Ponderosa Parlour

It's 7AM on my first day of calling in (that Snaggletooth, now 8, whoa, is) sick at my teaching job all year.  He has been.  He had a 102 degree fever for the last two days.  He's been my surreal companion save for a few hours he was with his dad while I taught and ran a few errands yesterday since I got off work Sunday.  I suppose that means we've spent a fitful near 24 hours in each others' arms.  We read a book yesterday and at this time I am his loving submissive.  When he says read, I read.  When he says water, I water.  When he says, "I'm going to throw up," I change the sheets (fool me once, gag reflex).  Now, with a soup pot as a third wheel, we're moving onto more solid ground— though that remains to be seen in certain circles (the ones Brits call, loos, namely).

I always run through all the responsible parent worries.  Is a headache with body ache, and now vomiting, meningitis?  Oh, your neck hurts?  Crap.  Will the fever go up?  Is that stomach cramping a sign of appendicitis?  Certain nuances and triggers are to be minded.  I've found calling the nurse line at the hospital to be very helpful when I've fretted over whether I should get help for him or not.  In some years we had no health insurance, and though we have CHIP now, the residual desperation remains.  For one, if I get sick caring for him, I don't have it, and for two, on more than one occasion, some aspect of seeking medical care has made things worse.  Is it really what a child with the flu needs to sit in an emergency room for 4 hours?  That call can be tricky.  We caught the genius in the beginning stages of pneumonia that way once, so I'm skeptical, but open, and then was that pride I had in the shower the other day when I thought about how Snaggletooth had never, in his 8 years consumed antibiotics?  Convoluted, perhaps, but true.  Several of my own experiences have made me turn to alternative medicines in my adult life, but none more than poverty.

I've become quite the skilled herbalist, really, and though it's not something I really utilize beyond my own immediate family and friends, I did finally invest in what I viewed as the community pound of lobelia last year when I found I couldn't get an ounce here, an ounce there, on the streets.  Such may be the case with feverfew now, perhaps, though Whole Foods is not the definitive source, I imagine.  A tincture with it for migraines will suffice.  He did have a bad headache, that has since passed, but for the $12/ two years it takes to buy it by the pound, that may be something I do soon.  I'll be dealing, then.  It's not a lucrative field, though, especially in the case of lobelia, when the key to success is the scant pinch.

For Snaggletooth, it's been a combination of homeopathic flu remedy and serious snuggling.  His dad did children's acetaminophen, which was from my house, after the initial awful headache.  I'll do the hard stuff from time to time, but when the fever comes back pissed for being suppressed, sometimes I regret that in the long run.  No one wants to see someone suffer though, so there's that.  There have been teas, steamed cabbage, soups, and even energy work, which was born in me from a time The Lip Model was very ill as a wee lass in 1995.  It's something I started to perceive while meditating with my hand over her and my hand just started to pulsate over her.  It felt sublime and her fever of two days broke during the time and this thing has remained.  It's a shameful secret I keep to my family (and, not really) and shared with a few therapists in the event it meant worse things than better, but nothing, but good has ever come from it, and though it is something I rarely am in touch with at times, in the middle of the night when worrying is all else there is, it is a life saver, being able to allow my own focus to shift to serenity, even if no other thing else occurs.

For years, I was seeking.  Reading all sorts of philoreligiowhatever stuffs, trying to figure it all out, you know.  Really, it all happened after I got my mind blown from an acid trip when I was twenty.  "Wow, there's so much more to life than I every had thought.  This life is jut a blip in a larger reality (to which I woke up for a few seconds)."  You know, typical three hit stuff, the effects of which have lingered, even after my use of the drug has not.   Lucid dreams and my also shameful closet study of astrology for years (there is so much freaking math in aspects and transits and cycles, oh my, modulo mathematics is so fucking sexy), coupled with the occasional enabling by science, this one being a lovely one of late and eight now years of being sober with the occasional thought being thrown the way of the higher power concept, find me sympathetic to believers, but not to a what.  It's all about perspective, no?  I am happy enough with the term agnostic.  I might frequent a Quaker church (for the silent thing and for what was once here in Austin the home of a very awesome group I used to meet with, not Quaker, forget their names), or Unitarians (you know the ones with the atheist ministers), or maybe Buddhist haunts would suit me.  I am a believer in reincarnation, or are they parallel universes?  I've espoused my own unfounded theory that time is the factor that distinguishes the two, to a few who know me well, but like my late night psychotic energy feeling shifts in consciousness that find me allowing myself to surrender to what is, this is mostly stuff I keep to myself.

