Heads up! There is a quiz, over there on the right. We shall see how well you know your Mrs. Hall!! Oooohhh we'll see . . . .
My son has finally broken my alarm clock. Ya see, when he crawls into bed every so often, say at ooooo 5.30 am, I let him play with my alarm clock. It is my never ever successful attempt at trying to get more sleep. He messes with the buttons, all with the gentle hand of a toddler. He takes absolute delight in turning on the radio, shaking his booty when the music comes one. But, he has dropped it several times. The face has popped off twice. And even poured salt into the thing. (don't ask). It hasn't been setting right lately. Last night it went off several times, all wonkey and random. Like the car from that one Steven King film (little help with the title pls- too early). This morning it was totally broke.
This weekend will be the last weekend I haul stuff up from the house. Mr. Hall has proclaimed he is done with his part. Carpet is ripped up, all the furniture is gone, painting is done. We have workmen coming in to replace counter tops and the fuse box. Then it will be listed. T minus two weeks. I haven't digested this news yet. Too early.
We have two motorcycles left in the garage. One is a sporty bike, one is a Goldwing. That purple bike up there, THATS a Goldwing. I miss going on motorcycle rides with Mr. Hall. Anyone who has experienced being on a touring bike, riding through long country roads, knows what I mean. It is a time to snuggle and hush. But, we have kids and will be soon trying for another. It'll have to wait.
But what this really means, is that my last trip this weekend, is the last haul on this leg of our journey. For this leg anyway. I will have breakfast one last time at our favorite pancake place. Then, it is time to move on. Time to make here our home.
Dang, if it just didn't make noise, it'd sooo be my next dog
Our next door neighbors, eh hem, soon to be ex next door neighbors, are old bastards. Old, retired, married couple bastards in their mid to late sixties. But, old bastards nonetheless.
They are living the good life, she sells Avon for pin money. He does country and western gigs at local bars. They have two of the yippiest dogs I have ever known. The dogettes go crazy when the kids get near them. All twitchy spastic, manic yip yip yip, and furiously licking at their tiny hands through the waist high, chain link fence. Yip yip yip . . .
They absolutely luuurved Henry. Fed him treats over the fence. Henry was ever the gentleman. Always well behaved, did tricks too. He never barked at the tiny dogs, just took it all in. The old bastards bought him a treat jar last Christmas. It was in the shape of a Rottweiler. They really did love Henry.
Mr. Hall sent me a message today. They are having a yard sale for the next few days. What is left of our furniture is going into that yard sale, it'll run from Thursday through Saturday. If you want what is left of my college apartment furniture, better hurry.
Especially since a ton of old bastards in big tan Cadillacs began to arrive at 7.00 this am. Even though the sale is going on for four days, old bastards in big tan Cadillacs gotta get their yard sale on. And clogg up the feng shui of our cul de sac.
Soon to be ex cul de sac, I mean.
I will miss them. And their old bastard rummage sales. I will miss the yippiest dogs I have ever known.
I have made a decision though. I need to self nurture here. Stop living over there so much.
Have something to do besides kids, work, kids, intense happy YAY!! Mr. Hall is here!!, sad soooo sad, walking funny, sad Mr. Hall gone, work, kids, work, kids, intense . . . . .
This painting is called,"Woman holding a balance" Ya'll get the metaphor of the painting in relation to the content of this here post now, doncha? :)
So, for once a month, I have made something for me to do.
I am going to join a local club.
I called to inquire about it. Because there was no email listed on the web site.
Ring Ring
"Elllo, this is Klouten rezidense"
"Um, Hello, My name is Holly Hall and I am calling to find out more information about the writer's club out of [the town I live in]. My husband and I are moving up to the area, so I am new here."
When I get nervous I lie. It's like a very bad tick. Bad because I SUCK at lying.
"Es, veddi goot, es see Twosdai, edder month"
"I'm sorry, um is this Kurt? Did I reach the writer's club. . .? "
"Ooof! Sorry ma'am, mien Austrian accent is veddi thick, I speak slower k?"
Old bastards on the phone is fun.
I know he was an old bastard because this was 10 am on a Tuesday. And he picked up by saying 'this is the Klouten residence.' This is old bastard manners.
"Mrs. Hall
[GOD I LOVE WHEN PEOPLE CALL ME THIS!!!! old bastard manners rock!]
"Mrs. Hall, vhat do u write?"
Long pause. I think. Then, I think some more.
I mean, seriously, what do I write?
"Um, just about anything." Long pause.
I hear him kind of chuckle.
Then I said, after searching for someway to explain what the hell I am doing-
"I have a blog."
He said, " Un Blug? Blouck?"
"Yes, a blog, um, do you know what a blog is?"
He said yes. But, I doubt it. Old bastard on the phone.
So, once a month, on the first Tuesday, I will be rejoining the human race by going to a writer's club. I've been part of 3 or 4 writer's clubs in my wee life. It is fun, kind of like this blog circle, only in real life.I have seen the pictures of their meetings. And much like this group here. . . . . . . well . . . . .
I will be one of the younger members. Heck, I think Earl is the oldest at 52. The youngest member here is Caz I think. Well, she is definitely the most pregnant. Seriously, you must visit Spacebook, it is all sorts of crazy busting out love! But, again, to quote another blogger, I'm about 12 in grown up years.
But, this is a start, just me, getting the fuck out of the crazy house, stretching my creative wings. Hopefully there will be booze.
