if you’re one to follow special holidays here in the part of the world where it’s July 5th. How to celebrate? According to one website:
–Take it literally and work like a dog.
–Celebrate someone who works like a dog every day.
–Celebrate your hardworking dog.
–Flip the coin to the other side and celebrate your lazy dog.
Good morning (or evening), my friends. I don’t have an actual post for you today, but I still wanted to say hello, so I’m popping in to do that. I first looked up today’s special holiday, though, and it prompted me to think that it’d be funny to come up with my own special holidays, as in 365 of them. 365 special days!
Maybe I’ll give it some thought here and there. You know I’ll publish the list for you here in TALC if I end up doing it, for anyone here who who’s as easily amused as I am.
Meanwhile, I wish you all a wonderful day today, whether you work like a dog or not.
When I told my friend that my workplace provides us with Gatorade and Gatorade Zero, he told me that Gatorade was developed at the University of Florida, whose mascot is the Gators, hence the fortified water’s name. The drink was meant to help the university’s athletes, so “Gator aid” was created to help the Gators. Some wise guy on the research team decided to spell “aid” as “ade” – I put it that way because it’s better than supposing that people at the University of Florida can’t spell – and as if this crime against spelling wasn’t enough, when I went online to read about alligators, I discovered that according to Wikipedia, “Louisiana has the largest American alligator population of any U.S. state,” not Florida, so now I was looking at fraud because the Gators being the University of Florida’s mascot is a perpetuation of the lie that Florida is the alligator state. I don’t know about you, but I hadn’t known otherwise. I never associated Louisiana with alligators. And then I thought that if alligators have a beverage named after them, than so should crocodiles. Is there a school whose mascot is the crocodiles? If there was, their teams would beat the Gators’. I watched a documentary on Hulu called Croc That Ate Jaws about alligators and sharks occasionally cohabiting in brackish waters and the giant toothy lizards preying on the giant toothy fishes. Watching it led me to investigate caimans and crocodiles, which was where I learned that the most aggressive member of the Crocodilia Order is the Nile Crocodile, and when I say “Crocodilia Order” I’m including alligators, because they do belong to that club. Doesn’t “Crocodilia Order” sound like a secret society? Is there such a secret society – Reptilians?! Alligators and crocodiles are great big reptiles, after all. (Mental note: ask Google whether alligators or sharks have a stronger jaw, and whether it’s true that alligators and crocodiles can’t turn well, so if you’re running from them, you should zig-zag.) I have so many questions.
I was writing all of this and this is where my fluffy post about alligators and crocodiles veered in the direction of a rant, as it’s here that I Googled Nile Crocodile and encountered this article that led to me shutting my laptop, because nothing stirs my ire like stories celebrating the States’ trophy hunters going over to Africa with their privileged American firearm-toting asses looking to murder Nile crocodiles on the locals’ behalf so they can have their picture taken with the crocodile corpse before “sending it on to the purse factory” and coming home as “dragon-slaying” “heroes.”
(The article is a publication of the NRA.)
Nile Crocodile
The End.
But not quite. I want to wish you all a happy next seven days in your various time zones and hemispheres, because new weeks are invigorating opportunities to do better and be better than you were the previous week. That’s how I’m look at it, anyway.
At any rate we’re on the horizon of the traditional Saturday-Sunday weekend and I hope you all have an enjoyable and/or productive one.
Hello there, friends. Tonight I’m tired; therefore, I come to you bearing nothing but this selfie I took in the bathroom at work the other day so I could show my Mom my haircut – I got layers – as I’d forgotten to take it the day before. I told her I’d send her a picture, so I was going to take one when I finally remembered to think about it. Here we are! My hair is a sweaty mess, but you can see the layers nonetheless.
(Rhyme not intended.)
So Mom got this pic, and now you’re getting it, too. I used to always post pics after getting my hair cut. I guess you could say that this selfie signals a return to that silly tradition. Why not?
I’m in a mood, my friends. Not a bad one. I think I’m actually just tired.
I’m so glad to be here.
New layered hair!
I hope you’re all doing well and enjoying the splendors of the universe in whatever way means the most to you. In my world, my perfect activities in direct connection to the universe – and my deference and gratitude for it – are looking at the stars and listening to music.
This is my mantra: There’s much to celebrate: all that’s bright, and there’s a lot of brightness.
Hello, friends. Have you ever sat down to write something only to realize that further investigation on the topic would veer the mood of the post in the opposite direction?
It happened to me tonight. I was writing something fluffy and light and then a little delving-in turned the mood of the post into something somber (or richly empty, or just irked)… that stirred in me the urge to go on somewhat of a rant. And it’s too late at night for me to go there. Suffice it to say that I won’t be posting on this particular topic at the moment. Wait for it, though, if you would! It’s about alligators and crocodiles.
Instead, I’m here to wish you all a merry end-of-week. The power of the full moon in Capricorn still vibrates in the air, lending to us gifts of quiet reflection and self-discipline in whatever ways they’d serve us best. Let’s absorb some of that powerful energy! A moment to sit with closed eyes and a clear mind as we reflect on our usage of time can only bring us back to center in renewed self-awareness. I don’t know about you, but I could use some of this right about now. I should take my own advice.
–In the last month, the spacious parking lot I’ve enjoyed at work for two years has gradually become more populated by people who work at the dispensary on the corner. Today there were twice as many cars there than the usual. Also, the parallel parking on the street between the dispensary and our warehouse is packed. It’s like all of a sudden a million people are working at the dispensary. But where are they, exactly? And what are they doing there? Mysteries.
–But it doesn’t matter, because my work is MOVING. Soon. And it’s not yet clear where we’ll end up. Adventures are afoot, my friends. Capital-A Adventures.
–I did not observe this year’s “Independence Day” holiday. I haven’t felt “free” since American women’s rights were burned to the ground on the 24th of June. It made me sick. I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and celebrate this country on the 4th of July. The “Land of the Free” is a song lyric, and it doesn’t apply to women.
–Something is up with Geronimo, and I don’t know what. More on this in a future Geronimo post.
–A guy came into my workplace today to do some inspecting, and he said to me, “I can’t see your smile behind that big ol mask.” To which I INEXPLICABLY removed my mask and smiled, and then I immediately cringed at myself as he crowed his approval on his way out. (WHY did I do that???)
–I have discovered that the road to junk food heaven is paved with Trader Joe’s ridge-cut salt and pepper potato chips.
I’m going to leave you on that note, my friends. If you’re lucky enough to have access to a Trader Joe’s, do yourselves a favor and get a bag of those chips.
Sunday marked the one-year anniversary of Salem’s death, the last Sunday in June. It’s hard to believe that a year ago that day I went outside in the morning and called her for breakfast – it was already strange that she wasn’t sitting on the patio waiting for it – not realizing that she would never come back.
That’s all I can bring myself to say about it right now.
Because two nights ago was the new moon in Cancer, June’s new moon, the dark moon.
And last week we reached the longest day and shortest night of the year, Litha, the Summer Solstice. Here in the desert we’ve had a couple of monsoon storms so far this summer. At work I drink water all day, and it tastes like winter.
