Let’s talk about internet anonymity. Shall we?
Who out there is aware that the internet isn’t anonymous? Everything you do, everywhere you go, every word you type and every site you visit can easily be tracked on the internet. In this information age, it is also a great tool for being able to find people or find out more about people that you’ve lost touch with. I’ve used the internet to find a few long lost friends. But not everyone on the internet is looking to reconnect with people they were once close with.
First of all, I want to say that I'm glad I'm “fairly” anonymous. Glad, glad, glad. I mean there are some folks here that know my name, first and last. And the ones who know my last name might know where I work. But that information is given out to people I know, only.
Have you ever googled your full name? I have. Used to be that it came up with pictures of me, my name, my address, my phone number (from public records and phone listings), and you could even click a mapquest button to find out how to get to my house. Rock on, right?
The internet is a dangerous place. Lots of us bloggers try to be anonymous. And lots of bloggers get it in their head that blogging is some big serious thing. In my opinion, my weblog is a diary. I suppose I could get a "creative commons license" or I could copyright my "work" here, but if that means putting my real name on it, then not so much. I can easily prove that I have written everything here, and I don't have delusions of grandeur that what I'm doing is big in the scope of anything except some internet experience sharing.
But when people on the internet make posts all over the damn thing with their real name, and pictures of themselves, and what city they live in, and descriptions of where they went to school, where they work, and cross-link their "fiction" work to their "non-fiction" work and wrap it all up with a big bow and hand it out to the internet world wrapped with a ribbon that has their real, full name all over it, then they're asking to be "outed." They're BEGGING to be "outed!" They’re looking for fame, man! Some kind of reassurance or evidence that they’re being taken seriously for this internet “publishing” that they’re doing. They want to be related to their thoughts on the internet and for that reason, they’re making sure their big break doesn’t slip past them if they’re using an internet alias.
Now, there’s nothing wrong with being a serious writer and wanting your real name attached to things so you can get proper credit for your writing. Some of the blogs on my left hand column write some fantastic fiction, Sassy and Andrea included. And they should get full credit for their work, but at least one of those young ladies has suffered at least a little bit because a little “internet fame” turned on them in real life. And I feel bad for people that have that happen, for the most part. We all know folks who have been “outed” because someone “stumbled” on their blog and pieced anonymous information together to make sense of an otherwise good puzzle, but we also know people who are literally begging for it.
That’s why my real name is nowhere on this blog, and why S.’s isn’t either. He returns the favor by referring to me only as an initial. Paranoid? Maybe, but at least I don’t have to worry about anyone who wouldn’t recognize me in real life from my picture here, calling me by name or threatening to “reveal” me to the world. As a side note, I don’t write about anything here that I would deny I said, except I’d probably not want my mom to see my potty mouth. Do many of my real life friends or family have the link? Nope. I want to feel free to talk here without worrying about hurting the feelings of people I love.
Once upon a time, I was posting in an internet discussion group similar to usenet. And I was using my first name, but not my last name, but I was surfing without a proxy. A proxy is a free service that lets you surf the net without broadcasting your IP address. (I don’t make that mistake any more, generally).
I was about 28 or 29 at that time, and I had a man threaten to rape me with a broom handle wrapped in razor wire because I disagreed with him. And he knew the town I lived in, because I had shared it, and he could have had my last name, because once upon a time I was less careful with that stuff, and he knew where I worked because my work and home internet providers broadcast an IP address. (I now work somewhere that does not broadcast an IP address of the network here, so even when I’m not using a proxy I still feel fairly safe).
So let's be perfectly clear about that - I had not only one guy threaten to - I'll say it again - HUNT ME DOWN AND RAPE ME WITH A BROOM HANDLE WRAPPED IN RAZOR WIRE BECAUSE I DISAGREED WITH SOMETHING HIS INTERNET PERSONA SAID - ... I also had his cronies back him up on it and say things like, "You're god damned right, fuck that bitch up!" and "That fuckin bitch needs to be taught a lesson!"
A few people I know read this (Kristina, Ross, Mojo) will remember that incident, and how upset and afraid I was over it. I still have the posts, somewhere. They remind me why anonymity is a good thing.
I was genuinely concerned on one or more levels for my wellbeing at that point. It was right about then, that I decided my personal information was going to be just for me and people I had learned to trust with the information, and not for public consumption.
I have been doing this “internet” thing since before the internet was even around. When it was single-line 300 baud dial-ups and us 14-15 year old kids spent hours at a time writing on “bulletin board systems,” I was writing fiction and poetry, sharing my opinions on happenings in the world (important and unimportant) and making friends. I was learning to communicate using a medium that wouldn’t catch on for another ten years or more. At the university, where the Internet was born, suddenly I could communicate with students across the country – and there was more and more writing and typing. So, this medium is no stranger to me. After 19 years of doing this, you don’t easily lose track of the substance of it all. Everything I write, someone can read. Every bit of information about myself I leak, someone could get ahold of. The internet is not anonymous, I say again.
I have used the internet to track down friends I haven’t seen in years. With a full name and a last city of residence, as well as a “general idea” of where in the country someone was born (northwest, southeast, northeast, southwest) you can get a full public records search for $10, which I did to find a friend of mine I hadn’t seen in about ten years. With a simple public records search through a state website like a Recorder’s Office, you can find out throngs of information about someone (this is how I found out that my ex husband, who “disappeared” in the state of Nevada owing me money, had gotten remarried and bought a house, and how I got his address to send a certified letter to). Oh sure, there’s things we aren’t supposed to be able to find out about people, but you just never know how much information the internet is going to volunteer about someone. Even about yourself.
Take it from the old fuddy-duddy Aunt Rose. If you’re new at this, be careful out here on the web. Be aware of how your name is being seen. Be aware of what information someone can garner from you by the IP address you broadcast or by googling your name. Is the personal ranting on your blog really worth attaching your full name to it with a copyright or a linkback from another site? Evaluate that – and if it’s not, stay sheltered in the peace and privacy of anonymity. Anonymity, in some respects, is freedom.
That way, if you write something highly personal, you can feel safe doing it even though it might be entertaining someone else.
And if all you write is a steaming pile of donkey shit, then your real life persona doesn’t have to be damaged by people knowing that you actually wrote something that, uh… fill in the blank. Angst-ridden, sappy, stupid, idiotic, Napoleonic, racist, leftist, rightist, pitiful, or just plain bad.
Just remember. If you use your real name on the internet in an effort to promote yourself… be ready for people to find out who you are. You won’t need someone to “out” you for it to happen. The internet is the information superhighway. Don’t end up wrecked on the side of the road.
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Have I mentioned, lately, how amazingly and incredibly in love I am?
I suppose I should preface this by saying that S. is on leave this week, and he’s being kind enough to stay at the house for the whole week instead of shuttling back and forth. He’s got some errands to run that are taking him back out to his side of town, but overall he’s hanging out at home.
And, it is this knowledge that he is there when I am not there, that makes me feel like we are building a home.
Shacking up with someone and building a home with them are two completely different things. Oh sure, not everyone thinks they’re different – many people see “living together” as a huge step, commitment-wise. Perhaps it’s because I have “lived with” more than one man in my life, that I have come to appreciate the nuances of the different scenarios.
Building a home is what happens when two people don’t just want to live together for convenient sex, they want to live a life together. They don’t just hang out, they want to let it all hang out. It’s the little things that matter as much as the big things, when you are building a home.
Living together is getting them a card for their birthday. Building a home is getting them one card from you, and one card from all the pets, which is signed by each pet individually.
Living together is opening a can of soup and heating it up. Building a home is running to the Chinese place for their favorite egg drop soup. (S. did this for me last night, as I am fighting a cold).
Living together is figuring out whose books go where. Building a home is mixing all of the books up on the same set of bookshelves.
In so many ways, we are building a home and building a life. We watch out for each other, and we watch over one another. We need each other and we love each other, and we aren’t afraid to say it. Building a home together is being so loopy in love with each other that even when one of you is fighting off a cold, you’re not afraid to give them a smooch. Every 15 minutes. All evening long. Just because you wish they’d feel better.
I can’t wait to begin this wonderful beautiful life together. As a matter of fact, I can’t rightly think of anything I have ever wanted more.
Honey, if you’re reading this, I love you.
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The Witch's Ball was a success! At least we feel it was. We made more money than we thought we were going to, although we're not exactly rolling in dough. We sold fragrance oils, incense sticks, incense powders, and essential oil roll-ons. Also sold a couple of light bulb rings.
