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3rd_wombat
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So cute! But my friend doesn't have a place for a dog this size... *sigh* Anyone know where we can post this so the owners might see? We did put an ad on Craig's list... 
Current Location: |
Lafayette, IN |
Current Mood: |
 excited |
Current Music: |
How much is that doggy on the highway? The one that done almost got hit... | |
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Watching stuff download from my work server this fine employed morning is like watching paint dry. So, with 13 minutes to go on these largish PSD files, I'll blog about my morning. For the last week or so, we've been playing a strange game with our mail-lady. It happened the day we found a mailbox key (rather universal-looking) in our slot in the community mailbox outside. We tsked the mail-lady who left the key, which we figured was the key to get into the back of each mailbox in our complex, just laying willy-nilly in our box. We left it there for her to retrieve. The next day, it was still there! We puzzled over the presence of the key and wondered (as the tag recommended) if we should put the key in a public mailbox nearby and THEN it would get back to the Post Office proper. We decided not to, however, for we didn't want to get our wonderful mail-lady in any sort of trouble. Surreptitiously, we let it lay in our mailbox, WAAAYYY in the back, so she was sure to see it and be given the option to pocket it without discovery. (How was she getting into the backs of the mailboxes, anyway, with this key laying securely in our slot?) Days rolled by, the key remained, and we began to wonder if perhaps she wasn't doing very well. Maybe there was a larger problem, the evidence of the untouched key a mute testimony to a downhill slide in the life of our darling, redheaded mail-lady. We began to stop talking about the key, each suspecting the worst and afraid To Name that which we began to suspect. She seemed healthy, happy. Many people do. Getting the mail each day now took on a little bit of drama, an undercurrent of apprehension associated with an unsolicited glimpse into an unwanted discovery. Thursday dawned. I arose, snapped open the laptops, logged in, worked, and soon lunchtime came around. I was busily building a shelf beneath our kitchen sink when there came a knock on our door. How odd… I got up and looked. It was the mail lady! Goodness, did she need to talk? It wasn’t too hot to make some tea… I opened the door. She was holding the key. “Hi there!” she chirruped, a patient cheerfulness about her. That’s common with depressed people, I gently reminded myself. “I thought I should probably tell you what this key is for – it’s for the package mailbox! I figured you didn’t know, since you kept shoving it to the back of your mailbox. Just use it to open the larger containers labeled “A” or “B” to the right of the mailboxes and you should be able to get your packages.” I thanked her, holding my struggling cat and took the key from her. What’s even more telling is that it took a full 20 hours for me to fully register that since the key was in my box, it was WE who had a package to retrieve. This morning we brought in two packages. We put the key back in the slot of the package receptacle, just like Box "B" beneath it…
Current Location: |
Kitchen Office |
Current Mood: |
 embarrassed |
Current Music: |
The trickling of my fish pond. Also in the kitchen. | |
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You are The StarHope, expectation, Bright promises. The Star is one of the great cards of faith, dreams realised The Star is a card that looks to the future. It does not predict any immediate or powerful change, but it does predict hope and healing. This card suggests clarity of vision, spiritual insight. And, most importantly, that unexpected help will be coming, with water to quench your thirst, with a guiding light to the future. They might say you're a dreamer, but you're not the only one. What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out. |
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Sunday is winding down and I am happy to report that I am not at all anxious about going into work (Chicago) tomorrow. It only took close to 4 weeks of being out of the physical environment full-time, but when I quickly learned that most of the people I work with suffer from IBS (indeed, this was a common and acceptable luncheon-topic), I feel I narrowly escaped a serious ailment. I wonder how the other work-from-homers are doing tummy-wise... Saturday was spent celebrating and integrating into our household Stacey's new MacBook. We bought it for school, with his funds for school, with all its various student discounts (for the computer and protection plan) and rebates for the ipod nano and printer. Those rebates went out THAT DAY because I tend to SUCK at getting those things out the door. (Phase II of realizing this success will be to MAIL OUT the checks once they arrive. I finally harassed Discovercard for my spendiepoints and got a check in the mail, which got sent out immediately. I am very interested in not sucking at that anymore. This is generosity to myself.) He likes his new computer and we are both pretty excited about it. What's cool about having a new mac user in the house is that he's not used to anything and he, through his learning, is teaching ME stuff about the neatness of the macinputer... 
