Why is it that I can write an entire short story in my head while I’m in the shower, but the minute I sit down at the computer, I got NOTHING?!
My muse is a cruel, cruel wench.
Why is it that I can write an entire short story in my head while I’m in the shower, but the minute I sit down at the computer, I got NOTHING?!
My muse is a cruel, cruel wench.
You’ll thank me.
Totally cool interactive video for Bob Dylan’s “Like A Rolling Stone”.
For the life of me, I cannot burn photos onto a CD. I finally got music burned to a disk, but I can’t get photos or docs to go.
Windows 8. The bane of my existence.
I should not let computer issues and a missing DVD ruin my good day, but guess what? Yeah. That happened.
Can’t find my Hurricane on the Bayou DVD. I have the case, but no DVD.
And now I’m attempting to transfer all my backup files from my external hard drive to my computer and the way this thing set itself up is ridiculous. Then, I was trying to burn a CD for a friend and I can’t get the flipping files to go where they need to go.
Grumble grumble, mutiny mutiny.
Other than that, and losing a game of Zips, it’s been a great day! I actually.went.outside. For most of the day. We went to the flea market and I did most of my Christmas shopping. Still have a bit to go, but the majority is done. (Yay!)
Also, took a LOT of photos and met some truly amazing people. I dig that kinda stuff.
Okay, back to figure out what the hell is going on with the external. Grrrr.
It’s that time of year again. I end up digging through archives to find something and stumble on something else, which distracts me from my first task, but I don’t really care because I’m so thoroughly entertained that NOTHING ELSE MATTERS. Whew. I love run on sentences, don’t you?
Anyway, as I was looking for this link from this post, I ran across my link to Random Penguins and got lost. But when I saw this post, I laughed long and hard. Sounds exactly like me these past couple weeks (fighting the sinus/bronchial crud and rankling King Arthur on a regular basis with my sheer volume of honking and barking). “Also, too, as well,” this one had me in stitches because Little Dude once said something similar about a guy in a Hummer.
Oh, and just so you know: I don’t think I’m going to do 25 Days of Holiday Music Videos this year. Or, should I? Do you like when I post the videos? Do you? DO YOU?
Listen, it’s been a weird few days here. Especially upon realizing that we have A WHOLE EXTRA WEEK before Thanksgiving. My entire family, including King Arthur, thought we had merely a week to go. WHEW! Gives me a little more time to recover and get down to serious baking and planning.
I’ve spent the last several hours digging around Atlas Obscura, fascinated by wonderful places documented by those who love to explore.
I’m stuck at home this week. Recovering from the weekend in Vegas, King Arthur recovering from the unexpected transmission replacement, storing up energy for the upcoming two weekends of Ren Faire, and mostly, just getting over being tired.
Last night, I made meatloaf and peach cobbler. It was my first peach cobbler ever. While it was good, I know it can be better, so I’ll be tweaking the recipe until I get it right where I want it.
So now it’s back to my current obsession. It’s good to have distractions.
I’m a day late…okay, a couple years late on my PROMPTuesday response (I suck at remembering that Deb does these until Saturday or thereabouts, so I inevitably don’t do them), but I do have a story to tell. I may have already told it, but I’m okay with repeating myself repeatedly. (Yeah, yeah…it was intentional. Intentionally intentional.)
I only went to prom one year. It sucked. It shouldn’t have, but it did. And I still hold it against the guy who took me.
His name was Bill Powell.
Being the dorky classic movie freak that I’ve always been, I gave him far more credit as a human being simply because “William Powell” starred in movies I’d loved*. I was certainly no Myrna Loy, but again, he was also no William Powell. He was simply Bill Powell. (* Apparently I learned nothing after dating a “Fontaine” and imagining myself marrying him… [I really was a dorky classic movie freak with stars in my eyes and dream in my heart].)
Also, in a tuxedo, with his walk, he was all too penguiny. For anyone’s taste (except maybe a real penguin, although with his behavior that night, no penguin in their right mind would want to be associated with him).
But before prom night and the terrible disappointment and disgust I ended up feeling, I was your typical teen girl who imagined prom to be a magical event and was completely caught up in the dream of what it might be. But, without the budget of my wealthier friends and with self-esteem issues, I don’t know why I thought I’d miraculously look like a princess or how I’d end up with a prince of a guy.
I’d spent a lot of time looking for a prom dress. Our neighbor worked in a bridal shop so, of course, that’s where we ended up looking (first and, eventually, finally). I tried on many gowns, liking nothing. Of course, it had more to do with me not liking how I looked. I was a very typical teenager who bought into the whole “I’ll never be pretty or perfect enough” idea that young women still fight to this day. I didn’t see that I was actually of a nice build or that I had lovely hair and teeth or that I could actually be considered “cute”. Or I worried because I came from a working class family with a loud, grumpy father. I wasn’t the most popular in the school. I knew plenty of the popular kids, but I wasn’t OF THEM. I spent far too much time believing that guys asked me out because they were half blind and probably only liked me because I was funny in a self-deprecating manner.