So now, let's not get ourselves all whipped up in a shy frenzy, let's remember to smile and beam positive energy.
Let's not get all worked up being around real writers in the real world. Or get all worked up about thee fact that old bastards have had more time to hone their craft. Let's not be scared about this, after all, I've got some skills.
In fact,
Let's not be scared of anything.
And let's go further. Do more stuff I like to do. I see myself going back to yoga class, maybe volunteer, maybe bible study again.
Yes I know, this life I lead, this life is party central :)
But it'll have to wait until I move back into my own house.
This month marks my eight year as a registered nurse. It also marks my first year as a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. As such, I am now well versed in the art of bridge building.
To work as a nurse is to work with other people’s pain. With respect to my current job, it is pain of the heart and mind. Mental health pain. And just like anyone who works in mental health these days, I see my fair share of soldiers. I see younger men and women from Operation Iraqi Freedom/Operation Enduring Freedom (OIF/OEF) and Vietnam vets.
The soldiers come and see me when they have held their pain long enough. They need to let it out or they will break apart. And in this way, they are like most of my patients. Most of my patients carry all manner of pain from childhood abuse and/ or years of emotional chaos churning inside. I hear all of this and remain hopeful. After all, they are here, seeking help. The healing can begin. Or I can help them heal further.
Then I build a bridge. I am standing on the other side from their pain. I say, look here, see this bridge? If you let me help you, I can tell you how to cross the bridge.
I have helped a few cross the bridge. Just a few though, I am new here. The other side is great, they can keep their jobs, their wives say how less angry they are, how they don’t yell at the kids so much. They have healed a lot of damage just by crossing.
This bridge is very important. It is not my job to fetch the patient and carry them across. It is also not my job to live over on their side, feeling their pain. It is the difference between empathy and sympathy. Sympathy is jumping into the deep end with them. Empathy is recognizing pain but knowing it is not yours.
However, twice now, since becoming a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner, the bridge has proved useless. The first time was with a younger veteran who worked at an Iraqi hospital. He was charged with the surgical repair of children. Improvised explosive devices (IED) are part of this current war (OIF/OEF). They strike our soliders as well as the children that live there.
Our hospitals are the only ones there. So there this solider would stand, outside the hospital doors. Vans would pull up and a dozen maimed and dying children would be placed on the ground. He said this story like he was reading a recipe. There was a pause. Then he cracked and sobbed. I was calm and empathetic. No matter how long I remain a nurse my stories will never be anything like theirs. I am humbled at every turn.
Again, while I listened I was calm and empathetic. It didn’t hit me until I was driving home. I was taking a right and had to pull over. This story, it blew up my bridge. But not in the office, on the way home.
Then there was John, a Vietnam Vet. He had never considered his nightmares and flashbacks to be anything out of the ordinary. Never considered seeing someone like me. Never told anyone about Vietnam. Not even his wife. But he came because his wife asked him to. Maybe they can do something about your nightmares she said. Nightmares that happend 4-5 times a week for past 25 + years.
After a few appointments, he started opening. He brought in a website that his son had found. A website started by his brothers, his brothers in arms. There is no other way to understand what these soldiers mean to each other. Other than to say they are family. He gave me a print out from the site. Then he told me the story of an explosion, of a fire, of his brothers running out of the jungle. He was powerless to stop any of it. He started to murmur something and sob very hard.
Then I was flooded with his sadness and horror. Then I realized I had to do something quick or I was going to start sobbing with him. It took every once of my nurse training to hold it in. To pull myself back to the other side of the bridge.
I sat with him, unable to say anything. Nothing would have mattered anyway. I did manage to say, I am so thankful you are here, telling me your story. I am so glad you are here.
He sobbed for about ten minutes. This man of great honor.
The soldier’s story is unlike any other I have heard as a nurse. And while I am a nurse, I have more power than one. Next time I find myself on their side of the bridge I will linger and be still. Giving witness and reaching out to meet them where they are.
As for John, after he settled, and we finished the appointment, I shook his hand. I grasped it with both of mine. I really mean that, I said, thank you for coming here and telling your story. Thank you for letting us help you however we can.
It is a privilege to serve those that have served. I am humbled and grateful to be walking with them on this journey.
"Made muffins with the wee girl (the kind you make from a box-no energy to add flour eggs and milk people)- quite tastey. She was very cute in her mini apron, stirring :) Finishing the coffee and off to the kids museum. YAWN!!! It's not even 8.30 yet :)"
OY!
Here's some rockin' tunes to get your groove thing shaking!
WAIT! If you go to the real home page, i have this new 'ligit widgit' thing and it is showing a map of all the visitors. HELLO PEOPLE FROM DENMARK! AND ENGLAND!! WOW! it is the international house of Hall here! :)
Feeling battle weary at the end of this week. So, in times of need I turn to the all healing powers of Ska.*
Let's all turn to the Planet Smashers shall we? Their song "Pee in the Elevator" may very well have changed my life, way back when, at age 19.
But after age 19 , I forgot who the hell sang the song or the song title. For six years I would hum a few lines, do random searches on the interwebs trying to find it.
Then, I asked Rob and he knew the song and band in 2 seconds flat. Thanks Rob! Yes THAT ROB)
But alas, that song did not hold up to repeat listening.
So you get this instead.
"I like your girlfriend" by the Planet Smashers
All sorts of healing . . . .
What with the earnest lookie lou-ing at the girlies and gentle appreciation of the female form.
