so... I figure that this blog is my little place to rant to the universe.  Out of the few folks who actually are linked to it, I don't know that any will even SEE it...but I feel better getting to let my voice free, so to speak...

A few years ago, I was heavily involved with DeviantArt, the artist's community online.  I found it a distressing place however, in that the artists there, mostly hobbyists and young people, do not fully understand pricing their artwork and allow themselves to be taken advantage of.  A hobbyist who charges $30 for a digital painting, fully rendered, that may have taken 3-5 full time days to produce is undercutting professional artists by a LOT. Enough that I had to take a law firm to small claims court two years ago due to their refusing to pay for contracted work on the excuse that "they thought I was just a hobbyist).  For the nearly $1K worth of print quality work I'd produced for them, they wanted to pay me a paltry $100.  Upon blogging about this travesty in the dA community, I was informed by FoA (those in the know know to whom I am referring) told me that not only was I full of shit, but that my work wasn't worth what hobbyists charge, let alone standard illustration rates.

yeah...well guess what asshats?  This little gal who's work wasn't WORTH anything now works professionally as both product photographer AND lead graphic artist for a wonderful little gourmet food company AND...

...just landed a contract to product an album cover.

mmmhmm.  My work is indeed worth something, and I'm proud of it.

things I am grateful for...

just a few things I am very thankful for...

not being a douche pretending to be a friend

not being a bully who takes advantage of others

not being a liar who claims to be a good Christian but is a backstabbing Judas instead

having a brain and being able to use it

for being attractive without makeup or fancy hair dos

for having a tiny, svelte form that still fits into a size 0

for three AMAZING children

for the strength of my ancestors

for the strength of my convictions

for being a GOOD person (despite what some may think or say)

for being able to prove to one and all that, *gasp* I CAN make it on my own in the 'big City'

for having talent

for being able to put the needs and cares of others before my own

for having the support and love of GOOD friends

for having a loving family

yes...I have many things to be thankful for.

blessings to the good hearted.  For the rest... watch out... Karma will have it's way with you eventually.  ;)

honestly?

you know that stupid trust game they made kids play in school?  The one where you cross your arms over your chest and fall backwards with eyes closed... hoping the person behind you will catch you before you fall?

so much for trust in anyone

i'm done, i'm out

on feeling... improved

today i feel improved.

I was calm.  I was collected.  The ex was, thankfully, lucid.  The children get to come home this weekend.  It means more expense and a tighter budget, but I'm glad to have them on their way soon.  I've missed them so much.

then there was the visit to see my chiropractor.  Amazing stuff that.  He was surprised to find that I am healing faster than he'd expected.  :)  So proud of this I am.  I've been following the exercises I've been given and have worked hard to avoid some of the bad habits I've fallen into (crossing my legs for hours on end while I sit at my desk, leaning on one elbow, etc).  Funny thing is...I feel taller.  How weird.

so...as a reward... I write a tiny bit and then move on to Dim Sum and a Fat Tire.  *nod*  I deserve a little treat.

...maybe I'll even wrangle in some artwork tonight.  I need to draw... my hands ache to hold a pencil and put it to paper...

screw it

...I'm driving down there and bringing 'em all back.  I hate to cheat the ex out of his time with the little ones, but... the children need stability in their lives... not their own private cuckoos nest.


GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR

furious

so today... I rant.

I think that I am a pretty kind and forgiving person.  I feel that there is no one perfect, me least of all.  Raised by a woman who is, in my opinion, one of the best human beings I know... my mom.  I have followed the few rules of life she passed on to me:

Treat others the way you want to be treated.

Be honest.

don't judge others.

That's what I've tried to do.  Those are the core tenants of WHO I am.


That being said, I didn't follow any of these tenants when my ex kicked me out of our house so that he could move in his 19 year old girlfriend.  Baby-sitter-homewrecker indeed ($1 to Rich Skare)  I was FURIOUS with that man.  He let his mental illness turn him into a monster, manipulated and controlled me for years, and then gave me the boot because I was no longer young enough or pretty enough... and because I had finally grown a bit of my backbone back and was standing up to his crazy demands and tirades.     I was a hard nosed little shit of an ex-wife (or so I was told by his now ex-baby-sitter-homewrecker).