Today I also recycled, which is a bit of a production. By the time I separated all my recyclables into individual Target bags, loaded the car, drove around and located the recycle trailer (it roves on campus) and was busy recycling our waste into the various bins, I realized just how used to convenience I am as an American and really, this whole business probably took less than 20 minutes. It's NOT as convenient as throwing the whole co-mingled bin onto the curb, and then (awwwWWWWGAWWWDD) lugging the bin back into the house, but is still beats throwing it all away. When I consider how I want to spend my golden years (in an intentional community somewhere wrestling sheep and killing chickens), I have a kind laugh at myself and save my Target bags for the next time.
Lastly, to my great joy, I myself received a gift from the Dumpster of Giving. I spied an utterly besplattered crockpot set neatly on the grass (code for "mostly still works... mostly.") and brought it in for a wash. I have been out a crockpot since the Great Chili Cookoff at my company when my own crockpot, (which was mightily stove in during its last move) began madly burning my contest contribution. I tossed it, sadly, and have just never brought myself around to replacing it. Tonight I spent probably a 1/2 hour cleaning an ungodly amount of neglect off the thing, inside and out, crock bit and pot bit, and tomorrow (as I got it rather wetter than I'm sure the warning suggested) I'll see how it works.
A good day overall - blessings to you, folks. Life is good here and we're doing well. More later (and prolly more from my beloved than myself) :)
Current Mood: |
accomplished | |
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I woke up this morning to alarms over-playing back-up alarms with Stacey and myself starfishing about to turn them off. I got up a few minutes after he did. Coffee was on its way, cereal was being gobbled and he was reading my downer little post from the night before. The air, delightedly, had taken on a different feeling this morning...
Stacey begins his training today at the university for his TA work. The whole point of this exercise of moving, studying, exam-taking, applying, phone calls, paperwork and moving again notched up to a new level and is finally feeling REAL. I kissed him good-luck as he stood in the doorway, wearing an anthropology t-shirt from his undergrad days. Stepping back into the kitchen after he left, I saw him through the window: his breezy streetish lope unaffected by the weight of the backpack. He's given himself a half-hour window to cross the avenue and locate his classroom, which I believe he's already canvassed. Gawds, he's so much better at this stuff than I.
Being up early has made me bond with this apartment just a little more. The fishpond (50-gallon, for absurdity's sake) has been set up in the kitchen and the water and fish are re-acquainting. Sprinkling fish chow in, chirping and squeaking to them, I was pleased to see how big they've grown. I think this is the healthiest family of fish I've ever raised. It helps to notice the fish and not the boxes, which are thankfully few at this point (much thanks to Stacey).
The computers on the table don't feel so foreign this morning (is that good or bad?). I guess habits and a sense of home go hand in hand. As I sit here, I can look out the window and see, standing 4 feet tall, the tomato plants I received at an event a few months ago. Yes, by now the tomatoes should be, well, canned, but instead they are just beginning to appear. Its better late than never.
I am also getting back into a state where I can cope with email again. This time it was only a couple of weeks (instead of a few months, as I have experienced in the past). Those who are near and dear to me are still present, smiling and capable, and that warms my heart beyond what I can describe. Miss you, Llama!
The job situation is simultaneously stable and ethereal... I am working remotely on a see-how-it-goes basis, which means to me, don't-make-any-freakin-plans. Those in the office seem to have a lot more confidence that this can work well than I do, and I'm going with that, but cautiously and intelligently. As Julia Cameron put it in her book "Supplies" for working creatives... "What ELSE do you know?" This challenge was following a call to reflect upon a time when your inner voice told you something, and was absolutely correct.