Ok everyone, group hug here. Almost there now, I see the light at the end of the tunnel.
And apologies, there is no joke in this post, just two blondes. Both real estate agents. Feel free to add your own blond jokes in the comments.
So, let's begin . . . .
The first blonde will be selling our house. I've known the woman for about ten years. She is a bit older than me- mid 50's I believe. She is the girlfriend of Bob, one of my husband's coworkers. They've been dating on and off since high school. She is good looking woman. And whomever meets her, asks this question-
"Is she drunk?"
Because she is blonde and very, very fun. Her name is Bunny.
I've always been curious about Bunny and her drunken demeanor. I see her at company functions, having a good time. She doesn't actually drink though. Drunken is her personality. She is gregarious, warm and a bit loose.
Then, as I was wont to do at age 24, I challenged her. I was a bit sauced myself. I challenged the relationship she has with Bob, I challenged her. "Why no ring," I say? "Don't you want to marry him? Why aren’t you making him pony up?"
Again, age 24. I had figured out who I was. I had done a lot of background work, a lot research to prepare and ensure myself for a successful marriage. And this flighty woman was gonna hear about it. Again, age 24.
Then,
As I was having my ass handed to me, I had a revelation. I should never assume my path to happiness is the path others must follow. I should not assume their path, (of living in sin) will lead them to where it left me, devastated and adrift. Bunny was doing just fine. Just fine indeed.
Also, just because someone is blonde and fun, doesn't mean I am smarter than them. The woman, this Bunny, she handed me my ass in a super intelligent and deft manner. I was out manned and out gunned. My ninja skills of verbiage and debate, they were no match for an older woman who owns exactly who she is. I got served that day.
Very thankful says the grasshopper.
That being said, I am very glad she is our real estate agent. Those qualities up there, they will get our house sold.
The second blonde will sell us a house. She is my age. We met with her Monday. I liked talking to her. People in sales are aesthetically pleasing. So quaffed, so stylish. I am not on their level, babe wise. Yet.
Again, it was a very enjoyable experience, our meeting. It was nice outlining our needs and wants. I felt astute, womanly and muscular. It was a very articulate and adult conversation. Jeez, I need to get out more.
But really, when she sees us, she sees talking bags of money. Which will make her work hard. Which is good. We need all the help we can get.
And OOOHHH the visions I am having. The visions of having my husband around our house again. Seeing his black socks, his black comb, his red t shirt. Having him chase the kids, flipping them up in the air. The random squeeze out of nowhere. The sly wanton looks in the midst of changing diapers and braiding hair. The code words, the inside jokes between husband and wife. . . Feeling his masculine energy perseverating . . . .
What I see is a restoration of my harmony. Of our harmony.
Every day we plug away, step by step we get closer. And now we have these two blonds, who for their own reasons, are helping us towards to the goal.
And for this I am very thankful.
Again, leave blonde jokes in the comments if you wish. We all need a laugh eh?
It began with my first ultrasound, when the technician said,
"Mrs. Hall, you are carrying a girl, TEXT BOOK GIRL. Those three lines there, ALL GIRL."
So we named her Lola. I put the song (Lola) on the ipod, playing and singing along whilst in the car. Pancake and I danced and sang it in the shower whilst she 'washed' the baby---my belly. Awww . . . belly love . . .
Then, I went through all of Pancake's clothes and pitched any that were gender neutral or even remotely boyish. PITCHED 'EM ALL!!
As a result, Mac has all girl hand me downs. He loves wearing his sister's jammies the most. "Pancake's jammies!", he says while hugging his clothes. I encourage this.
Second, Mac lives in a female dominant house five days a week. His Momma is fully in charge. He has grown to love all manner of cute kitty videos on youtube. Cute bunny videos too. Then there is the Lolcats.com. He loves the wee kitties.
Then, the other night, after I finished painting my daughter's toes, Mac comes up and whips off his socks, all excited. So I painted his toes. After, he grabbed his chubby little feet and lifted them up while exclaiming, "IMMA PRINCESSS!!!"
Mmmmhmmm, um, that boy needs some of his Daddy, STAT!!!
But, I can say this. Daddy was here this weekend, just like every weekend. We had a scrumptious Sunday dinner of wild salmon, brown rice and asparagus. So tasty the asparagus! Mac mowed them down, wood chipper style. Then he got to share a cookie (macadamia nut) with his Daddy. His eyes lite up. "COOKIE!!!" He hollered.
Mr. Hall broke the cookie in half and handed it to Mac. "COOKIE!!!" He hollered again. THEN
THENNNN@!!!!!!!!
He looked right at me and said, "MOMMY!!! COOKIEEE!!!"
And handed me half of his cookie.
I was floored by this. OOF!!!! Sniff, sniff, unbearable Mommy pride, sniff sniff, tearing up.... I smiled and said, "Oh thank you honey! Mommy is so proud of you sharing like such a good boy!"
A cookie never tasted so sweet ;)
SO NOW, let's all enjoy the gayest referee ever :)
I had a very weird dream that was caused by Earl's post on naked women from Paris. Naked Parisian models who walk down the street no less! On video no less!
This is the second dream that has been caused by an Earl post.
Here's the dream:
I was traveling with the show "America's next top model". I was one of the crew members versus a contestant.
Jerry Hall was there, sitting in a hotel meeting room. She was eating pancakes at a long banquet table. There was a white polyester table cloth that draped to the floor. It had pleats.
