Heebie Jeebie Hump Day

On Monday I cleaned 3 windows and brushed away dirty cobwebs and insect cocoons from the outside of our house. All done in an effort to ward off creepy crawlies bound to hunt me down later this spring.

Then I saw this as a Facebook group pic.

So disturbing . . . and yet I can't look away.

More fiber to share!

Anyone ever wake from a fitful night, crabby and tired? Okay, many of us have. But I'm honestly pissed off at my kids ... and they haven't even woke! They were just ANIMALS in my dream! ARGH! Anyway, how about a little more fiber-luvin'? Just look at this gorgeous washcloth I finished Sunday night!

It's a pattern I purchased from Susan B. Anderson and I had to teach myself to crochet, but thanks to my copy of Teach Yourself Visually Knitting, I got it done. And not to shabby, eh?

Here's one I finished yesterday afternoon.

And I also started my hemp washcloth project. After completing not quite half of, I'm calling it "The FBI Witness Protection Washcloth" because my finger prints have been effectively erased! It's some tough stuff, but I think it shall be a fabulous kitchen washcloth (I'm using the same Grandma's Favorite Dishcloth pattern on US 6 needles). Miss Daisy tells me hemp does not retain mildew (joy!) and the coarseness of this Mother Nature Yarn of 50% wool/50% hemp will surely rid my surfaces of grim and germs (euphoria!). Now . . . to find the band-aids for my poor fingers.

As for my version of the Just Enough Ruffles Scarf? I call her 'Marilyn' and let me say that all I want to do is punch it! I chose to do this project with a delicious Moda Dea yarn that's a dreamy soft lavender. One of my beloved Bitches recently broke her fibula in a stellar display of racquetball prowess and I thought this yummy thing would help her through the remaining days of Minneapolis winter. But now, finishing this scarf is a march to the death.

I refuse to frog this beast! NO! Rather, I'd like to take a flame thrower to it, but given it's mostly acrylic, I don't think it'd burn with the veracity I crave. It's been the bane of my knitting existence since I started it on the 7th, which is why I call her Marilyn -- the other Marilyn in my life is the bane of my work life. 'Nuff said...

Show 'n Tell time . . .

I've been asked to post a show-and-tell of fiber wares. Here you go!

Here's Miss Mo wearing a boa scarf made with Lion Brand Fun Fur. I'm made loads of these because they're fun and easy! Basically, cast on about 15 to 18 stitches and then simply knit to the desired length. When I make these for kids, I knit with size 11 needles, but for adults, size 13 needles.

These are my Cyclone Fingerless Mittens. VERY easy, simply garter stitch two rectangles! And then sew up the seams. Though DO remember to leave a thumb hole in the seam. I sewed the first two completely up, so I actually knitted 4 f'ing rectangles before I actually accomplished a usable pair. But they're fun and perfect for the Cyclone in your life. Pick your colors in an average worsted yarn and Go 'Clones!!!

This is a pair of fingerless mitts for my sister, K2, who requested a pair she could wear while working on the computer. Her office is apparently a wee frigid. Anyway, I modified a free pattern found on the Net with an irksome homespun (it looks and feels yummy, but being a newbie knitter, it's a pain in the arse).


Me mum asked for a scarf to go with her brown coat and I decided to make one from the diagonal check pattern from Teach Yourself Visually Knitting in a basic worsted yarn. I failed to click pic of the finished product, but Mom said she loved it. Though I've yet to see her wear it. Humph. Maybe our 50 degree temps could be why, no?


Here's my present fav: the dishcloth! This first one came from Miss Wooly Daisy who suggested I whip them up for Christmas presents. Well, I was too crazed with painting and pre-holiday freaking out to do it then, so I'm hoping to build up a stash of these for Easter! Miss Daisy forwarded the favorite pattern: Grandma's Favorite Dishcloth. I used Peaches N Creme 100% cotton yarn for both this and the following Fishy Washcloth, also loosely based on the same pattern.



But knitting isn't my only thing distracting me from housework: beads! Here's a peak at some stuff the kids and I put together awhile ago.

The cooley coincidence

I know I've shared how crazy-beautiful my life is. Are there moments of complete sucky-ness? Oh yeah. But then come the moments that blow...me...away...

Anyone read my last post, waxing about life in the beautiful valley and climbing out for better views? Recall how struck I was by a reading from one of my meditation books: "My sense of failure is a sure sign that I am growing in the new life. It is only struggle that hurts. In sloth -- physical, mental, or spiritual -- there is no sense of failure or discomfort." Turns out, I was not the only one to find comfort in those lines.

Later that day, I met my angel Miss Denise for coffee and she presented me with the most lovely raisin soda bread and a card. In it, she penned the exact same lines I quoted above.