My mood is generally good, but sometimes, I move through the world feeling insecure. That’s when the pace of life feels the slowest. I think to myself, if insecurity could be a quick and painless thing, like a perfect death. Instead, it drags forward, forcing me to look at it and all of its facets and dimensions, which are mostly held in shadow. Insecurity is a space in which there’s very little light, and not in a good way. I recognize this feeling as a probable by-product of my depression, but it could also be an aspect of my psyche in and of itself likely rooted somewhere in my past… or maybe it’s just me armchair-shrinking myself, dredging from random articles I’ve read, common beliefs that are perhaps more misconceptions. Stereotypes. In any case, insecurity is a cruel creature. I try not to feed it. It goes away eventually.
But I’m grounded in the structure of my simple routines. Every other day I empty the watering hole in the yard and freshen it, lately inserting myself into the cloud of thirsty bees and wasps – there are both- that surrounds the dish and hovers and drifts upward when I snatch the dish away to rinse it out and refill it. The bees and wasps are very patient with me, as if they know that I’m going to put the dish back filled with fresh water.
Every two weeks I hand-wash my face masks.
Every 10 days I water all of my plants; that’s when I talk to them, kiss them, and honor them to the best of my ability, hoping to adequately reciprocate the blessings that they offer to me. I thank them for their gifts of serenity and affirmation of life. I’m as proud a plant mom as I am a cat mom and a tortoise mom.
There’s more to my contentment than my simple daily personal routines, though. There’s the delight and joy of Geronimo clomping speedily along to greet me on the patio, Nenette napping in her eagle’s nest at the top of her cat tree, on her side, so all I can see of her from my desk are ear-tips and her tangle of front paws splayed out over the edge.
Meanwhile, at night, I have an active dream life that I’m not allowed to remember.
And stone fruit season has finally arrived here in the northern hemisphere, and I love all of its offerings. Cherries are my favorites.
Now.
Thank you for the blessings, my friends. I feel the love. You are loved, too.
I thought it would be fun to come at you with a Post-pandemic/New Normal/Whatever We’re Calling It These Days post, because I was washing my masks yesterday evening and I suddenly realized that I was performing a task that I never would’ve thought could become a regular part of my chore routine.
Yes, I hand-wash my masks.
Yes, I still wear a mask every day at work and when I go out.
No, I’m not planning on stopping. I’ve become fond of wearing a mask. There are several advantages: I don’t have to breathe in dust; no one tells me to smile more; I feel protected from viruses of all sorts; my seasonal allergies are negligible when I’m wearing a mask; my facial skin is shielded from the sun; and I don’t have to deal with people thinking that I’m irritable because of my resting bitch face.
Though I do own a few fancy masks, my everyday mask uniform is basic black. I have 16 of them, all the same.
Pic taken today: dusty dirty work-worn end of the day mask.
I wear a fresh one every day and let them build up in the laundry. When I’m down to one, or even none, I wash them all by hand. It’s the most pleasant and calming chore that I do. It’s a moving meditation, washing them in the bathtub and then hanging them on the rack to dry.
Masks on a rack.
Yesterday evening I took my speaker into the bathroom with me and listened to my favorite old Reiki track as I did the mask-washing. There’s a particular song that I love that’s not available on Spotify, so I dug out the CD from my ancient German trunk of treasures and snapped it into my even more ancient external CD player.
I can’t explain it, my friends, this pleasure I take in hand-washing masks, of all things. The whole deal just feels like a divine activity. I’m so grateful to be able to feel this way. Sometimes I think that I take more pleasure in the mundanity in life than in the major exciting spectacular events.
I like the way John Rhys sums it up:
I have decided on a place to eat in at midday, a
place to eat in at night, a place to have my drink
in after dinner. I have arranged my little life.
On that note, I’ll wish you all a good end-of-week… if your week is traditional like that, of course. Otherwise, I wish you a good next few days.
Newsflash! Dandelions are in season here in the northern hemisphere, my friends. They’re weeds. I picked some up from Sprouts a couple of weeks ago and got down on some weed salad. If we are what we eat, I’d be a bitter green; I love them so much.
Big bowl o’weeds. What we’re looking at here is a pile of dandelions with pumpkin seeds, olive oil, fresh lemon juice, and coarse sea salt.
I’m just here to rave about noshables tonight, apparently, because this is the time of year I’m the most excited about food. Along with delicious weeds, many other leafy greens are fantastic right now. Artichoke season has arrived, and stone fruit season is nigh. I’m impatient for all of the latter… cherries, peaches, nectarines, plums, and apricots.
(If I was a stone fruit, I would be a Santa Rosa plum… the ambrosia of my childhood.)
Everything is about refreshment and balance. I’m convinced that Humanity couldn’t exist without either of those things.
But back to tasty news: I’ve returned to drinking my favorite fizzy fruity probiotic drink on a fairly regular basis, and I’ve also kicked up my near-daily sparkling water habit – plain, as I’m not fond of flavored sparkling waters – to where I bring one to work every day. I have to keep bringing them on account of the fact that my sparkling water at work provides free entertainment.
It’s become a running commentary that my afternoon sparkling water translates to an actual commercial break for my co-workers because the water “seems so refreshing when I crack open the can and tilt my head back to drink.” Who am I to snatch that away?
Here’s the thing: I have certain duties and responsibilities at work that are of great importance; however, this one duty of providing my co-workers with a sparkling water commercial break is the most critical. I’m thrilled to provide. Who could suspect that there’s so much joyful good power in the cracking open of a can? It makes people happy. That’s real. And I love that I arrived at this place here tonight… happy people.
I hope this finds you experiencing some degree of happiness that registers on the happiness scale, my friends. Because you – we – all deserve it.
Hello, my friends. I’m sorry that this is a “watch this space” post. I’m here and I’m writing, but my schedule’s still thrown off. Thank you for your patience as I continue to work on it. Getting my shit together was never my strong suit, as some of you already know.
But I have plans, oh yes. In the near future, I’m going to resume my Tuesday/Thursday posting schedule. Let’s see if I can make it happen starting next week.
Well, friends, I did some dabbling recently. I ventured into the “woo-woo” territory of past-life regression, which was a thing I’d heard a lot about, though I’d never given it much of an actual thought.
Probably I just did it because I was curious to see what would happen. I actually did two past-life regression self-hypnosis sessions.
I found a video on YouTube and got all comfortable on my back on the floor here in my office. In my first session, I saw, as if on a projector, an old-fashioned black and white film strip with perforated edges advancing quickly at irregular intervals. When it stopped advancing, the grainy still image looking back at me was a witchy headshot of a dark-haired woman with pale skin. Her hair was worn in a jaw-length 1920’s bob cut with bangs. Either during the hypnosis or immediately afterward, I knew – how, I don’t know, I just did – that she was a flapper. The perforated black-and-white film rolled through two more times, each time stopping on the same image. So that was what I saw: what looked to be an old negative film stock photo of a flapper, a 1920’s party girl. I suppose, since I saw this in a past-life regression hypnosis session, this might mean that that was me in one of my past lives.
(I don’t go around with the Roaring Twenties on my mind, ever, so I can trust that my imagination did not conjure this up.)