This is Jerry Hall and her long blond hair. She appears to be enjoying the blue couch, no?
She had taken off her hat and placed it to the side of her plate. This revealed something very interesting about Ms. Hall. See all that long blond hair up there, the hair she is famous for? Turns out, it's just a wig attached to the inside of her hat. She was bald, with small baby fine whispers of hair. Her hat? I believe the hat was a pill box hat. Hmm . . yes, most definitely, a dark pill box hat.
That hat above is a variation of a the 'pill box' hat. A traditional pill box hat is a style that was made famous by Jackie Kennedy.
But, this photo, much more fun than a Jackie Kennedy photo, yes? tee hee :)
There was an irritating director or producer in the room. I couldn't see him but he was making fun of Jerry Hall, calling her out for being neglectful Mom. He did this in a sing song type way. Again, irritating. Jerry Hall looked up, but not at the man or me, just straight ahead, with a blank expression. And with no emotion, she got up, flipped her plate, (pancakes and all), onto the table. Then, she poured all the syrup over the mess. The syrup was honey colored. It was a sugar free or lite syrup. She was throwing a snit fit, but in very slow and surgical manner.
I went over and helped her dump out the last of the syrup. We went upstairs. On the way up, I told a person at the front desk that we (the show) would help cover any cost her snit fit caused.
THEN
Much later in the dream I was seated on a carpeted floor in another meeting room. We all sat 'Indian style' or what it is called nowadays at my daughter's school- 'criss cross applesauce'. There were about 30-40 of us (some girls from the show, some crew) all sitting in bunch. We were watching the models on a slightly raised platform, doing some sort of competition. Unsure if they were nekkid. Or from Paris.
THEN IT GETS WEIRD.
I was sitting next to Brian Williams. YES- Brian Williams of some nightly television news show. I was talking to him very quietly (so I wouldn't interrupt the competition.) And then
then
well, I was very um, well, and then
I hauled off and kissed him. It was a very passionate kiss.
This man in no way, shape or form, gets my motor running. At least my conscious motor. Apparently, my subconscious motor is all over that sweet hunk o man!
and then well, more kissing but not much besides kissing. I really did enjoy the kissing btw and then I woke up.
SO WTF?
Jerry Hall and Brian Williams? Who? What? I don't watch the evening news and have no interest in Jerry Hall, who is an older model, not of my generation. No idea who these people are or what they even might represent.
So, what do you think? Give it some time if you want. Meanwhile, enjoy this photo.
Because hells yeah, this photo is effing awesome.
And guess who the man sitting next to the hot babe on the right is. (no, it's not Mr. Hall)
No cheating YE FRIENDS OF THE FACEBOOK!
Have a good weekend :)
The lighting in front of the fireplace absolutely blew monkey butt, but I did the best I could to lighten it up for all to enjoy. :)
The post on Rob is HERE and HERE. In all honesty I should have contacted him before I wrote the post. But, better late than never.
And now, the man himself, he speaks.
ONE:When you got married, did you write your own vows?
We did not and I wish we did. We got married in a very small church in the middle of nowhere up here. Even my wife's friends, who were from that state, had trouble finding it. It was very conservative, but it was part of her family and the wedding was on the cheap and they let us do it there for next to nothing; so we were trying to cause as little waves as possible. He did a quick read thru the day before with us, but I guess we were so nervous that we didn't pay attention.
I do remember giving each other uneasy glances. The vows were very misogynistic and all about the woman being obedient to the man, not being an equal partner, which is how we viewed ourselves. In a joking way I was like "Yeah, I rule!" It just seemed worse during the actual ceremony though, other stuff that we didn't seem to catch the first time. We regret not writing our own vows. Conservative fundamental Christians have a lot in common with fundamental Islam, or any other radical fundamentalists.
Ugh. Just love everybody. Equally.
TWO:Can you give an example of something you did in your work with animals (either as a nutritionist or rehab specialist) that made an impact on an animals life?
They weren't always the best of times, but the most impact I had was when I worked at a veterinary rehab clinic/holistic vet. We were also the in-house vet clinic for a large dog hotel. We did a lot of geriatric care and care of animals with limited mobility. We were working intensively with an old Rottweiler named Zeus. His owners would drop him off for the day and he would stay on a matt covered in blankets and towels near the reception desk. He would bark and whimper as other patients came in for the day. His little tail stump would wiggle and he would lick them and the small dogs as they came near to say hello.
We had to carry him with two specially rigged slings. He was a heavy boy. Zeus was a sweet dog and I loved him, but man, was he a stubborn cuss. We swam him in the underwater treadmills three times a day, trying to get a pattern to his legs moving, get him to relearn to walk again. My back would be screaming in pain afterwards, because as the big guy at the clinic, I did most of the heavy work.
After a while, he wasn't making much forward progress and his quality of life was pretty poor. He wasn't eating much to keep his energy up. His owners were about ready to make that fateful decision. They'd been dropping him off so that he could stay at the attached dog hotel and we could get him and do work with him first thing in the morning, plus they needed a break from the home care. I went to get him one morning.
I opened the kennel door and he looked up at me. Then he proceeded to prop himself up and push up off the floor. I was in shock. He got himself up and then trotted out the door and down the hallway into a big play room area. He just did circles, showing off his energized legs. The doctor couldn't believe it either. She was the eternal optimist, but even she had decided in the last couple days that it just wasn't going to happen. Zeus had picked the prime moment to say,
"Don't give up on me yet. Watch this. FU!"