I have often felt that the universe, being scientific and cold, is all about actions and reactions, and good living can help you land on the benevolent side of things, except when you don't.  I rarely pray and prefer to focus on my breath or listening or being thankful in mindful moments, even if with my own subconscious, not matter.  But, when I was so doing the other night, I had this funny, but absurd little skit (Mitchell and Webb, of course, I'll try to put below) blip into my head and another thought altogether follow that actually made the idea that the forces that be whatever the fuck they are (and I've been reassured by my own conscience that they don't mind me calling Jesus sexy or deriding the Pope or being a slut (in theory)) are likely to be on my side, if not neutral.  I have seriously had something more malevolent in mind.  Seriously, a remnant from meh-Christian indoctrination?  Somewhere, maybe that acid tripping, I picked up that I could wander into thoughts that I would regret.  Aside from the obvious Garden of Eden apple eating bullshit, I've got my own memories of an abused childhood blacked out that is the likely source of such notions.  Along side that I've go adult semi-lucid dream/ memories that place me at a Polish or Czech scene with my own father as son where my own heinous actions set into place that he would be my abusive father.  (Coincidentally, the first ex-Mr. Bee visited Poland last year and has been ravenously learning Polish for when he retires into his grandchild of a Polish person EU citizenship.) Certainly, these are possibly lavish forms of "I deserved it," but the thing I'm all cool with is how I don't really care about the rights and wrongs of it all.  Language is not right or wrong.  No one on this blog is saying astrology is a science.  These are just the words I have for my own desire to be more of myself or whatever the fuck I'm going to call it, or not, right now. Agnostic fits, kinda, because I really don't give a shit that I don't fall into a category.  I'm comfortable with the ambiguity and I don't mind having spiritual inklings, in fact, in some ways I live for them, but I guess I just woke up with this in my head and got my lazy, but well-rested ass out of bed for a change.

On another note pertaining to my ass, that will be lost to all but the most patient of readers (given the above), yesterday was the day I finished the third day of 39 (I can handle finite trials and tribulations, kinda) of a prepping for a 10K regime.  On New Years Day I put a note on my file cabinet right next to me now even that says both, "This is the year I run a 10K" and "This is the year I write a book."  and promise I won't go off on affirmations here for fear I might invoke the wrath of Wayne Dyer and that's not pretty, I assure you. 

So, I've made my way to the Lake of le Town hike and bike trail where I am most likely to see the mayor (yep, did).  He doesn't like to be recognized while he's sweaty and running I don't think, or he's like I have gotten a couple times on my so far run 1 minute, walk 2 minute cycles, oblivious to what's gong on around him, but don't put that in the paper or noithin'.  I carry my phone with stopwatch app and my revealer of all things amateur, my water bottle, and next round, tomorrow, will find me running for two minute, walking for two minute cycles.  Oh, the pathetic stretch that will be, but I am kinda sorta hesitantly ready.  I ran a couple al la carte yesterday after the other stuff was done, and established that they are doable.  I've found a better technique than staring at the never ending minute on the stopwatch is picking an object in the distance and simply running til I get to it.  I'm pretty good at estimating how far things that will take me one and now two minutes to run to are.  For now, they are within sight.  I guess when I'm running for longer I'll have to find familiar milestones or a shifting point in the distance or I don't rightly know, but as usual I'm just one day a timing this shit and today, it's stretching, a buttload of grading papers and gently feeding a famished boy who is thankfully on the mend.  Maybe back to bed for a nap?  Or coffee?  A day off either way you slice it, with my blog post behind me, and no picture maybe even.  Hehe, found the video. 

goin' with the coffee.

Update:  Things are getting back to normal, including my own request that you do for yourself what you can and if that still isn't much, "Ask nicely, little grasshopper."


Unfounded Fondness

Woody Allen and his neurotic ways aren't cute anymore.  And we're no Woody Allen.  I'm not comfortable as an instigator very much, or sometimes, or something, or when it's not easy, I'm very uncomfortable and think that means I'm being rejected, which I think may be the case.  I really hate some of this shit, you know.

Apparently, after being with someone for ten years, after having the intimacy of this here, I am accustomed to just saying it all. Is that not normal?Either that, or I am socially inept with tmi as my malady.

