your way (false sense of security, I guess). But tornadoes are seasonally random; you never really know when it's coming for you, but you have the promise that it will be coming (sometime between March and July) and it will come for you over and over again (like a recurring nightmare). To top it off, it makes an entrance with some ominously black rolling clouds, like the vengeful voice of the angry Old Testament God, and a sound like the wheels of an unbelievably overpowered semi-truck straight from a Hell created by Stephen King (one of the most terrorizing sounds I've ever heard). And when these ominous forces of destruction touch down, depending on its size and its fury, it also promises to damage and/or demolish everything in its unpredictable path.

Now, keeping all of that in mind, I was twenty-four years old and five months pregnant by the time tornado season came upon us. So, take an overly sensitive hormonal pregnant girl, add an irrational sense of fear instilled by The Wizard of Oz, some alarms reminiscent of bomb dropping Nazis, a husband that sleeps with sound proofed ears and... voila! The Light Sleeper is born.

I can't tell you how many times I went to bed at night telling myself to stay awake just enough to hear the sirens. Similarly, I can't tell you how many times I endured a grumpy husband, angered by me telling him to wake up and get in the basement. One time he was so angry with me I just left him there, I sat in the basement by myself worried, frightened, but resigned to the idea that at least the baby and I would be fine, once they dug us out of the rubble.

Obviously, I don't live there any more, nor am I married to a man that stuffs his ears with sound stoppers, but apparently I never got over the need to keep my ears alert while sleeping. And since that time I've filled my mind with books and research and intangible theoretical ideas that I constantly try to prove or disprove through life experience -- this creates a situation where the brain refuses to shut down. I suppose it thinks that if the ears are awake the imagination may as well stay up too. Intellectually, I have no problem with this. I enjoy being awake and I enjoy using that time to create something out of nothing. Physically? It takes its toll. And after about four or five nights of no sleep the migraine sets in with a promise to knock me down and out.

And I'm not even sure why I'm writing this, other than I can't sleep and I chose to. It really has no point. Nor is it very humorous or entertaining. This is more like something I should put in a spiral notebook that no one reads, not even me.

I realize that I'm not being very considerate of my reader, since this is basically a boring piece. Perhaps you can pretend that you snuck into my home and found one of my random notebooks thinking you'd take a peek at some of Pandora's secret and intimate thoughts. Now you can pretend you're disappointed that it wasn't something juicy -- you grabbed the wrong notebook.

Feel free to give this a C. I would.

What We "Make-Up" For

I was sitting at my desk the other day when a fellow emailed me a random question:

"What is your personal definition of make-up?"

After giving him the dictionary answer and then reading his response, which was something like, "I can read the dictionary, Miriam Webster. I wanted to know how you personally define the stuff women put on their face," I said something like this:

My personal definition would be the stuff I put on my face because I’ve been socially programmed to do so. Not only does it appeal to men, or so women as a whole are told, but it also appeals to other women in that we believe it makes a distinct improvement on our features and we impress each other just as much as we impress members of the opposite sex.

Make-up is some subtle form of flaring out peacock feathers, or something along those lines. Additionally, through media and social programming, I have come to believe that I look better with make-up on than without (though my daughter regularly tells me I’m pretty without it and I don’t need it).

Women without make-up are often referred to as plain, homely, insecure, ugly, masculine, lesbian, feminist, etc. and so forth, anything that could possibly be perceived as a negative connotation. So… make-up could also be considered War Paint against the battle of negativity which comes from all sides (i.e. the side of feminists that argue against it have created their own zealous diatribe about make-up and women who wear it and the side of those traditional women and men who continually make negative comments about women who don’t wear it).

Make-up is one of those catch 22 things that you finally just have to say to yourself, “I like the way I look in it and so I’m going to wear it” or, “make-up is a pain, I hate putting it on, I look beautiful without it, so screw everyone and what they think.”

He asked me that question because he had apparently made a comment to his girlfriend about "make-up" being little more than a compensation for our wish to have green eyelids and black outlines instead of the regular plain faces that we have. Considering me a "level headed female" (which I laughed at), he thought he'd get my take on it since (at least I suspect) he received a somewhat hostile response from her. But he has a point, and his point is probably what rubbed her wrong. He basically stated that we "make-up" for what we perceive ourselves as lacking in the beauty department. This of course implies a sense of low self-esteem and we literally paint on a mask to cover that up. This aligns quite a bit with the feminist argument that we should see ourselves as beautiful and powerful women just as we are and not succumb to the pressure of society (which they consider patriarchal and oppressive)and make ourselves "pretty" because we're little more than visually pleasing objects. I guess this is why I've grown a fondness for make-up as war paint.

As a student of Humanities, you have the unavoidable pleasure of constantly sitting in class with the young ladies who love to shave their heads, wear camouflage and combat boots, claim themselves enlightened feminists and see every moment and everything as a perfect time to argue about patriarchal oppression of women. External beauty is always a prime target for their bullets. One of their favorites is that the beautiful woman is not free; she continually subjects herself to male dominance by presenting herself as the "object" and thereby hinders her ability to be respected for her internal attributes such as her powerful intellect. They also accuse her of being a follower, not a leader, and a terrible advocate for women because she is, through the acceptance of mainstream society, perpetuating female oppression. (on a side note, one of these shaved head ladies once told me I was very intelligent and my arguments were good, but they were invalidated by my long hair and make-up. "You would be so much more effective if you cut your hair." Effective to whom, is my question. Last time I checked, in a classroom of forty students, there were only two women with shaved heads and combat boots. If my arguments are good, I think I'd rather get through to 38 people instead of the 2 who've judged me for my appearance even as they claim to be my advocate.)

None of this is to say that I don't recognize my female self as an "object" of a man's lust. But in my experience, I could walk around with a shaved head and no make-up wearing a potato sack and they'll still lick their lips and make lewd comments if they feel a stir in their loins. The reality is, I can only please some of the people some of the time and this argument is a stupid waste of time.

Society does have an idea of how women should appear, but the same could be said for the appearance of men. And as a feminist, I would say it is important to be free of all societal chains that bind you (including overly zealous feminist diatribes that sound every bit as wacky as an overly judgmental evangelical christian); be aware that true beauty is internal and figure out what that means; know that your power is your mind and the way you use it; and don't be ashamed of your physical attributes because they are a part of the package so why not flare out your peacock feathers.