Anyhow, after visiting several stores, my mom and I ended up back at the first shop and I settled on a white sleeveless gown with a scoop neck trimmed with ruffles and a ruffled hem. We did away with the white sash at the waist and chose, instead, a semi-wide sea green ribbon to replace it. For some reason, I wanted a Gibson Girl hairdo, but ended up going with slightly-more-curled version of my standard feathered hairdo because nobody in high school ever needs to do their hair in a Gibson Girl unless they’re in a play.
Bill showed up in his dad’s sedan. Don’t recall what kind, but I remember it being a lovely metallic blue that sedans of the day often were. I had his boutonniere ready to go and he had my corsage. My parents took pictures as we were getting ready to leave and there was still hope in my heart that the evening would be fantastic.
Off we went to Quails Inn for dinner. We’d be dining with mutual friends. And, my dear readers, is where everything quickly turned to absolute shit.
The people with whom we sat noticed another kid from school who was in band, played the tuba, and who also happened to be overweight. Now, deep down inside, I still considered myself a fat kid (I wasn’t, but I was sensitive to my past weight and the weight issues others suffered [or not suffered in their minds]). These kids I sat with, these kids I’d known for several years, these kids who’d also been in band (or still were) began talking about this young man. Loudly. Loud enough for him and his date and everyone else in the room to hear. I was getting upset. I tried shushing them. I told them they were being rude. I tried pleading with them to just stop. To no avail. I turned to Bill and quietly asked him to do something, but he only laughed along with the others and jumped into their conversation. I got up from the table and spent a good 30 minutes in the bathroom wondering who these people were. How could they be so cruel? Should I go apologize to the young man? Should I call my parents and beg them to come pick me up? Finally, I headed out of the bathroom, making quick eye contact with the boy who’d been the object of my tablemates’ mean mouths. He smiled at me and nodded. My cheeks were burning and my heart was pounding. What would happen? By the time I’d got back to the table, everyone but Bill was gone. He said something stupid about me being away for so long, but had nothing to say for himself when I asked why he said such awful things about someone I KNEW he had been friends with at one point in his life. I also said I would sit at the same table as everyone else at the dance over my dead body. He could sit with them if he wanted, but I wouldn’t be by his side.
Leaving the restaurant, we headed out to Camp Pendleton. Yep, our prom was on a Marine Corps base. A fairly long, foggy drive on a weekend when not only are adults drinking and driving, but most of the kids are, too…just what every parent dreams of!
Once at the dance, I saw two of my dearest friends in the world: Rich and Susie. I made a beeline toward them. Rich knew something was wrong. Susie knew something was wrong. It was kind of hard NOT to notice given that I practically ran to them and my date went in a different direction. Having grown up with both Rich and Susie, I felt a huge sense of relief in knowing that they’d understand, and you know what? They did. They insisted I stay with them for the rest of the night, Susie even sending me out on the dance floor with Rich more than once. The only song I recall us dancing to, though, was “Stairway to Heaven”. They wanted to take me home, but I couldn’t impose on them to that extent. I’d have to face the nasty little penguin boy at some point (and who would possibly ruin what might have been planned for her friends on prom night, right?) so I said my goodbyes and found Bill.
In the car, he acted as if nothing had happened and chattered about a big party everyone else was going to afterwards. Did I want to go? Uh…no way in hell! Disappointed and without a shred of understanding why, he angrily drove me home. It was a long, uncomfortable drive in the fog — that of the weather and in his self-deluded notion that I’d somehow thank him for the super fun evening. As he pulled up to my house, he leaned over as if to kiss me and missed by a mile as I was already out of the car and halfway to my front door.
We never spoke again. When he’d see me at school, his face would turn bright red, his walk would become even more waddly, and he’d stomp off. And of all the other kids who were at that dinner table, talking trash about a classmate, only ONE of them approached me after and apologized for her behavior. My only comment to her at that time was that I was not the one who needed an apology and if she couldn’t muster up the courage to ask for mercy from the person she hurt then I had no room for her in my life.
Thinking back on that all these years later, I’m struck by a couple of things:
1) I was an idiot as a teenager, but not the biggest idiot in the world.
2) I had more backbone than I gave myself credit for. I wish I had known it was there and used it more often.
3) I’m so glad I never have to go through that time in life ever again. Kids can be shitty assholes of the highest magnitude. That ANY of us survived high school in the 80s (or at any time) is a damn miracle.
One of my favorite e-newsletters sends me design/creative links from around the web. Pam usually gets an email or two from me when I find the more fabulous things. Occasionally, I actually remember I could post the links on the blog, too. (Color me super blonde at times.)
Today, colorful paper art caught my eye and I thought it was time to share.
I hope y’all enjoy the pretty find.
It seems I mumble in my sleep. And I dream of bacon. More bacon, to be exact. I don’t remember that particular dream, but the man says it’s so and I guess I have to believe him. It does sound like something I’d say, though. I love bacon.
Bonus bacon today: we had the guy out here to work on the internet and tv connection. Everything’s working really well now and I actually have wi-fi! Ahhhh, yes! It’s like Christmas morning for a 5-year old. For the first time in 7 or 8 months, I’m writing from my laptop. No more juggling flash drives with photos or waiting for a connection (while the other person grumbles about no tv). We be back in business!