The best story of the night was this: The guy across from us in the vendor hall, who was dressed in a full suit of armor as his costume, was starting to feel run down and tired at about 10:30 but the event wasn't over with until 1:00 a.m. We had been talking with him a little bit throughout the evening. He and his wife were also selling incense and oils, as well as lots of other Pagan stuff, so technically he was kind of our competition. But they had two tables worth of stuff, and we had 1/3 of one table worth of stuff.
Well, he was telling us how tired he was feeling and I asked him if he could roll up his sleeves at all and expose his wrists. He did so and I took our Radiance essential oil rollon, which has tangerine essential oil in it, and rolled it on his wrists and asked him to rub it in - said hopefully it would help him feel better. He humored me and thanked me, and went about his business.
About ten minutes later, he cane strolling up to the table and said, "Hey, that stuff you put on my arms - how much is that? I'm going to need to get a bottle of that. It really works, I'm feeling better already!"
So, we sold one of our original items to our competition. Not for any reason other than the blend WORKS. And he FELT it working, and that makes me feel really, really good. S. keeps re-telling that story over and over again, even if it's just to me. :) That's our favorite story.
The place was full of costumed Pagans from one end of the hotel to the other, I'd say there were about 300 people there. The dinner choice was chicken or vegetarian and although we didn't go inside the ballroom to dance, we still had a great time. I think we paid more for our cocktails during the evening than we made, but I don't think ANYONE sold much. Most folks didn't know what to expect from the vendors, so what we DID make (which was more than we expected to) was a welcome help.
YOU SAY IT'S YOUR BIRTHDAY.
Sunday was S.'s birthday.
I've been broke as fuck and really struggling with what I could do for him for his special day, and I keep coming up dry with no ideas. So on Saturday when we went to the lady who makes and sells Renaissance clothing because S. wanted a pirate shirt for the Witch's Ball, I bought it for him - it was a surprise. He is going to wear it in the handfasting and stuff too, so overall it's a good investment. He was happy and surprised, and I was glad he liked it. It's not exactly a guitar, which was my first plan, but we do what we can.
Yesterday we hung out and had a lazy Sunday, just kind of wandering from place to place doing our own thing, which was nice. We ended up going for sushi last night to the little spot here by the house and they took such good care of S. - I "let it slip" that it was his birthday and the sushi chef not only comped us our last roll, but he carved a little teddy bear out of an orange and it was the cutest thing I've ever seen - and that was our dessert! Then, the sushi chef told the waitresses so they came over and sang "Happy Birthday" in Japanese (it kind of sounded more like, "if you're happy and you know it clap your hands") and one of the waitresses took our picture with the Asahi Super Lucky Cat. Incidentally, this is one of the coolest parts of the evening because ever since we started going to the sushi bar and drinking Asahi with our deeeelicious sushi, S. has had a thing for the Super Lucky Cat.
He wants to bring the Super Lucky Cat home, but alas, they would not let us. I have tried dressing up like the Asahi Beer Super Lucky Cat in an effort to soothe his tortured soul, but that didn't work either. I'm not ceramic enough.
It was funny, because the waitress came back when she returned the polaroid picture in the little paper restaurant frame, and said, "Okay, I take lucky cat back now. I can't let you keep him." Hehehehe. I don't know if S. had his arm around the Super Lucky Cat or something that made them think he wanted to take him home, but she was obviously protecting the lucky cat-ness of the Super Lucky Cat.
So, that was S.'s birthday. Now I have to get through this week, and I'm just not sure how I'm going to do it. I'm going to have a 14 hour day on Wednesday, PLUS we have to get ready to camp PLUS we have to get ready to sell incense this weekend!!! I just don't know what we're going to do. I really, really don't know. I'm starting to massively stress out, and it's becoming not so fun. I feel like I want to say I'll take the whole week off from my "other job," but I can't afford to do THAT either.
Sigh.
Somebody shoot me.
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Have you seen this? Via Daryl.
Summary: The Associated Press reports that Mr. Brett Bursey decided to exercise his right as an American Citizen to free speech on American soil, and protest the President.
He showed up to the Columbia Metropolitan Airport (in South Carolina?) as did a throng of Republicans who were planning on enthusiastically and positively greeting the President when he arrived. He waited there with them. And he got arrested.
Because he held an anti-Bush sign.
Not because he had a gun, or was violent, or was loud... because he was trying to exercise his right to free speech, to picket the President, in front of the President.
You see, apparently now John Ashcroft has set up this thing where there are "designated free speech zones," which can be yards, blocks, or miles away from whatever the big important event is. This one happened to be half a mile away.
The New York Times published this as part of their account:
"We attempted to dialogue for a while, them telling me to go to the free-speech zone, me saying I was in it: the United States of America," Mr. Bursey said. Finally, he said, an airport policeman told him he had to put down his sign ("No War for Oil") or leave.
" 'You mean, it's the content of my sign?' I asked him," Mr. Bursey said. "He said, 'Yes, sir, it's the content of your sign.' "
Mr. Bursey kept the sign and was arrested; he said he watched Air Force One land from the back of a patrol wagon and spent the night in the county jail."
These Free Speech zones appear to be set up so the President doesn't get his feelings hurt by someone protesting, and so the media doesn't see the protesters when the President lands. You know, heaven forbid we get to know what's going on in this country.
Personally, I'd never have thought I would see anything like this. An abortion protester can stand on the sidewalk in front of an abortion clinic and harrass, shout at, throw things at, curse at, the women visiting the clinic, with graphic pictures of aborted fetuses and waving Bibles, but I can't show up with a sign protesting the policies of the current leader of this country?
For whose safety, his? Please.
Oh, and here's where it gets even better. Mr. Bursey? Arrested. Carted off. The charges against him LOCALLY were eventually dropped, but now John Ashcroft is pursuing him with FEDERAL CHARGES, based on a Federal statute that allows the Secret Service to restrict access to areas when the President travels. Too bad they didn't restrict access to all the other folks too.
My suggestion would be, if you want to protest the President show up and act like a smiling Republican, and act like a giddy teenager waiting to see the Back Street Boys... then when he gets off the plane, THAT is when you should take the time to protest.
I'm really disturbed by this. I have practiced my right to public forum before and my freedom of speech in this country, and the idea that I can't protest where I want, for what I want, when I want, goes against every fiber of my being.
Please comment.
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SHIT I NEED TO GET DONE, LIKE, YESTERDAY:
- Get all the oils bottled for Witch's Ball.
- Get incense bottled for Witch's Ball.
- Buy black jeans.
- Figure out what to get S. for birthday (Sunday).
- Pack up Witch's Ball crap.
- Set more sticks to soak.
- Clean out S.'s side of the pier wall in the bedroom for his clothes.
- Clean the master bathroom so I can use it exclusively and leave the big bathroom (hallway) for S.
- Empty the closet in the guest room so S. has a convenient place to hang clothes.
- Clean the office and make room for S.'s desk and puter.
- Move bed out of guest room and give back to neighbor; make room for S.'s bed.
- Make room in garage for S.'s bedroom furniture.
- Sweep the pool.
- Shock the pool.
- Mow the yard.
- Clean the palm tree droppings out of the front yard, because it's fucking ugly.
- Get a copy of the handfasting ritual.
- Do ALL OF MY FREAKING LAUNDRY.
- Put away ALL OF MY FREAKING LAUNDRY.
- Mop the floor again.
- Make more room in living room for S.'s stuff.
- See if I can fit the stupid white couch outside.
- Put it on the back patio if I have to.
- Go to grocery and buy stuff for dinner for S. tomorrow night.
- Try to stop freaking out.
- Meet Mojo's girlfriend.
- Send Kristina her Yule gift from LAST YEAR that is still sitting in my cabinet.
- Speaking of my cabinet, find a place for all my incense making stuff.
- Find a place for new altar space in the house.
- Clean the kitchen.
- Change litter boxes.
- Find a way to make another $200 typing insurance statements in the next 10 days, which ain't gonna happen.
- Talk to Kelly about what's going on with her mom's house.
- Find a home for 2 adult cats.
- Go to work every day.
- Help S. pack boxes and move them over.
- Would be useful if had a place for all the boxes as they came over.
- Make a list for a garage sale and exactly what we're selling.
- Plan a date for a garage sale.
- Tell neighbors when plan date for garage sale, maybe it'll be a block sale.
- Sell lots and lots of incense.