Let's put it this way. Some women want to be the Red Corvette: flashy, sleek and sexy and fun to drive but ultimately useless (this requires make-up). Some women want to be a four wheel drive, so they can make their break into the mountains where they don't need anything but all natural beauty (this requires no make-up). Some women think it best to be an army tank, convincing themselves that they must camouflage their appearance so they can accurately target their enemies and take a few hits before blowing him up (this requires no make-up, but some alterations in the way you dress and possibly shaving the head). Women like me? We prefer to be the James Bond vehicle -- the silver BMW that everyone wants to ride in but only we know it's equipped with machine guns, rocket launchers, a passenger seat eject button, and blades that pop out of the tires to grip the ice and snow as we make our escape without slowing the pace (this requires make-up).

Waking up and remembering you didn't keep your promise...

So I haven't written in quite a while. And this one isn't going to count as writing-- not for me at least nor for the reader I made a promise to yesterday.

You see, she reads my blog religiously. She sometimes emails me with questions about them, or tells me of stories she relates too, or which ones made her laugh and which ones made her cry. A few weeks back she emailed me asking why I hadn't written in a while and she told me that she reads the blog because it gives her something else to think about (poor girl... reading my blog must be like reading the work of the student who refuses to do their homework until the panic over the grade sets in, meaning: it's hit or miss. Sometimes I'm right on target with that A+ and sometimes I hand ya a C-). At that point, some of the more tumultuous events of my life (the holidays...) were coming to an end and smoothing out so I vowed to write weekly (as I vow to myself weekly) and well... you see what's come of that.

I write now because just the other day the same girl made yet another comment to me about how I need to be writing on my blog, that it's over due (see... she even sounds like the teacher prompting the slack student to get her work in on time), and that she knows she's not the only disappointed reader. So yesterday, my response to her was a promise. I promised to write (because I had a great topic in my head and I had every intention to write it out) and if she didn't have a Mixed Number notice in her email the next morning she could take all of her anger and frustration out on me. Bad part is, this tripe I'm writing now is to make sure she gets a feed notice in her email. What's even worse is that, though she may crack a smile at this rambling, I know (like the teacher student scenario) she's basically going to hand this back to me and say, "Nice try. Now write the real thing." And worst of all, I have a feeling this lady has some seriously pent up frustrations she would just LOVE to blast on someone and well... I sorta put myself out there as a willing sponge and...

Yeah... I am such a slack student.

I Really Was A Lost Soul

What if I told you I was a warrior, wielding a sword in each hand, cutting through demons in The Hinterlands, searching for a lost but sacred altar? And what if I died battling the last two demons that stood between me and that altar? Would you say, "Oh, what a shame," cross yourself and walk away? Or would you keep reading to find out whether this sword wielding warrior went to Heaven or to Hell? And what if I said that neither of those two places were an option?

What would your response be if I told you that I found my soul standing before an Angel, in a distant cemetery, who told me that my work wasn't done, that I had to stay here and finish what I started? Understanding my bewilderment, surely you wouldn't be surprised when I said I took a few steps back to gain perspective, only to find my soul falling from the edge of The Overlook Cliffs down to the shore of The Forbidding Sea. Surely you would feel my pain as I looked up at the cliffs, far far away from the Angel, and well aware (obviously) that dead souls can't fly (nor can they pass through mountains or trees or anything that is solid...the movies lie to you...regularly...). And perhaps you would feel a bit sorry when I told you this poor soul was forced to wander the shoreline of The Forbidding Sea until I reached an open path, through the coastal mountain range, leading me to an unfamiliar valley known as The Eastern Plaguelands (the beginning of a seriously negative element in my unwanted spiritual journey...I truly was a lost soul).

And I'm sure you would keep reading as I told you that I wandered through the Western portion of the Plaguelands (a very ugly place, by the way, and I was happy to not be alive right there, quite honestly, because I'm pretty sure whatever is alive right there would've killed me anyway). I also passed through some strange ruins that led me to a place called Sorrow Hill (which I thought was appropriate)and past The Writhing Haunt (also appropriate), and I was constantly burdened with the reality that I was getting farther and farther away from the body I so needed to find. And just as I was about to give up, I wandered into a familiar area, with a familiar graveyard, where I was greeted by another Angel who took pity on my weary soul and offered to raise me from the dead (an offer, at that point, I couldn't refuse).

It is questionable, however, if you would understand the frustration I felt when, once fully returned to my body, shaking off a little resurrection sickness, I realized that the Angel in the Southshore graveyard returned me to the same damn cliffs my soul had fallen from many many moments ago! And regardless of my location on the map, I still couldn't figure out how to get back to those stupid demons by that stupid sacred altar that had killed me in the first place! And at this point I am fully aware that some of you are sitting there saying, "What the hell is she talking about? Is this some kind of weird dream she had? Some crazy story from Past Life Regression Therapy? What?" But others are reading this and laughing. There are others that know exactly what I'm talking about, that recognize the locations my lost soul wandered through as part of another reality, another world, a world in which all is fair in love and WarCraft. They are smiling to themselves right now and saying something like, "She fell off The Overlook Cliffs and wandered all the way to Southshore because she couldn't find her body in The Hinterlands? Pfft... I wonder what level she is. ...stupid noob..."

The Heart Sickness

So I haven't written in a while -- almost a month. And considering that I had been on a writing roll, I hate to see that the silence started to set in again. But, you see, the holidays are upon us, and ever since Thanksgiving I have found myself suffering from something I've named The Heart Sickness. It's that feeling that lingers, even though rationally and logically you may see no reason for it, you feel this constant heavy sorrow despite your smiling "game face."

My little girl will be leaving me today to spend Christmas with her father, just as she spent Thanksgiving with him too. And one would think that I would be used to it by now. I've been doing this for so many years, I should be numb to it, right? I should take this time to eat and drink and be merry with my friends, and I should do it in style...without the "game face." I should be ready for the break, I should be ready for an overdose of spiked egg nog, but I never am.

I was tucking her in last night and as I was giving her a hug she said, "I'm going to miss you, Mom, but I don't want you to be lonely without me. You always say you won't be, but I know that you are." So I smiled at her and I kissed her on the cheek and I said, "You're going to have a good Christmas, you're going to have fun, and I promise you that I won't be lonely." And with that I turned out the light and walked away with my Super Woman cape trailing behind me. But in the silence of my own room the Super Woman cape turns into nothing more than a worthless sheet, and I realize that my daughter knows me every bit as well as I know her.

