Rebellious teenage roots

Ewan, my friend over at Lucid, Inc., accused me of returning to my rebellious teenage roots when he saw my undershave haircut.

Before you can ask, here's a pic.  I left the sides grey and do the top a nice red/brown/auburn color.

Maybe he's right. And maybe that's ok.

dictionary dot com defines rebellious thusly:

defying or resisting some established authority, government, or tradition; insubordinate; inclined to rebel

When I think about it that way, I truly believe he's on to something.

Nobody designs clothes for real women these days, deodorant manufacturers believe that I am worried about what color the skin of my armpits may or may not be, cosmetics companies try and sell me on the idea that my face should look like porcelain, car makers try and sell me on the idea that my car is not cool enough/safe enough/technologically advanced enough, magazines try and convince me that my sex life isn't hot enough and my body is not thin enough and my clothes are not trendy enough, big pharma bombards me with ads that tell me I need this medicine or that one, and republicans try and convince me that they know what is best for my vagina.

When I look at all the messaging that's out there, I really start to feel rebellious. I may not like my thighs, but I mostly really like me just the way I am. I'm tough, I'm smart, I'm strong, I'm funny, I'm clean (and sober), I earned every damned one of my grey hairs, I laughed my way into those lines around my eyes, I'm a survivor--I'm just all around beautiful and awesome exactly the way I am.

I'm tired of conforming to society's ideas of what I should look like, act like, smell like, and think like.

Maybe there is some rebelliousness going on with the new haircut, the tougher clothes (all deconstructed or minimalist bordering on severe), and the multiples of pairs of new boots I have recently added to my shoe wardrobe. Or maybe I just realized that I have reached that age where I can do what the fuck I want and not give a shit what other people think about me. I've almost reached that age where I am not rebellious or weird, I'm eccentric. 

The new items in my closet, the new shoes on my feet, the new haircut--these things all fit my lifestyle better. They also fit my personality better.

My personality has reached a point where it doesn't care about looking like everybody else looks, it doesn't care about what marketeers and magazines say my skin/hair/body/clothes should look like, it doesn't care that my car isn't cool enough in some circles, it doesn't care about conforming to society's norms. It just wants the best for me according to me.

And that kind of fits the definition of rebellious. So I guess Ewan was on to something after all.

Is it sad that I can't remember...

I just had to fill out a form that required me to remember when I graduated college. I had to search this blob to find the answer.

For the record, I graduated just over a year ago. Why on earth I would have thought it was more than 2 years ago, I just don't fucking know.

This shit happens to me a lot lately.

I just can't remember things. Like birthdays, mother's day, to eat breakfast, to clean spilled milkshake out of the car, why I'm standing in the bathroom...

You'd think that I'd have remembered when I graduated college, though.

What's even worse? I don't even know where the hell my degree is.

Something's wrong with the world today

And yesterday, and maybe even the day before that.

For starters, the weather has been unusually mild. While temperatures hovering around 95-100F may not seem that mild to most folks, here in the ArkLaTex, that's mild for summer. The last too many summers have been 100-112F with heat index values making it seem even worse.

There has been a lot of horseshit going on in the world at large that just hurts the heart. The injustice in Sanford Florida, the non-stop gun violence in Chicago, people leaking classified information, the state government passing laws dictating what I can and cannot do with my own vagina, and continued unrest in the middle East are just the tip of the iceberg.

On the home front, it's just as off. It seems we are living in a constant state of renovation, cash-flow crises, and the never-ending battle to get the state that can spend $1.6 MILLION to pass laws governing my vagina to DO SOMETHING ABOUT THE SALVINIA THAT IS KILLING OUR LAKES.

It all felt a bit off all summer; but for the last three days, it's been almost like I am walking through a dream world. I guess the trigger was the conversation I finally had with my mom--the first one since mother's day. Now, don't get me wrong. My mom is a great mom. She's not perfect, but neither am I.

It's always been tense, strained, difficult. I suppose I'm grateful that our conversation went better than I expected, even if it didn't go as well as either of us had hoped. I wish it could be different, but it probably never will.