I LOVE moments like that! Those times make me grin like a silly fool and get all giggly!

That deep part of my being, call it the Soul or Time Eternal or Sacred Intelligence, but that part of me just bubbles over and all I can do is smile at the realization of Jackie Warner's little gem: "The Universe is taking care of me." It really is!

For a long time, as I was being conditioned to a new way of living, I was constantly told: "You will be lead. You will be lead." Usually I say I believe that, but the coincidental words in that card jolted my body awake to that truth. Rather than thinking about that truth, I felt it at the core of my being. And Miss Denise, from the moment I met her, has shown herself to be a person of beauty and truth, love and supreme kindness.

Many of you may not be aware (ahem), but I'm a bit of a nut job. And Miss Denise has been unfailing in her willingness to talk me off the ledge. All my love to you Miss Denise!

Another year climbing out of the cooley

I'm back to loathing my blog. Why? It's the pressure! Ugh. Every time I open my page to visit my favorite blogs, that Obama-con picture of moi smiled it's silly grin back at me, taunting me to come up with something to write. Well, I'm still dry as a day-old toast.

But I will say this, Life is Good. Really good.

Without going into detail, (I spilled those about a year ago if you're that interested) today is a super special day for me. It's the anniversary of the day my life veered off a crazy, serpentine road full of potholes and no shoulder and found an exit ramp that dropped me into a valley so sweet, so ripe it continues to amaze. But it's a valley, nonetheless.

Valleys, or if you're a Cheddar Head, Cooleys, may be beautiful -- shady on hot days, lush with pastures -- but valleys are also kinda chilly and offer the ever-present reminder that better views await, if you're willing to make the climb.

And because I'm one selfish, self-centered beastie, I crave the better view. But the climb can soooo SUCK. Yet I keep going, many times without even knowing why except for the feeling, the inner propulsion that I must move forward.

Deep down in the pit of my guts, I know something amazing waits for me. A book I aim to read every morning offered this little gem to me for today: "My sense of failure is a sure sign that I am growing in the new life. It is only struggle that hurts. In sloth -- physical, mental, or spiritual -- there is no sense of failure or discomfort."

So am I to trust that the laziness that I fight EVERY day is not sloth? I'm keenly aware of my laziness, my lack of follow through and the yucky feeling it leaves within. I feel failure at every turn. (True, that may be the perfectionist within.) Am I to trust that the wee lil' action I do manage to take is enough?

I guess the Universe thinks so. Within the last couple of months, I've experienced such a blowout of Magdalene support. Connecting with different authors, learning new methods of prayer, gaining deeper understanding of what the Magdalene means to me, and snatching glimpses of the Truth that is buried far down in my soul, I keep taking that wee lil' action.

Having hiked just a bit out of the valley, I am gaining a better view. But I want more. I want more peace, more serenity, more joy, more love. So I guess I'll pick up some more PowerBars and keep climbing. Anyone feel like joining me?

Facebook Friends

One of the bloggers I follow recently posted about Facebook. Comparing her paltry 197 friends to her husband's 661, she waxed about the friendship requests she's received and accepted. As I perused my Facebook mates' friend lists, they're rocketing into the 300s (clearly not as popular as Mama Bird's hubby) while I'm lagging just a titch behind. Currently hovering around the 131 mark, I've opted to protect my FB domain.

Every so often I do a little house-cleaning of the friends list. Initially, I thought I had to accept every request, whether or not I knew them. Not only was it the polite thing to do, but more friends mean you're more popular and loved, right?

When I joined FB in the fall of '07, a smattering of college buds were on, but neither high school mates nor family could be found. All that has changed! I've got cousins leapin' on, left and right. I'm seein' an avalanche of high school chums joining (of course, an upcoming 20-year-reunion could have something to do with that). My point is, there's new friends and associates constantly popping up. So why am I not rocking the 300s?

Because I'm a bitch.

Yup. Sorry if I'm unapologetic about this fact, but there it is. I made the decision a few months ago to review my FB friend list and purge the people I didn't really know or trust. And I think it offended a few of those people because I regularly get friend requests from them. Well, sorry.

Yes, it's rude for me to ignore or block requests, but I gotta watch out for my bad self! I think of myself as a generally positive person who doesn't intend to harm others, but I know I've got this ballsy/weaselly personality that can be somewhat sandpaperish. And those who are on my FB friend list know what they're getting when they enter the Facebook world of this pissy kitty.

I really hate, no ABHOR making amends to people. But I end up doing it, a lot, because I have a tendency to speak/type before I think. Sure, with age comes some degree of mental engagement, but for the most part, I'm still an emotional talker/poster. Which is why I guard my Facebook world closely. If I don't know or trust you, you can knock all you want, but my door's locked. And it's purely selfish: so that I don't have to apologize to strangers for some inappropriate or offensive thing I will surely, eventually post. (I do it enough with the people I know.)

