Done!

My holiday knitting, that is.  Two hats and a Calorimetry.  Plus a small micro-turtle done in brown cotton.  (Note to Self: Don't knit anything fiddly in cotton.  It makes you cuss)

Sadly, the photos are still on my camera or laptop and not uploaded quite yet.  I'll probably to that tomorrow--along with folding laundry.  Whee.  What an exciting life I lead.

However, I may be able get get one more hat done.  This would be for my baby niece, Sprite.  I'm in no hurry, but it should be a fairly quick knit.  We shall see.

I have a mystery package UPSing its way to me.  I'm not too sure what it is, honestly.  It might be some tea samples, but I'm drawing a blank here.  It's not the right coast for my BPAL order to be shipped from, so...

Christmas shopping and wrapping were also finished up today. 

Frankly, all I want right now is for the car I use to be fixed.  Two Fridays ago, said car decided it didn't like that particular vintage of anti-freeze and left it all over the carport.  Bugger.  I realized this when, after dropping Imp and canned goods off at school, the car decided not to put out any heat and the engine get really hot.

I made the fifteen minute drive back home begging it not to explode on me.

We have yet to hear back from the cranky mechanic.  He's a crusty old soul.  I like him.

It's raining, it's pouring

It's the middle of December and I just heard a couple of rumbles of thunder.  It's also close to 60 Fahrenheit.  That's not right in my book.  It's supposed to be a good twenty degrees cooler at least. 

Although, this does explain the migraine I have. 

I guess I haven't been knitting enough around various family members.  My niece asked me this past Sunday for a knitted hat for Christmas.  Green and with cables, thank you very much.

Now, I just relieved a skein of Sanguine Gryphon's Bugga!  But there is no way I'm using that yarn on a kid that attracts dirt and smutz like a magnet.  I refuse.
 
So, I trekked up to my LYS and snagged a skein of Universal Yarns Classic Worsted.  This is the same yarn I used on Imp's never ending scarf.

Violet, my niece, will get an Owlie Hat. 

I promised my sister-in-law, Bubbles last year that I'd make her a calorimetry.  I don't know how many times I tried to figure that so simple pattern out, but couldn't get it.

This year?  Dude....

So I made her one.  One that's too small.  GAH!  Thankfully, I have enough of the Berrocco Ultra Alapca to make a bigger one, which is where I'm heading to in just a minute.

I'd rather be sleeping, though.

Die in a fire. Now.

I said as much to a classmate of mine today in A&P.  This year sucks.  I've given up on caring about much.

Granted, part of it is my depression talking, but I've never been this...Scroogish is how she put it.

And to make matters worse?  There's a good chance that the teachers at my college are going to go on strike after 12th.  So I don't even know if the spring semester will start on time.

Screw this, I'm gonna go knit.  And try to get more than three hours of sleep at night.  Sleeping during the day?  No damned problem.

I can't even describe how cranky this is making me.

You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me. ~C.S. Lewis

I'm avoiding my A&P work for a little bit.  All the abbreviations for various hormones are swirling around in my vision.

Instead I've been pondering what to make with my single skein of Road to China.  Then I've wondered if I should snag one or two more skeins....  That is a Gollum yarn if I ever saw one. 

I know I want whatever I make with it so be next to my skin.  I'm thinking of another pair of fingerless mitts since my hands get so freakin' cold.  Or maybe a cowl...but probably the mitts.  They're something I can do in class if I want.

Speaking of fingerless mitts...one of my classmates in my ASL class wants me to make her a pair.  In black.  That's fine, but d'you know how hard it is to find a black superwash yarn that doesn't cost an arm?  I'm going to have to talk to her and see if she wants easy to care for or not-so-easy-to-care-for.  It doesn't matter to me.  I just want her input.  Although, I did find some Cascade that should work for the superwash.

In other news in my not-so-exciting life, I ignored yesterday to the fullest extent that I could.  It would have been mom's 59th birthday.  I refused to deal with the world.  I fully believe that I was allowed to do so.