Zeus started the slow recovery climb and got better at walking every day. He was bouncing back.
Reality says that as old as he was - he still didn't have a lot of time left, but he was going to spend it fighting and enjoying some freedom and independence. That was a triumphant moment for me. Zeus showed me spirit. He confirmed that tough persistance pays off sometimes when common sense says the success point is long past.
Every day I help people get their pets on proper nutrition and it feels good. I'm not making the impact I did with Zeus, but in small ways I'm able to help a lot of animals and in the long term, improve their quality of life so they can run around for a lot longer.
THREE:How many push ups can you do?
Less than I could in the Army, beyond that, I don't want to try to find out.
FOUR:What is something you do every day that makes you smile or that you look forward to?
Spend time with my daughter and my wife. No question that's what it's all about.
FIVE:And last but not least, any comments, questions or concerns with the post written about you? Anything you would like to add?
Nothing I could add, other than like I told you before, you paint me with a rosier color than I deserve. We were both on the road to figuring ourselves out and getting to this point here.
BONUS:um, have you read anything else from la blog de senora hall?
Yes, good stuff. I like the hardware store trip, that was funny.
Rob is still an awesome guy with an awesome life. Thank you Rob, for reading my post and saying you liked it. Thank you for being so nice about all of this. And thank you for answering the five questions. :)
OK GOOD! Now you! GO! Write something very wonderful and gutsy and honest and emotional. Because this is what we do here in the bloggerhood. Tell our stories.
I wrote this post a few months ago. It was well received, people were moved.* I was moved too. Moved enough to find Rob. Turns out, it only takes 15 seconds on facebook to find anyone. I was mortified but did the right thing, I let him know about the post below.
Turns out, he is still a great guy. He enjoyed the post. Turns out, he has a great life these days. So, I sent him five questions for a chapter two of this post. You'll see them on Wednesday. Here's the orginal post to prepare.
Tori Amos used to be a big fat moon in my nighttime sky. My daytime sky too. Her songs spelled out my story for quite some time.
Her music happened to me during my year abroad. Again, it was a long, naked and punk year. Again, I was nineteen. I was so happy that year. I giggled and giggled most every day. But, it was a solo project. At least at first.
One day, I looked through the personal ads to find a friend. There was a quirky ad that read "looking for a rude girl for a rude boy with eclectic tastes". A bouncy and giggly message was left at the beep. On the other end was Rob.
hello Mr Zebra can I have your sweater cause it's cold cold cold in my heart heart heart Ratatouille Strychnine sometimes she's a friend of mine with a gigantic whirlpool that will blow your mind
Dating him was fast and fun. He introduced me to a whole new world of men. Men that played rugby and went to bars. Men that danced to ska, wore braces and drank shorties. I fell deeply in love with him. He was the first gentleman I had ever dated. He would open doors and speak softly.
His love of music was impressive. He made me mix tapes that were beyond compare. I found one the other day. He always used a black sharpie to neatly write out all the song and band names. He would even come up with clever titles for the mixes. His touch was always personal.
It felt so avant garde, dating him. So new and other worldly. I had never known anyone like him.
He was a wee bit older than me. Something like five years. I didn't realize it, but I wasn't showing him anything all that new. It was just new to me.
Let me repeat that. I was not new to him. This was a new experience, not being considered so unique, so different. It was the first time I felt normal, among my people. It was like finding a member of my tribe. Maybe I am not so different after all.
nothing gonna stop me from floating nothing gonna stop me from floating
On every date, I would bring him little gifts from the dollar section at Walgreens. Little items with symbolic meanings. One time I brought him a soap box so that he would also remember to stand on it and speak his mind. It was a blue plastic soap box, but he got the idea anyway.
When we were in bed, we would share twixes, his favorite candy bar. I would keep my tights on for him because at that time, I didn't shave my legs or under arms. Stroking my thighs with the tights was more tactically pleasing.
Look I'm standing naked before you Don't you want more than my sex I can scream as loud as your last one But I can't claim innocence
Feminist inspired hygiene issues aside, he was very charmed by me. I feel deeply in love. So much so that when we talked on the phone, i heard whispers. I want to marry this guy, they said. I told him this. He said he loved me too. He was cautious though, at least that's what I thought he meant.
I tell you that I'll always want you near You say that things change my dear
Our courtship was interrupted. Rob was in the army and went to serve in Bosnia. That soap box came in handy, it was a travel soap dish after all. We exchanged letters. He wrote about the devastation. How the area where they were stationed was the former site of the Olympics. Now it was a bunch of bombed out buildings. Him and his Sargent use to chuck oranges, breaking the windows.
He would tell me about the locals who had no idea how to make sandwiches for the "Americans". They would just throw a raw fish (complete with bones and scales) right on a bun. Tasty.
At that time, stateside, my love for Tori Amos grew unchecked. I had seen about four of her concerts at that point. I swam under her music, not coming up to breathe for another two years. I was obsessed. To this day I can here two notes from her first three albums (Silent All These Years, Under the Pink, Boys for Pele) and I can still sing any song, chapter and verse. All the lyrics here are from those albums.
All that emotional turmoil, all the things I was feeling was fodder in her songs. However, with each album, she began to lose control of the reins. Her music grew to be blathering. It became repetitive and lost it's meaning.
