Happiness?

I've been thinking a lot lately about happiness. As in, what makes me happy and what doesn't? And how often do those things change? And if I'm unhappy, why? And what can I do about it aside from being very destructive (what's wrong with a little destruction?) in some way in order to make myself feel something other than this pervasive angst that has been slithering around in my brain for some time now, coloring everything that used to make me happy this weird darkish conglomeration of colors rather than the usual happy, positive (and brightly colored) me-ness that used to exist (and still does, she's re-emerging slowly)?

See, now that I'm on the other side of the Funk of '06, I am looking back and analyzing the hell out of it in order to find some purpose and learn from everything that was involved.

In my contemplation I'm realizing that my recent walk down the path of frustration/apathy/irritation/anger (and many other screwy emotions contributing to my general funkiness) has one real root cause.

This town sucks. It sucks so hard that I can feel it on my skin when I wake up in the mornings. And after work when I run. And especially in the summer when the humidity is so horrible you sweat as soon as you step out of your cold shower, and again when you open the door if you dare to leave the house.

This is the kind of place that verbally calls you out if you're different, instead of embracing the "live and let live" ideology. And ya'll, I might be southern in that I love sweet tea and a good BBQ joint, and I use my accent to get what I want in places where southerners are rare, but philosophically I have very little in common with your typical southerner. The people here will stop you in the grocery store parking lot after seeing the Kerry sticker on your hybrid and ask why you voted for "that baby killer". I shit you not. Twice this has happened to me. TWICE. I've also almost been the victim of vehicular homicide by some jackass in a huge truck he doesn't need (clearly making up for something, no?) with his W stickers on the front AND back shouting obscenities at me (through his good teeth) and giving me the finger. So. Much. Class.

Clearly, I do not fit in, nor am I really welcome (totally fine, I could so care less). So all efforts outside of work are to get 1.) a job elsewhere 2.) a place to live, again elsewhere and 3.) to get myself back to school and become someone who makes a difference in this fucked up world. Being an office manager does not cut it for me. It pays the bills nicely, but otherwise, I don't think about it much. Other than some days it challenges my will to live, but I think that's probably true for everyone.

So what can I do in the meantime to please the part of my soul that is screaming for some sense of a peaceful revolution?

1.) Paint my toenails. Mmm hot pink.



2.) Go black. You know what they say...



So black it's almost blue, though you can't tell so much here.

3.) Eyebrow maintenance.







This is all superficial, however, and only barely scratches the surface of what I need, but it's a start.

Lots of reading, writing, resume revising, running and knitting are on the way to fill my brain and make me feel useful and like I'm progressing toward something relevant and meaningful. My school options are still pretty open. I'll either check out some creative writing classes (put my Journalism degree to use maybe?), get certified to teach, or go to some technical school and get a nursing or radiology degree. I always loved the medical fields but was too afraid I'd kill someone. Same with teaching or having kids...surely I will screw their lives beyond repair. But after living here, I see that they could do MUCH worse than me, so I'm reconsidering.

I'm also letting The Cure, the White Stripes, and Tori Amos have their way with me today, and that sort of orgy always leads to good things.

Prairie Tunic, the saga continues

Maybe not so much a 'saga' or an 'epic' as an 'adventure'.

Hmm...'adventure' is even perhaps too exciting a word. It implies that there was mortal peril, jeopardy (I'll take The Films of Pauly Shore for $1000, Alex) and perhaps a touch of fortune, and divine intervention lending a hand in my survival. 'Tale'? Yes, 'tale' fits nicely. As does 'yarn'. But that would mean I just crossed another line toward my eternal damnation as a nerd.

Good thing I like nerds. And hellfire makes me hot.

Forgive the crap quality of my pictures. I was rushed and didn't bother to color correct or even attempt to make them pretty. Just like me. Every. Morning. The two most common words out of my mouth at 8 am? "Fuck it". Now you know.

The back piece is finished, washed, blocked and very soft and pretty. I'll weave in the ends once I put the whole thing together and wash it. Part of my problem with the Picovoli was that I washed and dried AFTER I had weaved in the ends, and they were a bit too short and therefore unraveled when the cotton bloomed. Grr. Argh. Won't make that mistake again, I tell you.


Full shot of the back piece blocking. Yes on a beach towel. I have no taste, and I'm ok.


Detail of the top triangle. Ooooh geometry. Obtuse or Isosceles? Equilateral or Scalene? Bueller?