As for my birthday weekend, it was absolutely delightful. I had a wonderful time and have spent the last two days recovering. Lots of rest and relaxation after doing a lot of walking and sweating (it wasn’t particularly warm on Saturday, but Ren Faire garb tends not to be super light or airy).
Thanks to everyone for the birthday greetings! Big love going back to all of you.
P.S. Don’t forget: whatever else you do, always ask for more bacon.
I’ve been blogging for 11 years at this point. It’s a rather curious thing to me to still be at it after all this time.
I’m certain I’m no better a writer than I was when I started, but I know I’m a better editor for it. I’m no better a person than I was when I started, but I’m far more enriched by the friends I’ve made along the way. I hope in some way I’m a better friend as the result — not from blogging, but from the lessons of their friendship. I’m happier now than I was when I began. Sure, there have been many changes in my life along the way, but I am finally content to be who I am, proud of the two children who inhabit my heart, loving the right man, being loved by the right man, living in the right home, and just…to be.
There is no guarantee of where I’ll be tomorrow or the next day, week, month, or year. There is no guarantee of anything in this life (except death, no?). Yet, because of this blog, because of the wonderful friends and discoveries I’ve made along the way, I’m okay without any guarantees.
Don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to the next adventure lying around the next corner. And, I hope you’ll still be around the campfire for the tales as they arise.
A cat, nearby and unseen, cries, giving voice to the restlessness I’m feeling. My cigarette slowly burns, more as a companion than anything in the middle of the night. I hear a train approach and then watch as the cars pass; I cannot count the cars as it’s still far too dark for that sort of activity. I inhale the lovely fragrance of the night blooming jasmine just steps away from where I am. The man I love slumbers in our bed.
When I return to the warmth of our home, I cannot embrace my sleeplessness as I normally would — with laundry or dishes I could be washing — for fear of waking my darling. My eyelids are heavy but not heavy enough to carry me back to bed.
At some point, my King Arthur wakes to find me gone and he calls out to me. I let him know I’m okay, “Baby, I just can’t sleep.” He comes to me and holds me. He scratches my back for me, whispers in my ear of his love for me.
I grab a bottle of water and head to the bedroom, stopping for a bathroom break. I sit alone in the dark and wonder why I can’t sleep but that brings me no comfort at all. I try lying down once again. The relentless twitchiness I feel makes it impossible to remain in bed, so I get dressed and head out to the library again where I catch up on emails and blog reading. Anything to fight off the loneliness of being awake while most slumber.
Another train approaches. It’s smaller this time and the sound is somewhat muffled by the closed door. I almost step outside just to see if I might be able to count the cars, though I think better of it. No need to go outside again until my body is hot enough to warrant a little of the “almost chill” night air.
So I remain inside, glued to the computer. Perhaps I’ll get a little work done. Perhaps not so much. Either way, I’ll survive this night.
If I had no conscience, I would wake my partner and spend time in his great company, but he needs his sleep. We have a busy day ahead of us and he needs to rest as much as he can. Instead, I ponder how much I love him and how lucky I am to have him in my life, to be living with someone so dear and thoughtful and calming and charming and intoxicating. Just thinking of him makes my heart beat faster. I want to be near him; surrounded by the sounds and the breath of his slumber. Maybe we’d read together or talk and laugh about nothing. Maybe we could play a game or watch a movie. Again, I cannot allow him to walk away from the sleep he so desperately needs right now.
Tip tap tip tap tip tap, I go along as I let the words flow from my fingers. I do this as quietly as possible. I’m lonely, but I’m not selfish enough to ask for the one thing, the only thing, that will relax me enough to find slumber soon. The computer will be my friend for now as I wait for the Sandman to visit me once more. At least, I hope he will. Until that time, I’ll write what I feel and meditate upon the marvelous gift of love, of hearth and home, of simple things that bring me such joy as to make my eyes mist up a dozen times a day. I’ll dwell not on the worries. I’ll not revisit regrets or grievances, for really, I have so few. I will just pass the time as productively as possible until sleep envelops me, if ever it does.
This is the life of an insomniac. An insomniac with a blog.
I thought I had posts lined up and ready to go. I really did.
And I didn’t check because I’ve been busy.
I was housesitting.
Then I moved.
And then I…yeah, I said, “I moved.”
What? I didn’t mention it was happening? Well, that’s because it was something I wasn’t sure was going to happen until it did.
I’m still in SoCal. I’m just a bit further up the freeway than I was before.
It’s a good thing.
Now, about those missing posts. I think the dog ate them. Maybe it was the cat, since there wasn’t a dog. There was, however, the cat. In addition to housesitting, I was taking care of a cat. So, that’s where I lay the blame. The cat.
That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Also, if you’re in the area this weekend or next: Ren Faire! Come to Pirates’ Cove and say hello.
For those who didn’t chase down the answer on FB or Twitter, my guess what post was:
It’s my one-earred rhino keychain.
If I told you what it was, you still probably wouldn’t believe me.