This was the problem with me too. I had no structure to who I was. My heart was formless and gushed without forethought. I was nowhere near a place of monogamy. Which was the one thing Rob had asked me for.
Ginger is always sincere Just not to one man
I cheated on Rob, while he was in Bosnia. I don't think I can ever forgive myself for this. He knew about it before I told him. Things were obvious at that point.
found your writing on my wall if my hearts soaking wet boy your boots can leave a mess
He broke up with me. There was nothing dramatic about it, he just turned around and walked away, not weeping. But his hurt was overwhelming. My heart felt stomped on by his big army boots. And yes, it left a very big mess. I was a very big mess.
I spent an entire year in mourning. Twelve months of feeling so sad, so hurt. It was horrible. Serves me right. I still dated other people though. LOTS of people. Too many people. They all saw the hurt. My heart was still with him.
boys on my right side boys on my left side boys in the middle and you're not here boys in their dresses and you're not here
We would talk during this time. Rob was the kind of guy who made it a point to stay in contact with people he loves. He pursued my friendship despite my efforts to shut the door completely. Being with him was painful, I still loved him so much. He was a gentleman and let me heal.
no one's picking up the phone guess it's me and this little masochist she's ready to confess all the things that i never thought that she could feel
After a while, things began to warm. I took a greyhound bus to Chicago to see him.
The inevitable backslide occurred. I remember siting across his lap. He was sitting up, facing me. We were in bed, waking up. I remember pontificating about my future. What was the next step? I could move down to Chicago and be his girlfriend. But, no. That wouldn't be right. He readily agreed.
I didn't realize it, but at the time, he never invited me to move in. He didn't call attention to this fact. He was a very kind man.
I had decided that my next step was to go to nursing school. Which I did.
I will always regret how I hurt Rob. How careless I was with his heart. I still ache when I think about it. Serves me right.
But I had to leave Tori behind. I had to eventually break up with her and her band. Too much drama from too much freedom.
I still have all of Rob's letters from his time in Bosnia though.
There is no way in hell I am going to read them. Maybe in ten years, but not now and not anytime soon.
I can thank him though, he was the first real man I dated. It was a good lesson to learn, what it is to be respected and heard. He never quite understood me though, but even I didn't understand me at that point. Never quite had a handle on me. That would be Mr. Hall's future job.
We kept in touch after I started nursing school. He did meet Mr. Hall. In fact, he took the very first picture of Mr. Hall and I. They liked each other, bantered about their respective time in the Army. Rob even stood up in our wedding. The last I had heard from him, was when I was pregnant with my daughter. I still miss him.
Take care Rob, you are an awesome guy.
hello Mr Zebra can I have your sweater cause it's cold cold cold in my heart heart heart Ratatouille Strychnine sometimes she's a friend of mine with a gigantic whirlpool that will blow your mind
Mr. Zebra is one minute and 34 seconds long.
Take a listen, you already read through the lyrics ;)
This month marks my eight year as a registered nurse. It also marks my first year as a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. As such, I am now well versed in the art of bridge building.
To work as a nurse is to work with other people’s pain. With respect to my current job, it is pain of the heart and mind as I work here, in mental health. And just like anyone who works in mental health these days, I see my fair share of soldiers. I see younger men and women from Operation Iraqi Freedom/Operation Enduring Freedom (OIF/OEF) and Vietnam vets.
The soldiers come and see me when they have held their pain long enough. They need to let it out or they will break apart. And in this way, they are like most of my patients. Most of my patients carry all manner of pain and/ or years of emotional chaos churning inside. I hear all of this and remain hopeful. After all, they are here, seeking help. The healing can finally begin.
Then I build a bridge. I am standing on the other side from their pain. I say, look here, see this bridge? If you let me help you, I can tell you how to cross the bridge.
I have helped a few cross the bridge. Just a few though, I am new at my job. The other side is great, they can keep their jobs, their wives say how less angry they are, how they don’t yell at the kids so much. They have healed a lot of damage just by crossing.
This bridge is very important. It is not my job to fetch the patient and carry them across. It is also not my job to live over on their side, feeling their pain. It is the difference between empathy and sympathy. Sympathy is jumping in the deep end with them. Empathy is recognizing pain but knowing it is not yours.
However, twice now, since becoming a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner, the bridge has proved useless. The first time was with a younger veteran who worked at an Iraqi hospital. He was charged with the surgical repair of children. Improvised explosive devices (IED) are part of this current war (OIF/OEF).
Their hospitals are the only ones out there. So there this solider would stand, outside the hospital doors. Vans would pull up and a dozen maimed and dying children would be placed on ground. He said this story like he was reading a recipe. There was a pause. Then he cracked and sobbed. I was calm and empathetic. Whatever I face in my career as a nurse, it will never touch what they have done.
Again, I was calm and empathetic. It didn’t hit me until I was driving home. I was taking a right and had to pull over. This story, it blew up my bridge. But not in the office, on the way home.
Then there was John, a Vietnam Vet. He had never considered his nightmares and flashbacks to be anything out of the ordinary. Never considered seeing someone like me. Never told anyone about Vietnam. Not even his wife. But he came because his wife asked him to. Maybe they can do something about your nightmares she said. Nightmares that happened 4-5 times a week for past 25 + years.
After a few appointments, he started opening. He brought in a website that his son had found. A website started by his brothers, his brothers in arms. There is no other way to understand what these soldiers mean to each other. Other then to say they are a family. He gave me a print out from the site. Then he told me the story of an explosion, of a fire, of his brothers running out of the jungle. He was powerless to stop any of it. He started to murmur something and sob very hard.