This is the first time I have missed drinking in forever.  Not that I want to drink.  I anti-crave it, but it's the social lubricant part of it I am missing a lot.  I feel left out, out of the loop.  La la la, with these carrots in our ears, we can't hear a word anyone else is saying, which isn't really too funny because perpetual water on the ears has me with Wally's oil and cotton balls in my ear more than is pretty.  Should I shave or shouldn't I?

I'm a mess, but I'm not.  I think I'm growing.  I think I'm stretching.  I am seeing a pesky pervasive issue at hand, the one my curriculum director at my school pointed out in a very lovely and touching holiday letter to me which stated that she has confidence in me even though I don't. It's pervasive and now that I'm aware of it, very pesky.  I am off-center, it seems, not firmly rooted in myself.  I have been prioritizing ample sleep.  I've been crushing hot and cold on a couple folks, feeling very jealous of another who seems a step ahead of me, and cuter at it all and I know there's plenty to go around.

On another note, the thing I am feeling good about is my idea for another erotic piece. I downloaded a voice recording app for my phone and finally have the means to be all writerly with recording ideas.  I recorded it.  Titty flashing to come at a later date.  A very cute lady is making me black-eyed peas and I'm making the cornbread.  What the fuck do I have to complain about?  My feelings.  They're amuck.  I think I'm even going to resort to doing what I should have been doing for the last 15 years since I stopped, meditating.  Hopefully, that's not going to go on the shelf with the book writing and the 10 K.  When the weather warms, when the weather dries.  Eat lots of carrots.  For reals.



I Like This...

...so I stole it from an unlinkable lass.


My Inner Speculating Fellow Speaks Magic 8 Ball

Speculating Fellow
I shouldn't post.  I should post.  No, I shouldn't.  I was the least not prepared of all to finish the student evaluations by midnight, and until Friday I now have.  The doctor with no news chases us down, while the one ordering the massively important, undoubtedly expensive to someone not me brain pictures would rather not bother.  I worry less than I ought, perhaps, actually, but today finds me preventative medicining it up more than I can actually afford to overcompensate.  At least the B vitamins and St. John's Wort tea will find me stressing less about the money than I might have had I not spent it.  Huh?

The date that's not a date will happen tomorrow, as will foldables and Roman Numerals, maybe.  I am surprisingly less annoyed at squandering my new lease's $50/ month savings (as opposed to it's alternative $150 month-to-month increase) buying newly required renter's insurance than this Speculating Fellow recommends (see photo)— 20 days early, no less.  With my auto insurance now decidedly not combined (though formerly halfly pitched) with Mr. Bee's, it looks like life in the independent lane is flowing right along.

Because I procrastinated taking a shower this morning to the last minute, I caught the tiny knockings of my 3 year-old neighbor who knows how to unlock his deadbolt and come knock on my door when his dad is still sleeping.  With no time for robe ties, I held his hand in one of mine and my robe covering my nakedness in the other as I lead him back into his apartment without explicit permission, since his dad with two jobs was dead tired while mom was taking the other three kids to school.  Waking dad by turning on his bedroom light with my robe held closed with my hand was strangely intimate and still this little boy who loves to come hang out at our house makes our neighborliness feel downright community-like, more than ever today, the day a two year-old girl was found in an apartment pool here in Austin.  Right timing doesn't always look like right timing, and thank you, Speculating Fellow.  I owe it all to you.

The first ex-Mr. Bee (ooo la la, an exclusive club) turned 50 today.  I think that might make me feel olde.  What say ye, Speculating Fellow?  "It is decidedly so." (He speaks Magic 8 Ball.)  After watching so much of That Mitchell and Webb Look (see post prior to my most previous, Speculating Fellow) I now use the word massive and pronounce massage with emphasis on the first syllable and am on the make for any and everything comedy sketchable.  A character which speaks in Magic 8 Ball just went on the sticky yellow half pad with lines next to me, in a faux attempt to keep up with the massively brilliant idea that it could become, the now second now part of a stand-up routine.  Seeing as the first (inspired by cheaply trying to find The Ethical Slut at Half-Price Books) came to me 2 or three months ago, at this rate, I'll have enough stand-up routine notes to make an actual routine which I would never perform lost in stacks of papers in about three years' time.

Tonight's hard freeze finds me about to sleep on the bottom bunk of a bunk bed while The Future President and her friend of many years have my orthotheraposturewhateverpedic bed.  I'll have Wally's oil in my ears, tea in my belly and cats clawing at the door seeing as that's where I put my plants that would die outside, since kitties would rather perish eating them over their healthy cat food, any day.   My trash can with a chicken bone is in the closed bathroom, so the cats won't knock it over and bring chicken to the ungreasiest part of my house and make it so.  Cats rule the world, you know.  Make it so, Speculating Fellow.  Make it so's I mix up pseudoscientific tv references and insist I get me to mine sleeping place, yea.