The truth is, I will be lonely without her. I will miss hearing her little voice sing Christmas songs as she bounces around the house. I will miss her while driving in the dark since she's the one who so eagerly points out the houses with lights on them. I will miss her begging me to make cookies for Santa, even though I'm pretty sure she no longer believes. I will miss dressing her up on Christmas Eve and watching her restlessly shift in her seat at church because the best part is yet to come. As I go through my yearly Santa Clause ritual, and quietly place her gifts under the tree when I'm certain she's fast asleep, I will miss her because she'll be fast asleep in California...far away from me. And when the sun comes up on Christmas morning, I will miss her because she wasn't here to jump on my bed and force me out of it with her smile.

And so now you understand the heart sickness. Out of all the times, as a single parent, I may feel tired and need a break...Christmas isn't one of them. The childhood years are passing quickly. The hormone ridden adolescent years are waiting for me right around the corner, and when those years come Christmas will be little more for her than status quo -- she will graciously partake in the Christmas Eve festivities, she will politely endure the company of surrounding adults, and she will sleep late on Christmas morning because, special day or not, it's basically the same every year. And so, eight years later, I still feel the familiar sting of divorce; not because I love the man, not because I still hurt from the misery that was our marriage, but because we made this beautiful child together and we split her, 50/50, like we did everything else. The difference is, when it comes to her, something deep down still feels like "family should be together."

I apologize for being such a downer on this 19th day of December. But if I hadn't said it, the silence would have continued. And I'm working hard to write both in and out of the blog and the silence, for a writer, is deadly. So take from this whatever you will. I promise to be a bit more entertaining in the days to come. And for all the single parents out there, wearing their Superhero capes, enjoy the festivities, game face or not. Have a glass of egg nog for yourself and one for me, and I will do the same for you. I have a feeling that you all know exactly what I'm talking about because you have all thought it at one point or another. I just happened to say it out loud.

In Case You Were Wondering...

One of my readers sent me an email asking why I chose the title Mixed Number and asked me what my mixed number, in mathematical terms, actually was. He was the first to ask me this, and there is a solid reason behind my choice. So in case the rest of you were wondering, I thought I would share my answer.

The name actually came about while I was taking an advanced math class that my job required of me. I hate math, I’m not too good at it, so I had to do some back up study to successfully reach the point of mathematical understanding my job required. While doing this, I had to cover a basic chapter on mixed numbers.

Now, my brother is the one that always bothers me to write (blogs especially, for some reason). Before this particular blog, I'd tried my hand at a couple others (Pandora's Payday Loan was one and All Addictions Allowed was another). Neither of the previous blogs got very far. They had a consistent theme running through them, which turned out to be somewhat of a frustration because it limited my ability to write freely (I was forced to focus on one topic), and given the irregularity of my writing (or my desire to do so) it was sometimes difficult to get excited about that one topic. But running across the words Mixed Number, the mathematical term being a whole number with a fraction attached to it (like 7 3/4), made me think of music.

Music can have (particularly in classical music) three different movements in one song: the first movement being something soft and slow, the second being more playful and upbeat, and the third being something exciting or even somewhat zealous or angry sounding (like the three movements of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, for example). It also made me think of talent shows and the various acts that would come up on stage: some music, some drama, and some comedy -- all equally entertaining to the audience. So why not do this for a blog? This is why I'll have some poetry thrown into the mix of some social, political or religious commentary, reflective personal thoughts, as well as perhaps a few comical rants that are meant to do nothing but entertain myself and hopefully my reader. My blog then is, like the talent show or the sonata, a show with various acts or a single piece with many movements: a mixed number.

As far as an actual mathematical number, I never really thought about it. I suppose I would like 7 and 3/4. Why? Because I associate 7 with God, completion, perfection, and the three fourths I would associate with myself -- almost whole but 1/4 seems to still be missing; we'll just call this room for human error. ;-)

The Single Thirty-Something Menace

The other day I was having lunch with a good friend. Because of my heavy Baptist background and his heavy Mormon background, we often find ourselves discussing some of what we consider the quirks of the religious system. This time the topic was the Mormon notion a single individual over the age of twenty-five is a menace to society. Of course, we were poking fun at one another, neither believing the other to be a “menace,” but afterward I couldn’t help but ponder the idea.
A menace... The word has such a strong connotation. A terrorist is a menace. A serial killer, a rapist, those are menaces, but a single thirty-something grad student? …a med student? An individual so focused on bettering themselves they haven’t taken the time to marry is a menace?

Knowing what little I do about the faith, I suspect the concept stems from notions of family and populating the earth with new life, new souls. If I’m correct, the concern makes sense considering the biological clock is always ticking and from twenty-five on it becomes increasingly difficult to rear and raise children. Therefore, it is a threat to the well being of society if you can’t contribute more good individuals to the growing population. All of that aside, my musing of the topic went another direction.

If we turn our attention to the reliable Mr. Webster and his third reference to the word “menace” we’ll find it simply defined as “a person who is a nuisance.” As a single thirty-something with mostly married friends, I’d have to agree that my marital status can be a nuisance – the whole third wheel issue. And I have a feeling that some of the other single thirty-somethings I know, in the prime of our physical lives, might agree that we are, at times, a menace to ourselves because of something called “the lonely goggles,” skewing our otherwise good judgment resulting in poor dating decisions.

One good example of such a nuisance is a new fellow in the office, a recent law school graduate, who is most definitely a menace to my work environment. He is “on the make,” even proclaimed himself “a chaser of tail,” who has repeatedly harassed me, along with some of the other female menaces, with his egotistical sexually charged self. If this thirty-something man were married with a family to occupy his time and money, I may not have to endure his torment. Similarly, if I had a husband, whose photograph I would willingly sport upon my desk, I may be less of a target for this idiot and the tripe that spews forth from his mouth.

Another example would be a friend of mine who, at thirty-something, constantly laments over her dating dilemmas, her desire for a mate, her longing for children, and her dread of that ever ticking biological clock. Her recent quest for love has exposed her to the horrors of online dating, of which her most recent endeavor was a weekend rendezvous with a man of bad hygiene and bad manners. The situation, to her, is one worthy of tears because “the good ones” are all married and “the left-overs” well… cold meatloaf is the metaphor that comes to mind.

Personally, I’ve paid my fair share of dues: pretty faces with empty heads, scolding the married men for their improper propositions, and my own set of lonely laments. I was once engaged, a few years after my divorce, but I panicked and called off the wedding. My father used that opportunity to suggest that God may have bestowed me with the gift of celibacy. I laughed as he placed the Bible in front of me, referring to a scripture that, paraphrased, means some are born into celibacy, some (like myself, he suggested) are forced into it, and some (like the ever so chaste and honorable Catholic Priests) choose that path for “the sake of the Kingdom of Heaven” (Matt. 19: 11-12).