Then there's the shed.  In our backyard, we had a metal shed that was put up when I was about six or so.  The only thing that was holding it up was the rust and everything crammed inside.

Wednesday, it was only the flotsam inside holding it up.  The area had wind gusts of 40 mph.  the shed just gave up.  Dad was planning of replacing the shed, y'know, AFTER the winter.  Momma Nature had other plans.  Ah well.

It wouldn't have been so bad if the car I use didn't decide it needed a new battery and a tune-up.  When it rains, right?

I got some new tea samples this week, too.  From Harney & Sons.  For only two bucks for a sample, I didn't think it was a bad buy.  I got three; Irish Breakfast, Cranberry Autumn Blend, and Holiday Tea.  I've only tried one so far, the Cranberry Autumn.  It's a sweeter tea.  I don't need to add any sweetener to it.  The smell is juicy and red.  It reminds me of burning bushes in full fall color.  However, I don't think I let it steep long enough because all I could really taste was the water.  Or maybe it's just a really mild tea.  I don't know.

It did remind me of Puck.  I'll give it another try.

I've been debating on getting a Kindle.  I'm really interested in the Fire, but balk at the price-and it's one of the more..economical ones.  Maybe I'll go for a mid range one.  I need to start reading a little more.  Or get into audiobooks.  I don't know which yet.

Back to the books.  Meh.

Dance, Skeletons, DANCE!

Hello, I'm good for nothing, won't you love me just the same?

It’s three-thirty in the morning; the radio was playing some sort of upbeat song before I turned it off.  I need to be asleep.  I have class in a couple hours, but I can’t turn my head off.

I don’t fit.  I know that. 

I also know that I have depression.  I have good times and not so good times.  Then there the times that my demons just gnaw and gnaw and gnaw away at me.

I’m broken.

All I can do is break my child in the same way.

I already broke my child.

It’s useless for me to be around.

I can go on.  But, the thing is, I know that no one wants to be around the real me.  Everyone has this idea that I’m quirky but fine in the long run.  I can see it in their eyes.

I wonder what they see in mine.

The old urge to just run away is so strong.  There’s only one thing that’s keeping me around.  And I’m so afraid that all I’m doing is breaking him in ways that can’t be fixed.

Like I can’t be fixed.

Have you ever seen an old classic movie called ‘FREAKS’?  I feel like I would make those folks seem normal.

I spend every day wearing masks that other people want to see that I often don’t know who I really am.  Except something no one wants to see.

I’m supposed to be the responsible one.  I’m the one that supposed to have some sort of sarcastic quip ready for the right moment.  I’m the one people can turn to.  I’m the one that holds it all together.

But…I’m not.

I try so hard, but I can’t.  But I have to.

I’m left holding pieces that don’t make any sense to me.  I don’t read sheet music and they want me to play something for them. 

Somehow I’m able to fake it.

I’m just tired of it all. 

I mean, I’m thirty something years old and I haven’t done anything remotely considered productive in about four years. 

I keep trying and expecting different results, but the same damned thing keeps happening.  How stupid can I be?

I often feel like some…specimen locked away in a glass box with people going ‘ew’.

I want to believe that it’ll turn out alright.  That I won’t always be some sort of fuck-up.

And in a few hours, I’ll get up and try for something new and just get kicked to trying.

 Yeah, I know what she's singing about.

Why did I procreate?

Oy.  My baby niece had definitely cured me of wanting anymore kids.  Imp is more than enough.

Almost three hours of screaming.  We think she has colic like my brother did.  I didn't care for that then, and now is no damned different.

Somewhere in this house is a picture of 23 month old me sitting in a white tee and diaper, holding brand-spanking-new-Brother dressed the same and screaming the house down.  Evidently the look on my face was one of "return this noisy thing from where you got it.  RETURN NOW".

That explains our relationship to a 't'.

In other kiddie news, Imp now has his glasses.  Here's hoping he's not teased like the way I was.  He's also in band.  Playing drums. 