- Finish signing up for Paypal so I can give Shanna more ammo for the Enchanted Rose Scents website.
- Get handfasted.
- Figure out when we want to make it legal.
- Move S. into the house by the 22nd.
Makes me freakin tired just to type it all in. How am I going to get it all done?
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There’s too much drama.
There’s drama at home, there’s drama where I work, there’s drama on the internet. There’s drama all around me. Handfastings. Diets. Prospective moves. Definite moves. The holidays are coming. It seems like everywhere I turn, I’m surrounded with drama and stress. So, I suppose I should write about something besides my personal drama and stress, and maybe I’ll be able to let go of some of it.
I’ve had kind of an itch lately to write about how in this country it’s okay, a lot of the time, to make fun of people just because they’re different or because they fit in a certain ‘demographic.’
I am guilty of this.
In the elevator on the way up to my floor (office) the other day, I was riding with two girls from my office. A man in his early 40’s, light build, got in the elevator. He had on thick-rimmed glasses, and had his hair parted nearly on the side in an almost Devo-esque ‘do. He wore a white short sleeve button down shirt and a red tie, black slacks and not-quite-polished dress shoes. He carried a manila file pocket under his arm and cradled his hand around it, as if he were carrying a football. He had the file pocket pulled up over the high waist of his pants, as opposed to hanging comfortably around his waist. And as much as I feel bad admitting it, he screamed “Poindexter” to me just from his appearance.
He got off on one of the floors that has a huge national accounting firm on it, as if that was any surprise.
And after the door closed and the giggles subsided, I heard myself say, “Do they tell accountants they can’t have the job unless they dress like that?” We all laughed.
And then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirrored door of the elevator, and saw a chubby girl staring back at me. Flowing black slacks, black button-up blouse, not tucked in, low heels. Black is slimming, you know. Low heels help your ankles not swell up. Baggy pants conceal how bloaty you’re really feeling today.
And later I thought, “Do they tell all fat girls they have to dress like this?”
Somehow, somewhere along the line, it became okay – actually acceptable amongst people – to criticize someone for being different, as long as they try to make it funny.
I agree that there are probably some times that criticizing someone for being different is actually entertaining or funny. Specifically I would have to put my finger on the people who go out of their way to consciously be different… the folks who are so busy trying to be non-conformists, that they become part of a GROUP of people who are non-conformists. We’re talking about kids with three foot blue Mohawks and people who have pierced studs in their forehead or have surgery to make themselves look like a cat… a fine example for me is also the kids when I was in high school who wore army surplus jackets with band names scrawled on them in magic marker, and safety pins through their ears or noses, and combat boots to school. There were three or four of them in school and they were trying so hard to be noticed for being different, I can’t imagine giving them the attention they wanted for their differences would necessarily be a bad thing. They were prepared for it, and they were aggressive about their desire to stand out. Even if it was a personal statement.
But making fun of someone for their age, or their weight, or how they dress… maybe that guy in the elevator that I snickered about honestly got up that day and thought he looked ultra-sharp for his big day at the office. Maybe he had no concept that he looked pretty geeky and that we were going to assign him the job of representing the entire vocation of accountancy.
Maybe.
I’ve had a lot of struggle recently with how to handle the Handfasting thing. You see, we’re going to exchange rings and as far as we’re concerned, we’re going to be married. But as the girls and I were going down the elevator one day a week or so ago, one of the gals in my office decided to talk about how “weird” and “nuts” her brother was for having a Renaissance-themed wedding. Okay, folks, so this is just the WEDDING. This is a true honest legal wedding where people dress up in medieval costumes instead of wearing a traditional dress and tux. She said things like, “He’s always been a freak so it didn’t surprise us much.” How would she feel if she found out I’m not only Pagan, but that I am being handfasted, and will be married, but not legally, and will be wearing a ring? So I have decided I will tell people my wedding ring is a promise ring. Because I don’t want them to look at me like I’m a “freak.”
Do you know that my mom doesn’t even know I’m doing this? And my dad certainly doesn’t know about it. My mom’s being better about the whole thing with my relationship with S., and seems pretty okay about the idea of us moving, but still, she’d freak if she knew we were getting spiritually married. But it’s about being different, because different is wrong.
Different is bad.
What I think is COMPLETELY funny about that whole scenario is, the people of the world who consider themselves to be the “norm” are not in the majority at all. White people? Not the majority. Christians? Not the majority. “middle-class” to “upper-middle-class?” Not in the majority. And God/dess forbid – white middle class Christians? Definitely not in the majority.
Now for the record, I’m white, and I’m middle-class, but I’m not Christian. I’ve never wanted to consider myself part of the majority anyway, and have always thought I’m accepting of other people for who they are and not what they look like or what they have. I have a good job in an important business that matters to a lot of people. I’m conservative acting, conservative dressing, and aside from being a little mouthy or lippy from time to time, I’d pretty much fit in anywhere. But I’m different, and it’s the things about me that I don’t discuss with many folks that make me different. My religion. My views about animals and spirits and stuff like that.
I mean, if I told you I believe in spirits or ghosts, would you think I’m crazy? Some folks would. If I explained my religion, would you understand it? Some folks would. But some folks would immediately start to tune me out as a tree hugging ghost seeing psycho freak. And one with a little junk in her trunk, to boot.
I feel bad that I caught myself judging someone. I feel bad that people judge me. I feel bad that I don’t ever see true equality coming in this country or on this planet, because it’s human nature to do just that. Separate ourselves from other people, or separate other people from us. Some people just don’t want to belong, and some people don’t want anyone to belong. Until humanity learns to work this out – myself included – we’re going to have to deal with the repercussions.
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Let me tell you why I don't fucking bother any more trying to get excited about things or looking forward to moments of revelation.
Because this morning I figured I'd slip on my pants for my navy blue pinstriped suit that I should be wearing to our event next week for work. The ones that were too tight when I tried them on two weeks ago, but that i was convinced with all this "miraculous weight loss" people have been noticing on me, would surely fit me better.
Apparently, this miraculous weight loss has taken place every fucking location on my body except my ASS, which is where the pants were tight in the FIRST place, because I notice no significant difference. As a result, I am still not convinced it would be a good suit to wear to the event, as for part of the event I will be sitting down and would be substantially uncomfortable.
So, you see, I started saying, "Oh yeah! I'll be able to wear that suit! I'm doing great! Look at me, eating right, exercising, drinking all my water, this is going to be perfect, just in time."
And my friends at work were saying the same thing - "Look at you! You just look great! I can't believe how much weight you're losing! Wow!"
Fucking suit. Fucking expectations. Fucking hope.
Hope isn't real. And I don't know when I'm ever going to realize or remember that. Somewhere along the way, I keep getting sucked in. And now I am broke as the mother of fuck, and I have to get myself a new fucking suit this weekend to wear to this event. Like I have the money for a suit.
FUCK FUCK FUCK.
Fuck you, hope. I'm never going to hope for anything again. My life was so much easier when I was just pessimistic.
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S. has updated his blog two days in a row. (or two nights, as it were.) Seems there's someone in need of some positive thoughts, if you wanted to head over and check it out.
And I just removed his (stupid old no longer free)ZonkBoard and added BlogSpeak comments to his template, so you can talk back if you want.
I'm just saying.
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This blog is not about "The Yeti." There are plenty of places on the internet to find out information about "The Yeti," sites where he's posted his real name, his alma mater, the company he works for, what he does for a living, addresses, phone numbers, and even pictures of himself. If you've come here looking for information about "The Yeti," you're in the wrong place.
This blog is about me.
I make no apologies for what I write here. I don't write fiction, and I'm not writing to entertain people. I write because it cleanses me, and because for some reason, some people are touched by what they read here.
"The Yeti" got his feelings hurt yesterday and has decided to now say I have "slandered" him. If you're here looking for a sob story about how the Big Bad Man hurted my widdle feelings, you won't find it here. If you'd like to know what happened with The Yeti, you can email me at sablerose70 at hotmail dot com or you can contact me through one of the online links on the left-hand side. I would be happy to go over it with you and share the transcript of comments that were deleted yesterday from Yeti's site in an effort to make himself look good and make me look bad. Like I care.
However, aside from this minor interruption, I don't plan to feed into his chronic need for attention, I will not link him, and I don't plan to discuss it here. It's a simple and well-known parenting technique - you don't buy candy for your screaming child in the grocery store just because they threaten to stomp and yell until they get what they want.
