Killing Time Until True Blood

I'm having one crapfest of a weekend. Nothing really going on, other than that apparently while I sleep tiny, angry elves sneak into my bedroom and beat the living crap out of me. And also slip sedatives into everything I eat and drink. I think they're working for the "I Hate The Queen Of The Universe Club." Maybe that's where the dues money goes...

So, yeah...like the title says, I'm basically just killing time until I can watch another installment of True Blood. Mmmm...yummy vampires!! I could be doing laundry or unpacking the boxes in my bedroom..but no, that would require energy and I have none thanks the minions of the "I Hate The Queen of the Universe Club." (Man, I've got to find a shorter way to say that.) So, I guilt-tripped my sister into letting me use her laptop since mine has been sabotaged by the Club. For some reason, the ac plug isn't working which means, no charge to the battery, which means no laptop. Yeah, there were tears...I'm taking it in this week because my life is meaningless without it.

So, I spent Friday evening at my aunt and uncle's house making yummy, yummy food with my cousin. We had the world's best bruschetta, which I made, but I can't really take all the credit because the tomatoes were the uber yummy ones my aunt grows herself and then there was fresh basil from my cousin's basil plant...I'm telling you, it was better than sex. Okay, maybe not better than ALL sex, but certainly better than some of the sex I've had...after all there is a ton of sex I've had in my life that I'd never want to have again, but I really, really want some more of that bruschetta!

And then yesterday was a frenzy of activity...kind of. The munchkin and I made a compost bin and I bathed the dogs, much their dismay, but now they are soft and clean and smell good, which are all requirements for anything I let sleep in my bed. I also cooked moose for the first time in my life. We're at the end of the month, "Oh fuck, we have nothing but stew meat and crackers" stage. A coworker of my sister's gave her a bunch of moose meat because we live in Amador County and that's just how the Amador County folk roll. It was good, but kinda wierd. I kept reminding myself that there was no difference between moose and cow, but myself wasn't really buying it. It's been ages since I've had any kind of game meat...I mean, when I was a kid, we didn't eat anything but game meat, but that was because my step-father was a freak who liked to shoot stuff.

A Hearty Welcome to the "I Hate The Queen of the Universe Club"

I don't watch Fox News or listen to Rush Limbaugh or Ann Coulter. I don't do it because I know they will talk about me (a liberal) in very derogatory terms. I don't respect their opinions, so why subject myself to it?

But, I'm a sensible like that. I try to avoid situations in which people tell me how much I suck. I don't need to hear it. There are plenty of situations I can't avoid that people tell me how much I suck, why look for more? Yet there are plenty of people who know I don't like them, know I've got all kinds of negative opinions about them and yet they can't stay away from the words I post here. I'm always sort of confused by this. If you don't like me, if you think I'm a lying psycho bitch, then what the fuck are you doing here? I've gotten pissed about it, gotten depressed about it, but now I've decided to take advantage of it.

See, a few of my regular readers come here because I can be pretty funny from time to time. What better way to amuse them than to start giving the members of the "I Hate The Queen of the Universe Club" what it seems they want? I'm going to find a way to blame them for everything from a bad hair day to the war in the middle east. Maybe that will give them the sense of power they seem to be seeking. If they want to hear how much I think they suck, then why not indulge them? It might keep me from feeling stabby. (Stabby is my new favorite emotion. The Archaeogoddess sent me a link to the The Bloggess' blog, and I've stolen this term from that amazingly funny site.)

By the way, if you want to join the "I Hate The Queen of the Universe Club" you are going to have to contact a current member. Needless to say, they don't give me a whole lot of information about membership, dues, mission statements...I'm just the object of their obsessive hatred, not like a real person or anything...

How Many Second Chances?

Getting over the collapse of a ten year relationship should hurt. It should be difficult. There should be tears and sleepless nights and anger and fear. But, there should also be an end to the pain, a lessening of the pain. Ever so slowly, the good days should come to equal and then outnumber the bad.

That is how it works if you are smarter than I am in the relationship department. If you are smarter than I am, you don't answer the phone when your ex calls after you've said that you are done talking to her. If you are wiser than I am, you remember all the lies you've caught her her in and you don't believe her apologies and her pleas for forgiveness and second chances. You make yourself indifferent to her attempts to get at you through second sources. And you refuse to believe that she has any desire to make amends, no matter what she's told others.

However, I am not smart when it comes to my heart. I am not good at giving up on people I love, even when they hurt me. And this is what I must learn. This is what I have to remind myself to do, every second of every moment. I must learn that no matter how much I love someone, they don't have the right to hurt me again and again. I must remind myself that if I expect others to value me, I must value myself. And that means that my affection and compassion must come at a cost. Not an exorbitant one, or an unrealistic one...it is simply that my time and affection must be earned through kindness, compassion and affection for me. It is not unreasonable to expect the people I love to love me in return.