I still laugh at this because I know that I don’t have “the gift of celibacy.” …please… I also know that my dad suffers from something I call “No Man Is Good Enough For My Daughter Syndrome,” so it would please him to no end if I were to live the remainder of my life as a nun (a protestant nun-like woman, that is). But if I think about what he said too long, I’m reminded that his hero, the Apostle Paul, stated that if a person lack self-control it is better for them to marry than to burn (I Cor. 7: 2-9). So… there we have it again, in my own religious background, a menace to myself… the longer I remain single the more susceptible I am to the temptation of the ever so pleasurable but sinful flesh… the slippery slope into the fires of Hell… Guess I better hurry up and make a rash decision to marry, lest I fornicate myself into the eternal abyss… which brings me to my next point.

Single thirty-somethings, like myself, have a tendency to obsessively dive into their work – a welcome distraction from all that is lacking in the love department. Unfortunately, this sometimes results in an over developed sense of perfectionism or an uptight approach to insignificant details. Because of this, there always seems to be that observant married individual who somehow finds it necessary to approach and say something stupid like, “Damn… you really need to get laid.” This is a comment that I have grown to hate. Not only does this pour salt into an open wound, but coming from a person whose biggest sexual challenge is to go home and entice their partner into the realm of intimacy, they have no realistic grasp of what their suggestion entails.

Their advice implies that it would somehow benefit me to seductively dress myself and wander into some random bar with intent to score myself an easy lay for the night. They seem to think that a night in bed with a strange man would do me some good, relieve some tension, and cause me to wake the next morning with a miraculously well balanced and stress free approach to life. These married individuals have lost touch with reality and equate single life with the romanticized ideals they watched on their most recently viewed Netflix. The reality of their suggestion is that I walk into a room of meatheads who recognize nothing but the physical attributes of my body (if that) and my willingness to be a temporary replacement for the Five-Fingered Lady. These meatheads know nothing about what makes me tick, nor do they care. They don’t care to know my name, where I come from, where I’m going, nothing. I would also venture to say that they could care less about my physical satisfaction in the bedroom arena because life to a meathead is little more than one big porno where women are nothing but objects to conquer and dominate with their manhood that I’m so privileged to receive. And I suppose I don’t need to address the issue of disease; after all, we live in a world where we advertise prescriptions for Herpes on television as though it were as common as a migraine and a bottle of Excedrin (and if I write anymore like this I might convince myself about the thirty-something menace to society). So, excuse me. I may not have the gift of celibacy, but I do have enough common sense and self-respect to say, “Married people, this may be your version of sage advice, but I think I’ll pass…”

But…I must digress. Do I really believe that being a single thirty-something makes me or my comrades a menace to society? No. But do I think the concept was worth a few moments of provocative thought? Obviously… However, the best advice I think I’ve received from anyone, during this thirty-something phase of my life, came from a sixty-something man who said:

The problem with people is that they’re constantly convinced something is wrong with their lives if they don’t have a mate. Because of this, they either find themselves in a bad marriage they blindly walked into or they constantly jump from one person to the next. All they really need to do is stop, relax, stay the course, develop the self, let nature have her way, and one day they’ll open their eyes and see the perfect person standing right next to them.

Bingo! Someone give that man a cigar! That makes all the perfect non-religiously charged sense in the world.

~ Pandora: The Notorious Scribe/Menace to Society

Like Water

…and for some reason I have the words like water running through my head. I have to wonder why. What does this mean? [like water] It cleanses…, it purifies…, and yet I feel unclean and I am far from pure.
…
Like water, over and over inside my head. … on the brain, perhaps?
…
I feel heavy.
…
Water can be heavy.
If contained in a five gallon jug, it's nearly impossible to lift and place on a refrigerated dispenser without first spilling a gallon on the floor.
…
That's how I feel--like I need to spill a gallon on the floor.
…
I go for water and a measly four ounces dribble into my glass. My eyes stare at the five gallon jug on the floor and my mind says, "that's too much work." I drink my four ounces and I head for my shower.
…
Like water-- that's too much work, now flows through my head.
What the hell … ?
…
I step into my shower hoping the sense of cleanliness will cure me, but it doesn't. It's too much work to enjoy the pleasure of soft warm water running over my aching self. I force myself into the stream and I hurry about my business.
In complete silence, I shut the water off... and dry.

The Challenge

You are standing on The Pinnacle,
in your mind.
You are facing The Setting Sun
and The Wind blows behind you.
How many hours have you been standing here?
How much time has been wasted wondering?
...about that leap of faith...
...that thrust toward greatness...
...that fear of failure...

The Specter says, "Don't quit your day job."
The Poet says, "I know why the caged bird sings."
Day jobs are sufficient for paying bills and clipping wings.

How beautiful it is to stand here, isn't it?
The Pinnacle in your mind...
What a view...
Such color... Such freedom... Such life...
That an endless amount of Sky...

So why don't you, Dreamer?
Take that step, that leap of faith.
Nothing lasts forever,
and you're running out of time.

Time is, after all, of the essence.
Time is everything and nothing,
all at once,
when suddenly your number is up.
And everyone's number is up,
in Time.

So, Dreamer, why don't you?
Why don't you do it...now?

Now is The Time,
with The Sun in your face
and The Wind at your back.

Now is The Time.
Live what you see,
stand on The Pinnacle,
and be That Person in your mind.

I dare you...

Words of Wisdom

Considering the fact that America is about to instill BIG GOVERNMENT, just thought I'd let some other great writers do the talking. Hmmm... The winds of "Change" don't always blow like zephyrs... do they.

If you don't read the newspaper you are uninformed,
if you do read the newspaper you are misinformed.'
Mark Twain

Suppose you were an idiot.
And suppose you were a member of Congress....
But then I repeat myself.
-Mark Twain

I contend that for a nation to try to tax itself into prosperity is like a
man standing in a bucket and trying to lift himself up by the handle.
-Winston Churchill

A government which robs Peter to pay Paul can always depend on the support
of Paul.
-.George Bernard Shaw

Democracy must be something more than two wolves and a sheep voting on what
to have for dinner.
-James Bovard, Civil Libertarian (1994)

Foreign aid might be defined as a transfer of money from poor people in rich
countries to rich people in poor countries. -Douglas Casey, Classmate of
Bill Clinton at Georgetown University

Giving money and power to government is like giving whiskey and car keys to
teenage boys.
-P.J. O'Rourke, Civil Libertarian

Government is the great fiction, through which everybody endeavors to live
at the expense of everybody else.
-Frederic Bastiat, Economist (1801-1850)

Government's view of the economy could be summed up in a few short phrases:
If it moves, tax it. If it keeps moving, regulate it. And if it stops
moving, subsidize it.
-Ronald Reagan (1986)

I don't make jokes. I just watch the government and report the facts.
-Will Rogers

If you think health care is expensive now, wait until you see what it costs
when it's free!
-P.J. O'Rourke

In general, the art of government consists of taking as much money as
possible from one party of the citizens to give to the other.
-Voltaire (1764)

Just because you do not take an interest in politics doesn't mean politics
won't take an interest in you!
-Pericles (430 B.C.)