Along with Stacey's start with his TAship, I am profoundly thankful to report that yes, that is about all that's going on. Fishies, tomatoes, emotionally intelligent friends and - like the rest of the planet - work.
I give thanks for all of it. |
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I'll take a bit of time tonight to at least log on and post a scrap. Stacey's been much better than myself with the LJ. I'm never really good at this anyway. Who here is surprised? I can see the first shadows of a rhythm in our lives, just appearing between the trips and chores. I am still working full-time at my Chicagoland job, coming in only once a week and telecommuting the rest of the week. I've been at it for 2 weeks now, and it's getting smoother with each day. I like the drive, actually (2.5-3 hours), and it being only once a week makes it an adventure. Working from home is difficult - I have very little distracting me from the full-bore linear work, but it's not the "zone" I get into at the office. It's this sort of displaced oddness. A busy-ness I wouldn't be using my time on in this kitchen. It works, and it's sometimes slow over the network, but it's still... strange. I get more done when I'm getting less done in the office, I swear. I think this is because got used to doing more management stuff there and here I just workhorse, out of touch with the office energy. I don't feel like I can get "things"... "done"... I don't really feel any roots yet or sense of home here. I've placed my tomato plants outside, which have begun to produce fruits. We've set up the house more solidly than any place we've lived in so far, and still I'm distracted and protective of my time and energy. I think I've moved too much. I'm a bit melancholy. I've been blowing off my friends pretty badly, as well. I will sometimes use my commute time to call and check in, to hear a real voice. I just can't express how uninterested I am in reading my email after sitting in the exact same place all day working. Maybe I should get to Borders and enjoy the free wi-fi. Not sure I could set up my outrageous double macbook setup there, though, without getting rolled outright. My problem is that Mac A, while logged onto the network, cannot be on the internet. I can only check my work email via the internet on Mac B, so if I've got them both set up, I can read email and work at the same time. Borders is not yet the place I want to do this. I do like the way Stacey and I have moved in, however. There are very few boxes left and we are very diligently cutting through them, with the parallel goal of getting rid of a thousand things. We're keeping track of these things, so we can watch the trickle grow, and it feels good to see spaces appear subtly around our home. We're almost absently always picking up, cleaning, wiping, picking hair off counters, sinks, sweeping, doing dishes, making sure laundry gets done regularly... with both of us taking care of the house, it's easier. And unprecedented. It helps to have a goddamned kitchen. I can't believe how I marvel over rented sinks. I can, actually. We have a kitchen AND drawers... The apartments we moved into are set up a little like a post-WWII military installment. I wish my Dad could see it. They're sturdy 2-story blocks, plaster and brick, the trees large enough to have been planted around that time. I'll have to see if I'm estimating correctly. Lots of color, which is nice. The first night here our car (resplendent with Pagan bumper-stickers) got spit upon, and I was afraid we'd moved into Bible Belt Crackertown. We just got "lucky" however. Our neighborhood is sufficiently varied enough for a distinct lack of polarized hatred. I don't miss the coffee table we got rid of. I dug it out of the MSOE dumpster years ago, painted it, and for years put up with its odd quality of it never having quite dried. It was always a little... tacky. Stuff stuck to it, I'd scrub it off, it would get abraisions... a dog, in its past, had chewed one leg pretty badly. The paint (a deep blackish green) had mostly disguised this. I think what disguised it actually was the wide assortment of marks and blemishes all over its surface that completely distracted the viewer from the one leg. I had also affixed tassels to its front two legs in a vain attempt to pretty it up. I'm a little amazed at the past me who had a vision of making things beautiful and working in that direction. No wonder I took on Production, instead of