I must also remind myself that it is not a second chance when you've done it before. Everyone deserves a second chance to do the right thing. But no one deserves infinite chance to continue doing the wrong thing.

Stuck On Repeat

I've got a gazillion or so songs that I love and usually listen to on shuffle on my mp3 player, bur right now I've got these two songs stuck in my head and on repeat...

Only In My Dreams

I had the most beautiful dream last night. I dreamt that I was driving home from my parent's house and there, by the side of the road, was my sweet Cera dog. I dreamt that I opened the door of the car and she jumped into the car and I brought her home. The dream was so real and vivid. I could feel her fur, that silky coarse German Shepherd fur...I could feel the weight of her leaning into me, draping her head over my shoulder in her distinctive puppy hug.

In the dream, I brought her home to my new place...And the whole ride home she stood in the back seat with her head on my shoulder while I was driving. Just the way she always had. When I woke up, I could still feel her fur in my fingers, and the weight of her leaning against me. And then, as I became more aware, there was the sick feeling in the hollow of my stomach. Cera is gone, and has been since March.

During the first dreadful chaos that followed the break up, my six year old German Shepherd/Chow mix that had been with us since she was only 9 weeks old, went missing. I lived in the middle of nowhere on a mountain. I was living in the small guest house on the same plot of land as my parent's house. We lived on over 90 acres of wilderness. Our neighbors, such as they were, lived up the same mile long dirt road we did. None of us have fences or anything like that, and our dogs have always had the run of the mountain. Cera loved it. She was always exploring, coming back to check in and then heading off again in search of adventure.

The first night Cera didn't come back at bedtime I was only a little worried, because while it was rare for her to not come back at bedtime, it wasn't unheard of. But when she still wasn't there when I came home from my daughter's softball game, I began to get very scared. I called the neighbors, asking if anyone had seen her...I called the shelter and the local vet offices. I was worried but sure she'd turn up soon. I made up fliers and my daughter and I drove all over our area putting them up and driving up and down the tiny dirt roads along the canyon. We knocked on doors and looked in ditches and called out to her over and over again.

There were a few calls in those first days. Vague sightings that could have been from before she went missing. Nothing concrete. I berated myself for putting off microchipping her, though truthfully, I don't think anyone found her and turned her in to a vet or shelter. I called all the shelters within a 150 mile radius, and faxed endless fliers to endless vet's offices. No one has seen Cera. And they would remember Cera. There aren't many all black German Shepherds with purple splotched Chow tongues who are missing their right front leg. She would have been recognizable. I still troll the shelter websites, calling on any black German Shepherd mixes listed, even when I've seen the picture and know in my heart that it's not her. Even worse is when there is no picture, only a short description and I actually begin to hope, only to be told, yet again, that the dog in the shelter is not my dog.

I keep meaning to write a fitting memorial for my beautiful girl. But I can't bring myself to do it. To do so would be to admit that she truly is gone and is never coming home, and I am not ready to admit that. Better for the time being to hope that someone out there has her, that she's safe and sound tonight with a family that is looking for her rightful family and they're giving her love and keeping her belly full until the day that we can be reunited.

Sweet dreams, my Cera girl...until we meet again...

Selling Sex

I just finished watching the documentary 'Very Young Girls.' It's a documentary on prostitution, and the exploitation of young girls.

Now, I actually support the legalization of sex work. I think that if adult women make a choice to provide sexual services in exchange for money, that's their business and there is simply nothing wrong with it. Sex work in and of itself is not exploitative. If a woman chooses to be a sex work provider, chooses the days and times that she will work, which clients she will see, what sex acts she is willing to perform...that's not exploitation. It's freedom.

However, most women who have the power to make those kinds of decisions choose not to enter sex work because of the legal implications. Furthermore, criminalization of sex work makes it dangerous. Clients are aware that sex workers are outside the law and that status means they aren't as likely to call law enforcement for protection. And because all sex work is illegal, girls and women who are forced into sex work by predatory pimps, poverty or drug addiction have little recourse for reaching out to get help. Girls who are being held against their will by vicious pimps are arrested and prosecuted, not rescued and helped.