Eck, just admitting this feels yucky, like I've punched a baby! There's this part of me who wishes she were nice to everyone, sings with the birds, and frolics with the baby deer.

But that's just not how I roll. I can't even be bothered to fill the damn bird feeder. And the mess they make?!

Raised by wild, Republican dingos

Happy February! To January's passing, let me hear ya' say, "Hell ya!"

Since Punxsutawney Phil did, in fact, spot his damn shadow, how about a little pick-me-up? Let me introduce the newest member of our family: Maudry.

Maudry is a mild-mannered, small, mixed-breed adopted from an area Humane Society two weeks ago. While I think she's fabulous, I'll let the following interview speak for itself . . .

"So Maudry, I hear you were raised by a pack of wild, Republican dingos? Is that true?"

"Is that too uncomfortable? Oh, I'm sure. . . What's that? They forced you to watch Fox News?"

"Oh, how awful! Does that mean Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity are not your home boys?"

"Easy girl. Let's change the subject. Kitties! Do you love kitties?"

"For a snack?! Oh, just to lick. Ok, I can live with that. What do you think of other dogs?"

"I know, it kinda depends on the dog, doesn't it? Well, how about you gimme a smile?!"

"Good Girl! Now, wanna chill out?"

"Yes, we're done, Honey. No more questions . . ."

Harassment? Seriously?!

Turbo's tired. Tired of the bullshit, tired of the digs, tired of the harassment. I'm kinda learning what it's like to feel vulnerable, and guess what? It blows chunks!

I consider myself a strong woman, an assertive (sometimes aggressive) piss-ant. But that's all being sucked away. Slowly, over the past several months, a creepy acquaintance has grown considerably more inappropriate and this person's actions are eroding my peace and serenity.

Some would tell me that I'm allowing him to get to me. And the strong Turbo rises up and says, "Yeah!" and tries to take his behavior with the proverbial grain of salt. Essentially giving him the finger.

But there's this part of me that's nervous. Today, following coffee hour, I go to my car and find a harassing bumper sticker put over my Obama/Biden one. Like Mr. Mart said, "This is the stuff you see in horror movies." I wonder if I'll come home one day to find a rabbit boiling on my stove.

Several years ago this individual confessed to having feelings for me. Flattered as I was, I told him, "Thanks, but no thanks." We tried to be friends, but he inevitably crossed the line. Following coffee hour, when everyone's hugging each other good-bye, he'd hug me and tell me he loved me. Mmmmm. Awkward. So I distanced myself.

Then he'd show up at my place of employment, asking me out to lunch. Again, "Uh, I've got a meeting." NO! His last visit was the clincher. He appeared a couple weeks before the election and when he figured out that our office was a bunch of liberal, hippie, pro-choice, tree-huggin' freaks, he . . . changed. I think he actually frothed at the mouth.

I'm not even sure why I'm blogging about this. Only a handful of people know about it. I don't want sympathy, that's for damn sure. And I'm not out to take some looser down. I'm just freaked out and want to be left alone!

My boss is suggesting my husband and I, along with 2 coffee klatchers who have witnessed things, go to the police. The strong Turbo says, "Really? This guy is a complete TOOL! He's nothing!" But the instinctual part of me is beginning to wonder how calculating is he? Is he capable of doing harm? He knows where I work, he knows where I live (because our place was pretty infamous in its horse ranch hay-day), we serve on a board together and go to the same coffee hours. I've already decided to resign from the board, and I'm willing to go to different coffee hours.

This just sucks . . . and here I thought my next post was going to be on the fabulous-ness of the Magdalene Rosary. Maybe I'll just go pray it and tell you about it later.

In the mean time, I'll leave you with this creepy song. I'm probably feeling paranoid, but I heard this on XM/Sirius Coffee House - Acoustic (over the tele) and thought, "How disturbing it that?!" So, enjoy!

Where Obama began: Iowa

Some of you may remember this post I put up on Facebook, but given today's historical inauguration, I had to share it again . . .

Last January 3rd, in the year 2008, I showed up to my township's caucus--the Democratic caucus, to be sure. Little did I know, but during the last decade of happy, horny wedded bliss, Mr. Mart's been a registered Republican . . . his entire LIFE!!!

While he has voiced his displeasure with the republicans for some years, he has apparently remained true to his family's republican influence. . . Until last night. In order to caucus for Barack, he not only changed his Party affiliation, but shook up the Waterford precinct caucus in Clinton County, Iowa.