See?  There's his brand new, ooh it's so shiny snare drum.  With that stupid never ending scarf.  I finally finished it and promptly did a little victory dance.  

The pattern I used called for knitting the thing on DPNs and then adding fringe to the ends.  Well, there's no way on Gaia's great green tukus that I was going to make a five foot scarf with fringe for a ten year old boy.  Nope.  Not gonna do it.

So, I made it in the round and added a blanket stitch edging to both ends.

My mistake was making it on DPNs.  I should have just made it on straight needles in a ribbed pattern.

I learned my lesson well.

I almost strangled him with it, too.  Imp has a love/hate relationship with school.  He downright loathes to write.  A paragraph may take up to three hours.  Add into this that like any kid he will lie about having homework done.

I've fought with his school district for three years trying to figure out what there is wrong.  Imp can do his work, he won't sit still for it, though.  Last year I asked the school for an IEP.  Which, by state law, they have to provide, if I understand right. 

Except, they didn't.  They instead told me that if Imp does have a problem, then it's not severe enough for them to get involved.  I disagreed.  My mom-stinct was screaming that there's Something Not Right.

It's not bias when I say Imp is extremely intelligent.  He can focus when he wants to.  Cripes, in third grade he was reading Harry Potter with now help.  I think he was the only third grader in the district that could!

I had also asked his doctor about getting him tested to see if he had a learning disability, because I wanted to help him get the tools he needs.  I was told not to give him soda.

Oh, for the love of-!  Look, I may look young, I may have been born blonde, but I am not an idiot.

I went to the local university, which had a kiddie psych program and that would test him for me.  I didn't want to just arbitrarily slap a label on Imp.  I wanted to help him.

We're still fighting the homework.  He'd rather talk or bounce around.  I honestly think that he's just bored out of his skull.  I just have no idea how to get the school district to listen to me.

I need a drink.

Cuppa Peace

I have the windows open.  It's cooler and feels so good.  I have a cup of tea steeping next to me.  When the breeze blows into my window just right, I can smell it.


Tea is a little bit of peace for me.  I've said elsewhere that Quan Yin next to me as a drink.  Buddha stands with me while the water boils.


It's like knitting, I guess.  There's just me and the yarn or tea.  Nothing else matters while I'm there.

Religiosity and the Fuzzy-Wuzzies

My brother goes to a local Baptist church.  I've met most the people there, and I can say that they are good people. 

My son, Imp, has decided he wants to go.  I'm happy for him.  He's been asked to help with the puppets.  I'm proud of him.

But, I'm uncomfortable with church. 

See, I classify myself as a happy little pagan. 

I remember telling someone that, and they did their version of bug-nut crazy, saying that it's nothing but a cult, blah, blah, blah.

Dude, don't force your views on me.  It's rude and inconsiderate.

The way I look at the Divine is that it's just too blasted big to be understood by humans.  If I want to talk to a goddess name Brigid or Morrigan or Allah or Jehovah, then it's my business.  Not yours.

When I was pregnant with Imp over ten years ago, I was asked something; would it bother me if my son didn't choose the same path as me?

Honestly?  Nope.  I said that as long as he's a good person, I will always support him.  I will support him if he wants to become a Catholic priest.  If he wants to learn about Judaism, I will help by finding a synagogue.  The same for Taoism, Buddhism, Islam.  I will help him.

My only caveat on his decisions; if he follows the moronic idiots like Phelps and Falwell and other zealots, I will beat the ever-lovin' tar out of that boy. 

In my mind, hate has no place in any religion.

It's not my place to force any sort of view on my child.  I feel it's my place to guide him into the path that suits him.

I believe that there is no one true way.  Truth is subjective.  Just because I believe one thing, does not mean that someone else has to believe it.  Find what fits you.  I don't care if the Flying Spaghetti Monster noodles you into rapture.  That's for you.

For me, I feel closer to gnostic Christianity, Celtic paganism, with a hefty dose of Buddhism.  It works for me.

Joseph Campbell said it best: follow your bliss.