If you've come over here looking for a fight, you can just keep on looking... this is my online diary, I write about what's going on with me, and today "The Yeti" doesn't have much to do with what I'm doing. That was yesterday.
So, that's that. Let's get back to the real life stuff, eh?
-Rose
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Well, the incense business is coming along nicely. There are just a few little things we need to do to make it all come together in time for the Witch's Ball event on Saturday, but it'll be good.
At the Witch's Ball, I'm not going to sell sticks. I'm only going to sell oils, perfume oils (yes, my fragrance oils can be worn as perfume in the higher concentration) and powdered incenses, out of courtesy. The man who inadvertently taught me how to make incense sticks is going to be selling his sticks at the Witch's Ball, and I don't want to compete with him.
But, although he has oils he doesn't sell powdered incense.
So, my house smells like fragrance oils, and I am waiting on another order of supplies - roll-on bottles - 2 dram oil vials - incense sleds - and a new fragrance oil that's supposed to be woodsy, earthy pine scent.
I won't see S. until this weekend, as he's on nights and I didn't work my 2nd job nearly as much last week as I wanted to... things were slow in the insurance biz. So, I'm going to work as much as I can and get as much incense as I can get, made and ready to go. And fragrance oils. And stuff.
I think we've worked out a design for the table space and I just have to create some more collateral material. I'm already working on labeling incense bags and oil vials.
It's a lot to get done, but I'm sure I'll get it done.
I'm Not Crazy - I'm Just A Little Unwell.
S.'s phone is disconnected this morning, but that's something he wanted. He set it to disconnect today but I think he forgot. Since he's on call, that kind of sucks. Hopefully his cellphone will stay charged.
Cheeseburger In Paradise
I long for cheese. My diet is going very well. My boss told me yesterday she can tell I'm thinner. I'm feeling pretty good about that.
I wonder if you'll be able to tell under my handfasting robe...
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Incidentally, regarding this McDonald's radio advertisement that pushed my buttons the other day...
I heard it five or six times a day every day from Saturday of last week all the way through Friday of last week.
Since Friday before noon, I have heard it a total of 1 time. I have flipped radio stations trying to find it, listening for hours at a time, in the hopes I could transcribe it (since there is no transcript available online) or record it.
(Lyric: After waking up with an Egg McMuffin on his mind, and goign through the drive-through to get his "morning booster," our hero "Went and caught a flick at the - well you know - I - had ta slip in the back ta go - I - di-int want ta spend dat much dough - ha! That's why I say, today was a great day!") Again, for reference: It is okay to go to McDonald's and spend money, but if you want to go to the movies, slip in the back door if you want to "go," especially since you don't feel it's worth spending your money to go to the movies... because that's just good clean fun and part of everyday life.
It's just disappearing. Miraculously gone. Gosh, I wonder why that would happen? Maybe because it was a freaking offensive ad?
Just for the record, the white-bread country-girl harmony singing McDonald's radio commercial that was the rap delinquent kids sneaking into a movie commercial's counterpart, is now being triple-played. You know, the one where they talk about going into McDonald's for a "hot, delicious sandwich" while they are "driving around town" instead of the one where they sneak into a movie theatre because it's great and fun to spend money at McDonald's, and it's also great and fun to break the law!
So, let's review.
Ad that has young, attractive sounding chicks singing about a big, hot sandwich: Overplayed.
Ad that promotes doing something illegal: Not so much.
Damn that liberal media and their lack of racial forethought. Not.
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Well, The Yeti decided to stir the turd and put me up on the front page. I'm not even going to do him the benefit of a link, because he's a hit-whore, and he's just looking for numbers. I am not here to boost his numbers.
The last time this happened, he longed for me - he needed me - he wanted me on that wall, and he called out to me for roughly a week, give or take a few days, in his comments and on his front page, making reference to me, talking about me, and hoping I'd jump back into the fray.
So, today I gave him his wish, mainly because he suggested I am a racist.
Since he has a tendency to edit any comments on his blog that he doesn't find appropriate (read: derrogatory about him, his opinion, his writing style, his typos, his grammar, or his tendency to lose track of what he's writing) I am reproducing my comments here for posterity. So, if you amble over there and see something like, "Rose: (ed) Yeti, you're wonderful and I love you! You're just the greatest ever! Wow, like, you are sooooooooo cool! (/ed)" you'll know what truly existed there.
Blogging isn't a means to becoming famous. Blogging is, and should be, what is raw, what is real, and what is honest. If that means I stay at 50 hits a day forever but I still have a place I can be honest instead of cross-promoting myself in 12 different locations, then so be it. Honesty is what this blog is about, and if you're here looking for anything else, you can take a fucking hike.
Thanks.
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Comments to Yeti:
Thanks for the hit and run, there, pal - I knew you missed me, I just didn't know how much.
First of all, I'm going to take a moment and point out (though it should be plain as day) that a PSA and a commercial for the largest fast food chain in the world, are not the same thing. Seeing anyone portrayed on a PSA is hardly "corporate America." If you want to try to make that stretch you can, but anyone with marketing savvy understands that there is a clear-cut difference between promoting or selling a product, for profit, to a target market (commercial) and warning or educating the general populous about something of current relevance (Public Service Announcement). The McDonald's COMMERCIAL was not only promoting McDonald's food somewhere in the rap, but it was also promoting an illegal activity. Interesting that you can overlook that as a "normal teen activity."
I suppose if someone slashed your tires or egged your car, that would be just good clean fun too? See, it's all fun and games until it happens to you. You don't own a movie theatre, so it doesn't matter to you. Typical.
It's apparent to me that you haven't heard the commercial, and you basically say as much here. I'm fully aware that you took advantage of my commentary to try to put a racist spin on a blog entry from someone you perceive as a liberal, and that's fine. It's actually something I halfway expected. But, I wouldn't go so far as to comment on something over here that I didn't know about or hadn't heard. I'd recommend you take the same road, to avoid helping yourself look any more foolish.
I'm working on finding a transcript of the radio ad, and when I do, I'll consider posting it on my blog.
In the meantime, I'll leave you with these nuggets of wisdom.
1) I did not say that the entire "Lovin' It" campaign was targeting "black teens as criminals," and you'd be hard pressed to demonstrate that I did.
2) I was pointing out that under the premise of the advertising campaign, which is listed on my blog, McDonald's is trying to reach out to target markets by focusing on things that they include as a part of their everyday life, and that I thought it was degrading and racist to have an obviously black-sounding young man rapping in the common urban slang about sneaking into a movie theatre.
3) In addition, if an alternative entertainment outlet had suggested that jumping behind the counter and taking a Large Fries from McDonald's because you shouldn't have to spend that much money for some snacks, you don't suppose McDonald's would have been unhappy with the premise no matter what the ethnicity of the teens involved?
4) There is an obviously "white-bread" geared commercial that is played on alternate radio stations here, featuring country-singer sounding young laides. The lyric of that jingle, besides "I'm lovin' it," speaks about "having a hot delicious sandwich at McDonald's." It says nothing about sneaking into a movie theatre (which is illegal). Why is that, do you suppose?
So, you can sit over here and compare PSA's to actual corporate advertising, and think you're doing the world a service and me a disservice... you're entitled to your opinion. If I'm disappointed that black teens were portrayed in illegal activity as part of their "everyday lives" in a marketing campaign by one of the largest multinational corporations in operation, and you aren't, I don't think it makes your perspective any broader than mine. But it's not like you've ever pretended to be an open minded guy.
And just for the record, the promotion of any illegal activity in an advertisement riles me up no matter the ethnicity of the perpetrators.
Good try, though. I guess you win, whoopdee freakiin' doo, because you managed to get me back here. The fun thing is going to be counting how many days you bend over backwards trying to keep me here, in typical Yeti fashion. Why, I fully expect to make the front page at LEAST three more times this week! After all, the Yeti ain't the Yeti if he's not stirring the turd.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have a 2nd job to work, a wedding to plan, a house to take care of and a move to organize. I'd much rather talk about my life on my own blog than bother arguing with you about your faulty mind-reading techniques.
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Why haven't I ever used that lyric before? Maybe because it's about a woman who weighs 19 stone and learned to compensate by being good in the sack.
I suppose the similarities end with "good in the sack." I'm sorry, was that my outside voice?
So, I've been in a funk again. S. is in a terrible rip roaring funk and I don't know how much more of it I'm going to be able to handle without just having some kind of a breakdown.