No man's life, liberty, or property is safe while the legislature is in
session.
-Mark Twain (1866)

Talk is cheap...except when Congress does it.
-Unknown

The government is like a baby's alimentary canal, with a happy appetite at
one end and no responsibility at the other.
-Ronald Reagan

The only difference between a tax man and a taxidermist is that the
taxidermist leaves the skin.
-Mark Twain

There is no distinctly Native American criminal class...save Congress.
-Mark Twain

What this country needs are more unemployed politicians.
-Edward Langley, Artist (1928 - 1995)


A government big enough to give you everything you want, is strong enough to
take everything you have.
-Thomas Jefferson

The One That Got Away

Have you ever had that moment where you catch yourself off guard? You pride yourself in knowing exactly that -- yourself. But you're sitting there at work, of all places, and something unexpected happens, causing your stomach to turn followed by a wave of emotion that you didn't realize was there.

Let's just say, for example, that since your divorce there had been one relationship that stuck out in your mind as somewhat ideal, a model relationship of sorts. It was a relationship with an individual whose strength, confidence, and independence equaled your own -- intellectually a match, emotionally a match, and in terms of mutual respect everything seemed to be a match. But something went wrong somewhere along the way; some sort of disagreement, or what appeared to be an irreconcilable difference, reared its ugly head. And for the first time in two years a series of insults and cut downs spewed forth from both your mouths until ultimately a mutual agreement to part ways, along with a promise to remain friends, was set into motion.

And let's just say that for the two years that followed you did remain friends, as promised (and wasn't it like the two of you to follow through with your promises). Sure, you mostly emailed, talked on the phone once a month, and got together for dinner and drinks once every two to three months, but it was always good, always free, always conversation and good times. And of course you weren't shocked the day a third party was introduced -- the new special someone that was inevitable and you knew it. And you can honestly say that you were happy because you've been content as friends and this person deserves someone special. But on this day that you sit in your office, you receive that somehow expected yet unexpected phone call that fills you in on the exciting news and how your honored presence is requested at the upcoming wedding.

After doing your best to smile, because they can hear the smile through the phone, you offer your congratulations and make yet another promise...which is to be there. But hanging up is when your stomach turns and you start to wonder why you feel this way when you knew this person wasn't truly meant for you...right?

So you sit and recall all the things that were good and do your best to recall the irreconcilable difference and you suddenly hear the words that escaped your lips just moments before the shouting had started: it was something along the lines of, "I'm sorry times are hard for you right now, but I have my own things to take care of and I can't be burdened with yours."

Funny... It seemed so wise at the time. But now you sit, knowing, that despite your own strong independent facade, you've had many nights since then where you wished you had someone to share burdens with.

No matter... You shake it off, and, like a hero suffering a moment of hubris, you will clothe yourself with your graceful demeanor and take your place as an honored guest with pride. And you will listen to their vows and you will wish them well, reminding yourself that this is life, this is experience, your mistake is someone else's gain, so roll with it...

Because He Says I Should Write...

Write,
He says,
as the sound of my voice
as the sound of my voice
--the sound of my voice--
as the lull of the road
beneath my wheels--
stirring hypnosis
as the sound of motion
compels me to grander highways--
as portals to dreams
with distance between them.

Write,
He says,
as the sound of my voice
as the sound of my voice
--the sound of my voice--
as the rushing of water
through channels and ducts--
constant streamlines
heard from a distance--
inspiring to some
vexatious to others
persistently pressing the present.

Write,
He says,
as the sound of my voice
as the sound of my voice
--the sound of my voice--
as the peripheral clouds
of an approaching hurricane--
slowly swirling potential disaster--
obnoxiously clanging that
sea-shell-wind-chime
the neighbor forgot to bring in.

Write.

After Thought...

My daughter has a knack for catching me off guard and stumping me with questions. And I'm not talking about birds and bee type questions; those I attack with a weapon holstered at my hip because I figure if she doesn't hear it from me she'll hear it from someone I'd wish she hadn't. No, I'm talking about questions that spawn from somewhere deep inside her, born from her own observation, quiet thought, and her own serious need to know. Where I get stumped is whether or not, at her age, it is something she needs to know.

She hasn't been feeling well lately. So the other day I left work early to take her to the doctor. As we were walking into the office she looked up at me and asked, "Is it hard to raise a child by yourself?"

Moments like these seem to induce a weird sense of slow motion, because you're doing something like walking into a doctor's office and your child just asked a serious question, which you know she expects an honest answer to, but do you really want to look at the little girl you're raising by yourself and say, "Yes...yes it is hard to do this on my own," knowing that she's going to internalize that answer and possibly worry herself over it when she doesn't need to? So you settle for something vague like, "It has its moments, good and bad, but I believe parenting is difficult even for people who are married."

Now I was pretty proud of that answer, considering the time constraint I was under. But as we were standing in the elevator she asked, "Well, do you have mostly good moments or mostly bad moments?" Wishing I had settled it with my first answer, I have to admit this one wasn't as hard. I was able to smile at her and say, "Considering the kind of daughter you are, I have mostly good moments and I'm not sure other single parents are as lucky as I am. I certainly didn't plan to do this alone, but since I have to I'm thankful God gave me a daughter like you." With that, she returned my smile and with pure satisfied joy in her eyes, she took my hand and the conversation was over...at least for her.

For the past couple of days I've been replaying that scenario in my mind wondering why she asked that question. Was it because she knew I left work early that day to come help her? What was going on in her little mind the moments before she asked that question? And is it really hard for me to do this by myself? I've been doing it for so long, I've never really taken the time to think about it. But I think my initial answer was correct -- it has its moments.