Busy, busy, busy

This summer has indeed been a craptastic one.  I'll be one of the first to admit it.  It got off on a wrong foot and pretty much stayed there.


It was too blasted hot for most things--and Imp and I enjoy going to the St. Louis Zoo, Science Center, Botanical Gardens, everywhere.

We really couldn't.  Not with the fuzzy frat boy here:

So, Imp and I stayed close to home.  After the pool opened, though, it was much nicer.

So needless to say, the summer is over.  Imp starts school as a fifth grader on Friday, I start my third semester on Monday.

Imp's Gryffie scarf has one more block to go--I hope.  And my red yarn is slowly becoming my main project--although I don't know if I'll be able to work on it during my classes.  It's not something that I can knit sans eyeballs to the project.  I may have to find something else.  Even though, I don't want to.

Bugger.

HA!

HA!  I'm conquering cables!  This is fun!

Pictures will be available after this project gets shipped off.

I'm doing a happy knitting dance.

An open letter

Dear Congress,

               

                You don’t know me personally.  That’s ok.  I don’t know any of you personally, either.  But I am a voter.  I’m a non-traditional college student.  I’m a single mother.  I’m a daughter.  I’ve been unemployed since December 2007.

                The only income I have coming in is the child support I get for my child.  I can't afford the medication I need to function without migraines.  Under the ADA of 1990, I'm disabled.  But, I can't get help. 

               

                I sit here watching the petty bickering amongst your members and have to wonder at the fact that your members are so cut off from the common American that it’s not even funny.  Tell me, how much does your average member make?  In 2006 it looks like it was a little under $170,000 a year.  With a 2.5% raise each and every year.

                You know how much I make?  Technically zero as I am unemployed.  But I get a little over five thousand dollars a year in child support.  If I had a minimum wage job?  If I made six dollars an hour, and worked all forty hours a week, I would get $12,480.  Before taxes.

                So, could you please tell me, Congress, why you have a complete lack of common sense?  Tax cuts will not help me.  If anything, I’d be among to 99% that will get a tax increase.   Those special few in the one percent will get a nice, cushy tax cut, right?

                Why?  Don’t give me a cock and bull story.  I don’t have time for it.  Are they not American citizens?  Do they have some sort of special magic power that makes them immune?

                Wait.  I forgot.  They do, don’t they?  It’s called being rich.  Boy, it must be nice for them.  What about the rest of us?

                But, enough about that!  It’s a dead horse that’s been beaten for too often.  But, you know something, Congress?  I really think you need to brush up on your 20^th century history.  Especially the twenties and thirties. 

Let’s take a look at our infrastructure, mm’kay?  The vast majority of us can’t afford luxury cars with super-smooth rides.  Quite frankly, our roads suck.  So do the railroads.  For being such a wealthy country, it doesn’t look it on the roads.

                Another thing that someone would assume to find in a third world country?  Our so-called healthcare system.  For the most of us, me included, our health policy is don’t get sick.  But a state-funded healthcare system is naught but dirty, filthy communist hippie freaks would want, right?

                Wrong. 

                Congress, tell me something.  Have you ever heard of Morgan Spurlock’s series called ’30 Days’?  It’s really quite interesting.  For thirty days someone lives in another’s shoes.

                Can you get your members to do that?  Walk a mile in the so-called middle American’s life?  Or lower middle class?  I think it would be eye-opening for them.

                Yes, there are a few bad apples in amongst our ranks, but the vast majority of us just.  Want.  To.  Work.  Possibly even have a little left over for the occasional movie.  But let’s not get too greedy.  Food for our families and taking care of the mortgage would thrill us to the bones.

                Now, I understand that it takes time and compromises and all that jazz, but really?  All the backbiting and finger pointing is just a little silly.  Not to mention more than a little immature.  But then, so is waiting for the last moment.

                If I did that on the job, I’d get fired in a heartbeat. 

                Walk in my shoes, Congress.  Please.  I dare each and every one of you.