I suppose the only thing to do is quit trying to figure it all out, get up off my ass, and go clean the bathroom or iron some clothes or something. Sometimes, I'm not meant to have all the answers, and I'm not meant to be the one to "fix" it.

Yo ass gonna get wider

So this weekend, my co-worker, Tony, told me I needed to lay off the pancakes because my ass was gonna get wider.

Now, before you go getting all angry at Tony, know that he wasn't being a misogynist asshole. Tony was just trying to push my buttons, the way my brother used to before my brother became so miserable and bitter. Tony would never have made a funny about my butt if I hadn't already been doing the same. Tony is a-ok in my book; he only acts all growly and grumpy--he's really a teddy bear.

Back to the point of this post. While there was no malice in Tony's comment, there was truth. I'm not 23 and strung out on meth anymore; I'm not even a stagehand who doesn't stop moving the whole time she's at work anymore. This means that I can no longer get away with eating all the cookies and calling it lunch.

Y'all, this ain't gonna be easy for me. I've used cookies (and candy and cuppity cakes) in place of dope these last eight years. This means I'm having to give up another fix. The good news is that there is a solution for this. The 12 steps have been geared toward the disease of addiction rather than a specific substance, so there is hope.

The other upside is that I am far less worried about size than I am about general health and wellness. I have been experiencing serious lack of energy, and part of that can be attributed to sugar spikes and the ensuing crash. I know that I feel better when I eat more like my Sunshine, I just keep giving in to that craving for all the chocolate.

It's just that some days suck, and chocolate makes them suck less. Maybe I just need a meeting, and the new perspective that a meeting always brings.

Slow burn

It's that time of year here in the deep south. August.

It's not unusual for the temperature to hover in the 100-110F range, with heat indexes parked in the 115-120F (or higher) range.

Time slows down in the deep south. The days seem to drag on while the world bakes itself into a dry, dusty, colorless state. The trees droop, the vines sag, the flowers wilt; the only thing standing tall is the mercury in the thermometer.

Air conditioning units run nonstop, and parked cars become kilns. The smells of sour sweat and dust fill the heavy air and linger in the stillness.

The skies have gone from the azure hues of spring to a sun-bleached blue-white. The plants and trees have gone from April's emerald tones to an almost yellow shade of green. The grass has turned the same shade of grey as the Spanish moss.

Night brings no relief. 80 is the overnight low. Even the thinnest of cotton sheets feels like too much weight. Sleep becomes more like exercise, tossing and turning, trying to find a cool spot on the mattress and pillow.

This is our normal state for the next 8 weeks or more. The last thing I want to see is an email from Cusp telling me how to wear leather now; they've obviously never smelled leather coated in human sweat. It won't be long before these asshole retailers will be displaying Christmas themed merchandise and ugly Christmas sweaters, even before the Halloween crap goes on display.

Fuck Christmas. I'm trying to figure out how the hell to keep from sweating as I vacuum my floor. The best I can do is go sit in the deep-freezer and cool off afterwards.

What was I thinking?

Some days, I feel like I spend too much time trying to chase down a thought. Just a few moments ago, I noticed that the air conditioner was running in the bedroom, and I thought to myself "I need to go turn that up during the next commercial break", and I was immediately afraid that I would forget about it before that 90 seconds have passed.

I don't know if this is just a natural part of getting older, or if this is the result of all that dope I used for far too long, but it is scary to think that this might be the new normal for me.

My thoughts just feel so fleeting at times that I wonder if I'm meant to hold onto them. Perhaps they aren't so brilliant after all. Maybe it wasn't that important to begin with, you know?

I don't let it higher me when I don't remember where I put my car keys, I don't get upset when I forget something at the grocery store, and I have long since quit being bothered that I can't remember what happened to my pants. I mean, the keys can't have gone too far in less than 250 square feet of living space, muffins aren't that big of a deal as long as there is SOMETHING to eat, and who really gives a shit whether or not I'm wearing pants out here in the swamp when it's this fucking hot? Those aren't the failings of memory that frighten me.