In my second past-life regression hypnosis session, the only thing I saw was my own feet as I was standing still. On my feet, I wore some sort of sandal or footwear made of leather. Beneath my feet, I saw wild grass. I also caught a flash of the hem of the dress I was wearing. And that was it: I was just standing on wild grass looking down at my leather-sandaled feet, clad in some sort of long dress.
In the present.
So that was my experience with past-life regression self-hypnosis. It was underwhelming. I guess I was expecting to have a whole experience as many people report they’ve had. Mine did not deliver much in the way of concrete information. I don’t have cool stories to share with you about who I might have been in a past life, but I was fascinated by that which I did see, and I do plan to do it again!
I hope this finds you well, my friends. Thank you for bearing with me these days as I continue to work on my footing.
Hello, my friends. Tonight I’m listening to a playlist I’m putting together on Spotify, and I’m so overtaken by the project that I wanted to try to describe it to you… “it” being the way – one of the ways – in which I experience music. I believe I’ve tried to do this before, but music is such a personal experience, it’s difficult to get the feeling across to others. Thank you for humoring me here. I know that many of you will be able to relate.
For example, then: When I’m sitting here blocked in my aura or my mind, maybe half-blinded by the dryness of my eyes, likely sleepy from night after night of scarce sleep, and there’s a faint, low echo of a howl on the wind so muted it’s almost imaginary… it’s in that moment that I can click “play” and rock out, loudly, carving from a chaotic soundscape a juncture in time that both divides and joins my light and shadow aspects. It’s when I turn the nothingness of the edge into the blessed oblivion of everything, a shift of energy that’s dramatic in execution but subtle in effect, from a stagnant void into the vibrancy of nirvana.
In other words, I love music beyond description (as you’ve been warned).
At the moment I’m sitting in the blue light of my office listening to thrash metal.
Right now. [07 April 2022]
I listen to music as I get ready for work in the morning, and I listen to it in my car on the way in, but I don’t bring my music in with me. I get too mesmerized by it. I enjoy my co-workers’ music, then go home and get lost in my own again.
It’s like that. And it’s:
The way that Tears For Fears saved my life when I was 15.
The way that I feel indescribable longing when I listen to Canteloube: Chants d’Auvergne: Pastourelle (as sung by Dawn Upshaw).
The way that The Piano became one of my favorite movies because in it, the piano is Ada’s voice.
And does it even need to be said that music can elevate a workout from good to world-class?
I hope you’re all doing well, my friends, and listening to something truly perfect for the moment that you’re in.
My friends, I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t scrambling to get my shit together over here. What I mean by this is that I’ve been failing you by slipping up where my posting schedule is concerned. I’m considering altering my schedule to “early in the week” (Monday or Tuesday) to “later in the week” (Thursday or Friday).
I’m okay, though. Life is happening but it’s going swimmingly; I’m just finding that I need to switch up my footing right about now. There’s a seasonal shift taking place, and I’m lagging a bit, like I got left behind in a different time zone. When I keep waking up an hour later than it is, it’s time to re-set. I’ve hit the re-set button several times here in TALC over the last ten years.
It’s been ten years?!
Probably as theatrically angsty as I could get in a selfie.
In upcoming news, Geronimo’s been out of hibernation for a few weeks, and I do have pics forthcoming, along with his own updates. I’m looking forward to sharing those with you!
I hope this finds you all doing well, friends. April blessings to you!
Hello, my friends. Tonight, I come to you bearing a video from a YouTube cooking channel with which I’m mildly obsessed. I’m especially excited to share this with you as the last cooking video I posted from Pick Up Limes (Afghani cuisine) was so well-received. You know that when I find something of great interest to me, I want to share it with you!
I stumbled upon this YouTube channel that features a young man and his mother (I believe that she’s his mother due to comments I’ve seen from people who appear to know them In Real Life) as they prepare food at home. They live in Pakistan and cook their meals in the Old Ways, and that latter bit is the reason why I love this channel. The channel is called Secrets of Gilgit, and this is the first video of theirs that I watched.
I thought I would share one of their lovely dessert videos, as well. This is one that I particularly enjoyed!
I don’t know about you, but these videos make me want to be a better preparer and enjoyer of food.
Combining the characters for “stand” and “meet,” “tachiai” is the term for the initial charge that gets all sumo bouts underway.
(Credit to John Gunning and The Japan Times for the paraphrased quote above.)
Hello there, my friends. Let’s talk tea… literally. No spilling!
Somewhere along the way, I went from coffee-drinkerism to tea-drinkerism, a conversion that started to brew five or so years ago when I experienced an odd occurrence of coffee-induced nausea during a bout of the common cold. It was a note-to-self moment, don’t drink coffee again until the cold’s run its course, and somehow, the moment never ended. It just so happened that I never got back around to drinking coffee. It was an incidental quitting rather than an intentional one.
Maybe it was because I wasn’t missing the daily jump-start into the morning that I didn’t make a special note of it.
I didn’t miss the coffee jump-start, but now that I’ve made a new morning ritual of matcha-mushroom tea – a concoction I started drinking in the third week of last October, so four months ago as of this writing – I’m enjoying a different kind of daily morning boost. A cup of matcha green tea has the same amount of caffeine as a cup of coffee, but its caffeine delivery is a mellow slow-release. Where coffee roars, matcha green tea purrs. It’s a sustained purr that carries on for hours and hours.
The energy I get from matcha is significant yet quiet as its wonderfully juxtaposed calming effect is the opposite of the coffee jitters I remember too well. I find the whole experience of drinking this magickal beverage in the morning to be incredibly soothing, and I get to work with just the right amount of energy. With matcha green tea in my system, I hum along rather than bounce off the walls. There’s no crash-and-burn.
Mixing medicinal mushroom powder into the tea simply carries it over into another realm of goodness.
At night, I’ll sometimes indulge in another tea beverage: A Bengal Spice (Celestial Seasonings) soy milk latte. Celestial Seasonings crafted their Bengal Spice tea to be a caffeine-free chai, so essentially it’s a chai latte that can be enjoyed at night. I steep the tea for 5-7 minutes, covered with a cloth (so the brew is deep and intense in color and aroma) before filling the remaining 1/4 of the mug with soy milk. Those are my chai tea latte proportions of preference: 3/4 tea, 1/4 soy milk.
Celestial Seasonings Bengal Spice soy latte.
On that note, my friends, I’ll wish you all a good night, this being later at night on my end. Translate this to “Good (whatever-applies-where-you-are).” Truth be told, writing about tea is making me want to get to bed earlier so that I can wake up sooner to my morning matcha-mushroom brew.
Hello, my friends. I’m interested in knowing what the weather’s been like where you are. Here, a wild desert wind’s been blowing in gusts on and off for about a week now. I’ve perceived it with all of my senses; I’ve swayed in it. I’ve gone metaphysical off-roading with no say in the matter, except for the fact that I do, in fact, have agency and can go in any direction I choose. What I need to do is regain my footing. I mostly wasn’t here last weekend, and so I missed you again. And I’m sorry, again.