Here's the shizzle . . .
There were 42 democrats present of which 2 delegates would be sent to represent their constituents at the county convention in March. From the onset, there were big contingents, relatively speaking of course, for Hillary and Edwards--they had their placards and letters and cookies. There were a few diehards for Richardson and then us, 10 lowly Obama supporters, not a button or sticker between the lot of us. Let the caucus begin!

Round 1-6:45 p.m.
Richardson, 3
Obama, 10
Hillary, 13
Edwards, 16.

Round 2-6:50 p.m.
To have a legitimate 25%, we needed at least 11, so 1 Richardson guy came to our side and the other 2 went over to Edwards' camp with the tally now at:
Obama, 11
Hillary, 13
Edwards, 18.

Round 3-7:01 p.m.
As it was, one delegate would represent Edwards with the other going for Hillary at the March county convention. Discussions abound on how to get both precinct votes for Edwards, since it was clear we Obama folks didn't have the needed support to garner one of those votes. Even if all us Obama supporters joined the Edwards camp, there would not be enough numbers to give Edwards both precinct votes. So we sat, and sat, and sat.

Our Obama camp did not need to split up as both the Hillary and Edwards peeps had enough votes to each have a delegate at the county convention. So, 10 of our 11-member contingent stayed put and chatted snow, ice and other Iowa weather occurrences, until . . .

Round 4-7:25 p.m.
My husband, a Democrat not even a full hour, gets with the 1 Richardson guy who came to Obama's camp as well as the head of Edwards' camp and with the clock ticking fast toward the 7:30 finish, began working out a way to stick it to Hillary. At 7:28, they announce to the room that if 3 Edwards supporters would come to Obama's side, it would allow 1 vote more than Hillary, locking her out. Edwards would keep his 1 vote and Obama rather than Hillary, would get the #2 spot.

Final Decision at 7:30 p.m.
Edwards, 15
Obama, 14
And from puffed up and happy to deflated and pissed off, 3rd place and no representation went to: Hillary, 13. At night's end, Obama took the state of Iowa with Edwards in the No. 2 spot. (And if that wasn't awesome, to seal Mr. Mart's commitment to the Waterford township democrats, he was elected the Obama alternate for the county convention!!! Marty is the SHIT!!!)

But just how influential a "shit" Mr. Mart was, wasn't gleened until our dear friend, Mac, did the math. "Little do you know," dear Mack noted, "that this makes Marty among the most powerful people in the free world."

Check the math. Actual caucus delegate totals were:

Edwards with 29.75%, reported by the press as 30%

Hillary with 29.47%, reported by the press as 29%

Out of 2,501 total state delegates Edwards beat Hillary for the number 2 spot by a total of 7 delegates, 744 to 737. Now, let's imagine the result if Marty had not pulled over the 3 people to nab Hillary's delegate: she'd get a total 738 delegates for 29.51%, reported by the press as a 30% tie for 2nd.

"The media spin on her 3rd place finish gave the perception of Hillary as a huge spender who became a huge loser," Mac continued. "A tie for 2nd, much less so. The public perception of her going into New Hampshire in 3rd place is (was) monumental even though the actual numbers are insignificant. I am of the considered belief that Marty, in one hour as a Democrat, has changed the future of the free world. I am proud to be in his acquaintance."

And me, proud to be his wife!

We love you, President Obama!!! (You, too, Mr. Mart!)

Snow days: fun 4 kids, hell 4 moms

I always set myself up for failure! To quote a friend, he and many others believe that our society has programmed us to live in the future (or wallow in the past). We're programmed to believe that someday we'll have all we need to be happy and that's where we'll discover our peace and joy. Some day out there, in the future. But what about NOW? For me, that's where prayer comes in, and since I've been such a lazy toad about my spiritual life, it's no surprise that I'm an absolute nut job right now.

Want the specifics on how I set myself up for today's failure? Well, now that the holidays are a distant memory and I've packed away a few of the decorations, and, most importantly, I had no appointments scheduled, today was my first day of true R&R since last fall. Mr. Mart would be at work, Mo and Mac, at school, and me not due at work until 4:30 p.m. The day would be MINE! (And the universe exhaled a joyful sigh...)

Then the phone rang at 6 a.m.

That's when our school's automated notification system informed us that due to the weather (temps here in eastern Iowa reaching a sweaty high of -7) school was cancelled. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Gone were my self-centered plans to indulge in some meditation with my new Magdalene Rosary, or maybe get my Zen on with a little yoga, heck, even start painting the upstairs hallway. No. None of these activities are doable, let alone enjoyable, with earthlings age 8 and 5. (Yes, the daycare was open, but I was too big of a wuss to dig my car out of its cozy snow drift.) Turbo's just a real Grumpy Pants, the root of which is the dog. I won't go into it now because I'm still trying to wrap my head around this, but it turns out Sidney Freeman is actually The Black Widow. But I digress...