It's when I walk from the couch to the bathroom and can't even remember why I did such a thing that scares me. It's knowing that I am afraid I will lose my train of thought that scares me.

Maybe I should run for office. It sure would be nice to be reminded what I did in my 20s, right? Too bad that won't help me remember why I'm in the bathroom right now.

Aging gracefully?

I have begun to realize that I am no longer 23 and bulletproof. I'm not just realizing this on a superficial level; I'm internalizing it.

The last few nights, I've had trouble getting to sleep. I'm almost paralyzed by thoughts of "what if?": what if something happens to Mr. Sunshine, what if I lose my job, what if what if what if...

Ultimately, I'm worrying about things over which I have no control. I suppose this sleeplessness is a side effect of addiction. Maybe it's just part of being human.

Eventually, my night-night meds do what they are supposed to do, and I fall into some sort of sedated dream-state.

When I wake up each morning, the blackest of fears run from the light of day, leaving me to face the physical reminders of the passage of time. The aches in the arches of my feet, the stiffness in my left knee, the pain in my neck and back--all of these remind me that
A) I'm not getting any younger
and
B) I really should have been kinder to myself throughout the first 42 years of my life.

What's done is done, though. There is no time travel. There are no do-overs. There is only today to try and make a better tomorrow. Some days, that's hard. Nobody wants to hire a convicted felon, even though she has a degree and almost a decade trouble-free since her last offense.

My looks are fading. I see the lines around my eyes and mouth. I see the difference in the size of my pants.

Thank heaven I still have my mind, even though nobody wants to give it a chance because of my history.

This morning, my mind just cannot handle facing all of the "what if" and "might have been".

Thus morning, my mind thinks perhaps my little doggie is on to something. We woke up this morning, and that's a good way to start the day.

So I'm going to look to Mollie for inspiration today, and try and enjoy this moment, because it really might be all there is.

I can't keep quiet...

I was one of the basquillions of people glued to my teevee when twitter told me that the jury had reached a verdict in the #zimmermemtrial. I was one of the people who was hoping our justice system would get it right this time; hoping a murdered kid's family would see their son's killer convicted. While I was hoping for the best, I was expecting the worst.

See, I have been through the criminal justice system in murica multiple times; that's a common side effect of addiction.

What I learned through my years in active addiction is that the disease of addiction is not prejudiced. It respects no race, religion, gender, socioeconomic status, nationality, sexual preference, or geographic location. What I learned through my years of experience in the American criminal justice system is that the system, and the society, indeed respects certain genders, races, socioeconomic statuses, nationalities, religions, and sexual preferences, regardless of geographic location. 

See, when people hear I'm a recovering addict, they are always shocked. During my active addiction, the only visual clue that might have given away the fact that I was strung out was my weight--specifically, the lack thereof. I didn't look like an addict. I didn't fit 'the profile'. I was (am) a heterosexual white female from a working middle class family in the rural south. I didn't look like an addict, I didn't look like a drug dealer, I didn't look like a drug mule, and I didn't look suspicious. I was never profiled, never stopped and frisked, and quite often drove away from traffic stops with quantities of drugs in the car with no more than a ticket for a minor traffic violation. I was arrested more times than a few, and never received excessive punishment for my crimes. While I did do prison time, it was because I got the judge that sentenced everybody to time; I will say that my sentence was far lighter than the sentences of others in his court for much more minor offenses-probably because I just didn't fit the profile of a serious offender (blue eyes and red hair doesn't get racially profiled much, now does it?)

My addiction landed me in prison more than twice. And what surrounded me in those prison settings wasn't a bunch of people who looked like me. Yes, there were white women in the prison, but they were the minority; the ones who were there were there for serious offenses: killing her child, arms trafficking, shit like that. While in prison, I was surrounded by African-american women and Hispanic women, many of whom were there for offenses more minor than mine.