Weather is majestic, though. To me, it’s the opposite of fodder for small-talk. I think of a storm as an orchestration and a feat of nature comprised of powerful expressions of the four elements: Air (wind), Fire (lightning), Water (rain), and Earth (receiving and absorbing it all), and if there’s mundanity in the discussion of that, then I can’t see it. I’m not great at small-talk. I actually enjoy talking about the weather.
And I love storms for bearing the message that nature and her elements are in charge on this planet. Storms want it known that to respect nature is to respect ourselves, because everything we do that negatively impacts nature and her elements creates an effect with which we beings on Earth will have to reckon at some point. Our lives are affected by our actions toward nature whether we want to admit it or not.
In Sedona: A tree leans into me. I lean back. [19 March 2022]
“In every walk with nature one received far more than he seeks.” ~John Muir
Tonight, in these new hours of spring in the year 2022, I’m feeling in awe of our energetic connections with all sentient beings on Earth, with the Earth, herself, and with the Cosmos. Of how we’re affected by the Moon in her various cycles. Of how we’re tuned in to the rhythms of nature through the energy centers in our bodies we call chakras.
In the Sedona vortex the day before the vernal equinox last weekend, I leaned into the tree and felt the thin, faint vibration of nature chime in with my pulse. It was a lesson in listening. It was invaluable.
I don’t know what to say, friends. I’ve been blocked since it all began. I haven’t spoken to anyone but my shrink about it. My throat chakra – the energy center of communication, spoken and otherwise – is knotted up.
My shrink tells me that many of his PTSD patients are experiencing higher levels of anxiety with the atrocities taking place in Ukraine, and I’ve found this to be true for myself. My known triggers have become hair-triggers. I bowed out of a work happy hour get-together tonight because it’s St Patrick’s Day (which was the point of the gathering). The consequential vibe on the streets would potentially have amounted to the effect of a bad acid trip.
I don’t know.
If there could be a made-up monster as vile as the human one responsible for this.
If there could be some academic way to run toward light from darker places.
If the collective conscience cracking like old ice beneath the weight of the evil in the world could be more palpable.
I’ve found that staring hard at anything else is the only way, and yet it’s inescapable… as well it should be. One way to help support the people of Ukraine is to simply be with them.
My “commute” to work is less than ten minutes down surface streets, but it’s enough time for a vehicle with “Pray for Ukraine” spray-painted across its back windshield to get in front of me, and then I arrive at work in tears.
At the same time, I’ve been experiencing a joy that hasn’t visited me in years, and I’ve been focusing on enjoying and nurturing that. I have much for which to be thankful. And I am. I am blessed here in this dusty little speck of a large world.
The End.
It’s late, but my hair is clean.
I’m going to escape into nature on Saturday, and I can think of few things more profound than the making of that sacred connection.
For Ukraine, I say prayers at the end of the day, which is all that can be done to help the wounded, the suffering, and the bereaved. At the end of it all, the survivors will become the Earth’s newest generation of living scars.
Yikes, my friends… I’m drifting off. I hope this finds you safe and well.
Good day or night, my friends. Today I’ve got some updates of the medical/health variety. (Greetings and gratitude to you who’ve been asking in the after-aftermath of my minor hand surgery!)
It was last week when I went to the VA for a couple of appointments. The first was to Ortho to have my stitches removed. My hand was sprayed with a freezing liquid to numb the area and while that probably helped a lot it still hurt like a mofo when the stitches were removed, but it went superfast. I’m supposed to continue avoiding lifting, pushing, and pulling more than five pounds with that hand for an additional two weeks.
Then I went upstairs to my next appointment – the Endocrinologist – and came out with the best doctor’s orders I ever received, or ever heard of anyone receiving: Eat more salt.
The Endocrinologists are thinking that my hyponatremia (low blood sodium) is due to a combination of Sjögren’s Syndrome-related dry mouth, which can cause excessive thirst, and a possible side effect of one of my psych meds. They’re looking into modifications that can be made to those treatment plans to get my thirst under control. Until then, eat more salt.
So I did what any good patient would do: I immediately went to the Patriot Store on the other end of the hospital, where I picked up a bag of peanuts coated with Tajín Clásico seasoning (chili peppers, sea salt, citric acid, dehydrated lime juice). 360 mgs of sodium in a 1/4 cup serving size. Doctor’s orders!
They can take their time figuring out my new treatment plan, as far as I’m concerned.
I’ve always been more of a salt person than a sugar person. The amount of salt I normally consume is already considered to be “too much” by traditional standards, so in order to eat more, I’m counting my sodium intake. Here’s what I’ve eaten today so far:
1,445 mg sodium. I counted.
The sodium is in the multigrain pita chips, sea salt Popchips, Tajín Clásico peanuts, hummus, and pickles. A friend at work suggested the Popchips because they’re ridiculously salty, he said. They’re not bad. They’re not saltier by my normal definition of salty, but they’re pretty good little vehicles for salt, which is all white potatoes are to me, anyway.
Meanwhile, as I wait for the all-clear to work out again, I’m feeling myself melt uncomfortably into a shapeless puddle of wasted energy, consumed calories roaming in my body all dressed up with nowhere to go. For some mysterious reason,* the doctor doesn’t even want me doing Body Combat (cardio kickboxing/fight training) for another two weeks. I’m sitting on my desk chair with that sensation of my ass spreading over it, as one does when sedentary. I remember this feeling from my office-job days. Is this it for me for the rest of my life? Is this going to be my day-to-day until I depart this Earth? At the job I have now I take more than 10K steps every day, Monday-Friday. I am blessed.
End of updates, and this should do it with mundane medical happenings for a while. I’m looking forward to coming back with another home workout post. You who’ve jumped here from my Funk Roberts MMA workout post: I see you. Thank you for being here despite my scant offering of workout posts!
Have a wonderful rest of your day or night, my friends. Until mid-week, then!
[ETA: Just looked out at my front yard and remembered that I have to get out there to pull the roughly 20 million weeds that’ve sprung up out of nowhere. I suppose that’ll be a decent stand-in workout.]
*Okay, maybe not so mysterious. When I told him that the Body Combat workouts include things like push-ups, burpees, sprawls, and mountain-climbers, he said don’t do those things, and I stupidly said that it would be hard to not do them.
It’s been one of those weeks yet again, my friends, time-wise. Luckily, I have another gem of a YouTube video to share with you. Last week it was Leon the lobster. This week, I’m sharing a video that readily captured my interested in the area of food and cooking.
Sadia is an Afghan-Canadian woman whose parents fled Afghanistan to Canada to start new lives, and Pick Up Limes is her plant-based food-centric YouTube channel. I watched her video about some of the traditional Afghani foods she grew up eating, and my mouth immediately started watering. You know I’m planning to make all of the recipes in this video. The food looks and sounds scrumptious
Without further ado, may I present Sadia preparing some of her favorite traditional dishes from Afghanistan:
From me to you. If your mouths are watering, too, then my work here is done.
Friends, circumstances both created and un-created the post I was going to post tonight, if that makes any sense. The last 48 hours have been a whirl.