Design, at work. At any rate, I placed the table out by the Dumpster of Giving and it didn't last 10 minutes. That is one nice thing about college life, even second-marriage, early-thirties college life. The Dumpster of Giving. This thing is fabulous. I never feel wasteful as I get rid of the psychological deadweight that clutters my space and my aura. SOMEONE will take it. I placed a picnic basket (bought years ago with visions of actually picnicking with friends, in places, someday) out there that was never used. The little blue plastic matching accouterments of dining were still wrapped in plastic. It vanished and that afternoon I saw a whole family enjoying a picnic at the picnic table in our courtyard, sharing dinner with all those plates and utensils. Now that makes for a much better story than it taking up several dozen square inches in my closet. Well, I really should sign off so I can get up and work tomorrow. I almost didn't post this, for its lackluster tones, but really, I'm not doing this to impress anyone or advertise myself as an ever-positive person without flaws, bad days and depressed evenings. I'm not overlooking my blessings (will you LOOK at that sink?!) but neither will I Barney away my lower moods. Good night, folks. And where in the hell is Garison, anyway? |
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I built a ramp for my room mate. It goes into the shed. Now I can get into the shed and retrieve my boxes for moving. Win-win. It was nice to build a ramp. I'm a bit sad to leave. Stacey and I (he's busy posting to LJ on the computer next to me - modern love!)washed his motorcycle in the driveway today. The sun was glistening off the grass in the back yard, which stretches back to the blackberry and raspberry bushes. I've had a few... I will miss the experience of living in a house, having a yard, a driveway, a shed. There are a few things I won't miss. The leaking basement - where we live - the darkness, the earthworms... The cold. The stomping. The headlights blazing into our bedroom. The damp. Cooking on a hotplate percariously balanced on a makeshift shelf behind a bar that a pregnant woman couldn't cook behind while dodging cast-iron fry pans hanging from bicycle hooks. Trecking the dishes across the basement from the bathroom, where we stack them neatly into the dish bin we use for camping, to the laundry room where we do them in the utility sinks. Living with a large American bulldog whose purpose in life is to festoon creation with great slimy ropes of saliva. He's a good boy. The worms aren't so bad, really. Should have thought to feed them to the fish. Lemonade and all... Otherwise it's wonderful! I will miss the place because we've had great healing happen over the past year. Our roommate has been generous and fabulous. I wonder what in hell I'm going to do with my tomato plants? Will they groove at the dorms? My dear friend, Michael, is coming down to help us move. With luck, I'll be able to hire movers and Michael can help us make our house pretty on the other side. Michael and Stacey are both men whose taste I admire - no, aspire to - in home decorating. They're gooooooodddd... It's the intellectual, artistic, transcendentally mystic flavor they naturally carry themselves with. Give them baubles, they'll give you an installation alter you can live in. I mean, I can art up a mean room too, but when surrounded by beautiful dudes, well, that's just all the better. I'll focus on that for the moment, and not the cardboard cubes that are slowly making our space smaller. Yay! 72 boxes of schmutz by the wall, 72 boxes of schmutz, drink a beer, make room more clear, 73 boxes of schmutz by the wall. That was terrible. Hey, I'm moving. Stressed cat slams tail hard. Hapless desk will move soon, too. Angry cat cares not. Okay, posting for y'all and not necessarily for me. Tired now. G'nite! Love you!
Current Location: |
my bedroom |
Current Mood: |
 lethargic |
Current Music: |
dehumidifier | |
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My husband is sick. He is doing what he can to quietly distract himself as waves of sweaty heat roll off of his bare shoulders. He feels awful. I would like to take his temperature.
I go into the bathroom and dive into our formidable First Aid Kit. From it I produce a thermometer. It's digital. It comes with a battery and a box of mini-condoms (it apparently can't get wet?). I press the "go" button and it doesn't wake up. It's dead.