I survived in prison. I survived because some random woman saw the 'deer-in-headlights' look when I walked in, and she taught me things. She taught me how to use my creative side to make cards and things for other inmates. That woman had been there a while, and knew lots of the women there quite well; she introduced me to her friends, thus ensuring that I at least had a chance of being judged for my personality and not my race or religion or anything else that people sit in judgement of. The greatest compliment I was ever paid in prison was when sweetie-pie, an African-american woman I often sat and talked with, laughed at some random silly thing I had done (that was probably pretty dorky-white-girl-ish) and said that what you saw with me was what you got with me--I was the same person around everybody. 

Since my release from prison, I have often been discriminated against because of my felony convictions. I have had my car searched every single time I am stopped for speeding or whatever. I'm not complaining, for the most part, because I earned this kind of treatment. I'm also not complaining because at least my name has to be run through the system before I am treated with suspicion. As a blue-eyed-pale-white-redheaded woman, I am generally treated with courtesy and respect. I may not be the boss of my own vagina, but I am not treated as a threat because of my physical appearance.

So I have been aware that the system is flawed for some time. It disproportionately affects minorities in devastating ways.

Once I got clean, I guess I thought the world would change because I had changed. Or maybe I just thought that all people trying to change their lives for the better would be given the benefit of the doubt like I was. I was welcomed into the rooms of 12 step fellowships, I was given a job quickly, I was accepted into college with a little help from folks in influential positions. I was given the opportunity to recover.

Hurricane Katrina was the event that started opening my eyes to white privilege, although I didn't know that term at the time. I just called it racism when African-american addicts who had evacuated New Orleans weren't made to feel welcome in meetings. I went out of my way to hug those evacuees, whether black or white or purple/green/&yellow, because they deserved to feel as welcome as I did. I lost some friends over it, and I'm OK with that. Who needs those kind of friends anyway?

All of the rage I felt in the aftermath of Katrina was reawakened and thrown on steroids when Zimmerman shot an innocent kid (young man, whatever--regardless of what you call Trayvon, he didn't deserve to die) and then was acquitted. I was sad, angry, and sickened.

However, that was nothing compared to the way I felt when I started thinking about it on a more personal level. My dear friend Elliot (incidentally, he's black) tweeted that he has never felt safe in this great country of ours. Sunshine's friend/longest term employee Charlie (again, a black man in the South) makes it clear on a daily basis that he fears the consequences of some trivial mistake--he fears that he will no longer be valued. (For the record, these are not our only black friends. These are just the FIRST two we talked about after the verdict, and this post is already getting long-ish.) Sunshine (incidentally, native american, the earlier victims of #whiteprivilege) and I laid in bed and cried for our friends that feel they aren't safe, won't be valued, and are treated as less than because of the color of their skin. I cried like a baby, thinking of Elliot, such a beautiful and decent human being, never feeling safe. I cried like a baby because Charlie, a valuable friend and employee, fears not being valued. I cried at the thought of my co-worker, Tony, who makes me laugh and makes me feel safe at work, and his sons, having to always worry that someone saw them as a threat because of the color of their skin and the texture of their hair. I cried for Aryka, who is just a fierce and beautiful woman, because she is labeled as a gay black woman by those who fear the 'other'. I cried for April, whose mind and shoes I respect, because she has to fear for her son's safety. I cried for each and every one of those recovering addicts who was not welcomed in meetings after Katrina. I cried for my friend Rodney, who helped me realize there are miracles if I just open my eyes and heart to see them. I cried for Barry, who was my sponsor for a while til he moved back to New Orleans. I cried for sweetie-pie and Lynetta, who were kind to me in prison and helped me laugh in spite of our circumstances. I cried again for Lynetta, who died tragically shortly after her release. I cried for Keena, a sociologist, and I cried for her children and I cried for her students who help her study family relationships in murica. I cried until I couldn't breathe through the snot.

And then I got angry. I got angry at a society in which all the Trayvons must live in fear of being viewed as suspicious. I got angry at a society in which mothers must worry for their Trayvons.