And so, in lieu of an actual post, I’m going to present to you a YouTube video that I dearly love and have been wanting to share. Circumstances ruined my post, but they created this opportunity! You may have already seen this video, but for those of you haven’t: A guy – Brady Brandwood – purchases a live lobster from the grocery store and makes a wonderful home for him.
This lobster’s name is Leon, and this is the beginning of his story.
As of now, Brady Brandwood has made four videos about Leon the lobster. If you enjoyed this video and want to watch more of Leon’s adventures, do go to Mr. Brandwood’s YouTube channel. I feel like my life is more complete now that I’ve seen and gotten to known this lobster’s personality!
On that note, I’m going to get ready for bed. Merry end of week to you all, my friends.
Hi. Not to hype myself up with superlatives or anything, but I’m the worst. I slay myself with my faults and foibles. I have a friend whose face has an imprint of her hand on it because I make her facepalm every day, practically.
Some of my fumbles are mortifying, but others are panic-inducing, like the one that happened the morning of my surgery.
My surgery was scheduled for 7:30am Monday. I had to be there to check in at 6:45am sharp. Between the scheduling and the actual day there were letters and emails and texts and voicemails and in-person reminders, all very strict and adamant about this! I had to arrive no later than 6:45am!
So what did I do? I woke up at 6:50am when the nurse called to ask me where I was. It was five minutes past my arrival time, and I was at home, in bed.
Turned out that my alarm didn’t go off because when I set it, my finger (must have) accidentally touched the “S” for Saturday. My alarm was set to go off in five days.
My friends, it is not possible to quantify the panic that ensued. My check-in was five minutes ago! I’m taking an Uber to the hospital!! I’m going to miss my surgery!!!
Cue the festivities.
Somehow, I reigned in my hyperventilation enough to check my voicemail, because I knew that the nurse had left one. Of course I had 12 new voicemails to get through first! (Why am I like this?!) When I finally dug through the pile and got to the voicemail from the nurse, my hand was shaking and my brain was in a fog of panic and I didn’t have a pen, so naturally I thought, I can memorize the call-back number! No. I couldn’t. At least I’d saved her message, but in order to hear it again, I had to first listen to my two previously saved messages, which are dear to me and so shall remain saved until the end of time. But they are long. When I finally got to her message again, I had a pen, and I was ready to sprint out the door. I’d gone ahead and ordered my Uber, because my plan was to get to the hospital anyway and sit there in hopes of I didn’t even know what, at that point. It was 7:20am. My surgery was supposed to start in 10 minutes. The Uber, which would usually arrive in 2-7 minutes, was going to arrive in 24 minutes because of the 2022 WM Phoenix Open (golf tournament). Sunday was the final day of the tournament, and Monday morning was tournament attendees (aka everyone and their mother) taking Ubers to the airport, of course.
Ten thousand years later, I was able to call the nurse. She was very sweet, calm, and reassuring in the most wonderful motherly way. She said, “It’s alright, don’t panic, everything is fine, just come in as soon as possible.” I was practically in tears. I got to the hospital in jammies with bedhead and unbrushed teeth – fortunately, I was masked – and this, my friends, is me in a nutshell. A veritable mess. If you know me in person and you think I’ve got my shit together, trust me, it’s a facade. Looks are deceiving. Internally, it’s Armageddon, and it is not pretty.
At the hospital at last, forms were signed. There was no wait. The nurses, anesthesiologist, and surgeon were all friendly, relaxed, in good humor. No one was mad at me! It was astonishing, like I’d walked into a Twilight Zone of kindness. I apologized to everyone, and they all good-naturedly brushed it off. I was in shock because when I woke up to the phone ringing, it was like I’d missed a flight, in my mind. I’d missed my flight and the plane was not coming back for me. But the plane was there, the doors were open, and everyone was super nice. They all had a right to be supremely annoyed, but they weren’t… at least, if they were, they didn’t show it.
I’m so grateful every day. The Universe shows me in blunt ways how very grateful I should be, because the more I f*ck up, the more I realize how lucky I am, and I f*ck up a lot.
I’m grateful that the team took me for the surgery, and I’m grateful that it went well. (It was a simple, common procedure for trigger thumb with cyst removal.) I can now look forward to regaining full use of my hand, as the pain in the heel of my hand had cut my capacity by about 50%. I’m grateful for my friend who picked me up from the hospital.
I stayed home from work for the required 48 hours, and I went back in today.
After work, I took a short walk to the Tempe Town Lake bridge that’s behind the Center for the Arts. There was a beautiful ballerina in a single-shoulder pink leotard modeling action shots in a professional photoshoot, leaping and fluttering and displaying impossible feats of flexibility in her pointe shoes on her toes in the middle of the bridge. The bridge trembles slightly when we ordinary people walk across it; when the ballerina leaped and landed, the bridge was still.
I came home and sat down here to take a selfie, because.
End of day hey. [13 Feb 2022]
I hope this finds you doing well, or better, or whatever kind of positive state applies. Until the next time, my friends!
We’re having a bit of a cold snap here in Phoenix Metro, my friends, and of course I only realized it when I got to work this morning and it was too late. I swear I have to laugh. If my brain was the cosmos, 60% of it would be black holes.
Temperatures dropped to near-freezing as I slept last night, and I had no idea. I woke up and blithely got ready for work in the same manner as always. The house felt chillier than usual. I noted this and gave it no further thought. My mug of hot matcha-mushroom tea warmed me in its reliable way, and that was what mattered.
When I stripped to change into my work clothes, I again ignored the biting cold for the warning that it was. As I’d done the day before – for reasons I don’t understand – I didn’t put on the usual winter long-sleeve layer… just the usual work tee over the usual sleeveless tee, and then a thin hoodie beneath my larger, heavier one. I wore chunky long winter socks and my winter hiking (?) boots, again as usual.
Then I got to work.
And I wanted to hit rewind on the whole damn morning.
Specifically, I wanted to go back to the part where I was deciding against adding a long-sleeve layer beneath my two jackets, because that right there was the kiss-of-death decision. But I had an emergency furry vest in my locker, which I put over my thin jacket and under my thick one, and an emergency pair of Hothands, which I activated and put in my pockets.
Somehow I survived the morning. At lunch I sat in my car (as I do) and absorbed the blessed heat within. This is Arizona for you: our desert sun is so bright and strong, it warms the inside of your car to almost-hot, even in the bitter cold. And at some point in the afternoon, the cold in my workplace eased up, so the day ended up well… at least much better than how it started.
Let me just state for the record that I’m not mad at the cold at work, and I don’t love my job any less because of it. I work in an old-school warehouse (as opposed to a gargantuan bright shiny automated Amazon warehouse), and as such, there’s no heating. It’s the nature of the place. It’s dusty and old, atmospheric like a dimly lit antique bookstore or curio thrift shop… in other words, in the best of ways. We have old skylights; the brightness in the space fluctuates with the brightness outside. We have a ghost. (The ghost would be mad as hell in an Amazon warehouse, let me tell you.)
So I go to work on winter days fully expecting to be cold to some extent. It’s up to me to prepare for the day, and today, I blew it. And I paid for it. BUT NOT TOMORROW, my friends. Oh no. Tomorrow I’m going to conquer the cold, and I’m looking forward to it! Conditions will be the same tonight and tomorrow: freezing. Bring it.