Lace detail. Probably blurry or at least not very crisp. But look! Holes! Where they're supposed to be!


Edging detail. Slip stitch yumminess. Looks like I'm a pro (at what is officially up for debate).


And a hint of work on the front piece. Twice the lace, twice the fun!


I might be a smartass about my abilities (wipe that mock-surprised look off your face), but I'm really proud of the way this is turning out. The pattern is easy, the edging looks professional (when done right. ahem.) and the fit will be just the way I like it. Maybe if I'm feeling wild and crazy, I'll break out my TopStick double-sided, sticks-anything-to-you-and-hurts-like-a-bitch-to-remove tape and adhesify (a word? who can say) the thing on my back for some choice entertainment.

Also, I want a cookie. Any kind will do. And a new hair color. I'm thinking Dark & Sinister.

Happy Places & Prizes

Oooh. Prizes. I love prizes!

I got this lovely package in the mail this week....




My Secret Pal is so very sweet! AND..she's a gamer too (Happy Place #1)!! Our hostess did a great job matching us, and then matching me with Jenny, ANOTHER gaming chick. The three of us could totally be the Charlie's Angels of gaming. Bet our virtual asses are that hot too. I know mine is. Rawr.

There are two skeins of sock yarn (*drool*), dyable wool from Knit Picks (koolaid incoming), Sensational Socks book that I've had my eye on for some time now, some Bert's Bee's Lemon Cuticle stuff (for my hands after knitting. eww.), and some ADORABLE knit kitty toys stuffed absolutely full with cat nip!

The kids (er...kitties) loved the toys so much, they almost had the box open before I did. Then all hell broke loose followed closely by kitty nirvana, as witnessed here:



Molly: "Ha ha! I have killed it!"



Murphy: "Give me the nip now!"



Tristan: "I will shred you if you take this from me, beotch."



Sydney: "Just need one more sniff, just one...really, I'm not an addict. It's cool."

Thanks Tina for making SP7 so much fun! And thanks so much for the card! You made my day!


And for an update on me...after emotionally beating my head against a wall (not recommended for the faint of heart) and functioning on very little sleep, I've discovered through long conversations with Pete the Philosophizer and Loren, the Obi-Wan to my Princess Leia, that I am in fact normal (in most ways) and I am not going to die (slightly over-dramatic, sure, and to be confirmed by doctors on Tuesday).

As a part of my recovery, I am throwing out the My Chemical Romance CD because it has served its purpose and I'm tired of them. Told you guys it wouldn't take long. I've moved on to the new Lacuna Coil CD, Karmacode (Happy Place #2).



Ya'll. Go get it. The cover of Depeche Mode's "Enjoy the Silence" is so good it's painful.

Pete the Philosophizer is very good at snapping me back to reality when I'm feeling particularly hideous, loser-esque, and like the world might END if all the Diet Dr. Pepper in the world are not delivered unto me post haste and by a very hot man of any nationality, but preferably Antonio Banderas. With. A. Spoon. Ya'll.

My weekly reality check from Pete went like this:

"wake up sweetie. you are fuckin awesome. i mean jesus christ on a skewer...you have a great hubby (granted it isnt me but still a good guy who loves you), i love the ever-loving shit out of you...you are intelligent, gorgeous....you are the queen of the positive outlook...you dragged me back from my senseless funk a year ago....so i know its in you. you are the optimist here...your personality is one that goes out and gets shit done, right wrong or indifferent... you are headstrong and possibly one of the most stubborn people i know. so cut out the bullshit and be who you are...the girl i and everyone else adores. also, i will beat you if you don't start being you soon."

Thank you, Petie (omg he'll smack me just for typing that! muahahaha). I made the big ugly cry face after this, you know. Big. Ugly. But, everyone should have such amazing friends, and I'm incredibly grateful for mine.

And should I feel icky again anytime soon, I'm totally going here to Happy Place #3 and leaving everyone and everything but my knitting and some CDs behind. I might do it anyway just cause my soul aches for this kind of place.



And now, there's an awful lot of this...



Sort of a smirk, but also a smile. I'm mysterious like that.

Recidivism

Recidivism is the word of the day.

Repeat Offender. That's me. And a few of you others out there. But I'm not naming names because that's your problem, not mine.

As Duckie says in "Pretty in Pink"...Do I offend? Oh, yes, and how.