Calmly quelling the urge to smash it in a fit of sympathetic magic, I realize I can probably replace the battery and not contribute, as much, to my nearest landfill. It's clear that you can open the device in one small area - that must be where the now dead battery is.
I redirect my hunt to locate the eyeglasses repair kit. Now, where did the eyeglasses repair kit go? We take it traveling, we're moving, so things are upside-down, and well, we have a lot of stuff anyway. Surprisingly, it turns up rather quickly. I open it up to retrieve the tiny screwdriver encased therein and go happily to work, congratulating myself on being so fix-it minded and resourceful.
The screwdriver, I quickly notice, is a flathead. The wee screw holding the wee plate onto the back of my thermometer (didn't these used to work without electricity?)is a phillips. Fillups? I carefully place the flathead screwdriver into the cross-shaped hole and immediately crucify it. Hmmm...
Now I'm going to contribute, more significantly, to my landfill. I also contribute to global warming, Bush's economy and my lack of funds for a move by hopping into my car and driving directly to the all-night store for a thermometer. I'm deliriously dreaming of those antique glass affairs with mercury in them. You know, the kind you used to smash when you were sick so you could play with the mercury on your sheets? For something to do? You did that, right?
After 40 minutes of alternately hunting for the thermometers and some besmocked employee to help me find the thermometers, I finally flag down a cashier and she shows me where the thermometers are. They are all digital. There are Spongebob Squarepants types, Baby Rectal types, all types, none analog. I pick my next landfill contribution and go pay.
Happily, this thermometer comes open via brute strength, and no tools are necessary. I will probably etch its type of battery on its outer casing.
My husband does not, it turns out, have a fever. It probably broke while I was at the store. |
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Once again I'm caught up in the magic of intentions, plans and promises of what to do next year for PSG. What workshops I'll tackle, what I'll do to create cooler sacred space, what I'll... What I think I'll do first is clean. We really don't need 4 tents, 2 full sets of mead-making equipment, precious relic clothing from our teen-aged bad-ass days and every single wingle bauble, shell, rock, length of string, feather, bell, book and candle that ever meant anything to us. We're meaningful people. We have meaningful stuff. But at some point, it's taking up rent and sanity space. Maybe we need a controlled burn... As Pagans, my husband and I like to think of ourselves as nonmaterialists. I guess that's true if one only takes into account brand-name stuff. We could care less. We don't watch TV, we're not up on things trendy, we listen to NPR and consult the BBC for our input. But oh GODS the stuff. The only bald-faced lies we traded while courting one another was that we really didn't like clutter. No way. Neat and clean. Uh-huh. Perfect. At least we both fell through on that one. What's nice about all the sacred junk we need to ditch is that it feels really nice to bury, burn and re-gift it. We tend to befriend like-minded people; people who really would appreciate an attractive box full of our strings and sealing-wax and other magic stuff as having been meaningful to us and therefore pretty precious. The problem is, of course, they're onto us, and we've also gleefully received the same such boxes. More stuff. Hmmm... The funniest bit is where we are quite archly proud of ourselves for being non-materialistic. Quite above it all. ALL. Will you look at it ALL? I think I'll host a campfire before we move, and invite friends to bring their stuff too. We can pass the bottle and tell a story for each bit of schmutz we feed to the flames. No plastics, of course. We're above that, too.
Current Location: |
bedroom/office |
Current Mood: |
sacred |
Current Music: |
Soundtrack to Oblivion | |
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I think I'm seeing more clearly now. I am interested... Our camping gear is on its way home, and we will have access to it tonight. We have been living in "temporary space" for almost a year now, and much of our camping gear was put into duty for real-time use in the home. This means that the room dividers, the can opener, the cookpots, pans, utinsels, shelving, couch, pillows, fruit basket, pieces of alters and other little things are not here! So, I am roughing it more at home than I did in the woods. I love my life. My Beloved, River, is wending his way home as well. He rode his motorcycle out to PSG early for setup and is coming home after teardown this morn. At least one little love is now home - Nate, my adopted grey tabby. He spent his vacation at the shelter where I got him from while I was off cavorting. I was terribly concerned for his mental well-being, but he seems utterly well-adjusted. He's his usual deadpan, affectionate self. What a cool cat. How lovely...