Nothing makes him happy right now. The handfasting? No. Us having a weekend together? No. Good meal? No. He doesn't know what he wants to eat. He doesn't know what he wants to do. He doesn't know where he wants to go. First he wants one thing, then he changes his mind mid stream and wants another thing.
Don't get me wrong, he was very kind and took care of me all weekend, but this should be an amazingly happy and exciting time, and all this fucking business with fucking ex-wife cuntrageous bitch [(c) Lux 2003] is FUCKING WRECKING FUCKING EVERYTHING.
FUCK.
We don't even HAVE A LIFE TOGETHER YET and she's FUCKING RUINING IT. He's got so much stuff to worry about that he's becoming physically unable to FUCKING ENJOY HIMSELF. We're getting handfasted in around 10 days. It should be some of the happiest time of our life. Oh, but no. He can't decide what he wants to eat for dinner, let alone being able to tell me what can be done to improve his FUCKING MOOD. And I am starting to take it personally, and he keeps telling me not to take it personally, and I am FUCKING TAKING IT FUCKING PERSONALLY.
I stood in the entryway of his apartment last night and held on to him and cried, cried my fucking eyes out. And I heard myself saying things like, "I get so afraid you're going to decide that 'fixing your life' means changing everything and leaving me behind." Who the fuck is that, who is this clingy emotional needy pussy bitch inside me who says things like that? Who IS that?! That is not me! I am Independent Girl! I make good money at a job I love and I own my own house and I own my own car and I take care of my pets and I still manage to have a little left over at the end of the month to do something fun. WHO IS INSIDE MY HEAD CRYING AND SNIFFLING and acting like she couldn't live without her man? What the fuck is up with that shit?
I am NOT a needy clingy overemotional bitch any more. I used to be, I think all women go through it, but I am NOT like that any more. But the problem is, I want to make S. happy, and he is uncharacteristically UNhappy, and there is fucking NOTHING I can do to make him happy.
Make his favorite dinner? Eh.
Rent a good movie? Eh.
Go shopping and find something cool? Eh.
Have sex? Eh.
Yes, that's right, "Have sex?" "Eh."
When even the idea of having sex isn't enough to get your blood rushing, something is drastically wrong. And, therefore, it's affecting me.
It All Amounts To Nothing, In The End.
So. This Saturday is the Witch's Ball. I plan to wear an attractive little ensemble involving a red silk poet/peasant shirt (and push-up strapless bra) and black jeans and black boots. S. will be wearing his (hopefully) (not bought yet) black peasant shirt (lace-up front, like a pirate shirt) and black jeans and black boots. We will make quite the pair.
I'm trying to find out if we'll be able to burn incense at all while we're there. Or candles so I could take an oil diffuser and people could smell the oils at work. You know, blah, blah, blah.
I'm feeling frustrated and a little bit behind because I haven't received my glass vials and stuff yet and I need that stuff so I can work on labeling things and making stuff, and stuff and stuff and stuff.
And stuff.
I'm behind.
And now I forgot where I'm going with all this, so I'm just gonna call it a post and move on to the next thing I should be doing.
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I am tired.
So, what’s the deal with this new McDonald’s radio campaign I keep hearing? At the risk of sounding racist, which I am not, I will describe it as follows: There’s a very “black sounding” young man, very “gangsta rap” sounding, like, straight up from the hood, yo. And he says, stuff like, “I’m lovin it,” which is the slogan, and then starts talking about not only cruising thru the drive-thru for his “breakfast buffet” in a paper wrapper, but also then talks about breaking the law by sneaking into the movie theatre because he “didn’t have to drop that much dough, yo” – so it’s okay for him to go spend money at McDonald’s, and stealing from a movie theatre is fine too, but stealing from McDonald’s, that’s just bad.
So I have heard this ad over and over again and first of all, I thought it was rather racist to have an obviously black voiceover artist doing bad rap (with even worse “ba-dap-ba-ba-baaaaaaaaaaa” background singers who aren’t on key for the rap (if the rap could be in key anyway)… I mean… “I’m lovin it… yeeeayyyyyuh… comeawn… yeeeayyyyuh…. Yo…”
Fucking gag me. So they’ve got this racist ad that portrays a young black guy as a juvenile delinquent, and I’m thinking, who are they trying to sell to… then I see the above-listed article about the campaign, where they say the following:
““I’m Lovin’ It” is a key part of McDonald’s business strategy to connect with customers in highly relevant, culturally significant ways around the world. The theme and attitude of this full-scale campaign is being integrated into every aspect of the business. McDonald’s Senior Vice President Chief Marketing Officer U.S.A, Bill Lamar:
“‘I’m Lovin’ It” is a new way of connecting the McDonald’s brand with our customers. It will rekindle the emotional bond our customers have with McDonald’s through a campaign that depicts how people live, what they love about life and what they love about McDonald’s.”
So, black people sneak into movie theatres because they “didn’t have to drop that much dough, yo?” That’s what I love about McDonalds. How about you?
Interestingly, the white-bread country music version heard on the adult contemporary station (as opposed to the hip hop juvenile delinquent version heard on the hard rock station) doesn’t have anyone stealing or breaking in to anywhere. Wonder why that is? Racism at its finest. Like fast food doesn’t do enough to hold underprivileged people down anyway, no matter what race they are. Now they’re suggesting that black people sneak into movies while white people sing happy country songs about their Egg McMuffin.
Bah. As if Justin Timberlake wasn’t enough.
And I’m Still Here.
Dear Guy In The Black Pickup Truck Outside Einstein’s Bagels This Morning:
It wasn’t cold, it was about 70 degrees.
It wasn’t raining, it was sunny and clear. There wasn’t even a breeze.
There was no major road construction in the parking lot, nor was there anything else impeding your view or the walking path.
I guess I should just feel sorry for you that I watched you back your truck out of your parking space, hold up the flow of folks in the parking lot, put your blinker on, and pull into the parking space that was 3 spots closer to the hardware store. Did you really save yourself that much trouble? God knows you skimped on burning a whole .75 calories walking that far. Look, asshat, next time just walk the extra 18 feet. Not like it wouldn’t have done you some good – you had the old-fat-guy waddle thing going on. I’m sure it would have been good for your health.
I’m not discriminating against you because of your size, goodness knows that’s not my place. But you epitomize the world view of the dumb, fat, lazy American.
It’s 18 feet.
I bet you’d walk 18 extra feet to get an Egg McMuffin at McDonald’s.
Sincerely,
Rose.
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Can I please just get married and move away and live happily ever after? Please? Please, can that happen? I mean, really. Don't you think I deserve something like that?
You'll have to forgive me and bear with me a little, as I'm just kind of tired. I'm tired and whiny.
First of all, I can't rightly figure out why I'm so goddamned tired, except that this time of year the mornings are a little cooler, the mornings are a little darker, and it's harder to get out of bed. I'm not necessarily a "morning person" anyway, but this time of year makes it even harder for me. I have the roughest time getting up and at-'em in the wintertime.
I'm also feeling a little unmotivated for things in my basic life. Laundry. Cleaning. Stuff like that.
But then in the meantime, I am eating right, and I am exercising a little bit, and trying to make myself healthier.
I haven't had typing work to do in three nights, and maybe that's why I'm feeling a little bit out of my routine today. Perhaps that's it. I really need to get some work this week becuase I'm feeling a little financially pinched right now, too.
S. is on nights and on call, so that has also thrown my routine off a little bit since we haven't had our extensive phone time in the evenings. He's got so much going on, I feel bad when I talk to him mid day when he's waking up and say "Don't forget these three things you have to do, blah blah blah." I know, I know. I promise I'm not nagging, but you've got to realize there's a bunch of stuff that only he can really do!
S. was looking for information about Tinker AFB in Oklahoma City, and we found out that not only is there anything decent in terms of base housing (924sf milk crates 2 bedrooms) but there's a 7 month waiting list just to be considered, and then you get whatever comes up first. So. What does that mean?
Ladies and gentlemen, it means we have to buy a house. Why is that? Because we have two dogs and two cats, and I highly doubt anyone is going to rent anything to us.
So, this is how my mind works. Ready?
If we have to move, which it looks like we're going to do, where are we going to live? How will we rent something or buy something if I don't have a job in advance? If S.'s credit isn't good enough to get a house because of all these problems we're having with Angela the Cuntrageous Bitch, then we'll need to use my credit - but if I don't show an income, we can't do it. Where will the dogs and cats live, if we can't find somewhere to rent with them, in the meantime? Will we have to foster them? Board them? For how long? How long will we be waiting?