Now I’m in my office with the electric fireplace on and Nenette sprawled out in front of it, and I’m snug in the bathrobe I’ve got wrapped over my soft at-home layers, and the usual candles are lit on my desk, and I took another selfie, because I remembered.
Candlelight is for people who are too lazy to use filters.
I hope this finds you all keeping comfortable in whatever climate conditions you’ve got going on in your lives, wherever you are in the world. Take good care and stay safe, my friends!
About a month ago I apparently unplugged my phone from its extension cord, a difficult and unnecessary thing to do, while sleeping. An app was playing, so by morning, the battery had run down. The alarm didn’t go off, and I missed my Saturday morning workout.
This is what I’ve been wanting to talk to you about, my friends: sleep apps, and why I’m going to run the other way if one gets near me.
The night of The Unplugging, I’d fallen asleep to the sound of a bonfire on the beach, my favorite selection on the sleep/meditation/relaxation app I’d been playing nightly. Fading out of consciousness to the sound of a crackling fire and waves crashing faintly in the background had been bliss, but there’d been a few contradictory incidents. Sometimes I woke up in the night as if disturbed by this sound that I found so pleasant.
On at least one occasion, I got out of bed and turned off the app, fully aware as I did it. On at least three other occasions, I woke up to my alarm but found that my bonfire on the beach had somehow been replaced by other soundscapes, ones that I didn’t like.
Now there was this strange new twist: Sometime during the night, the phone had been unplugged from its extension cord. How?
How did this happen?
I must have done it, but I can’t begin to guess why. If I wanted to stop the app, well, there are many ways to go about silencing a phone. I could have done it the way I’d done before, which was to simply get up and turn off the app. If silencing the phone was what I wanted to do, then why didn’t I just do that? I also could have:
Hit pause. Turned the media volume all the way down. Turned off the phone. Unplugged the phone from its charger. Unplugged the extension cord from its easily accessible outlet in the wall.
But no. Instead, I (presumably) went to the wall and placed my right shoulder against it and twisted my body sideways so I could reach down with my right hand into the narrow space between the shelving unit and the wall to grab for the extension cord, pull it up, and unplug the phone adapter – differentiating between the adapter and the lamp plug that was also connected to the extension cord – in the dark of night, in my sleep, using my disabled left hand (that can’t grasp) to firmly grasp the extension cord while pulling the adapter out with my right hand. I woke up with no recollection of having done any of it. All I had was a dead phone, a missed workout, a friend I’d stood up, and a lot of questions.
A tight adapter connection in a tight squeeze of a place.
The idea of having done such a thing in my sleep – with no memory of having done it – is downright spooky, and not in a good way.
I mean, it doesn’t make any sense. As far as I know, I don’t sleepwalk. I find the notion of engaging in the whole operation of unplugging my phone from its extension cord in my sleep to be so outlandish that it’s easy to doubt that I even did it at all. It had to have been me, though, because if not me, than who?
1). Theory one: Nenette. The chances of Nenette accidentally unplugging the phone adapter from the extension cord are less than 0. I have a better chance of getting eaten by a shark in Kansas.
2). Theory two: Another human. Someone broke into the house without waking me up, crept into my bedroom, retrieved the extension cord from behind the shelving, unplugged the phone from the extension cord, and left.
3). Theory three: Aliens. Because when the question is weird tech-related events in the night, the answer is always aliens.
4). Theory four: An energy, perhaps the same one that caused the post-it note to skitter across my desk last week.
It had to have been me.
Thinking back to the times I’d woken up to sounds other than the one that I chose, I have to wonder what, exactly, I’d been hearing at the time that I unplugged the phone. What was it about the sounds that prompted my sleeping brain to get my body up and active in performing the complex series of steps involved in disconnecting the phone adaptor from the extension cord? It would’ve been painful, too, because of my hand. What subliminal messages might the app have been feeding me?
These thoughts sent my mind out on a whole sleep-app conspiracy theory expedition. I didn’t come to any conclusions, but I haven’t used the app since.
In any event, one way or the other, I ended up getting more sleep, and I didn’t further injure myself, as I might have if I’d done my workout. An intervention had been staged in some sort of way. As good of a thing this may have been, I’m seriously done with sleep apps. I don’t know what exactly I’m hearing at night, nor do I understand how the brain takes and processes messages.
On that note, I’m going to bed. No apps will be playing.
Have a lovely night or day yourselves, friends. Stay safe!
A strange thing happened about an hour ago: a small post-it note went skittering sideways across the top of my desk, from right to left. It stopped in front of me just to the left of my laptop.
I wasn’t touching the desk at the time because I was sitting back and reading an online article. The room was silent, as I wasn’t listening to anything. Nenette was curled up on my bed in the other room. There’d been no sudden movement, or any movement. There’d been no gust of air. Everything in the room was still. If there had been a gust of air, the post-it would’ve wafted over. When I say that the note skittered, I mean that it skipped along lightly and quickly, on its edge. It made the creepy skittering sound. The spectacle reminded me of how my childhood cat would sometimes run sideways across the yard.
There is absolutely no logical explanation for this, my friends. None. It doesn’t matter how badly you want there to be one; there simply isn’t one. The laws of physics in this dimension of reality were violated. There’d been nothing in this realm that could have propelled the post-it note in such a manner – I’ve never seen a piece of paper move the way this one did, in any circumstance – and so I decided I’d better pay attention to the words I’d written on it:
Essential oil ingredients for the perfume I’m going to make.
This list was on my desk because I only have one of these three ingredients. The note was a reminder to order the other two, and I hadn’t gotten to it yet. I ordered them immediately, because when the Universe puts something like this in front of your face, it’s chop chop. The oils will arrive tomorrow.
This was not what I’d planned to share with you tonight! I was going to post about another weird thing that’d happened, but I’ll regale you with that particular tale mid-week. Weird shenanegans are afoot, my friends. Weird shenanegans are afoot, but I don’t mean this in a bad way. There may not be logical explanations for how things could have happened, but there’s always a reason for them.
The post-it note skittered sideways across my desk before my eyes as if on its own volition; consequently, I’ll have, by Monday night, a perfume oil with a sandalwood base. In terms of spiritual properties, sandalwood brings one closer to the divine, and it promotes mental clarity. Rose essence is a mood-booster. Sweet orange essence brings spiritual awareness, and it’s also associated with abundance. My spiritual guides want me to get on with making this perfume so that I can wear these essences on my skin sooner rather than later, and so they made sure that I will.
I feel blessed to receive such guidance. I am blessed, and I’m endlessly grateful for it.
I’m also glad to have one less post-it note on my desk!
Good night or morning or day, my friends. Until we meet again.
My friends, I hope you’re well. I’m super tired. I’ve got several posts in drafts, and the one that I wanted to post for you tonight was more draft-y than I’d thought – it’s a weird storytime post in which I need to really get across how weird (and creepy) the situation was. Another one covers a sensitive topic and requires a trigger-warning; it needs delicate handling, and I don’t want to rush it. And the third draft could easily be read as a “woe is me” post when it’s definitely not, so that one needs more finessing of phrase and tone, too, as well as fleshing-out.