What did I do you ask?  Well, I expected him to pay his FULL share of child support...which he has never done.  There's always some excuse, he MUST follow his dreams... but never does he evidence enough suck-uppedness to just go and get a normal job and actually support his children in a manner which I feel they are more than deserving of.   I asked that he pay half of the cost of child support when our youngest had to be in paid day care... he refused.  He's never helped pay for the kids medical expenses, though there are promises of such.  And, while he IS finally paying his 'share' of child support on a regular basis... he only pays 1/4 of what most men pay to their ex-wives in form of child support.

But... I am not an awful bitch at heart, contrary to the belief some other might hold.  It was important to give the children a civil relationship between us so that they can know their dad as something other than the ogre who destroyed their mom's hopes and dreams.  (he really did destroy those... our marriage was a very, very precious thing to me and I sacrificed my bloody sanity and the mental well being of our children trying to "do the right thing" and stay in what was ultimately, a lost cause.   Over the past few years we have managed a civil friendship, and the children get to enjoy their summers with their father...

until this summer.

I must digress back in time to make this clear...  a couple years ago, the ex was taken to the hospital where he nearly died.  He had been drinking heavily and his body almost gave out.  He was told at that time that he needed to stop drinking.  He did.  He also announced to me around the same time that the ER doc mentioned that he MIGHT have DID.  This made one eyebrow on my face do the Spock thing.  In the past few months, when speaking to the ex on the phone... he has sounded drunk.  With him for 20 years... I know what the man sounds like when he's drunk.  He's a damn fool when he's drunk.  I called him on it... and he lied to me, stating he didn't drink, wasn't drinking...  Well... he HAS been.

I week or so back, he got drunk.  He got crazy.  My eldest and her nonnie (who lives with my ex) had to call 911 and have his ass carted off the ER.  I'd just sent them down for the summer and the ER drama has begun.  Joy.  Even better, after he is returned home, I am informed by the ex that he is on some sort of heavy drug to help him resist the alcohol AND he informs me again that the ER doc thinks he has DID.  (my understanding is that DID has to be diagnosed by a Psychiatrist/Psychologist after a course of counselling to determine if the person REALLY has DID or some other psychological issues in play)  Read the article I linked to... in every other country of the world EXCEPT the United States, DID diagnosis are quite low.   They are insanely high here.

Anyway... according to my eldest, this "alternate" personality hates her.  It has resulted in her being yelled and and made to feel really low about herself... and as a 15 year old, she's dealing with enough of THAT already. But last night was it.  Before going to bed... the ex tells my eldest that she's not being "her" any more, she's a depressive piece of shit.

WHAT THE F(#*?!?!?!?     I may have a sharp tongue and swear like a pirate when I'm upset... but I do NOT tell the children things which would negatively impact their self worth or mental health.  I don't get paid till Friday, and funds are tight... but Gosh darn it all... I am flying the eldest back home just as soon as I can get the scratch together to do so.

Grrr.

today

was amazing.  Truly.  on all fronts.   Might feel inclined to write about it later... right now... Farscape.

on writing and on observation

on writing:

I realized tonight, while sitting down to eat my Dim Sum and enjoy the Sorcerer's Apprentice (so sue me... I like kids movies.  I AM a mom after-all, with, you know.... kids)...again, that I had to write.  Immediately.  The idea came and I knew without a doubt that my thought was something to write about.  Specifically, in my blog.  So...here is me politely ignoring my beautiful Dim Sum and pork fried rice in order to do what my create muse insists must be done... write.

on observation:

have you ever watched a movie and really paid attention to that somewhat dismiss-able sidekick to the main character?  They're always the person quietly sitting off to the side who notices, usually with a very significant look, that important things are going on in the actions and conversations of the main character and whomever the main character's attention is directed towards?  (did you also notice that I assigned NO gender in that statement?  *preens*)  That's who I am...the quiet observer.  Okay, truth be told... I'm not that quiet.  I squeak when I'm surprised, I snort when I laugh to hard (and squeak), I swear when I'm upset, and I love to just ramble on about absolutely nothing in particular.  (like right now).  But I AM an observer, a very astute one.  I've also got amazing hearing.

Now, you'd think that this would be a great gift to have, right?  In a lot of cases... it is.  I pick up on a lot of little details that others miss.  I've been told I'm intuitive.  I'm not... I just see (and hear) what's going on around me.  Maybe I learned something reading all of those Sherlock Holmes stories when I was a kid.  Or all of the Nancy Drew books.  Maybe I just have a knack for stashing away details.