Today? We survived! I remembered to feed the kids both breakfast and lunch! We got some cool Lego stuff built! I caught a little nap while the kids continued to Lego! Naughty Sid Vicious ate some underwear and Styrofoam! Our newest family member, Maudry, shadowed us without a growl or bite! We even did some beads while watching Narnia! AND I didn't once call Mr. Mart, screaming about the kids! But this was no great day, to be sure. In fact, it sucked, so I'm really looking forward to tomorrow! Yeah, that's when I'll find that peace and joy and happiness, tomorrow!

What's that? The phone? It's the school? Classes are cancelled for tomorrow?!

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Turbo misses Marge

Thanks to all of you who have inquired about Marge. Despite lots of calls, fliers, visits with neighbors and total strangers, we have had no leads on our little puppy, Marge. I'm sad. Kinda empty. Not wanting to think about the Bald Eagle sightings and reports of coyotes in the area. We're left with nothing to do, but wait. With each day, though, the waiting gives way to an acceptance that Marge will not be coming home to us. She was probably picked up by some Brady Bunch just looking for the perfect family pet. Yup, that's it. And they're letting her sleep with them, and chew on their socks, and attack their family kitty. Yup, she's probably found a new home . . . and speaking of "kitty," join me in viewing this little pick-me-up.

I see your lips moving ...

Earlier this week I met with my new psychologist. I shared with him how the aforementioned reconciliation with my sisters took such a weight off my shoulders. When I added that I was utterly mystified by how different my memory of events was from my sisters', he sat me down for a test.

Called the IVA, it was a 20-minute computer test in which I clicked the mouse every time I saw or heard the number 1 (only numbers 1 and 2 were used). He said this was a tool to measure attention, not intellect. (Thank Madge!)

Afterward, he showed me the results, explaining that it indicated I was a visual learner. I learn much more efficiently if I'm reading or watching something rather than simply listening to a lecture. That said, he shared that my auditory responses were crazy low, in the 30's compared to the 100s that my visual responses were. What's this mean, you may ask?

Turns out, this would be a strong indicator of . . .

After dictating a quick letter to my shrink, he recommended I talk to him about Ritalin. Seriously?! The little devil part of my brain immediately pulled out a little Ren & Stimpy, "Yes, please."

So I did talk with the shrink about it. Fortunately, he's got a keen eye for Turbo's more compulsive nature and he'd hate to see me all spun out.Instead, there are some great auditory exercises to try before we consider medication. I don't put a whole lot of stock in the whole ADD thing. Personally, I think we're a nation of LAZY, too tired to accpet a child (or adult) as they are. Wanna know why I think that? Remember earlier this week, Mo's visit with her surgical team? After 3 hours of being shuffled from clinic to clinic, Mo had grown pretty tired (and hungry) and wasn't listening to the surgeon. His response? That we talk with our family doc about ADD. I know Mo can be a hand-full and I'm not making any excuses, but seriously?!

This thing with my own attention? Honestly, I think it's more about the type of learner I am. And as my shrink said, just being aware of this within myself with help sharpen my listening and focus. Now if I've offended any of you, I'm truly sorry, that was not my intention. I just found this to be a hell of a funny week. Even more so when I shared this information with sister K2 and learned she has similar attention "issues." The only difference is that she was sharp enough to realize this at an early age and compensate for it (over achiever).

Wanna know who's really laughing? Mr. Mart, who suddenly got all his arguments about my selective hearing validated. He thinks this is all just great! Peachy! Because he thinks he's right and I'm wrong. Well, talk to the hand, Mister! I still say, he's selective in what he tells me . . .

Madge, Mom & my 3 sisters

It's been awhile now, but I think I need to share the full story behind my homage to the Magdalene for her role in the reconciliation with my sisters which I blogged about back in November.

Long story short, I was on the outs with my sisters, like I've never experienced before. So bad that after skipping Thanksgiving, I truly saw no way out. So on the Saturday morning following Turkey Day, I found myself up before sunrise (I wasn't sleeping too well), talking to my 'Madge' (code for Mary Magdalene). I remember praying to her, saying, "I have no idea how this could ever, EVER be worked out! I don't know what to do! Take it!" And then I went about my morning, joining friends for coffee, but saying very little.

Afterwards, Mr. Mart called to report my mother had phoned the house. THREE times. Mom was searching for a way for my sisters and I to work it out. Given my prayers earlier that morning, when Mom tossed out the idea of me coming down to the farm for a talk, I knew Madge had cracked open a chance for change.

Now I won't rehash what I've already blogged, but I will say that I BELIEVE. I believe, deep in my soul, that Madge came through for me. She not only put an opportunity at my feet, but gave me the courage to go with it. Honestly, I don't see myself as some pillar of strength, I'm more of a noodle. It's Mom who's got the courage. When I left my parents home that night, hugged all my sisters good-bye, and then looked at Her waiting at the front door for me, I saw Mom choking back tears.