I love writing. I love writing for you. It means a lot to me that you stick around here to read my posts, and you deserve nothing less than my best efforts. So tonight, I apologize for not having an actual post for you.
What I can leave here, though, is this pic of Nenette in front of her electric fireplace right now:
Kitty darkened by the warm shadows.
End-of-week blessings to you from us both! I look forward to meeting you here over the weekend.
Have you ever wondered about the clutter on other people’s desks? Maybe they have unopened mail from a bank about an account they never wanted because that bank took over their former bank and when their original account at the former bank consequently ceased to exist they decided to open an account at an entirely different bank because now their bank has been taken over by another bank one time too many so the new bank that used to be their former bank can just go ahead and keep the 14 cents strategically left behind.
Maybe there’s this year’s planner and also a second one acquired by mistake that’s going to go unused if no one else wants it.
Maybe there’s a small, stitched patch, black with metallic silver embroidery, in the shape of a cat as a constellation in a night sky.
Maybe there’s a broken retractable-blade utility knife that has screws for reasons that aren’t discernable because the knife’s body remains intact and resistant to break-down when the screws are removed so the inside mechanisms can’t be cleaned and now it seems to be terminally bladeless and nothing online can explain it and no one at work can, either, and a replacement knife will be delivered today and it’s okay because the old knife was used daily and relentlessly for over a year and these things aren’t made to last forever if you pay so little for them.
Maybe there are five small neon-orange post-its with a note jotted on each: the name of a future black cat, a reminder of where the earbuds are stashed, a musician from the 70’s whose music will be sought out on Spotify, a reminder to write about the difference between hexes, curses, and jinxes, and the street names of a certain intersection in Berkeley.
Maybe there’s a tiny ceramic plant pot with a miniature cactus that could only be fake because it’s “planted” in a hardened glittery mass of fake soil, but then one day it was noticed that the fake cactus was dead, and the mystery of that is maddening.
Maybe there’s a small photo album holding photos of a desert tortoise with his human-reptile mommy taken by a friend who’s a talented photographer.
Maybe there are two manila folders called “taxes” and “mortgage” and it could be said that they’re on the desk because it’s that time of the year, but that wouldn’t be true because the folders have been there for six months pending investigation of matters whose relevancy has expired.
Maybe there’s a small remote control that turns on an electric fireplace.
Maybe there’s a black ink “confidential” roller stamp designed specifically to obscure sensitive information on papers destined for the recycling bin.
Maybe there’s a fabric-covered button that a cat pulled off of a colorful mandala meditation cushion.
Or a large reference book with spiritual correspondences.
Or a reference book with cosmic data.
Or an assortment of documents that need to be filed, including some that came in the mail and are still sealed in their envelopes because the same information can be seen online so why bother opening them.
Maybe there are sheets of return-address labels sent for free from charity organizations asking for further donations and their fate is unknown because they’re not needed due to a pre-existing collection of free return-address labels that already amount to more than can be used in a lifetime and they’re stickers so they can’t go in the recycling but they have personal information so they can’t go in the trash, either, so destruction by fire is being contemplated.
Maybe there are exactly four small dark-brown clip barrettes.
A rusty old steak knife long since used as a letter opener.
A check that was deposited via mobile app from the time the side-hustle client didn’t have the usual cash.
A spiral-bound notebook used partly as a journal and partly as a scribbled thinking and planning space.
An online shop’s business card sent with an appreciation discount code that’s already been used, and another one from a different online shop that hasn’t yet been used.
More documents that need to be filed.
Two larger post-it notes, neon-yellow, one with a list of names that needed remembering for a specific reason, and another with a list of topics that still need remembering for a different specific reason.
The small orange and large yellow post-it pads, themselves.
A reminder to purchase vegan Goli Ashwghanda gummies on Amazon as soon as credit for a recent return has been added to the account as a gift card.
Two crumpled receipts, one from a recent stop at Sprouts because only Sprouts has the Sprouts brand of pink Himalayan salt and coconut oil popcorn, and the other from Ulta because unlike Sephora, Ulta doesn’t cause claustrophobia-induced panic attacks.
A used sigil wheel.
A print-out of medical information that’s no longer needed because investigation into the condition has been going on for so long that its intrigue has disintegrated into nothingness.
A white marble drink coaster and a black beaded drink coaster adorned with silver moons and stars found on sale at Ross after Halloween because the best time to find deals on spooky things for use during the year is after the spooky holiday itself.
And a lot of dust.
Current desk clutter, not rearranged for the pic, left side only.
Maybe the person recently thoroughly cleaned their entire office EXCEPT for their desk. Perhaps they removed all of their plants and dusted and polished all of the surfaces and cleaned all of the objects, themselves; perhaps they triple-vacuumed the entire room and emptied, cleaned, and reorganized the bookshelves in the desk corner… then got to their desk and stopped.
Today I’m going to continue ignoring this mess because the only thing I want to do is binge the last four episodes of Archive 81 since I got too sleepy to continue it last night, and nothing bad will happen if I don’t deal with my desk today. But now I have shamed myself sufficiently by sharing it with you, and so it will be seen to sooner rather than later.
I hope you’re all having a divine moment, my friends. Blessings to you on the eve of the first full moon of the year! The Wolf moon is in Cancer, and we’re also on the verge of a Venus retrograde.
A wise elder witch – a close blood relation of mine – recently sent me a bracelet with tiny beads spelling out, in Morse code, “Do no harm but take no shit,” a good motto not only in the event of a Venus retrograde following a full moon in Cancer, but for life.
Not to brag or anything, but I saved Holder, my plant, the other day. I saved him from… me and my dubious decisions. See? Not bragging.
So I moved half of my office out into the hallway, as I was going to bring in an area rug. There wasn’t too much stuff to move, but it all wound up in the scant hallway space – awkwardly, might I add. Last to be hauled out was my plant Holder, who roosts on a stand, which, for some reason, I decided to keep him on as I removed them both from the room.
I don’t know, friends. Somehow, with the doorway partially blocked by my old German trunk that was halfway-in/halfway-out and everything else in the cramped narrow dark hallway haphazardly pushed out there at sharp angles, I thought it would be a good idea to try to maneuver Holder’s stand with Holder still on it, sitting up there and trusting me completely. All I had to do was get him out of the office and into the hallway. It wasn’t a big deal or any kind of a deal at all until my foot got caught on the edge of the old German trunk (that was blocking the doorway) and I tripped and teetered because I couldn’t use my arms for balance so in my effort to avoid falling I tried to use my legs but ended up ricocheting like a human pinball, bouncing off of one thing to another on my way down before I landed on my ass in the middle of everything. Holder then slid forward serenely off his tilted stand and landed gently in my arms, and that is how I found myself sitting on the floor hugging my plant while saying “I saved you! I saved you!” So the next time you see someone sitting in a narrow hallway crowded with furniture laughing and hugging a plant while taking to him, don’t judge. You don’t know what that person just went through.