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Over a year and two Pagan Spirit Gatherings later, things have much improved. Beloved and I eloped March 3rd, at 3:00, during the full lunar eclipse. We've moved back to the Chicago area and are more a part of our community than ever before. Look, life is fantastic. Even staring down the barrel of another move to Purdue U, a new job hunt and a new startup (again) it's all in a generally upward motion. This is my quandary... I DETEST live journal. It is a STRUGGLE for me to publicly self-indulge, blather about myself and assume that anyone really wants to read it. I think it's just pain. There has been a lot of change in my life over the past few years, good and bad, all transformative, I think perhaps all ultimately good, and I am still very protective of myself. However, I have multitudes of scattered friends who want to know what's going on in my life. They have requested my journal, live, so they can read about my life and keep up. This is a positive and natural thing. I am not great at personal communicative maintenance, calling back, emailing (a bit phobic), livejournal, myspace, focusing... my contempt for this medium is such that I believe it actually warrents examination, some self searching. It's an indicator. My reaction to livejournal is that of a racist, or a sexist - it's that irrational and misplaced. Having seen folks dish out, in bloody detail, their divorces, battles, work drama, community discord and family strife publicly, without regard or respect for their fellow combatants in the public eye makes me sick. Like the star of their own reality TV show (which, in my opinion, caters to the basest of this country's anesthetized mob mentality) the cast and characters are pulled in, unawares and unconsenting, to play heroes, fools and scapegoats. (Oooh, look - I'm blogging now!) The paycheck for this bit part comes in the form of gossip, scandalizing, ostracizing, misunderstanding and pain. Miscommunication is often the focal point of movie comedies. It's hilarious. Everyone loves to watch and be thankful that this is not their lives. Morphine, anyone? More deeply, WHO CARES? Their friends. People are dramatic. I am, too. There is embarrassment here. This is all very interesting. And who in heck has the TIME? I'm busy playing with my pets, making love with Beloved, working, building fires in the back yard, creating with my hands, reading, making mead, LIVING. Rats. I just came back from a wonderful vacation and now I want to write a nasty book. Sorry, guys, I will cut past the pith of this business (or pith myself doing it) and actually get to the inane fluffy bits of describing my new kitty, my life-changing experiences at the latest PSG and the excitement of a new life on campus. I really am more interesting than angry. Thanks for reading this far. I'd have rather called. Blessings, Blushings,
Beryl |
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I am a little tired of change. My goals at present include a cubicle, a small plant and a computer who's maintenance is someone else's problem. Okay, not entirely, but I can start somewhere. The past year included quitting my job and going freelance, back surgery, losing 30 lbs, the removal of several vampiric, toxic people from my life, co-publishing a book, divorce, a move from Chicago to New York, a new job hunt and the start of researching the schtuff to get my meadery going. Moving in with my beloved has been a balm to this grumpy wee soul, not least because, well, we done got dumped by our girlfriend as soon as we moved here. Polyamory. I've seen everything from smoothly-running intentional communities to white trash train wrecks high on cocaine. Where there's a living will, there's a Way, however: I'd like to attribute my eternal optimism to my faith, and not a painfully short memory. Speaking of faith, is it worth it to date outside the your spiritual practice of choice? I used to think all tribes could religeously co-exist in bed. Now I feel that life in general is arena enough to assert yourself within, and the mate should be the haven, the sanctuary wherein it is not necessary to explain the philosphical context of everything you encountered during the day. Maybe I'm getting old. Blessed Beltane, everyone.
Current Mood: |
 restless | |
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3rd_wombat's journal