But sometimes... sometimes it's REALLY not a good thing.

You see, sometimes, you pick up on the small details and start matching up actions to words and realize that you are the person who has been betrayed.  You realize that promises made are not going to be kept.  You discover that, despite protestations to the contrary, that your giving nature has been taken advantage of.  

Being observant and paying attention to the details is what told me that something was going on with my ex-husband just before we split up.  I was not surprised in the least when he asked me to move out, I was prepared and ready actually and a rudimentary battle plan (where I'd go, what I'd take with me, etc) formulated in my mind.   But, it didn't stave off the dramatic hurt that accompanied our splitting up.  I'd spent 15 years working hard at being a good and loyal wife and mother and got tossed aside for a child.  One that turned out to be a rather lowly and despicable person too.

Being observant has more than once led me to overhear friends speaking in ways that... maybe friends shouldn't around other friends.  Fortunately, I have some VERY good friends who are able to recognize when they have stuck the proverbial foot in mouth.  I had one such interaction very recently and was abashed when I thought my friends discussing an issue of mine, and their agreement that they wanted none of it.  I was even more abashed when they directly told me I could not speak of what I wanted... though grateful at least they were upfront and honest enough to say something directly.   But I still broke down in tears... because when your closest friends and source of support all agree to shut you off... well that's a pretty  not cool place to be.  Not at all.  I wasn't dramatic... just quiet tears of disappointment and rejection.  Again.  But this particular occasion was different (one of the only times this has happened, but I chalk it up to the character of the people I call my friends these days) ... they recognized my unhappiness and wanted to know what was wrong.  I put myself together and said nothing, asked that the conversation move along.  I'd been told to keep my mouth shut, and out of politeness to that request I was complying.  But my friends are astute.  They realized how what they had said came across and saw how hurt I was, and they cared.  Apologies were made, as were jokes and soon, laughter and beer were flowing freely once more.    But that is because they are all good people who have the moral fortitude to stand up and say "hey, that wasn't so cool, I'm sorry.  Look... I have my faults too."

GOOD people.

Please don't let me lead you into thinking that this is just a grand bitch-fest about how awful it is to notice what's going on around me.  I'm certainly not.  Despite the disappointments that have accompanied many of my observations, I am thankful that I observed what I did.  It's kept me safe.

I heard an article on NPR recently regarding trusting one's instincts.  A panel of Psychologists and other learned folk were discussing the whole concept of trusting one's instincts.  All agreed that there is more than a little to doing so.  The subconscious is always processing and picking up details that we never consciously register.  But regardless of how dense we are consciously, our subconscious knows all and sees all.  And it tells us all, if we're willing to listen to our intuition and go with that wild hunch.

I'm grateful that I've got this observant streak.  It's helped me keep my heart safe over the course of time.  My ex-husband has told me again and again, that I'm too nice, and WAAAY too trusting.  He's right, I am.  But, I've learned... oh how I have learned, from my experiences with observation and the consequences of not trusting my inner instincts.

It's a nice thing, knowing that I am observant, that I can and will pick up on the tiny details and be able to regurgitate them back should I ever need to.  It's great knowing that I have a very eidetic memory.  In fact, it's a great gift.  Okay, so it took me a bit of time to realize what a gift I had, and to learn how to use it to my advantage.

But now that I know it's there... I'll be putting it to good use.  You can count on that.


peace out world, my dreams await.

why is it...

that when my children are sick... I am there to see to their needs.   why is it that I spent countless hours in ER's with my ex-husband...

and now, when I'm really sick... there's no one here to help.

mother theresa was right to minister to those who had no one else to care for them.  Being alone is bad enough... being sick and alone is even worse.

blaaaarg

I'm sick.  I've been sick for almost two weeks now.  Initially... I had the flu.  There's no mistaking the aches and the crazy ass freezing/fever burning that goes on when one has the flu.  Fortunately... I got sick on a Friday, and spent the bulk of my weekend sick as a dog.

Did I rest?  ... not enough most likely.  I had a big art contract to get busy on and several critical projects at work.  So, I propped myself up in front of the TV with lots of glasses of liquid and worked.  My neighbors, afraid of my germs, at least popped by morning and evening to make sure I didn't need anything and to bring me small plates of food to nibble on.  And that's all I did..nibble.  That's all I'm STILL doing... the nibbling.  Everything still tastes a bit funny and I just don't feel the urge to eat.