If you watch anything I ever recommend, this is the one it should be:


Furry Boot Power Activate. Form of Hoop Earrings and a 'Lil Giddyup.

I'm full of commitment over here, you know.  All day I've felt like writing.  I dabbled in some student evaluations; I read bullshit about bullshit and guns. I've been in a funk, but even before the idiotic political news of the day, I was distracted (as I filled out my opinion on a student's ADD evaluation form, no less).  I live my life below that (the political), you know.  Under it.  That is the diminishing rain forest, supposedly shading me from the harshness, the burning.  Oh, the burning.

I've left precisely 18 minutes for this, the most important therapeutic thing I can do today, write.  Except, a friend asked me over to her house, so that will probably be good for me.  I've been a little isolated.  My house is fairly clean, for a change.  I had a week of teaching goals I only slightly failed to meet.  I only have sixteen more evaluations left to write tomorrow.  The good thing about not assigning homework is not having to grade it.

There's other stuff.  A too dykely do, feeling fat, two pair of hipster pants from the hipster thrift store.  My own car insurance, after pitching in with Mr. Bee even after (nearly) a year of living apart.  There will be a party.  I've mastered my diva cup even more, when I though no further masteries were needed, and I've had nary a sex act save for nice self action for what's starting to feel like too long.  I did have a lovely chance to make out with a lovely lady and another to fondle another boob, but that's not what I'm talking about here, people. 

It's not.

There are feelings.  Big sticky feelings.  There was also waiting in a waiting room for the Lip Model to have an MRI.  I don't recommend that.  And, if the tech guy is looking at what you are hoping is someone else's thing while he consults with another tech person while your daughter is in the thing, I recommend you stare at it despite the mirror he can see you in and cry prompting him to make you stop for privacy reasons that make you hope that black mass was on someone else's thing.  The ones that were certainly hers didn't have that big black area, the first ones you saw.  Monday.  I'm calling Monday.  Why didn't they call?  She's had numbness on one side, and she's been tested and doesn't have that thing my mom has and why the numbness?  There is no MS in my family or her dad's. There is worrying.  Big sticky worrying.

There's the bargaining and the blaming myself.  Why am I not a better mother?  She doesn't want to live with me anymore.  I'm good enough for my other three.  In fact, amongst them, the consensus is that I'm alright, but maybe not.  I know it's not all unhealthy choices on her part.  I know it's not all about having her own bedroom at her dad's.  Some of it is, sure, but not all.  And still, I hope we're getting closer, even as my boundaries remain, the ones that I hope are not too rigid.  She can't yell at me (unless there is communication and not name calling in it).  She can not hijack the normalcy of my home, the one that, on more than one occasion, was not even conducive to the babies getting homework done.  Her dad doesn't have the same standards.  Is that his bad or mine?  She will be 18 next month, is about to do her ged test, is talented as all shit (albeit numb on one side) and is the half-assiest job seeker ever.  Not that that's easy, though.  But, we all know what looking looks like.

I'm a supporter of right timing.  I'm a supporter of brewing in the stew until the meat is tender.  I'm not applying for the one middle school math teaching job that's been posted in many a month.  Not today.  Maybe tomorrow.  I think I'll finish the year where I am.  I think I'll make it in the teaching job of my dreams with the best possible future that doesn't pay for shit.

I'm starting to give myself permission for these things, but still, where is that book?  Where is all the exercise?  Where is my energy?  Is coffee making me anxious?  It's two past when I had.  My cohort is late, and I never complain.  Seriously, that's not what I complain about.  I complain about other things.

The things I want that I don't do anything about.

"I'm not ready," I say.

"Fuck you."

Not you.


Happy New Year, Yo, Bloke

Are you looking for a new look?

Don't say I never didn't not give you nothin'.

My Peep Show chappies are funny as shit over up in here and you didn't even tell me.  No matter now, I'm watchin' 'em.  I'll keep you up to date and get back to you when every last inch is shined.  Righty then.  The first episode and they just get better.

Plus, every last one (maybe) is over at YourBoob. Brits, they call "Seasons" "Series," so now you're ready for all the comedy I didn't bother to fail to write.

Happy New Year, Yo, Bloke