She hugged me and whispered into my ear, "Thank you for coming." It was then, in that moment, that I not only heard the pain she'd been in, but saw it on her face, heard it in her voice, and felt it in her arms around me. I saw, for the first time, how painful this rift had been for her, to watch her daughters fall apart from each other and, suddenly, miraculously, reunite. Whoa.

How are things now? Well, last week, A1 and I got together for pizza with our kids. Last night, K2 and I jawed for two hours, about nothing. Today, C3 called me for lunch. I can honestly say, if any of these women are talking about me, they're not stabbing me in the back, they've got my back.

And all this reconciliation, this re-newed bonding, this chillaxin' with one another, came about because of Madge and Mom's unwavering love for her daughters. It is my hope, my prayer that I never forget that day back in November when, from sunrise to set, I KNOW that I experienced the gift of grace delivered by my Madge, this amazingly holy Spirit. If it were up to me, I'd still be yelling, isolating, pouting, and hurting. And I'm not doing that today!

I head off to bed, smiling because I'm so damn blessed . . .

Namaste~

Playground privledges reinstated

Mo had her 5-month post-op check up today, getting x-rays of the bone graft done last August. Meeting with the entire Otolaryngology team is never a quickie. From 8:30 a.m. 'til 1 p.m., we moved from clinic to clinic. While some of the bone graft failed, a significant portion took root (yippee!!!). But Mo's got a powerful mouth and SUCK and until she's broken the habit of sucking wind through the hole in her palate, repairing said hole is on hold.

So, for at least 2 months, she's regained her phys. ed. and recess privileges and can also eat whatever she wants! And that's what this Momma Cat is focusing on. But speaking typing of playground shenanigans, I'm reminded of a little event that went down a couple weeks before Christmas.

We got a good dumping of snow, which makes for excited kids. One particular afternoon, Mac-Daddy comes in saying, "Mo's mouth is bleeding!" Mo comes in and sure enough, blood all over her mouth. Upon further investigation, I see it's coming from inside the mouth. More specifically, her tongue.

"Moira?" I asked, starting to laugh, "Did you stick your tongue on some cold metal?" Yup. "And I ripped it off!" she yelled. She laughed through the pain (probably because Mr. Mart and I were hysterical), but later admitted, "that wasn't the first time I did that."

Um, isn't pain supposed to be a teacher?

As with the Litterbox, so goes Marge

With a 10-week-old pup on the loose, unseen since Saturday at 8:28 in the a.m. I'm sad. But I must re-enter the fray of the blogosphere with a new sense of purpose: to be positive, to be prayerful, and to have faith. Which is why, after laying low for a month, it's time for Turbo to hold herself open to this new year and all the lessons that will come with it. And to lie still in the warmth of universe and bask in the glory of another day lived...

So is my first lesson of 2009 to be Marge's run-off? Yes. A lesson in listening to my gut, that small voice urging me to do the right thing, to stop and put her on the leash for her morning bidness rather than motor off for coffee with friends, late. But I ignored the voice.

I hate to be such a buzz kill as I launch a new Turbo, leaving the Litterbox in the past. But I must be real.

Missing Marge SUCKS and I'm so heartbroken over her absence...scared sick over the freezing temps here in Iowa...and pleading with the cosmos to keep her safe and in loving arms...

And so as I set out to knit my sister a scarf, I put prayers into every stitch, "Keep her safe. Keep her warm. Keep her loved."

Namaste

Colder than a bitch's ...

I've been watching the clock for the last hour as I ready myself for a 5-hour trek north to Minneapolis. One of my bitches is having her annual Jingle, Jangle fundraiser and the rest of us bitches decided it was finally time to get our arses up there and support her! But my left pinky finger is already frozen.

This post could've been titled 'A Cold Day in Hell,' given the insanity of driving NORTH during the winter season, but Waller's worth it, so it ain't hell! Though it is one cold mofo out there! With Monster House still torn up with all the painting, I'm sitting rather close to the dark fireplace and I can feel a bit of a draft/very cold, frigid chill (hence the frozen fingers).

But it feeds my soul knowing I'm gonna be with my bitches, soaking up their spiritual power and getting my own battery re-fueled. I have no idea or expectation about the event, only anticipation of being with my girls . . . mmmm, mmmm good!

Less news=less crab-ass

It was about 2 years ago when I found myself part of the XM Nation. I'd snagged a free subscription with my wheels and discovered that I totally dug it! Channels filled with specific genres of music, talk, politics, and then some! I loved the 90s on 9 for always taking me back to my college days. I dug the grungier stuff on Ethel and Lucy, igniting memories of my old Doc Martins and flannel. I loved the morning Bob Edwards and the afternoon Leonard Lopate. I enjoyed Mr. Mart's X Country.