But it's the cough that's really killin' me.  Prone to Bronchitis since I was pregnant with my son, I catch it as soon as I catch anything else.   Tiny cold gets extended into at least 3-4 weeks of coughing and creeping out everyone in the office (I work with a large population of germophobes).

yay rah.

-_-

so now that I read the thermometer and it tells me that I'm back up to a 100.8 degree fever...  going to drag myself (literally) to the stove long enough to heat up some soup...then collapse in my bed with the goggie and the kitten.  I've completed and billed the art contract and don't have any more big contracts lined up yet.

YET.

so I'm off to try and get better.

*really wishing one could download hot steamy soup off the interwebz*

a couple of things

I'm not feeling all that creative in terms of writing today... so here are just a couple of things that have been on my mind...

My latest art contract is proving to be quite lucrative...  it's really fun work and I seem to have more than a knack for digital re-design.  Keeping my fingers crossed that this is the start of really great things.

The other 'thing' is a scooby doo mystery of sorts.  Recently, I visited one of my old online haunts.  A friend had told me I must, for there were show recordings to see.  Strangely though, my password didn't work and I couldn't access the site.  It was quite frustrating, I KNEW what my password was, but it wouldn't work.  Weird.  After a couple of weeks of hitting the password reset request button and receiving no password reset emails, I finally talked to a friend who had administrative rights at the site.  Being the true champ that she is... she reset the darn thing for me.

Imagine my surprise when I discovered that my newly reset password, of which I had been quite careful to make note, no longer worked again a week later.  It was laughable really.  Password reset requests again went unanswered.  But then the REALLY weird part happened.  While visiting my neighbor, also a past member of the same organization, I mentioned my little mystery.

"You too?"  was the response.

I sat there for a moment... stunned.  Someone else had the same bizarre experience I was having?  I queried further.   Was he sure of the password?  Had he attempted password retrieval.  He had done likewise and experienced the same as I had.  I can understand why *I* might be on someone's poo of the week list as I have a way of blurting out exactly what I think.  But my friend?  no WAY.  There's never been a more friendly helpful person that I've ever met.  

Even more mysterious... friend who is currently involved with the group didn't seem the least bit surprised when I approached him with my quandary.  In fact, his comment of, "I was afraid of this."  really made my little antennae start to twitch.   One username and password later... I was finally able to view the recording my friend had wanted me to see.  But, the mystery still remains.   The message is pretty clear though, so I guess I take that particular non-profit off of my charitable donations list.

I forgot to wear my hat...

First, understand that I LIKE hats.  I've been wearing hats for as long as I can remember.  I grew up in the vineyards just outside of Lodi, CA in a little place called Acampo.  We had a postage stamp sized farm because my mother, raised on a working ranch as a girl could not leave her 'country-girl' roots behind.  On the one to two acres that made up the property there were various fruit trees, vegetable gardens, a HUGE strawberry patch, a chicken coop, a bird aviary, and the pasture.  The house wasn't huge, but it wasn't small either.  It was, really, perfect.  Idyllic I daresay.

I spent my summers and free time playing in the vineyards with my brother and mates from the ranch just down the road from our place.  (we could see their horses across the vineyard that separated our properties).  This meant I spent a lot of time outside playing baseball and the boy's favorite, War.  You needed a hat.  So, like the rest of the children I played with, I wore a baseball hat.  I gave up baseball hats for a while in the 80's, when other more fashionable hats caught my eye.  But I still wore my hats.  And after a time, went back to them.

I always have at least two of them tucked away... usually a few more than that.  I have three in rotation right now.  :)   And usually, especially since my hair has been going through one of those awkward, in-between stages, I wear one of my baseball hats.

...today I forgot.

It might not seem like such a big thing.  Some might even argue that, well, I look much better without a hat on, especially a boyish baseball hat.  Honestly though, it's only convention that makes them 'boyish'.  They're a highly functional hat in terms of design.  I love 'em.  When I have a migraine, my baseball hat offers protection from the light.  When it's windy my hat keeps my hair from getting all in my face and mussed about.   It keeps the wet off of my glasses.  ...and I can hide behind them.

