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.