I tried to quit the Nation, but like a cult, I'd already been assimilated. I cancelled my subscription, only to rejoin after a couple months. It had become a NEED. And like any good cult member, I set out to convert others and wrangled my husband into the fold.

But guilt was there and I started to feel it a year ago. The Nation felt so frivolous, such an unnecessary extra. But damn it! It was an election year and POTUS was giving me candidate info and race updates to and from work, keeping me posted until I could get home to tele! And lest I forget the 2 CNN channels (and I love me some Robin Meade and AC360). Was this frivolity? No!

With the election now over, not only has my POTUS interest dried up, but I've begun to experience how unhealthy it is for me to have all this news access. (Psst, most of the news out there is negative. Just so you know.)

As with many maladies, the symptoms don't surface until the disease has been simmering awhile. Hindsight shows that the negativity in me had been building for months, but I didn't see it until I found myself in a ginormous shit sandwich, much of which was brought upon by my sarcastic, negative fearful self. Pain is a good motivator for me, and the pain of having ALL NEWS/ALL THE TIME was really starting to kick my ass.

And I think that's what really did it, though the merging of XM and Sirius didn't help. Yesterday, I cut the string and by the time I'd left work, I was no longer in the flock. I listened to NBC radio on my drive home from work. I took in Morning Edition on my way to coffee today. And I survived.

For this impressionable, easily influenced wack-job, less is definitely more.

Kisses!

The walls are closing in

Oh House, Oh House . . .

Hickory, dickory, dock

The mouse ran up the . . .

There once was a man from Nantucket . . .

I got no muse, folks. The walls are closing in and my circuits aren't tolerating the burden of the upcoming holidays. It's a burden I place on myself, I admit, but it's crushing me! Hosting my husband's family for the holidays is something Mart's wanted to do since we upgraded to a bigger Monster House in 2005.

It's one of those fabulous old farm houses, infamous we later learned because of the cowboy who ran a horse ranch from it. Tales of saddles and other tack strewn on cool, fabulously decrepit antique furniture; car engines and oil pans staining the dining room floor; ducks swimming in the bathtub. And I'm not exaggerating. These are the stories that have been handed to us . . . and the stains, chewed wood work, and nicked porcelain are the proof!

It's a great old place, but so labor intensive! We took it on at a time when we were only half-heartedly looking for something bigger. 'Half-heartedly' because we were in the middle of some remodeling that would finally finish our work on our first home, a 160-year-old brick city girl (yeah, we like the old stuff). Then we saw our Monster House, and 4 days later, she really was ours!

Because we had to finish the remodeling at record speed, the thought of doing ANYTHING to the new place sucked ass, we just wanted to chill. But Monster House needed love. Sure, she got some electrical and water and exterior love. But the inside? Oh, her thirsty walls! A month ago, when Sidney shat up our bedroom, Mart and I dug in and started painting. Our bill is currently about $400. And that's just a bedroom, living room, and a couple of stairways! The first gallons weren't even poured! There lids were just popped and shown the walls, and the paint evaporated!

But this is such a good thing! It feels good to give her some love! I just don't know how much more I can take?! My hope for today is to finish the red living room, a portion of the stairway ceilings, as well as finish the first coat on some mauve-action in the entry. There's so much more to do, but the family's just going to have to deal! I'm done! Hopefully we'll get our "holiday fir" (a scarf to anyone who can name the book from which that comes, author's first initial is D) on Sunday so I can start deckin' out the joint in festive crap.

Ho, ho, ho, and the snow is a fallin'!

Namaste, little buddies~

Tic toc, tic toc

So, I'm experiencing another day of rising at 3 a.m. . . . I've unloaded the dishwasher, put other dishes away, and now I'm staring into the blog-o-sphere, and listening to the mice in the walls. Yeah, our two felines can't be bothered. (Bitches.)

Later today, my fellow staffers and I move back into our old office space that was destroyed last January. A major fire took out a good quarter block of the downtown in which I work. The Hallmark store that was the tall old brick building next to us, fell on our building. Except for my little corner, which took a direct hit, little was lost and we consider ourselves very lucky.

For the past 10 months, Bonnie, Bridget and I have occupied tight quarters in a great little office building where most everyone has been really wonderful to us. I did say "tight," didn't I? I don't know what the square footage of our old office was, but it consisted of 7 individual office spaces as well as both a break room and a group room. The "tight" space? Three rooms, about 15' x 15' each which served as office space, reception area, group room, break room and a little storage. But what could've been a total pain in the arse, has been very therapeutic for us.