When I first got divorced, I had to move back in with my parents because I had nothing and that was hard. Being a 26 year old woman, married and divorced with a child, and living with two parents who seemed to pick up where they left off when you were 16...that was hard. Setting my tumultuous emotions to the side so I could focus, finish my BA with a 4.0 and enter into grad school, attempting to build a future for myself and my daughter...that was hard. Moving into my first apartment alone with a two year old on one arm and five to ten grocery bags on the other...that was hard. Sitting in the back row of a Baptist Church that constantly preached about the importance of family values and the evils of divorce, well... I just straight walked away from that one. Accepting the fact that I don't have the privilege of saying "wait til your father gets home," that I must find balance between the nurturing hand and the heavy hand...that was hard (particularly between ages 2-4 and I suspect it will be again between 12-20). Disciplining my child and then lying in bed at night wondering if I did the right thing and having no companion to hear my thoughts...that's hard. Comfortably functioning on one income...that's hard. And dealing with an ex-husband who seems to have a lifetime pass for the Social Short Buss... that's hard. But I guess I never really stop to think of these things because...I wouldn't have it any other way.

My choice to get divorced certainly came with its consequences, its sacrifices, but staying married to my little girl's father? That choice would've come with an entirely different set of consequences and sacrifices that are much worse than what I listed above. There is no one here to mistreat us. There is no one here to make us feel less than the beautifully flawed creations that we are. We are at peace here. We are free to make mistakes, free to talk about them, and free to learn from them. We are free to dream and free to succeed. We are free to exist in the realm we've created where love is patient, love is kind, it is not jealous, it does not boast, it's slow to anger, believes all things, hopes all things, and never fails. From where I'm sitting, this is the basis of family values, not the institute of marriage. And if I don't receive that in my marriage, well... then... my daughter and I, my family , are better off without it.

Myself, As Voiced Through Walt Whitman...

Autumn Leaves
[1]
I see my body as it lies,
And what I see you surely have not,
For respective ideals are but autumn leaves.

I lie on my bed,
I ponder myself and the life around me.
My skin responds to the chill of conditioned air,
stings me, prompts me to warm,
Warm me to comfort, warm me to soften,
soften me to impuissance.
I, nearly thirty-four years old, have seen life,
More real than dreamed.

Manifested constructions and systems,
Rejected traditions, yet maintained belief in disbelief.
I loath and love, I contend with bitterness and I dance with grace,
Treacherous the course with uncertain outcome.

[2]
Sanctums and Steeples erect in the backdrop, with swags of
purple, red, and white,
My soul knows the power within, and lies prostrate before it,
Rhetorical diction would confine me, but my mind is free.

Thermals of wisdom elevate my mind, I soar and glide
between the columns,
They are lift and thrust, the origin of my ascension,
I will know them by region, esteem and admire them by
theoretical scrutiny,
I am grounded without them.

The mantra of my mind,
Written, spoken, shared discourse, care-less, contrived,
discursive,
My spirit redeemed, my body sliding on a slope, the sensuous
pleasure of descension,
Clots of blue blood, wounds on my flesh, painful palpitations,
rushing essence,
The wrenching of clothes and the sound of my voice weeping
in the dark of night,
Echoes of laughter, chants, supplication, clasping hands,
The striving of a woman against her man as the child
screams behind them,
The healing calm, a tranquil walk with freedom,
The hope for life, the promise of death, the quest
to love and be loved.

Can I channel you Walt Whitman?
Can I sing my song with your voice?
Can I write my self as you would see it?

Listen to me Walt Whitman, stroll about these
autumn leaves.
Listen to my voice, inhale the perfume of my breast,
know it and like it.
Many days and nights have I stopped with you, perhaps
you will spare one for me.

Survival Of The Fittest

You can blame the cat for this one. Granted, me sitting here and writing anything is long over due.

I recently moved into what I've been calling my little hovel and the adjustment is apparently driving my cat insane. As a person who struggles with bouts of insomnia, having a cat that freaks out with crazy running spats between 1:30 and 2:30 in the morning isn't helpful. I can't say that I blame her though, given the circumstance.

We moved here from a three bedroom, two bathroom, house with an elaborate floor to ceiling library with marble floors (the selling point for me), a large kitchen in which to cook and entertain people (which I did plenty of, mind you), and a beautiful back yard complete with hot tub, flowing fountain, and a large zen garden (which my cat and her local outdoor cronies viewed to be the litter box of the gods). But now we live in a two bedroom,two bathroom apartment that I do believe is the same size as the one bedroom one bathroom apartment I lived in as newly wed to my ex-husband. Why, you ask? Because times are hard, you all know it, and I'm broke...flat broke.

Whatever financially prosperous point of view I had two years ago has now been leveled into the realm of practicality -- what I need versus what I want. My short time as a successful mortgage broker plummeted with the industry. Three months of unemployment, along with three months of being told I was over-educated and too under-experienced to be employed, depleted whatever savings I had and was the first event contributing to my current situation. Once finally landing a somewhat decent paying job, the rest of the economy adjusted to make sure I felt no real financial comfort in what may have otherwise appeared to be an improvement. It wasn't long before the familiar paycheck to paycheck scenario started; throw in a couple speeding ticket fines and medical bills and suddenly the overdraft protection from the fledgling savings account became nil as well. Ultimately I found myself, once again, in bail out mode: selling practically everything I own to downsize and move in here.

Humbling as it may be, the surrounding circumstances indicate that at least I'm not alone this time (misery loves company, after all).

I have had to sit and bite my tongue as I listen to the woman in the cube next to me talk about removing 100k from the stock market in an attempt to save it. I listened to another cry and sob about the 40K she just lost. Though I can't really relate to them, to me this simply means that none of us are walking around unscathed by this mess. (Everyone's misery is simply relative to their own situation, always has been, always will be)

The funniest part about all of this to me is that it seems to be happening right after the popular rise of something called The Secret. Perhaps you may have read the book, watched the movie, or learned about it while watching Oprah. Basically, it is a somewhat metaphysical approach to the power of positive thinking: imagine it, visualize it, meditate on it, and you will attain it. This Secret rambles on about something called the laws of attraction, meaining what you focus on is what you draw to yourself. So my question is, has the entire country focused and visualized itself into this pit? Maybe we should ask Oprah, maybe she has the answer. Maybe she's been visualizing Obama as the one to fix it. Or maybe we can blame George Bush once again, though some could argue he's not smart enough to visualize such an elaborate mess. Or maybe I'm just being overly sarcastic now and need to stop.

I don't mean to frown upon the power of positive thinking, nor do I mean to belittle the nice dreams we all have about focusing on a particular goal and attaining it. Lord knows I have many goals, and I strive to attain them, and I know that the only way to get there is by staying positive. This brings me to my point.