Holder on his stand
It was quite the dramatic rescue and I have the battle scars to prove it but I’m not going to show you because no one wants to see my legs. (Trust me!) It’s just two bruises on my right leg and a bruise and a cut on my left, but Holder didn’t lost so much as a speck of soil, and I was giddy with this victory.
So the rug is in, and it does indeed tie the room together.
And now it’s heinously late! Good night or day, wherever you are! Happy weekend eve, my friends.
HAPPY NEW YEAR, my friends!! [::throws confetti::]
My 2-year retrospective and new year projection in a microscopic nutshell:
2020 was freeing for me while it was disastrous for the world, and I feel kind of guilty about that.
2021 was heinous. 2021 is unforgivable. One of my furbabies was murdered in 2021.
2022, though, is going to be wondrous in the best of ways, because I’m going to make it so. Oh yes, my friends. Oh yes.
This year, I don’t have goals, per se. I don’t have resolutions. Better than goals and resolutions, I have areas of focus. My life is a journey of learning and growing, and so “areas of focus” is more apt.
My areas of focus for 2022, then (as revealed to me by my spirit guides): boundaries, intuition, healing, gathering practical knowledge, embracing imperfection, continuing to provide for/protect stray backyard residents (one cat at a time), prosperity, psychic abilities, and the cultivation of wonder.
Nenette’s area of focus is to be snuggly in the pile of blankets and my white robe that I now leave on the bed for her. My bed is always made, but you’d have a hard time seeing that, as I pile blankets on top of blankets over the whole thing. Nenette loves it.
tonight – January 2, 2022Not complainingNot complainingNenette on Christmas Day – not complaining.
I hope you’re having a wonderful, marvelous, magnificent start to the new year, however that translates in your life. Maybe you started the new year with an airplane jump. Maybe you started it binge-watching a series. Exhilarating or chill or anywhere in between, I hope it was good. And I hope that 2022 brings you peace.
My friends! I turned 53 on Monday, so on paper, I’m a year older now than the last time we met. I’m three years into the second half-century of my life here on Earth, and I love that. I call this my vampiring stage of life.
My birthday falls on the seventh day of Yule, so when I think about the year behind me and the year ahead, I’m actually reflecting on the entire calendar year. I realize now that this within-a-week alignment of my birthday with the New Year is the reason why my New Year’s blog posts feel so redundant.
Going over the usual run-down, nothing has changed: I’m still waiting for my mid-life crisis. Still not wearing granny panties. Still haven’t had anything “done.” Still haven’t yelled at any kids to get off my lawn. Still wondering why AARP isn’t sending me shit (not that I’m interested). Still haven’t “made arrangements” or “gotten my affairs in order”… though I am planning on doing that this year, just so it’s out of the way. I recently had two cancer scares – I’ve only spoken about one of them here – and they got me thinking that I need to have some plans in place, In Case.
At my new age, I don’t feel any less discombobulated, but I’m the happiest that I’ve ever been. I’ve never felt so free or unconcerned about being who I am and living the way I want to live. I love a solitary life. I’m never going back.
Here’s the obligatory birthday selfie, which I actually took the day before my birthday:
I’ve survived for 53 years!
I wore actual makeup on this day, as opposed to doing my everyday relatively light-handed eyes, only. I’m wearing e.l.f.’s luminous putty primer and NYX’s total control drop foundation on my face, and Too Face peach bloom lip and cheek tint on my lips, for those of you who are interested in such intel. And eyeshadow from Kat Von D’s shade and light palette. The rest (concealers, eyeliners, mascara, and brow powder) is my usual everyday assortment. My hair is still beyond hope and now it’s falling out, so perhaps you’ll see me in a wig or a scarf in next year’s birthday post! I got the wolf sweater from Ross almost ten years ago, and it’s one of my favorite articles of clothing.
My current amulet is a chunk of red jasper… Fire energy for strength, courage, creativity, and drive.
There’s nothing more to say about December 27th, really. I went to work, and it was enjoyable, as usual. Work gave me a lovely card signed by all, and a generous Chipotle gift card, and I felt so blessed, because I am. Oh! Presents! I don’t think that I usually talk about my birthday presents, but this year I have to share that my favorite gift was from my parents. It’s one of those space heaters that looks like a fireplace, because they know that I’m still refusing to turn on my heat! I’m now accustomed to the cold in the house, but the electric fireplace here in my office makes everything so cozy. It looks like a real fire, and it’s certainly a powerful representation of one. I’m going to do another office tour post soon, as there have been some significant changes and the whole Updated Office Tour thing has become a tradition, so the electric fireplace will appear in those pics.
Happy New Year, my friends. [::clinks champagne glasses, or sparkling water glasses, in my case::]
Blessings to you all!
ETA: I just hit “publish” and then saw the time on the lower-right corner of my screen. I published this post at 12:27, and my birthday, which is the topic, is on 12/27. Just thought that was a cool little synchronicity.
Nenette and I (and Geronimo, and also Salem) wanted to send a holiday card to each and every one of you, but since that would be impossible, we settled for making our card and posting it here. We hope you’re enjoying a wonderful, incredible, divine celebration of whatever it is you’re celebrating!
Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, and Blessed Yule 2021!
Love, Kristi, Nenette, Geronimo, and Salem
p.s. Nenette said to kindly ask you not laugh to at her handwriting.
[12/13/2021] Last night I dreamt that the bros next door were involved in a Secret History-esque fraternity murder conspiracy. All of the houses on my street had standing sidewalk mailboxes rather than boxes attached to our house walls, and when I opened mine one day, there were papers inside that had been placed there by accident. They were supposed to have gone into the bro house mailbox.
The papers documented procedural information, minutes, and the actual proceedings for the ceremonial “work” conducted in the “killings” of one of the frat members in the house. My impression was that the killing was of a sacrificial nature, rather than of a punitive one.
Throughout the rest of the dream, I made continuous efforts to bring this to the attention of everyone around me in my house. The only person I remember specifically was Mom. The others were friends, acquaintances, and likely other family members, but they swirled around and in and out of rooms at random. The energy of the dream was hectic and fast-paced, and my efforts to put the papers in front of peoples’ faces were thwarted at every turn.
However, I did also verbalize that there’d been a killing next door, and that it was deliberate and documented, and people did believe me. Even so, it was important to me that they see the papers. I still hadn’t accomplished this when my alarm went off.
—–
Before bed, cheered by the notion of it.
—–
Desert winter has set in, and it’s cold in the house. It’s 65F. I check it every so often, wondering how cold it will have to get before I break and turn on the heater. I find myself questioning my identity for the second time this year. First, I didn’t recognize myself as I willingly shivered in the cold showers I took through mid/late-October. By the time I caved and started using hot water, my showers were capital-C cold, so naturally, I was like, who am I? And now I’m doing the same thing with the heater. It’s in the 30’s outside when I wake up! I had to scrape ice off of my windshield this morning. Ice on the windshield, no heat in the house, and somehow, I’m hanging in there without too much effort. Who am I?
This lunacy, too, shall pass, perhaps soon.
Meanwhile, the human mind-body connection continues to fascinate me. We are all so much more than we think we are.
Have a lovely Friday/Saturday, my friends. Stay safe, and keep dreaming!
That Asian-Looking Chick 