                Yours Truly,

                                A Voter

No tin roof here. Just heat and ick

It's hot, miserable, and sticky.  In other words, pretty much a typical summer in this area.  Blech.

I'm almost done with Imp's Gryffie scarf.  You can see one end in the picture.  I've got one and a half blocks of red, and one gold stripe.  After I block the silly thing, I'll blanket stitch the ends up with more gold yarn.

I've tried the gauge swatch with my lace yarn at least five different times, I think.  Halfway through the stitch count goes wonky on me.  I can't quite figure out why.  I'll have to really take a look at this latest swatch and see what I've done.  This means tinking back a row or five.

I've done it so many times, that I've got the lace pattern memorized!  Maybe that's the problem.  I've gotten complacent.  Huh.

Now if you excuse me, I've got about four new mosquito bites to ignore.

Too Old To Rock'n'Roll, Too Young To Die

I have Rolling Stones and Alice In Chains competing for ear space right now.  What an odd combination, but then that pretty much describes my musical choices.

I grew up thinking that rock from the sixties and seventies was current music.  CCR, BTO, Blue Oyster Cult, Stones, Doors, Eagles, Jethro Tull, Led Zeppelin, Moody Blues, Steely Dan, Black Sabbath, Iron Butterfly, all the classic rock bands were recent things.

I don't know when, exactly, that I realized that the stuff I listened to wasn't.  I never really stopped.  Hell, I still sing with Ian Anderson and Jim Morrison.  A  cookie for you if you know the first singer.  If not, get off my little bit of cyberspace.

I've branched out some since then, but my introduction to the world of music still influences my choices today.  Flogging Molly, Dropkick Murphys, DMB, Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Dresden Dolls, Johnny Cash, much of what I listen to seems to be rock driven.

I'm no music critic.  I like what I like.  Patsy Cline for one.  That throw people.  She had a voice, man, that was rich and soulful.  Etta James.  Then I swing over to The Ramones.  Then pop over to Khachaturian and some classical--usually Western European.  Throw in some Gershwin, too.  System and Rage gets tossed about with Loreena McKennitt and Tori Amos.

I'm not picky.  I like what I like.

Now...tell me where the title came from.  I dare ya.

I'm tied to you like the buttons on your blouse--Warren Zevon

It's still hard.  It think it will always be hard in some ways.  I walked through the living room one day and smelled mom's cigarette smoke.  She quit smoking true cigarettes almost a year ago.  The other day Imp said something and I could have sworn that it was mom calling me.

Mom would have wanted us to keep going and to smile, though.  Even at the end, when it just plain hurt her to move because of he fibro and OA and everything else, she tried to find things in life to enjoy.  It was hard, but she did try.  Not always successful, but she did try.

I figure that the best way to remember mom is to live my life to the fullest that I can.  To tell the stories of her.  To get the tattoo that she wanted.

The woman that introduced my parents to each other back in '74 was mom's sister in all but blood.  She was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor right around the time Imp was born.  She was given six months to live.  She made it damn near six years.  Mom was devastated that she couldn't make it to South Carolina for her funeral.  It broke mom's heart.

I know that those two women are together somewhere creating havoc and cackling like the two of the three witches for 'McBeth'. 

Right before mom came home from her first and last chemo treatment, I had gotten my first yarn from the people at Sanguine Gryphon.  Some lace weight Mithril in their Red Dragon color-way.

When I saw it, I was thinking of mom's sister:

The picture doesn't really do it justice.  This is red.  Hooker red.  Get in your face, take no prisoners red. 

See, the lady in question could not wear red of any shade.  And it drove her batty because she loved the color.  Mom and I can wear red any day of the week and look wonderful in it.  My aunt (she was married to a cousin, but we called them aunt and uncle) wanted to hate us, but couldn't.  She groused instead.

I don't know why I thought of her when I saw this yarn om the website, but I did.  I've got a pattern in mind.  I'm going to knit it for me, but these two women, the two who taught me that old didn't mean stodgy are going to be in every stitch.

Hey Mom?  Go have fun.