Some of you may know me as lighthearted, free-spirited, even a little funny, but I'm not always like that. As I wrote once before, long ago, I can be a smidge of a white cunt. (Gasp!) I'm serious, though. I can be a real pain in the ass if I'm in one of those moods. And Bonnie, our glue-like secretary who keeps us operational, gets to "enjoy" that from time to time.

What the past 10 months have taught me is that I need to let others in. I need to let them get to know me so they can, at the very least, understand that on those days when THE MOOD hits, it's not them, it's me.

I have found both Bonnie and Bridget to be a shelter during the past months. When something was wrong, I couldn't hide in my office --- we've all been piled on top of each other. I had to force myself to be honest and share the pain I was in. And what I received was love, for which I'm eternally grateful.

Honestly, it's a little bittersweet to be returning to our old office, though I don't think any of us will deny the fun of having our own little corners again. But I think we're a tad tighter and really, if we can survive almost a year of living out of each other's pockets, a little space won't hurt us a bit.

So, cheers to pulled muscles, building shelves and unpacking boxes.

And now, to continue a little game started by one of my Bitches, Waller. Grab the book nearest you and turn to page 56, read.

My "Twenty-Four Hours a Day" was closest and while this little gem lacks page numbers, I took a guess and this is was the message:

I will start a new life each day. I will put the old mistakes away and start anew each day. God always offers me a fresh start. I will not be burdened or anxious.

Hmmm. . . One of this year's BitchFest themes was 'Expunge Regret.'. . Last Saturday, I reconciled with my loved ones. . . Later today will mark a new start at work. . . I'd say Waller's onto something.

Namaste, my loves~

Bad storm gone

My girl Daisy's been wondering whaz up! Without totally airing everything, let's just say there's been a lot of hurt that I've both hurled and caught, mostly with my 3 sisters. Mom and Oh-Dad were brave enough to referee a sit-down yesterday. And I've got the emotional hang-over to prove it. But after two hours, things actually look a little brighter, feel a little safer, and appear as if we will move forward toward a better idea of what it means to be a family.

But family is a weird thing, I'm learning.

A mentor of mine has tried to explain that "family" is not a spiritual term. "Family" is a term that comes from the material world, and with the material comes all sorts of baggage with how a family should be. You know what I mean: the Norman Rockwell bullshit? the Brady's? the Ingall's? the Huxtable's? All cheery and happy with a 6th sense of always knowing what the other members need at the exact right time, forever on the same wavelength and completely "getting" the others. Fictitious crap, really.

What I'm seeing is that family, while not a spiritual term, definitely comes with opportunities. For me, it's THE opportunity to see just how little I've grown.

I have 38 years of old ideas and views about what family is "supposed" to be. What I experienced yesterday was a mixture of expectation and surprise. I have a deep hope that my family will always love me no matter what, and the fact that Mom, Oh-Dad, and us girls hung in there until the proverbial David Hasselhoff was singing on a tumbling-down wall, proved to me that they are willing to love me. That expectation was met.

What was surprising was how skewed my perception is. A lot of shitaki mushrooms hit the fan this summer and the pile grew from there. My recollection of events was completely different from what was shared by my sisters. My recollection of events doesn't even include some people who were there. And that frightens me. It scares me that my memory is that selective. It's spooky that what I heard was WAY different from what was said. (So I guess it's a good thing I went and got me a shrink and a psychologist last week.)

I know there's the old adage about an event: there's her version, there's my version, and there's the truth.

But what also came to light is just how careful I must be with this blog. When I started it, it was more of a private journal where I vented my religious anger and self-righteous crap. But it didn't make me feel any better. In fact, it felt like I'd swallowed the family hedge hog (poor Otis). I started taking personal pot shots at people close to me. It was usually tongue-in-cheek, joking kind of stuff, but there was an edge to it.

What I'm learning is that if I'm going to honor this penchant for writing, I must use it in a loving, positive way (thank God the election is over). What I am seeing is that when I get caught in negativity, it creates such a shit-storm in me that everything I touch turns to guano.

A few weeks ago I confessed to my doctor that I didn't want to drink, but was afraid I would (hence the additional head guys). Despite my years of recovery, my head was full of such fear and anger and worry and dread that it was manifesting itself in all sorts of harmful behavior. And that's some dangerous stuff. And I was reaping what I'd sowed.

So does this mean it's all daisies and lollipops? Any of you who know me even a tad know that I'm not capable of prolonging sickening, cavity-rich, dimple'ed BS. But I no longer look at the Litterbox as a dumping ground. It's more a platform for sharing that which is good, or changing, or happening. So, I guess I'm back -- a little deflated, a little-less angry, a lot more grateful, and delighted to report that the Magdalene heard my prayer for reconciliation . . . and she delivered.

I send you all so much love---

Namaste~