'Very Young Girls' provides insight into the nightmare that these children live daily. In this country, a 13 year old girl cannot legally consent to sex, but she can be prosecuted for receiving money for sex. It simply makes no sense. It's like saying you can rape a woman and then if you give her money, she is somehow not a victim. These girls are not choosing to have sex for money. They are being forced to have sex with men to make money for other men. And these pimps know their stuff. They know how to target girls from hellish homes, girls who are looking for someone to give them acceptance and love. And they know how to draw them in, make them feel loved for the first time in their lives, and then use the love girls are dying to give to them to turn them out on the streets. And rather than rescue these girls and help them, our laws put them in jail cells and then right back out onto the street into the clutches of their abusers.

The documentary delves into the work of GEMS (Girls Education and Mentoring Services), an organization run by a former victim of sexual exploitation. The organization works with the girls to attempt to rehabilitate them, get them off the streets, off the drugs and out of the hands of their pimps. They give girls the chance to get an education and a job and a life. The work that goes into helping these girls is mind boggling. And a lot of the girls go back to their pimps, because the pimps are masters of manipulation. It is the sort of organization that is actually doing the work that our elected officials are supposed to be doing, but aren't.

If you're looking for a cause to champion or have money that you can donate, or just want to learn about the amazing work these people are doing check out their website. You can find the documentary on Netflix, it's available for streaming online. I highly recommend it.

Feeling Icky

Well...we have moved. That is to say that most of our belongings are in our new home, and we are sleeping here, but there are boxes everywhere and stuff still at the other house. It was a long and often frustrating weekend. Moving is such a stressful experience when you are well and everything is organized.

But, I am neither of those things. I didn't get everything packed before moving day, not by a long shot. I had the muscly help for only one day, so getting furniture was the priority that day. Never mind that I had stuff piled on top of stuff and hadn't vacuumed in ages. Sigh. I long to have one of those immaculately clean houses that always feels relaxing, but I hate, hate, hate cleaning. I've never been all that fond of cleaning, but definitely being sick has exacerbated the issue. It's hard to want to use what little energy I do have to do something I find so completely distasteful, regardless of the necessity.

To make matters more difficult on myself, as I insist upon doing, I ran out of my thyroid meds and didn't call it in in time to have the doctor's office fax over the refill, so I wasn't able to pick it up until this afternoon. So, today marked the third day with no thyroid meds and as a result of that combined with the exhaustion caused by moving made for miserable day today. I was awoken by Charlie barking at the guys who came to trim trees and service the water purifier system. I knew within seconds of opening my eyes just how bad the day was going to be, and decided that I had no other choice but to use today to rest. I intended to spend the day on the couch, doing nothing. But, then Ellwood vomited on my bed, so that made sheet washing a necessity.

Then, I decided that since a full day of rest was apparently out of the question, I'd take the burden off my sister a bit by going and getting the salt pellets for the water softener. I loaded the dishwasher, puttered at a few other things, but every little thing I did wore me out and required rest.

There is still so much left to do; clean up at the old house, unpacking, figuring out where things go. I know tomorrow is going to suck, as well, and I've promised to make dinner for my moving help by way of thanks since money is out of the question, but with all that I need to do...like finish bringing over kitchen items so I can actually cook dinner, and putting away what I can so that I can start to settle in...I just don't think it's going to happen.

On Anger

I despise being angry. I hate the way my stomach churns and my eyes prick with unshed tears. I hate the callous way my brain puts together deadly insults and hurls them without hesitation, without considering the consequences. I hate the screaming, the hasty decisions, the thirst for vengeance. I hate the way anger uses love as a weapon of blunt force, causing pain and destroying that love in the process.

I have for years swallowed my anger because I hated the person it made me. And yet, tonight, I find myself longing for the anger that has sustained me over the past months. Anger gives you strength and purpose. It doesn't hurt. At least, it doesn't have the same hollow knife's edge pain that accompanies the sorrow and grief that is all that is left of a love once vibrant and strong.

In my anger, the years that I've spent loving that lost heart that used to beat with mine seemed inconsequential. When anger was my companion, I didn't mourn all the soft, gray mornings I awoke to find my arms full of my lover and my brain full of the warm, sweet scent of the curve of her neck. My anger reminded me of all the tiny annoyances, all the larger slights, and ignored the beautiful, breathless moments that made up our life together.

Tonight, my heart is wrapped in silver grief. This grief is softer and deeper than my previous grief. This is the grief of acceptance. The grief that looks back at the past from an impassable distance. This is grief accompanied by gratitude for the moments that still burn so brightly in my mind. This is grief tempered by the knowledge that I am closer to the woman I want to be because I once loved and was loved so completely. This is grief wrapped in sorrow for the pain I have caused my once beloved, for the pain she has caused herself. This is grief wrapped in forgiveness for the pain she has caused me.

Life moves on, as it ever has.