And there you go, welcome to the world of my brain's panic. sigh.
So. Feeling broke, getting handfasted in 2 weeks, trying to get my incense together, and work, and sleep, and not panic about moving, because I just don't know what to expect and neither does S., and no one can seem to tell us!
Does ANYONE have ANY ideas about this? I've done some looking on the internet and can't confirm if there's even any programs that would let us put our dogs or cats in a foster home for a couple of months if we needed to rent something.
I just want to buy a little house!
AURGH!!!!!!!!!!
I CAN'T CALM DOWN!
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Woo hoo! I brought samples to work with me today to "try out the scents" on someone besides me and S., and you'll never guess what happened.
Everyone's so impressed with the quality of the scents that they bought me out of just about everything PLUS made orders for stuff!!
I sold $40 worth of stuff by 11:00 a.m. Some of it I haven't even made yet.
So I thought I might as well post my price list here since I don't have a sales website to speak of, just so if anyone was interested...
Stick Incense
Untreated incense sticks soaked for 24 hours in fragrance oil (not essential oil) and dried for 36 hours. Very high concentration of fragrance oil. Sold in packs of 10.
$2.00 per pack of 10 sticks.
Fragrance Oils - 1 dram
Fragrance oils in same concentration as used to soak incense sticks. Mixed by hand to my personal formulas. 1-dram glass bottles. Wear on skin as perfume oil or use in oil diffuser or light bulb ring.
$2.50 or 5 for $10.
Fragrance oils and stick incense available in: Lavender -- Tangerine -- Rain -- Patchouli -- Rose -- Vanilla -- Forest Pine and blends such as: Lavender-Tangerine -- Lavender Rain -- Mystic Meadow -- Tangerine Rain -- Tangerine Dream (tangerine/vanilla) -- Patchouli Rose -- Patchouli Rain -- Patchouli Lavender -- Vanilla Rose -- Ancient Forest...
Super-Premium Essential Oil Incense
100% pure organic essential oils in a sandalwood base with natural botanicals, blended for ultimate fragrance and ultimate essential oil benefit. Burn on a charcoal or form your own cone and light. Self-burning. Sold in 1-dram and 2-dram glass bottles. Keeps your space scented for over 24 hours. Aromatherapy at its finest.
Fragrances: Harmony (lavender/tangerine), Radiance (Tangerine), Serenity (Lavender)
$4.00 for 1 dram, $6.75 for 2 drams
Essential Oil Roll-On
Essential oils in a neutral skin-safe carrier base. Roll on skin for lasting aromatherapy fragrance and to experience physical benefits of essential oils.
Fragrances: Harmony (lavender/tangerine), Radiance (Tangerine), Serenity (Lavender).
$7.50 per 1/3 oz roll on bottle.
Pure Essential Oils
Lavender and tangerine 100% pure organic essential oils, not for use directly on skin, EXTREMELY STRONG.
$7.50 per dram.
I have other powder incense I'm gonna make but since I haven't made it yet.... it'll be cheaper than the other powder incense, but it's not going to have the essential oils in it.
I'm so excited.
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Wow, I'm a scent o matic.
Okay, so my total investment for the Enchanted Rose Scents business appears to be done. I am not going to let myself buy anything else. But S. and I are making incense like crazy fiends. He's being so kind and patient, helping with the smells and stuff. Last night, I worked it all by myself.
So far, we have made:
Tangerine Rain
Vanilla Rose
Tangerine Dream (tangerine/vanilla, like a dreamsicle)
Patchouli Rose
Patchouli Rain
Mystic Meadow (very flowery)
plus you know, the individual fragrances that make those up...
... and those are just sticks and oils! Then in the powdered incense that are being made with the true essential oils, we made "Harmony," which is lavender/tangerine, "Serenity," which is Lavender, and "Radiance" which is tangerine and orange peel.
I also ordered sage, rosemary, and juniper to make a type of cleansing incense, very woodsy. I hope to see my order with the last fragrance oil in it, by this coming Saturday the 18th.
I know, it seems like I'm putting an awful lot of energy into this, but it's something I'm good at and hopefully it's something that will work out. It would be a nice secondary source of income that we could do together.
Maybe I need a website...
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Okay. Can everyone see the pictures across the top of the blog in the header? Because I can't see them at work any more.
And it looks like my comments are down, at least temporarily. sigh.
Crap. Crappity crappy crap.
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I shot a gun! For reals!
Okay, a little background on why this is such a phenomenal accomplishment. I have never been around guns in my life. As a matter of fact, I am terrified of them. Scared to freaking death of guns am I, so much so that when S. started bringing his pistol to the house, I didn't want him to bring it, didn't want it in the house, and if it was, I asked that he practically took it apart to show me that it was empty.
The first time he had me hold a gun, with no bullets in it, I shook and cried.
The first time he had me hold a gun, with bullets in it, I shook and cried.
The first time I held a gun, with no bullets in it, and it made a noise (cock, de-cock, click, slide, clunk, snap), I cried.
So, getting me out to the range was a pretty big deal.
S: "Hey baby, so I was thinking. Do you want to go out to the range this weekend?"
Rose: "I don't suppose you mean the golf ball driving range."
S.: "Nope, the gun range. Bang bang."
Rose: "Um."
S: "It'll be fun."
Rose: "Um."
S: "You'll do great."
Rose: "I will probably embarrass the fuck out of you, but if you really want me to go..."
Well, I didn't embarrass the fuck out of him. Check this out, man. I did GOOD! According to S., anyway. Tonight I will take a picture of my target and post it so you guys can see (meant to do that this weekend but got caught up with some other stuff). I did well! I must have shot about maybe 75 rounds, I guess. The first time I pulled the trigger, the feeling and the noise really scared me, but then I started getting into overachiever hypercompetitive mode and just wanted to hit the target and do better each time. I'm still a little bit afraid of it, but it's something I'd do again.
I shot a gun.
That's freaking huge, me shooting a gun.
Bang, bang. My name is Rose, and this is my boom stick.
Papa, Can You Hear Me?
As of this morning, I still haven't heard from my dad. I can't say that I really expect to hear much from him but you know, it is how it is. I figure I will drop him another email today and let him know that I shot a gun, and that I did good, and that we're getting some things done around the house. But it would have been nice for him to write back.
Workin In A Coal Mine
S. and I were incense making fiends today. We made about half a pound each of Harmony (lavender-tangerine), Serenity (lavender) and Radiance (tangerine) essential oil resin incense, and started soaking sticks! Went to Michael's and found these great vases that are JUST the perfect size to soak 50 sticks.
So we made Patchouli Rose sticks which are drying right now, and we made Tangerine Rain (which probably needs a different name) sticks (yum, makes me want to eat them up) which are still soaking their 24 hours worth and will be drying some time tonight. I'm going to have to go back to Michael's and get some more of those vases so we can do a bunch of scents at the same time.
We also met with Dave The Younger, who will be officiating our handfasting, and found out even more about it. Turns out one of the three couples dropped out so there's only going to be us and one more couple, but it's very cool because they're a couple of folks we have been getting to know and we really like both of them. And their situation seems a lot similar to ours. We get along great with them.
So, now we know more about the ceremony and I'll probably post little bits about it here and there. If anyone has any questions about it, please feel free to let me know and I'll answer the best I can.
Hm, it's 6:30am and I'm wondering where my mom is...
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So anyway, it looks like the amazing owner of BlogSpeak, through whom I have free comments, is going to be making his own tagboard, and I might just pay him $10 to use it.
Maybe.
Beans And Cornbread
So. After a week of eating on the Weight Watchers program, I have to say that while I am happy with the program to date (though I'm not really SEEING anything happening yet) the dinner I had with S. last night at Boston Market was some of the best food I have ever had. Have you people ever HAD their side dishes? YUMMY. They make this meal that's 3 side dishes for $4.49. Also yummy.
S. had meatloaf.
But after cans of vegetable soup and salads with no dressing (gotta save points) and stuff, having Boston Market comfort food and THEN having three glasses of wine (yes, I had three) and then playing Playstation Billards in S.'s living room until 11:00pm was JUST WHAT I NEEDED. Isn't it strange how the oddest things are the bestest things?
Definitely the bestest. Bestest ever.
Papa, Don't Preach
So I wrote a long email to my dad today. That is my preferred method of conversation with him most of the time, because he can be hostile and volatile if you catch him at the wrong moment. At least if he yells back at me in email, I can just delete it. I haven't heard from him in a while and thought I'd update him on everything that's been going on, from Ceejay passing to the Oklahoma thing (but there really are no updates on that) and to let him know that we'll be getting legally married some time real soon.