I have only been alive for thirty-four years, but many of those years have been a struggle (as I'm sure many of you could say the same). I can't sit here and cry about losing 40K in the stock market, because I haven't had the opportunity to even stick my big toe in that water. But I can tell you how to survive on a shoe-string budget. I can tell you how to look at your negative checking account and smile with confidence and say, "It won't be this way forever." And I can tell you that no amount of visualizing will bring the dream to life if you don't do the footwork and physcially sweat for it. And no amount of visualizing or positive thinking will stop the earth from quaking or the rapids from flowing. But it is true your thoughts, positive or negative, will determine how you handle the quaking of the earth or the flowing of the rapids -- that, and only that, will determine your survival. (For some, this is called faith.)

So...I live in a little hovel. I still don't have living room furniture and my bed is still on the floor. My cat trips out at random hours of the night because she misses the freedom of the back yard and the litter box of the gods. And my bank account is still looking like it has a disease. But my daughter, she smiles at me and says, "At least we have a pool to swim in now." My daughter rides along in the car with me, listening to the Rolling Stones, and says to me, "This is our song, because we don't always get what we want...we get what we need." And this, my friends, is positive thinking with the power to make me smile. This is how we survive.

At least you had 100k to save or 40k to lose, and you know that stock markets always come back...always. At least I had a hovel to move into, and the money I save here will heal my diseased bank account. And if my grandmother can survive The Great Depression and still die with tons of money to disperse to her heirs, then surely we can make it through this -- with or without Obama, Oprah, and The Secret..

Do You See The Oppression Inherent In The System?

A few weeks back I got notice from the MVD that I had 9 points on my driving record and that I needed to attend Traffic Survival School within the next sixty days, lest my license get suspended. Oh yeah… My speeding habits have finally caught up with me.

Considering my past experiences with Defensive Driving classes, I'd have to say this one was far from boring. The woman teaching the class was pretty entertaining, very witty, and since it was Traffic Survival School it was made for people with messed up situations so... it was a different class of people from the usual defensive driving attendees.

Most of the people in there were red light runners. The instructor made us go through and say our names and why we were there. It went something like this:

red light, red light, red light, DUI, red light, red light, red light, DUI, red light, red light, red light. Gets to Pandora:

"Um... I'm here because of a series of speeding tickets."
"A series? You must be my speed racer. Which one is the worst?"
"Well, I was doing about 90."
"90? In a what?"
"In a 65."
"Girl POWER!!"

Then it continued: red light, red light, speeding:
"Speeding? How fast?"
"78."
"In a what?"
"65."
"Bah... that's just keeping up with the flow of traffic. Pandora's got you beat."

Then it continued: red light, red light, red light, DUI, reckless driving, red light, red light, red light, speeding:
"How fast?"
"45"
"In a what?"
"30."
"Nope, she's still got you beat."

Then it continued: red light, red light, red light, speeding:
"And..."
"Don't worry about it. She's got me beat."

Then it continued: red light, red light, red light, red light.
She looks at me, "Well, no one's got you beat. GIRL POWER!!!"

Though I hated being there, it was pretty funny. I did learn though, that if I get another traffic violation any time within the next twelve months my license will automatically be suspended for six months -- so I have to be good. I also learned that it will take two years for all the points on my record to be considered inactive -- so I still have to be good. I also learned that after two years, though the points will no longer be "active," they will be archived and available for the police to see for the next ten years so... Let's just say that Girl Power is starting to feel the power of Government Oppression. They've forced me into submission, whether I like it or not. While I'm locked on cruise control in the slow lane, my soul silently weeps every time some jacked up hoopty passes me in the cruising lane. The Apocalypse is now upon me my friends, and, the way I feel, I might as well trade in my fancy red rocket for a Geo Metro and just call it a day...

It is soooOOOOooo painful, you have no idea… I know people that drive much much faster than I do, or ever would, but apparently I'm the one that must obey. (Maybe it's because they caught wind of my notary oaths…)

I've been speeding since day one. And even when the instructor asked why people speed, and everyone else was giving the stupid, good, brown nosing student answers, I responded, "Because it's fun! That's why people speed."

Seriously… What kind of question is that? "Why do people speed?" Please…

Sure, people speed because they're late, etc., but I speed (particularly on an open stretch of highway) because it's as close to "flying" as I'll ever get. It feels great! It feels FREE!! And my car rides like the wheels don't touch the road!!! Why do I speed?!! Are you serious?!!!

Not to mention I'm a good driver. You didn't hear me say, "I ran a red light and almost killed someone." You didn't hear me say, "Reckless driving because I didn't turn on my signal and the guy in front of me almost killed himself trying to avoid me." You didn't hear me say, "DUI." You didn't hear me say, "Hit and run because I fell asleep at the wheel and when I came to I realized what I had done and so I got out of my car and ran, but the cops followed the trail of blood that was dripping from my forehead and they found me and I had to go to prison for it."

No, you heard me say, speeding, period, end of story.

Yeah, so I was doing 90 (actually 95 until I made a feeble attempt to slow down when I saw the cop), but it was an OPEN STRETCH OF HIGHWAY with NO ONE ON IT (except the stupid cop behind the bushes in the median…).

So I was doing 85 on the 101 freeway and the stupid photo radars caught me, it was still 1:00 a.m. and there was nearly NO ONE ON IT! I was harming no one. I wasn't even harming myself!

My car is low to the ground, good center of gravity, turns like a well oiled ferris wheel, and I'm always aware of my surroundings. Now I've been punished.

Now I've been stripped of my freedom to speed and breath freely on the highway.

Now I've been forced to stomach my anger and swallow my pride when the jack ass behind me rides my bumper because I'm driving the speed limit.

Now I've been forced to move over with the slow traffic.

Now I've been forced to sit beside the people on the highway who say to themselves, "She has a car like that and she's driving like this?" And I know for a fact people say that. Want to know how I know? Because I saw a guy in a bad ass BMW driving 65 in the fast lane and I passed him thinking, "He has a car like that and he's driving like this? If I had that car I'd be all about it!" Well, now I know… the poor guy is probably just like me. He's oppressed by the system, forced into submissive obedience, and forced to drive his car at speeds that were made for the Geo Metro. We are under Automobile Arrest...

I could just puke...

God Cries...

A dear friend of mine has been trying to save a meth addict. He's a beautiful man, on the inside and out, so she says.