I mentioned to a friend recently that I have a knack for actually seeing what's going on around me.  (okay, I'm a little nearsighted in some aspects of my life, but that's a story for another day)  If you've known me long enough, you'll have picked up on how often I have dark shades on.  I wear them a lot.  Hide behind them.  I'm more introverted than folks think really and often observe what's going on around me carefully.  The hat offers protection in the same manner the glasses do... putting up a tiny little barrier between myself and the world.  I become anonymous in hat and glasses and vanish easily into the crowd.  Makes sense that I'd find comfort standing behind a camera.  ;)  The photographer is the invisible artist.  Our art lives and breathes through our eyes and what we 'see'.

So...knowing ALL of this....   I forgot my hat today.

I can't hide.

thank goodness my hair is reaching a non-awkward state and is almost acceptable today.  thank goodness my skin is hydrated and pink and flawless.  I may no longer have the face of a sixteen year old, but I certainly don't look my years either.  I've no grey hair.  My eyes are bright and clear, and I'm told that I have a pretty face.  All in all, nothing to really worry about hiding.  But I don't like not having my hat.

I want my hat dangit.

remind me...

WHY am I doing this again?    *crickets*

Girl Friday

One of the little perks of my current employment is getting to choose our own job titles.  My boss does not stand on convention and lets us put our own titles to our jobs, which often warrant that each employee wear many different 'hats'.   When I applied for my position with DG, I noticed that the job description was a bit wide ranging.  Having not received much in the way of positive responses to my very professional cover letters, I decided (with much encouragement from my BF) to do something different.  I went out on a limb and wrote something wacky, stating that my future employer sounded like he was a man in search of a Girl Friday... and I was that girl.

And that's who I am.  While I tell folks I'm the graphic artist and product photographer... I do so much more than just that.  Yes, I create the advertisements and take the pretty pictures.  I also create and manage all of the forms our company uses.  I maintain and administrate the website and webstore.  I troubleshoot all of the IT issues in the office.  I AM IT in the office.  o.O  I interact with all levels of sales and marketing folks.  I prepare all of our marketing and sales materials for print, including being on the up and up as to pre-press procedures.   It's a great gig and definitely keeps me on my toes.

It's also a job that's not without it's frustrations.  Wrangling with SAP and Crystal reports has been nothing short of a colossal mountain to climb.  ...but we're gettin there!.

The past few business days though... have been frustrating for me as a graphic designer.  The company producing our of our containers produced a mock of the product that was WAY off base from how it SHOULD appear.  I re-sent them the screens for the bottles and the art files for the labels.  then I get an email from their staff stating they need the fonts.  My feelers start to twitch.  I've learned that most folks in the pre-press process don't need the fonts... they need 'em outlined.  I start to wonder... do the folks at the company producing our product actually KNOW what they are doing?  

I send the fonts.

I get yet another email from L* asking of the fonts.  The files aren't updating.

Now my feelers are in FULL twitch.  What's this guy ON about.  Doesn't he KNOW to just put the font file into his common files folder inside the Adobe folder inside the Programs Folder on his C:drive?  How can he NOT know this if he is using Adobe Illustrator... this is Adobe 101 here.

I respond with yet another copy of the fonts and explain where to place them in the C:drive so that the files will automatically update when L* opens them on his end.

Today, I received another email from L*, thanking me for helping him to understand.  Turns out... the poor dear is a hobbyist with Illustrator and manages the production line for the company producing our containers. He's had no formal training (Illustrator can be a BEAST until you've learned the ropes and a trick or two) and honestly didn't know how to update the fonts within it.  But now he does, and I taught him how.

Girl Friday indeed.

something to do...

I NEED to do something.  I need to move my butt away from the monitor and DO something creative and inspiring.


I could work on my contract's designs...but I'm saving those for the weekends when I can fully concentrate.

I could work on the novel.  ...but I'm still not ready.  Gaia's not ready.  the muses aren't ready.  We all need a little bit more healing time before we're ready to venture out and share the stories once more.   :(

I SHOULD work on some drawings that are owed folks...

but I don't want to move.



My brain feels as if it were made of oatmeal.  I've been sick, according to my manager, Aline, since last Thursday.  I've been REALLY sick since Saturday.  I am, according to said manager, under orders to work from home tomorrow should my lungs NOT be any better.  But I don't WANT to stay home.  I just managed a huge breakthrough with the new software I'm learning to use at work and I don't want to lose my  momentum.  That I managed to completely construct two working sales reports today was HUGE.  But after all that sheer genius... I'm tired.  My lungs kind of hurt and I swear that my current body mass is made up more of snot than anything else.

seriously.