I don't know if I expect to hear back from him or not.
Stupid Shit My Mom Said To Me
Surprise - NOTHING!
What she DID say to me is, however, that the doctor is putting her on some antidepressant medication. Not surprisingly, it's the same one they had ME on almost two years or so ago. She is (imagine that) displaying symptoms of depression, including but not limited to, treating her eldest daughter like a steaming pile of shit.
So, she's going on meds.
Thank God/dess.
I really hope it helps her get a grip on what's going on around her, which is basically her kids fleeing the area so they don't have to see her. She really doesn't have much of a life, so maybe this will stimulate her to be out and about and just be a nicer person.
Regarding Oklahoma, she seems resolved to be positive and supportive of the situation. She had a brief conversation with me about real estate in Oklahoma and how much the USAF will pay to move us (how many pounds of crap we can take with us) and how we will go about selling the house and when we might get married.
So I will probably throw her a bone and maybe we'll see if she wants to have dinner this weekend or see a movie or something, if we can get our money issues figured out.
But she's being nice.
moneymoneymoney..... money!
I am always amazed, when put in this position, how much easier it actually is for two people to live. Between S.'s salary and my salary, even here in Phoenix where it is substantially more expensive to live, we'd do pretty well for ourselves. In a two income household to make as much as we'd make, we'd be fairly secure. Not rich by any stretch of the imagination, but it'd work out well.
In Oklahoma, we will be doing even better, and would probably be able to live solely on his military salary and then stash away whatever money I am fortunate enough to make as our nest egg.
But in the meantime I can't help but say I get dollar signs in my eyes when I consider how much money we could save or how much extra we could have at the end of each month once we pool our finances and are living together as man and wife. Seriously. I've been a paycheck to paycheck girl for as long as I can remember - even when I was married, my husband at that time was such a fucking leech of the world that he spent the money as fast as I could make it. At one point he was working one job making about $30,000 a year and I was working one $32,000 a year job, one $8,000 a year job, and one $3,000 a year job and I still couldn't keep up with all of his "wants."
Fucker.
S. has his head screwed on much better, and as he's used to being basically the sole support in his little family (the cuntrageous bitch, as Lux calls her, wasn't much for holding down a job, it cramped her style) the idea of the two of us working steady and bringing home more than enough money is a huge bonus. As I told him, "I can pay my bills without your money. So together, we're good as gravy." It's all going to be good.
What was that? Something positive from me? Am I finally coming out of my funk?
Feel the funk, man.
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So today I had a meeting with my boss. I'm not in trouble or anything, but I guess "word around the office is" that I haven't been myself lately.
Normally I'm outgoing - boistrous, even - fun, if not a little loud - but I work like a sumbitch and I get everything done that I need to get done and THEN some, so it makes up for some of my boistrous fun loud.
Between multiple deaths (human and feline), money issues, Oklahoma issues, mother issues, sister issues, and a handfasting (sorry Ross, I won't call it a wedding any more - you're right, it's too confusing) to plan, I'm suddenly becoming what my dear friend Mojo called, "disconnected."
Someone else in the office called it, "stand-offish."
Someone else called it, "Depressed and stressed."
But most of all, it appears, my quiet, withdrawn nature lately has been worrying some folks. They're worried I'm unhappy here, in my job. They're worried that someone in the office may have pushed me too far or that I'm becoming overwhelmed.
That's really not it - if anything my work has become my solace lately. But, either way, I had a nice talk with my boss. So that's good.
Big meeting today at 1:30 pm. It's now 11:30 and I'm getting ready to go eat soup. I'll admit it - I AM feeling a little overwhelmed lately. I'm going to S.'s tonight and we're going to give it to Angela again and we're going to hoepfully eat some kind of food and we're going to possibly research this process of moving, on the USAF websites. And we'll get it all figured out.
I hope.
Is that too much to hope?
I just want some normalcy.
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Score!
Last night by my bed I found one of S.'s T-shirts. He doesn't currently know that I have it (hi honey, she said with a sheepish grin) but it's the dark blue SpongeBob Squarepants tee. It's also very soft, and it smells like S.
So, I promptly put it over the top of my body pillow he gave me and snuggled up to it and tried to go right to sleep.
And I did.
Okay, so I'm a freak. It was nice to sleep with my body pillow in there with me, but it was even nicer to sleep with it in there while it was wearing S.'s T-shirt.
So.
My house is full of ghosts.
This time of year, people get "visitors" as family members and loved ones who have passed away come back to visit. At least that's what a lot of us Pagans believe. The "veil between the worlds" is thinner than any other time of the year, and it's easier for the spirits to pass back and forth.
Unfortunately for me, this makes my big black cat a psycho freak mess.
His tail bristles up almost constantly from about October 1 to about November 7. He runs up and down the hallway, flies over furniture, howls and meows and frolicks, and sometimes just plain old looks like a deer in the headlights. I can't figure out if he SEES these people as well as hears them or senses them, or is just freaking out from the general sensory overload.
But he's a psycho mess.
Right now, he is laying on the floor of the office room here, rolling all over my stinky shoes. But he just got done making a lightning-fast flash tour of the house, making that "reeeeeeeooowwwwwr" noise and having to touch every piece of furniture here.
I think he's a little overwhelmed because I'm sure Ceejay is here, Paula has probably made an appearance, my two Grandpas who always come visit are sure to stop by (they like to sit at the kitchen table, and Murphy's been hanging out over there all bristled up), Bud visits from time to time, and of course my boy Rocky will be here. Add to that the possible attendance of S.'s grandfather and it's a full house around here. No wonder Murphy is so freaked out.
I just hope he'll give me my shoes.
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Homecoming queen or not, any bride who wears any of these dresses should be carrying a gun and plan to use it to shoot the designer(s) of such monstrosities.
Thank God/dess I'm getting married in an over-robe.
Seriously, though. www.uglyweddingdress.com - the best laugh I've had all day. As a matter of fact, I think this goes straight on the linkage on the left hand side.
Pass da linkage to da left hand side.
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Well boy howdy. Hopefully this won't be a trend, but I woke up feeling tired again. This time of year is so hard for me... when I get up in the morning (5:30 a.m.) if it's cold(ish) and dark outside, it's amazingly rough for me to get out of bed and get on with my day. This morning I got up mostly so I could give S. a call and make sure he was on his way to P.T. this morning at 6:15. I mean, he had to be **AT** the base at 6:15. Let me tell you what, Mondays and Wednesdays aren't going to be very fun when he lives here, but at least he'll be getting to bed at an early time since we won't be up half the night chatting not wanting to let the other off the line.
I phoned my mom this morning and she's on her way over to get this tape I wokred on last night. I really have to start cleaning this house and getting things in order. S. will be moving in here before I know it, time moves so amazingly fast. I have to clean out some drawers and give him room for all his clothes, and I have to make sure there's closet room, and I just have to start cleaning out and throwing away some things that are just old things I don't have to keep any more.
Overall, there's a lot to do.
So S. tackled one of his first honey-dos this weekend and helped me out by fixing my door to my garage (not the big one in the front that you drive the car through, but the small one in the back that you walk out of). It felt so nice to have a man around the house to do something like that, even though it's something I am sure I could have accomplished by myself. But the idea that he said, "Let's go to Home Depot and buy this and this and this and *I* will fix the door!" It was like Dudley Do-Right was in my garage saving the day for me. My hero! I worked out there a little too, don't get me wrong, packing our camping stuff into plastic bins and putting it all away for when we go camping later this weekend.
And in other news, I actually ordered the wedding rings last night! Yay, us!
If you get a chance please stop in and read S.'s blog from time to time. He's trying to make a point of updating more often, and while it's a little rough around the edges, if you think **THIS** blog is honest and to the point, I can tell you that his is so honest it bleeds some days. He doesn't write as often as I do, but when he does it's because whatever he has to write about is burning a hole in him.
So, it's time to go back to work. Is it Friday yet? Please?
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BREAK OUT YOUR WINTER CLOTHES
AND FIND A LOVE TO CALL YOUR OWN
This should be a joyful time.
Why are these moments that are just so amazingly not joyful? Not so much with the joyful moments.