She says she took him in, despite her better judgment, because he saved her life. She was very ill with no way to the hospital and he was the only one that stepped up to the plate and took her there. He did this at a time when he was rebuilding his life. He was trying to get sober, living in a halfway house with "ex" criminals and other "recovering" addicts. He had a new job that he'd only been with for a little less than a month. He had taken her to the emergency room in the middle of the night, but the hospital stay was too long for him to get to work on time and he was fired the next day. That same day some drama hit the halfway house because of the meth users within and he left with no where to go but another users house. It was pure happenstance that she even met this man, but he helped her to the point of his own demise so her logic was, "You save my life, I save yours." She invited him to stay at her place, where he could comfortably get sober and get on his feet.

Three months later she sits in my living room crying because he went out on a bender and didn't come home. I'm the only friend, she says, that understands why she took him in. I'm the only friend, she says, that understands why "found" people go looking for the "lost." She tells me about all the good qualities she sees within the man, the honorable character traits that lie there like dormant seeds that need nothing more than a little bit of water and some fertile soil. The problem is, those seeds lie in the midst of addictive thorns that seem to choke every seedling beginning to sprout.

I don't know what to say to my friend. Her soul is beautiful, shining like a beacon through thick fog. And she's right, I do understand why the found go looking for the lost, why the Shepherd leaves the 99 to find the 1. But I also know that my heart hurts when my friend cries, that I feel anger toward the man that causes her pain. And just as I feel that she looks up at me, tears in her eyes, and says, "This must be how God feels, when He gives us everything and we give Him nothing in return."

I pause and watch her wipe some tears away as she continues, "I've given this man a place to live, food to eat, clothes on his back, and I did it all because Jesus says, 'if your brother has no shirt, give him the one off your back.' I've given more than my shirt. I've lost friends because I cut them off, thinking they wouldn't understand, I've lost money because I've cared for someone I couldn't afford to, and I've lost sleep when he's disappeared. And now I'm crying because my only goal was to help the man stay clean and he fell off the wagon. I have no idea where he is, I have no idea if he'll be back, and I have no idea if he'll survive. I expected nothing from him, except to pull his life together and move forward. So, this must be how God feels when we don't do the right thing. I don't think He sits up there angry with us all the time, I think He cries. He cries because He gives us everything we need to succeed in life and we piss on it anyway. He gives us everything because He created us and He loves us and we piss on it anyway, and God cries..."

With that she started weeping, and so did I, because I believe she was right. I believe that's the truth. Despite every Baptist Bible Thumper I've ever known to preach fire and brimstone and Hell and every other judgmental condemnation they can from the pulpit, I believe my little no name friend, my non-theological friend has it right. God cries when we fuck up...

...The Notorious Scribe

To be successful at what we will call "my day job," it is necessary to become a Notary Public. So yes, I recently signed and notarized my paperwork to become a registered Notary Public. Until now, I really knew nothing about the notary other than they watched someone sign something and then signed it themselves and stamped it with their seal: just like that, NOTARIZED

Well, I actually decided to read what I was signing, mostly because one form was referred to as Bonds (yes ladies and gentleman, a paper that by signing I am now somehow bound in a somewhat obscure manner to the government. I mean, really, is this some kind of irony? I am now bound to that of which I hate...?).

I, Pandora, do solemnly swear that I will support the Constitution of the United States and the constitution and laws of the State of Arizona, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same and defend them against all enemies whatsoever, and that I will faithfully and impartially discharge the duties of the office of Notary Public in and for Maricopa County, Arizona, according to the best of my ability, so help me God.

My first response was, "In a strange way, I somehow feel important..." On the same token, there was some sort of ludicrous hilarity in that. I've taken a very strong oath to basically carry a stamp around, press it to a piece of paper and say, "What we have all just signed is now legal and we are bound to it." So, knowing some of my closest friends would understand my point of view and find it humorous, I sent that quote off in an email saying, "I feel so important. I've been sworn to defend something against all enemies whatsoever!" Some of their replies were equally as humorous:

One fellow wrote: Start taking care of the illegals.
Another wrote: Well, I hope you hold that stamp in a quickdraw holster.
My favorite, however, was the following:

That's great! Notice the difference between that and this:

I, Pandora's Favorite Brother, do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the Office of President of the United State, and will, to the best of my Ability, preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of The United States.

So now, will you please give me a precise update of the War on Terror? Oh, and be sure to notarize your report. -- Thank you.

I laughed at this one over and over in my mind, because there really is a distinct difference between the power packed behind my oath and what conveniently seems to be lacking in the oath to become President. Eventually this thought lead me to question the history of the notary and what would incite a need for such a powerful oath. After a bit of slack research, I came up with this:

Notaries Public (also called "notaries," "notarial officers," or "public notaries") hold an office which can trace its origins back to ancient Rome, when they were called scribae, tabellius or notarius. Their work would later be transcribed correctly in its entirety by a calligraphus. They are easily the oldest continuing branch of the legal profession worldwide.

If you read on you will find a "long and distinguished" history linked to the Office of Notary Public. As a literature major, I was pleased to follow the evolution of the notaries through The Dark Ages, The Renaissance, a reference in relation to The Archbishop of Canterbury and The Master of Faculties. (Aesthetically speaking, such things please me.)
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Notary_public)

All of this considered, I read my oath a few more times and broke it down into the following:
Yes, I've been sworn to the Federal and State governments that I am prepared to defend every legal document I sign--believing in faith it is true and honest and I will fight to defend said belief until proven otherwise. But in addition, there is something other: I must brush up on my understanding of the Constitution (mostly because I now regret sleeping through Poli Sci). If I am to defend it against all enemies whatsoever (which, in my opinion, is often the government itself), then I better know what I'm talking about -- particularly with intent to act upon Free Speech. And, this is a big deal; I'm sworn to do this "to the best of my ability," and they have no idea how much ability they just signed on. To top it off, they called upon the power of The Great One, who only ever wants the best of my ability -- where I too often fall short. And now I have taken an oath to not fall short, so...help me... God.

So my friends, let us prepare ourselves for what is to come (particularly if God helps me). Perhaps I will carry my stamp in a quickdraw holster -- the revolution begins! I am, after all, one of a million Notarius Scribae who just happens to believe GOVERNMENT should mean POWER TO THE PEOPLE. And though I may not be able to notarize every blog I post, let's just say you can call me... Pandora, The Notorious Scribe.

Well...

Okay, so it didn't really happen yesterday. That's what I get for making some sort of feeble promise. Or maybe I'm just teasing to see if I really have any readers left. ;-)

I'll be back... sometime, dare I say, today.

I am still alive...

...and I will be writing today at some point. I will be back, to those of you who've been wondering.

FEAR NOT!!! Well... maybe you should, depending on what I have to say after this.