Then I was flooded with his sadness and horror. Then I realized I had to do something quick or I was going to start sobbing with him. It took every once of my nurse training to hold it in. To pull myself back to the other side of the bridge.
I sat with him, unable to say anything. Nothing would have mattered anyway. I did manage to say, I am so thankful you are here, telling me your story. I am so glad you are here.
He sobbed for about ten minutes. This man of great honor.
The soldier’s story is unlike any other I have heard as a nurse. And while I am a nurse, I have more power than one. Next time I find myself on their side of the bridge I will linger and be still. Giving witness and reaching out to meet them where they are.
As for John, after he settled, and we finished the appointment, I shook his hand. I grasped it with both of mine. I really mean that, I said, thank you for coming here and telling your story. Thank you for letting us help you however we can. And in all honesty, I hope I am helping him in some way.
It is a privilege to serve those that have served. I am humbled and grateful to be walking with them on this journey.
See Kate's Hair, that's my hair right there! (hey, i'm a poet and don't even know it.)
OK-wrote the main part of this post three weeks ago, so before we begin I have to discuss the last episode:
1. Kate-yes YOU!-When you are discussing a failed relationship with an ex boyfriend and you say, "Well, it wasn't all miserable", and he says, "Enough of it was". BELIEVE HIM.
Next, when you get on a sub with Mr. Sawyer and his bethroved, FUCK OFF. Be decent. Don't make eyes at Sawyer. Him and the blonde are trying to get it on and stuff, find something else to fuck up. And stop copying my hairstyle! At least I have bangs!!
2. The actress that plays the young and very very busty Eloise is a bad actress. I could out act her any day.
3. The smoke monster should have disemboweled Ben. I really really really hate BEN!
Do ya'll remember the show, 'Herman's Head?' way back when Fox started? If not, click here. Ok, keep that concept in the back of your mind.
Ok, do you at least remember the recent episode where Kate and John are talking while little kid ben was bleeding to death? Or the two exact same scenes where where Faraday is playing piano and Eloise comes in, saying, "best be gettin' to that big boat over yonder, it'll bring ya to the eyesland so ya can fill yer perpis!"
Or, does anyone remember when Kate said, "Here we are again, trying to save Ben." And the principles were the same, Jack being a surgeon and therefore the savior, Kate being all foxy and urging him on, Ben dying and so forth.
Now, let's think about this. And let's add some basic psychology here.
When we are kids, we develop ways of operating. If we are lucky enough to have solid parent(s) we develop an understanding of security and how to identify our emotions and how to cope with adversity. If you have suck ass parents, you have to work harder at learning these basic skills of life. Welcome to the world of my job, as a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner. My job is to help people learn to identify their emotions, develop coping mechanisms, help them heal the damage done. And oh, it can be done!!!
But, back to Lost. Part of the childhood development process involves learning patterns. What ever is strongest in terms of emotional arousal- sticks the hardest. Emotional intensity cements patterns of emotional and behavioral operating. Again, this begins for us as children.
THUS-if one has had a balanced parent(s), one has a good shot at cementing healthy emotional and behavioral patterns. However, if your parent(s) sucked, you learn to live your life like an episode of COPS.
AND THAT IS THE KEY HERE!
What is learned in terms of emotional development, ways of coping, behaving, all of this is a pattern. And it is repeated. GOOD OR BAD it is repeated. JUST LIKE JACK AND KATE SAVING BEN.
Considering that this entire island is spookey as all get out, and the show is very much concerned with psychology, psychics, all other manner of energy phenomenon, perhaps this show is just one big knock off of Herman's head.
Perhaps these characters are just bits of someone's psyche having the same conversation over and over. Repeating a pattern over and over. Just like we all do. Unless we take charge.
And if this was my head, and these were bits of my psyche, I would literally eliminate Jack, Kate, and Miles. I would keep Hurley, Sawyer, and Sayid.
Eliminating Jack, Kate and Miles would be easy. They have little or no ability to identify emotions or deal with them effectively. Jack is an addict, Kate is all closed off and badass, Miles is fucking annoying with his stupidness.
Developing Hurley, Saywer and Sayid would be tricky. They all have an edge of darkness to them. But they have shown growth, their goodness has responded to pruning, light and water.
Which leaves me with Ben. He would be struck down in some bowel involving way. He is no good, shows no signs of growth. He is evil. He needs to go. Unless he is little kid ben, then by virtue of my virtues, he would be saved.
HERE IS WHAT YOU HAVE TO ANSWER FOR!!
Now you, what would you do if the cast of lost lived in your head?
1. One surefire way to cure the blues is to take a day off and spend it with your daughter, doing girly things. Took her out of school for it. That way, no needy little brother. Just her and me. I plan on do this every month from now on! Oh, and he gets his day every day. He's two. :)
2. I have committed a cinematic offense- twice. I have watched the last 30 minutes of two films before I saw the beginning. The films- Fight Club and Sixth Sense. It was an accident, really it was! I had no idea what these films were, they were just playing in a room I happened to be in! I claim innocence! Mr. Hall still gives me crap about it, especially when we are disagreeing on something. If we come to a standstill, he plays that fight club/sixth sense card. Like it's a character flaw that negates my arguments.