First of all, my betta fish Hank, well, he's chesing on his tail the same way Grandpa chewed o his. So his big beautiful wonderful tail now is shredded at the end. Because he keeps chewing on it. Because he's a stupid, stupid fish even though he's beautiful and S. gave him to me, he's still a stupid fuck of a fish that he chews on his tail.
So there, Hank. Chew your goddamned tail now, you stupid asshat fish. No, wait. I really love you. I take that back. But you're stupid to chew your tail. I'm sure it even tastes like nasty raw fish tail. Ew. And it's blue, dude. Knock it off.
Now on to other things.
This weekend, I couldn't get S. to agree to make a decision about anything. As a result, I still have the page here on my internet explorer with the website that has our wedding rings, waiting to buy them. Because every time I said, "So, I guess we should get 'em then," he would say something like, "Gosh, honey, is that what you want to do? Do you want to get them now?" I understand that we're both as broke as fuck, and trying to plan a wedding on four weeks notice and $200 total, but I'm thinking we should probably buy the rings so we actually have them in time for the wedding. I'm thinking. But I also know that, I get the impression he doesn't particularly want to wear a ring, so it's something that is just kind of sticking out there for me. Does he really not want the rings? Should we not have them? I want the rings. I want them. Very much. But he doesn't seem to be all that enthusiastic about getting them. And time's ticking down.
Now there's a scheduling conflict possibly with work, his work that is, and that's going to hang over my head now too. Every now and again he's on nights for two straight weeks and is on-call for one of them. Well, he thought he was on nights AND on call this coming week but it turns out he's not. So, now it looks like he might be on nights and on call the week of the Witch's Ball, which will suck moldy fucking ass. And if he's on call that week for the Witch's Ball, which we have already bought our tickets to and at which I will be debuting my incense to the fine Pagan community of Phoenix, then how can he be there with me? Yes, I am making it all about me. I got some sleep this weekend so I'm feeling a little feisty.
And then the wedding is right around the corner and it's just hanging out there, and it's making me absolutely insanely crazy. This hanging out there thing, I mean. I don't rightly know what to do. We now have the stuff for his robe which will hopefully be made by then. We haven't talked to the gentleman who is officiating the ceremony about the ceremony itself, we only know that we have to write vows. Has anyone ever written their own wedding vows? Some help here, please?
And Oklahoma.
And stupid dumb asshat bitch ex wife. Get this. In the divorce, she got a pickup truck. He got a passenger car. Well, she's never bothered to get his name taken off the lease on the truck, and the lease was in both of their names (debt) but the truck was titled in his name and the bank's name. So, technically it's his truck. She feels that just because the divorce papers say that it's "her" car now, that she doesn't have to refinance it, she doesn't have to title it in her own name, she doesn't have to get his name off the lease... and by the way, she can leave it unregistered, and she can maybe or maybe not have insurance on it, and she can miss payments whenever she wants to, and it should be none of his concern.
Not so fucking much, actually, it's very much his concern. So he's been writing her and asking her to take care of that and she writes back and says, "I've had the insurance and the registration on MY truck taken care of for a long time, not that it's any of your concern."
So, one quick visit to the AZ MVD website proves that the registration here is still suspended (no proof of insurance, which happened right after she left the state with the truck) and since she's not the titled owner of the car in Texas, she can't rightly title it there (have to have a Texas title before you can have Texas registration). So anyone in San Antonio, TX who sees a Toyota Tacoma with Arizona plates, you're looking at a bonafide lawbreaker right there. She's had the truck for a year now in Texas, seriously for nearly 12 months, and still hasn't bothered to do anything with it.
Just too much going on. Far too much. And I am trying to get out of working by venting my feelings here, which is just making me more antsy. So I think I will return to my diet cherry 7-up and start the tape I have to do tonight and wonder if my mom's gonna call me in the morning, and just try to calm down. I'm just pissy.
Pissy.
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My dream car is a 1964 1/2 Mustang Coupe 289/V8.
Behold, the power of cheese:
ravenstormphx: I'm home
rose: hi baby
ravenstormphx: heh, i got something for ya
rose: you do?
ravenstormphx: when it gets here
rose: what?
ravenstormphx: http://cgi.ebay.com/ebaymotors/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=2434640293
ravenstormphx: can't get you the car yet, but I can do it a piece at a time.
Have I said lately that I am the luckiest girl on the planet?
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Sorry I haven't been writing. It's been a really strange week. As it is, I'm going to try to squeak out an entry here that will do some justice, even though I don't think I'm going to be remotely close.
Monday I didn't even want to go to work. I would have much rather taken some kind of a mental health day but I had a ton of things to do and I was really the only one working on the projects so I didn't want to burden anyone else. Could someone else have done them? Yeah. Did I want to believe I was the only one who could have done them? Of course. Could I get them done quicker than anyone? Yeah.
So, I went to work and Monday and half of Tuesday ended up doing and re-doing the same stuff over and over for the big boss, hoping we'd reach some kind of resolution in time for the 1:30 meeting that the handouts were for (diagrams).
What's that? No one showed up to your 1:30 meeting, Rose? Is that what you're saying?
Yeah. No one showed up. After all that work, I just wanted to pound my head against a wall and maybe kill someone, so I hadn't had a good few days.
The rest of the week has just been sort of busy. Work is busy, evening work is busy, and I'm tired as hell! I can't get over how tired I am. I literally honestly can not get over it. I am completely amazed at how tired I am, it's like I could crawl back in bed and sleep for a week.
Stress.
S. comes over tonight, we saw one another on Wednesday. I can't wait to see him and do nothing but sleep. And well you know, other stuff people do when they're laying in a bed together and say they really want to sleep but they get taken with the moment.
That stuff.
I Hate Everything About You
My mom hasn't responded to my email. She's been very kind, of course, super nice, and maybe that's her way of acting like she has apologized. But she hasn't apologized.
So I know how this will go down.
She will finally ask me why, three weeks later, I am still giving her a cold shoulder. I will tell her that she did not apologize to me. She will tell me that it was three weeks ago and I should get on with it. I will tell her I want an apology. She will think it's stupid. And then we're back at square one.
Because this is how it is with my mom.
They Call Me The Wanderer, I Get Around
Oklahoma City. S. went to an appointment this week (why the hell isn't he blogging about this?) to talk to the personnel people but it turns out his paperwork wasn't quite completed at no fault of his own -- they gave him the paperwork before it was done. So he had to do some legwork and rescheduled the appointment for next week, so I won't know until next week what's going on. I'm trying to deal with it, and this is something I should have been writing about to help deal with stress.
Fuck Shit Hell Damn Shit Fuck Shit. Fuck.
S.'s ex wife is an ignorant, stupid, immature, self centered, lazy asshat of a bitch.
More on this later too. Remind me.
I Can't Help The Fact That Everybody Can See These Scars
I love S. I love him deeply and truly and amazingly, and I'm coming to terms with the fact that he's amazing in his own right.
In talking to my friend Mojo, I was reminding him recently that in the last few years, when someone has asked me what I am looking for in a relationship I didn't hesitate to say, "Someone to take care of me sometimes."
That was the biggie.
Not financially take care of me, I don't need someone to wine me and dine me, give me expensive things or presents, pay for crap, anything like that.
I wanted someone to rub my back sometimes. Or cook dinner every once in a while. Or just hold my hand because it needs holding and not because they think that's what they have to do.
I'm so used to being the one to take care of everything, that I just wanted someone who could handle the little things from time to time and take some of the pressure off me.
S. does this, every day.
Whether it's talking to me when I am crazy and frantic and having a feeling of impending doom (like Thursday) or rubbing my foot because my ankle looks swelled up (like Wednesday) or calling me in the morning to make sure I'm up for work because I'm tired (like Monday), he does these little things all the time.
When I was over at the apartment on Wednesday, he got up to refill my wine glass before his was empty, he let me shower first, he fluffed my towel in the dryer...
When I didn't have someone who did little things like that for me, I thought, "God, how sickening."
Now, I just remain thankful that I have been shown that someone can love me enough to do the little things.
Because it really is the little things that are the most important things.
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My job as a military wife is
to make it as easy as possible
for my beloved husband to do his job.
Where he leads, I will follow.
Name: Rose
Age: 36
Religion: Pagan
Husband: SSgt, USAF
Current Location: Tinker AFB, OK
Job: Self-Employed Transcriptionist
and Domestic Goddess
I am currently pimping:
Kasora Teas.
me @ consumating
I play Everquest II!
Thornwyn Tamarisk
Iksar Necromancer, Kithicor
We're trying for a baby!
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