But I am feeling better than I was and I'm not so inclined to pursue my absolute favorite mind numbing pastime of gaming tonight, so I must find some way of productively using my time.  I am supposed to be an artist after all.

that being said... here's me off to draw the seventh sense and to construct what very well might become the icon for a new religion.

...seriously.  ;)

it only get's better

so they say.

but some days, I have to wonder.

on being alone...

I gain strength, courage and confidence by every experience in which I must stop and look fear in the face... I say to myself, I've lived through this and can take the next thing that comes along... We must do the things we think we cannot do.

~Eleanor Roosevelt~

I don't like being alone.  As far back as I can remember, I can remember not liking being left alone.  Maybe it goes all the way back to being left alone in a stark room with an army of nurses and doctors who held down my tiny, three year old person so that I could not move a muscle so that they could perform a spinal tap.  To this day I still remember my absolute terror as the nurses put their hands on my head, shoulders, arms, hips, legs... any part of my body that might move and cause me harm as the procedure was performed.  I imagine my mother tried to explain to me what was going to happen... but how do you explain to a three year old that they must endure incredible pain, without moving a muscle, in order to find out what's wrong with them?  


It turned out that I had epilepsy.  I spent the next few weeks at Oakland Children's hospital in a special ward with other children likewise diagnosed... all of us with varying degrees of what is still a very, very mysterious neurological condition.  I had, unbeknownst to me, become part of a very import series of medical trials designed to find efficient treatments for epilepsy.  After I was released from the hospital I was rarely out of sight of a trusted adult (in case I had a seizure) and became remarkable isolated simultaneously.  


To control the seizures, I was taking a regimen of Dilantin, Phenobarbital, and Valium twice daily.  The Dilantin and the Phenobarbital were used to control my seizures.  The Valium was used to mellow down the incredible side effects the other two medications had on my very young, developing person.  In my mother's words, the medication made me a demon child.  My mother, or those caring for me, kept a close eye on this very sick little person so I was rarely 'alone'.  But then I started going to school.  


Of course, the schools were told of my condition, and that's where the isolation began.  Today they tell teachers with epileptics in their classes, "treat them like any other child".  But back when I was a girl, this was not the case.  I was put in the back of the class so as not to "frighten" the other children should I have a seizure.  I only had one grand mal seizure (the big nasty ones that affect the entire body).  Most of mine were what are called petit mal seizures... where I would just vanish into my own mind for a while,staring blankly out into space until my brain kickstarted itself again.  But my teachers didn't care, to the back of the room I went, ignored and feared.  This trickled down to the students I was in classes with and as such, I was excluded and pushed aside as "that weird girl"  This went on through the second grade.  When my teacher recommended that I be held back because I couldn't read a single word, my parents realized there was a problem.  (of course there was a problem!  My teachers were afraid of me and avoided me like the plague) My mother, having just remarried, decided to move and give me a fresh start at a new school.  My second second grade teacher was this crazy old woman named Ms. Bittner and she had my number immediately.  She had only compassion for the epilepsy diagnosis even though I'd not had a seizure in two years and treated me like every other student in her class.  She taught me to read and by the end of the year... I was ahead of the rest of my class.  


I was also... no longer alone.  


I wasn't ostracized by the other students as I had been in K-2nd grade (the first time), because I wasn't being ostracized by the teachers.  But the insecurity and fear of being alone had already planted it's evil little seeds in my heart.  


So, by hook or by crook, I've managed to never be alone since that time.  I've had roommates or lived at home with the family.  In a big, rambling Portuguese family this is a highly acceptable thing!  :)  Even when I separated from my ex, I had the children with me, and when the children were with their father... I went back to drum corps.   Yes, there were nights where I was alone...but never for an extended period of time where I was just... flying solo on my own.  


....and now I am.  


I'm not sure how I feel about it yet.  I'm thankful for the two dogs and the kitten that sleep on my bed each night.  But I MISS the children something terrible...even in their worst and most fretful moods.  That'll be a post for another day, after I've determined more fully just how I feel about this being alone thing.  

preparing for a ranting tear....

this might just be the precursor to a much larger storm of vile rantings... but it must be said so that I can get the vile evilness out of my heart and get one with my day...

when good people get vilified and treated like shite, and the sucky ass humans who gossip and malign others for their sheer enjoyment and gratification get all the praise and glory, I get peeved.

I get more than peeved... I get downright pissed off.