3. The long arm of Daddy law is now Mommy's arm too. Mr. Hall is here on weekends* so the discipline is firmly on my shoulders during the week. Any skill I did not have in terms of time outs, taking away beloved toys and counting ONE TWO THREE , is now a super skill. They don't get a way with nothing nowadays.
4. The kids are doing well, no change in behavior or temperament since the move. For this I am eternally grateful.
*The Tribe Called Hall is currently relocating to my home town. Mr. Hall is staying behind, getting the house ready for sale/working. He comes up on weekends. Me and the wee ones live full time with my parents for now. But I am very tired of this arrangement, tired and getting pissy (Hey Pissy!), we need to move out!!!! Only I can do so much, only so much I have control over. So, grrr! FIGHT FIGHT!!
================================================== That being said, I am pretty pissed off. I need to sell the house, move out of this one and move in to a new one. This will take time and DAMMIT! I am all worked up and angry. I'm itching for a fight!
There is one CLASSIC ROCK station here, in my home town, where I have moved back to recently. And I swear to god, they are playing the same CLASSIC ROCK as they were when I left 20 years ago. In fact, I SHIT YOU NOT-the djs are still the same.
FOR FUCK SAKE
That means they are still playing the same music as 20 years ago that was created 10 years before that. Can we not evolve people!?
But then again, lately, I've been ACTUALLY LISTENING TO some of it.
and hot damn with the AC/DC and the LED ZEPPELIN. Hot stuff! Who knew?
Pink floyd though, meh. Still don't get what the fuss is. I've seen the Wall. I am deep enough to get the subtext. But really, I think Pink Floyd is lame.
I mean, yeah, I get it, oppressive school, domineering mom, drugs rock and roll and piss off because you are in a fish bowl covering the same old ground year after year.
Stereophonic bullshit if you ask me.
Pink Floyd can kiss my ass. ===========================================
A group of guys gathered. It was early morning, the base of a mountain. The dress code called for fleece, hiking boots, and frayed baseball caps with the bills smoothed round. There was not a lot talking. Current events were not shared, no discussion of politics. No verbiage on the wives and kids, except to say how big the boy is getting and how she likes her new job. Shortly after, they got down to the business of being there.
Hiking up the mountain, they talked even less. Some pulled ahead, some trailed behind. Step by step they plodded away, cracks of twigs breaking underfoot. A hefty Moose idled near by, calling out with a loud bellyache maw. It was a disgusting and thunderous noise, yet satisfying with its ugliness. With each step, the air grew firmer, resisting the labor of their breathing. Streams of sunlight lit up the wild and decaying earth around them. Leaning against juniper bark, they took stops. Sipping water and eating trail mix.
Blood pooled and rushed around. Muscles roared to fiery life. Sweat poured out, making their clothes and skin soggy. Their thoughts sounding like glass marbles bouncing in a tin cup. Each step jolting the lot. With no small effort; they focused on the trees, the lichen, the weight of their pack, anything but food. Then, an abrupt silence came and swallowed them whole, making nothing else audible. They had broken through the tree line.
The gray landscape stood as vast mounds. Lichen left nothing uncovered. Their acute exposure was overshadowed by the height they had reached. The squared themselves, squat and cocksure with fraternity. Steeper and steeper they strode. Each step was treated with the care of new born Australian Sheppard. Laced with firm leadership, the mountain path would be solid and giving. Loyal to their master's purpose. Fellow hikers now passed them, going the other direction. Wearing cotton t-shirts and tennis shoes, they were amateurs. Terror plastered on their faces.
Day turned to hot noon, noon to dusk. Dusk turned to a viscous, blue black sky. They set up camp, lit a fire, and took a leak behind the rocks. Bullshit was flipped back and forth. Beers were cracked, meals were made, joints were passed. Cards were thrown. Humor was shared about the teenagers they had seen, coming down the mountain. Tales of dirty girls and past drinking deeds circled up like smoke signals.
The next day broke with a chilly wind. Small whispers went running over Popeye forearms. Gray clouds blended with the mounds, forgetting where one began and the other ended. They cooked coffee and broke bread. Sleep stubbornly wiped from swollen eyes. Packed the tarps and army mats. They gave rise once more, this time down the mountain.
***********************************************
*This photo is not mine and I was not there. It belongs toGeology Joe(he is the one in the red shirt). He says, "The picture was taken at the base of Mount Katahdin (peak in the background) in Baxter State Park (in the state of Maine) during October 2005, the night before the hike." There was also a lot more guys then the ones pictured.
For more hiking, biking and mountain climbing adventures (that I didn't have) go to his website (really, it is awesome, you should go):
**If you want a story behind your photo, send it to me, WITHOUT telling me anything about the picture, and I will publish the story here. my email is:butcher.hollow@gmail.com
Tonight you’ll come home to this house To a house not ours, nor our home. The concrete hands gripping me tight Will rupture and dissolve to dust.
I’ve been lying over the city Like a glass dome. Inside the kids play, oblivious. I shield them from insults and injuries That suck the air from these rooms.
All of this you know, As you’ve been left behind Ataxic and swollen While your wife sends signals Of sirens distress.
So come tonight, here to this house Allow me a minute when you ring, To lower my shoulders To clean up the dust.
I will try my best While I smooth my face In the warm flesh of your neck To feel the serendipity Of who we are.
This poem would not be separated from this breathtaking video.
*Word associated by DizzBlnd Her site (which is very funny btw):
Dang, if it just didn't make noise, it'd sooo be my next dog 
Photo by 
Posts