Sometimes I wish I were a little kid again, skinned knees are easier to fix than broken hearts. ~Author Unknown

She was the center of my home.  Hardly any decision concerning matters related to home repair, cars, hair cuts, school, doctors, clothing, make-up, you name it, was made without her input.

She welcomed everyone in with a smile and a 'make yourself comfortable'.  After the second time, you were family and told where the coffee mugs and glasses were kept.  You could fend for yourself.  Needed to use the bathroom?  Down the hall and it's the first door.  Leave a quarter, please.

She taught us to use manners, and by all that's held holy, we would use them.  She put the fear of her into us.  As well into all the kids in the neighborhood.  Some had to learn that the hard way.  She would forgive, but not forget. 

They knew each other only three weeks before getting married.  This would have been their 37th anniversary on December 7th.

Mom would talk to anyone without bias.  She didn't care about your creed, race, nationality, any of it.  She saw you, the person first.  She taught that to my brother and I.  We, in turn, are teaching her lessons to our children.

She said that the Sarah McLachlan song 'Ordinary Miracle' reminded her of the grandkids. 

Can't sleep, something will obviously eat me.

Fark.

 So, it's right around 1.30 in the morning CST.  Why in the name of fuzzy unicorns am I still up?

I've got my two hour road trip to handle in about nine hours--give or take.  Not cool Murphy.  You and Karma need to find someone else to bork with.  I.  Am.  Not.  Amused.  Seriously.

Yeah, y'all heard right.  Every Friday, yours truly takes a two hour (thankfully not three, 'cause I don't think I'd get THAT song outta my head.) round trip to pick my niece, Violet, up.

Don't ask why her father doesn't drive.  It just irritates me.

Also, don't ask why Mommie Dearest of Violet doesn't meet us half-way.  That, too irritates me. 

And I come armed with pointy sticks and large amounts of string.

Anyway, we have no working central air.  This is not fun for your intrepid typer.  I suffer from migraines.  I've had the bitches for...fifteen years now.  Just about half my life.  Heat and humidity are large triggers.  So is stress.

So, yeah.  That's probably why I ain't sleeping so well lately.  Sadly, that's also a trigger.  I can't win, can I?  Well, I head over to St. Louis to the neuro clinic next week.  I can yell at them to hopefully get the meds that will work.  If not...well, look for news reports about a cranky woman strangling doctors with yarn. 

Knit one, breathe two

I have a feeling that I'm going to be knitting quite a bit in the near future.  It keeps me sane.  I'll need it.

Mom's back in the hospital, she does have cancer and has started chemo treatments.  I think.  I haven't heard anything.  I'm not sure.

Dad's cleaning everything in sight.  I think that's how he's coping. 


I can't say much.  I'm knitting.

Imp's Gryffie scarf is about halfway done.  I'm really not liking that stupid scarf.  But it's my fault for knitting the thing in the round.  If I've done my math correctly, that silly thing will have well over 22,000 stitches by the time I'm done.  And over two skeins of red yarn.  I shouldn't have to use more than half of my gold.  I'm hoping, 'cause I haven't found more of that color.  Oops.

I had to stop knitting on The-Scarf-That-Just-Keeps-Going for about a month, month and a half or so.  I couldn't stand looking at it anymore.  I was dreaming of the damned knit stitch.

So, I went on to a couple just add gratification projects. 

Imp and I usually head out to the local Renn Faire each year (this year, not so much), and I have a corset that I wear quite proudly.  I have a shelf-life in the thing, too.  Hee!  That being said, I loathe purses like no one's business.  I usually carry my cell, debit card, ID, and whatnot in my pockets.  Only with the corset, that's really not possibly.

I do have cleavage.  I can carry my cards in there.  Which I have done and then gone fishing for them much to amusement of the Rennies.  That doesn't bother me.  They are very polite.  Perverted senses of humor--which is why I fit in with them, but polite.  What I don't like is the fact that I can read my debit card number from my chest.

So...I made a bag!  It's big enough for my cell, my camera, my cards, my sunglasses, Burt's Bees chapstick, extra batteries, probably some Aleve, and probably some sunscreen.