I know some folks like this (won't dignify their existence by even calling them acquaintances) and have to say that I am waiting for the day when Karma smacks 'em upside the head with a big ol' 2x4 of comeuppance.   

short & sweet

all  i have to say about today is that it was a very, very good day.  

<3

of dreams... and nightmares.

When I was a child, I dreamed a great deal.  I knew somewhere, in the very back of my mind that I was dreaming, but the dreams would play out with me, their hapless victim.  I still can recall several of the most vivid and frightening very clearly.  

For the past, I don't know how many years, I haven't recalled my dreams, save on rare occasions, and even those became ephemeral and fleeting once I was a few hours into my day.  I have counted this as a blessing, knowing enough about human psychology to know that we are never truly dreamless.  We may not recall our dreams...but they are there...

My children and I received yesterday, a brand new kitten.  We adore cats, and haven't had one in a while.  The result was having to make sure I was up every couple of hours to ensure the little fluffball got a trip to her kitty box.  She's just a wee thing and cant' make the jump from the bed to the floor yet.  The net result was, I believe, me spending a great deal more time in REM sleep last night than I do on most other nights.  

...and i dreamed.  

I don't like the dreams where I can't speak, or I can see.   I've had the pursuit dreams, I get them, I can deal with them.  But the not speaking ones, and the ones where I lose sight sporadically are just... WEIRD and remarkable unsettling.  These are the dreams that I remember with great clarity and for extended periods of time.  They stick with me for some reason.  

Now, the inability to speak in dreams, the inability to communicate, can reflect feelings of not being heard in ones waking life.  (How many times have I made that complaint?)   A person may feel ignored or not valued for their thoughts.  but the dream I had last night... it was more than not being able to speak.  It was frightening and the inability to speak or cry out  made the fear all the more intense and palpable.  

In my room there are sliding glass doors which open onto our back yard.  The children and the pups like to romp about in the grass when the weather is warm and sunny, I like to sit out there and watch the birds that flit and fly about the yards that abut ours.   Every night, before it gets dark out, I check that door and make sure that it is well fastened and locked tight.  I did so last night, just like every night, then again once more right before bed.  Lately, Armani, my "rent-a-pup" has been sleeping on the foot of the bed.  The slightest sounds will waken her and she'll bark if there's anyone about.  But she wasn't with me last night, the new kitten was.  My brain knew this, and took advantage.

I rose having heard a noise.  It should not have been light out, yet there was light streaming into the back yard, and thus, through the chinks round the edges of the curtain covering the sliding glass door that led out.  It was the billowing of the curtains that made my heart race and my breath catch deep in my chest.  The curtains only billowed when the door was open.  

It was wide open.  Shocked...I stood there, one hand on the door handle, the other braced against the door jam, staring out into my yard.  Why was the door open?  I had locked it.  I always lock it.   The man striding across my yard seemed not to notice me for a moment.  Taller than me, he was broad and heavily muscled, to use the word 'thug' would be most appropriate.  He moved with purpose from the back of the yard, past the bird of paradise tree towards where the hot water heater is housed.  But then, he pauses and looks my way, looks directly at me... and starts forward.  Still I am standing there, the cool air of night blowing against my face.  I want to scream out to the children.  I want to cry out for help.  I want to slam the door shut and lock it... keeping him at bay.  But I can do nothing.  I am frozen, the words caught in my throat.  Halfway towards me his expression changes, and becomes almost feral, and I finally act.  The door slides shut and the lock clicks home.  I don't know if he continues in his approach... I have already turned and moved, running out of the room, the door slamming shut behind me, the thought clear in my head that I must ensure the children are safe. 

I woke up then, a kitten mewing at me piteously that she needed to go use her box, again.  I scooped up the cute little thing and deposited her in her box, then made sure that damn door was closed up tight.  It was, the dogs were sleeping soundly and there seemed to be no signs of any hulking thugs rampaging about my back yard.  Once the little fuzzball was done with her business, we got back to the business of trying to have a good nights rest.  I'd like to report that I didn't dream the rest of the night, but I'd be fibbing.  I did.  At least it was nothing so striking that I am able to clearly recall them now.  

So maybe my brain is trying to help me figure out some major subconscious boggle in the deep, dead of night.   Or maybe, it was just a really sucky-ass bad dream that creeped me out more than it should.  Either way, whoever is doling out the dreaming needs to skip me over the next night or two.  I need some sleep!