1. I got a second (ahem, third) parking ticket this week. Oops. Good thing they're only $10 each. Still, I should try to rectify my need to park directly in front of my building. Must be because I'm always late or something.

2. I'm always late. If I arrive early, people think I'm sick or there's something devastatingly wrong with me. "You're on time?!? Do you need to see a doctor? Is someone dead? Did you run out of ice cream?" I stopped making excuses for being late a long time ago. No point in lying about it. There wasn't any traffic, my dog/cat/grandfather/fourth nephew is not sick, and my clothes did not get burned in the dryer. I'm just late.

3. I have a habit of "just going to look" at expensive things, and suddenly making a fairly major, life altering purchase. Specific cases: 2002: my Civic Hybrid, 2004: my insanely expensive engagement ring (I got to pick it and all, you know. And yes it was the most expensive thing in the store. I'm evil. And yet somehow he still loves me. Clearly, he's insane. And I am awesome.) 2006: Nate's brand new Toyota Matrix. You can sorta see the butt end of my car on the right. It's not near as clean and new car smelly, but it's cute (and liberal, yay!)!



Maybe in 2008 it will be a house. Cause that is officially on the back burner, thanks to Purchase 2006. But we needed a new car because that old Jeep was on its last wheel. Poor thing. I think I got a little teary over trading it in. Nobody loves your old piece of shit the way you do. Ya'll know. Also, you know my head is fucked when my retail therapy session is a $20k ding. What? I'm totally fine.

4. Flaking on my competition. Nicole and Pete are going to kick my ass, literally. This makes about the 7,438th time that I've flaked. I think it's cool and I would look really amazing and I have so much admiration for those who can do it, but I just don't have the determination and give-a-shit to diet that hard for 4 straight months. That, and I'm too easily upset and ice cream is my savior. Amen. Praise the Neopolitan Dynamite.




But it's really sad when the Ben & Jerry's gets melty. I didn't even have the stomach to eat it. Also, hello messy desk from hell. I take notes on everything and I never throw any of it away.

5. I'm compulsively honest. Which is sometimes considered offensive. Not that I can't lie and get away with it. But I prefer to lay things out on the table and make people look at stuff. It might be my stuff, and it might be theirs. Funny how most people don't like being called on their shit though. And sad really, because you can't deal with the issues you're facing if you don't LOOK AT THEM. Hiding behind a false reality is the coward's way out (Yet, I know, sometimes the only way to deal with some shit. But still). So instead I'm honest about who I am and what I'm going through (except for right now, cause um...I gotta get through it first, then we'll talk). And I gladly and willingly offer up my shit to be called upon. I kinda dig it, because it means you care enough to say "Hey! You're being a total fucking idiot!". Thanks for the love.

So in conclusion, I repeatedly offend on many occasions and I'm ok. And CAP was right about my horoscope, which is not something I ever believe in, but is a good way to make me giggle. In March, she was dead on: There has been a lot of chatter in your life, and almost none of it has been true or real (how sad). April too is correct: Your month is going to really suck.




Good thing I have sweet animals to keep me in bed and make me sleep. Murphy likes to snuggle so close that I get hot and have to stick my feet out of the covers. Then he plays "Chase The Toes" with his claws. Taylor just likes being on the bed, and Molly is only here because she loves that dog. Still, I am asleep, so all is right with the world.



Also, all my pillow are belong to Tristan.

Swear to Shake it Up...

Hmm. I don't seem to have much to say lately. I keep waiting for my life to get interesting.

Guess I'm going to have to force it and make things exciting on my own pretty soon. I don't do stagnation. I also don't really do change, but I prefer it over drooling in my oatmeal every morning. If by some strange chance you think I'm interesting already, be glad you don't live inside this head. Shit. Is. Dull.

But, my mind is occupied with scary things. I like lists, so I made one. A list of those scary things, for you ADD folks who got lost already. You know who you are. Or do you?

1. Competing in July (there's a whole other blog for that, but sorry, it's private).

2. The thought of being pregnant (ok dreams, you may stop now, I'm still not interested, but the little girl you keep showing me is very pretty).

3. My in-fucking-sane sex drive. Ron Jeremy could not keep up with me, seriously. Not that I would want him to try. Eww.

4. This yarn porno. The busty nurse totally got the shaft. And I don't mean the fun way. In all porno realism, he'd have had her too. That's the way porn works. I'm just sayin. (Not actually scary, but on my mind nonetheless.)