I had gotten the yarn, some Berrocco Lustra from a swap over on Ravelry, and had no idea what it would grow up to be.  Literally no idea what so ever.  Then I realized that the blue of the yarn would pick up some of the blue in my corset.  Score!  Since I knit this up at the college, it took my a little longer.  Maybe two days.  But I only knit for 45 minutes to an hour at a time.  So...

My next Just Add project was a Momma's Day gift.  Mom adores turtles.  We have a menagerie of turtle figurines out in the living room.  Imp and I have fun looking for unusual turtles to add to her collection.  So when I found a pattern for a teeny-tiny Mirco Turtle...well, yeah.  I had to.  Add to the fact that she also loves blue, and I was set.  See: 

I call it 'Talullah'.  Grandma saw it and wants one in brown.  I have some Knitpicks Comfy Sport cotton in Fedora, so that works.  She's getting one.

But I'm going to get back to my evil, evil scarf.  I think that scarf unravels itself some each night.  I really do.

Whistles The Wind

My grandfather died during this time  six or seven years ago.  Imp was, maybe two or three.  He was just old enough to remember him.  He still talks about my grandfather occasionally.

I never got to say goodbye.

I didn’t know where he was.

My parents were out of town.

It wasn’t their fault.  Grandpa wanted them to go.  In fact, they were the ones that would call to keep me and Brother informed.

No one else did.

No one offered to take us to the hospital he was at.  No one called the house to give us updates.  We were cut off, left out.  We did not exist.

Imp was young enough that I didn’t feel comfortable driving all over St. Louis trying to find him.  Not that I really could—the car I had just gotten had suddenly developed an antifreeze leak and I was going through a bottle every other day.  We later found out why.  But I wasn’t trusting said car right then.  I didn’t have a cell phone, either.

I think I know why we weren’t told.  One so-called family member.  That’s all.   This woman has had it out for my parents, my brother, and me since day one.  We don’t know why.  I guess we aren’t good enough.

If you asked her, Brother is a large drug dealer leading her baby boy down the path to hellfire and damnation.  I can almost guarantee that I rank up there with Jezebel and all the whores of Babylon.  I joke when I say that my immediate family are the black sheep.  She means it.

I keep telling myself that she doesn’t matter.  But it still hurts, you know?

But at the same time, I remember how tired he looked the last time I saw him.  We often joked that he had been practicing dieing for a good twenty years before he finally got it right.  I’m of the opinion that he just gave up there at the end.  But I’ll never know for sure.

Instead, I try to remember him during the better days.  The man could bullshit like no one else.  Growing up, I was never sure if the stories he told about growing up with his half-brother were true or not.  I just wish I could remember them.  They always kept me and Brother entertained.

I remember sitting underneath the crabapple tree with him snapping green beans.  If I ever get my own house, there will be a crabapple tree on the property.

 I remember the dorky songs he would make up on the spot.  They always made me giggle and walk away if we were out in public.

I remember the first time I ever watched the movie ‘Inherit the Wind’ with Spencer Tracy.  I was about fourteen or so, I guess.
See, Grandpa had snow white hair.  He also looked quite a bit like Mr. Tracy did in that movie.  In fact, that character of Col. Drummond could have been partially based on my grandfather.  It’s part of the reason why that movie is one of my favorites.

But I still miss him.

Newness of the old

It's an odd feeling.  I've been blogging elsewhere on the 'Net for several years.  It's cathartic for me, I guess.  It's been there for me when I didn't feel that I could turn anywhere else.

So, why am I am I leaving there?  Various reasons that I don't want to get into right now.  

I just know that I want to keep this up.  I need to keep this up for my own sake. 

I'm somewhat content in my life at the moment, and that scares me.  Call me pessimistic but very little seems to go right for me.  Don't get me wrong, Imp has been the best thing that could have happened to me.  I just wasn't ready to be a parent, you know.  But then, who is? 

One day at a time.  One day.