5. Big mosquitoes. As big as my fist. In flocks. Hovering over my head as I run, waiting for me to have an asthma attack or my shoe to come untied so that I have to stop and they can swoop in and carry me off to somewhere icky and slimy. That's what I get for living in the swamp in south Georgia. Yay. Mosquitoes.

Hmm. I'm fairly disturbed by that short list, let's move on.

Well, here's something. Last month CAP said this for us loony-ass Libras:

Resist the temptation to get bitchy this month. Do not give into your inner horndog. Break out the halo and be on your best behavior, because someone is eyeing you closely for a leadership role, or a promotion, or some added responsibility you've been asking for. Maybe it's just that your character has come under scrutiny lately, and you don't want to give them fuel for the fire. (There has been a lot of chatter in your life, and almost none of it has been true or real.) Whatever the case may be, think angelically and picture yourself with wings. Libra, ya'll need to move from wild child to angel in 30 days or less! If Drew Barrymore could do it, so can you.

I can't, I won't and I didn't, in no particular order. There are no wings, but I did get a 69 cent halo, is that good enough? (Shaddup.)

For April, CAP says:

Your month is going to really suck. I mean, ya'll, seriously. Just go home right now and start eating the ice cream. Do they make wine ice cream? Oh Libra... ya'll! I'm just kidding! Truth is, this was a learning experience. See? Any old Joe can give you some wrong advice. You might want to re-consider who you're taking prophecies from these days. After all, the last psychic I visited told me I'd be doing charity work involving water... which, had I followed her advice, would put me wading upstream while begging for money for other people. Not a pretty vision, eh? This is a good time to be careful whose advice you heed. You don't want to end up the proverbial creek because of someone's off-the-cuff armchair mentoring this month, no matter how well-intentioned it may be.

And she tags this onto Cancer's (yes I read them all): Maybe all our old fears will get bored in the waiting room of April and go haunt someone else, like the Libras for a change.

So, I'm going to be paralyzed with fear (see above list, again if necessary), and I shouldn't take advice from anyone. Yay. Fending for myself. I can do that. Just keep the mosquitoes away from me and I can do that. Really. It's not my preference, mind you. I PREFER to be loved, adored, and protected from such things, being a diva and all, but alas. As with most everything, I'll be doing it myself. (Shaddup.)

Maybe someday I'll be just like Ferris. "Oh, he's very popular Ed. The sportos, the motorheads, geeks, sluts, bloods, waistoids, dweebies, dickheads - they all adore him. They think he's a righteous dude."

A girl can dream.

29.5

April 1st. April Fool's Day. A day of elaborate practical jokes and general tomfoolery. Annually celebrated by me as the day I call my mom and tell her I'm pregnant. Some day I'm sure it will bite me in the ass. Such is karma. Assbiting. Dirty bitch.

This particular April 1st is different though. It is my half birthday. And I am 29.5. The last six months of the downhill slippery (gooey?) slope to 30. The last six months of my twenties. (Pause for dramatic sigh) Shall I mourn thee? Shall I compose gentle words of bittersweet sorrow? Um...sorry, I don't do poetry anymore. How about some cake? Pie? Cookies?

And does this mean I have to grow up? I asked that when I turned 22 also. And then I cried. Because I wasn't 21 anymore, and the next big birthday is...30. However, my 21st birthday was an incredibly fun occasion, and my 30th will be as well. Hell or high water, damn it. If you are with me, you WILL be having fun or I will douse you with something alcoholic and make you dance for me. Some of you might dig that. I certainly will. Whether or not you're clothed is by my choice at that moment.

I'm convincing myself that it's fine though. 30 is cool! 30 is rad! Did I just say rad? Oh my god, I'm so old. Hmm...if my twenties are any indication, my thirties should be a fucking blast.

Let's review shall we?

Actually, let's not. There are a lot of great things there, but there are some sad things too. No need to be bringing up old shit. Roughly translated: We'll do that another day, mkay?

On a lighter note:

You Are Miss Piggy

A total princess and diva, you're totally in charge - even if people don't know it. You want to be loved, adored, and worshiped. And you won't settle for anything less. You're going to be a total star, and you won't let any of the "little people" get in your way. Just remember, piggy, never eat more than you can lift!

The Muppet Personality Test

In conclusion, I'm a nearly old, demanding diva. I can accept that.

Now, where is that house boy? It's time for my feeding.