And I got pissed that I live in a society that bends over backwards to help this multiply convicted felon when life throws me a curve ball but treats Elliot with suspicion. I call bullshit, murica. Get the fuck over yourselves, with your racism and oppression of anything 'other'. And know that this white woman is not afraid of a black man, because in my eyes, he is just a human being, and as such he is worthy of my love and respect.

I can't keep quiet anymore. I cannot keep quiet in a society that fears this multiply convicted felon far less than it fears a 17 year old Trayvon Martin walking home from buying skittles for his younger brother. I cannot keep quiet in a society that does not value all of its citizens equally--regardless of skin color, religion, gender, sexual orientation, or socio-economic status. And if you don't like me for saying this, I don't give a fuck. I'm saving my fucks to give to people who are worthy of them.

Because Tracie made me do it.

Alphabet Meme

A. Attached or Single? Attached. For almost six years now.

B. Best Friend? Mr. Sunshine. And Mollie

C. Cake or pie? Yes.

D. Day of choice? Today. This moment is all that there is.

E. Essential Item? Amazing shoes. Like Manolos, or something equally as fabulous.

F. Favorite color? Blue.

G. Gummy bears or worms? I can have neither, sadly. Citric acid.

H. Hometown? Uncertain TX. (It exists. Google it.)

I. Favorite Indulgence? Outrageously expensive shoes.

J. January or July? January. Because July is stupid hot.

K. Kids? None of my own, and I refuse to claim Sunshine's. Them's some bebe kids fo' sho.

L. Life isn’t complete without? Imma steal Tracie's answer. Life is strange in that often the things you think you can't live without are exactly the things that are holding you back. And add a caveat. Life isn't complete without love.

M. Marriage date? Which marriage?

N. Number of brothers/sisters? One of each, although most days, they don't want to claim me. I think it's the shoes that bother them.

O. Oranges or Apples? Apples. Specifically, ambrosia apples. I cannot have oranges, as I am allergic to them.

P. Phobias? Spiders, ticks, and other creepy crawlies.

Q. Quotes? Eva Mendez: Perfection is unattainable. To strive for it makes you boring.

R. Reasons to smile? Shoes. Squeaky toys. Puppy kisses. Sunshine. And shoes.

S. Season of choice? Autumn, when the world is dying and the temperatures are tolerable.

T. Tag 5 People: I don't know five people that haven't already been tagged.

U. Unknown fact about me? I ate all the candy yesterday. All of it.

V. Vegetable? Squash.

W. Worst habit? Probably the shoes. I have run out of shoe storage space again, which is the very definition of insanity.

X. Xray or Ultrasound? I seriously do not understand this question. Xylophone. That's my final answer.

Y. Your favorite food? This month, it seems to be anything chocolate and coconut. Like Mounds.

Z. Zodiac sign? Pisces.

He is my Sunshine

Phase two of the bathroom reno started last Thursday. I emptied the room and began the slow and painful process of surgical demolition, leaving all the tricky stuff for Sunshine (like the toilet).

It wound up taking waaaay longer than expected, for no other reason than ADAPTING HOUSE CABINETS FOR AN RV IS A MOTHERBITCH. There were multiple plumbing and electrical issues to sort out, along with the problem of not enough space to work. (Our bathroom? Is literally the size of most people's stoves.)

After several days of hell, we are almost done. Sunshine has to grout tonight, and I have to help. His shoulders are just too broad to make the necessary contortions involved in grouting, rinsing, wringing, and rinsing some more in a space the size of a Recaro bucket seat in an '81 Trans Am.

That dear sweet man has worked Hus ass off all weekend in our bathroom, and worked his ass off at work yesterday and today, and yet he still comes home and works on this bathroom. He tells me that he is going hunting next weekend. I say good for him, he's more than earned it.

How did I get so lucky to wind up with Mr. Sunshine?

As for the bathroom, he says I'm on my own with the painting. He picked the color (a nice mid-tone cool grey) but says buying it and getting it on the walls is all me. Fair enough; there are plenty of neighborhood kids willing to do grunt work for cash--I should have no trouble finding a helper.

Back to the point of this post...

Sunshine is awesomesauce. #thatisall

Attraction rather than promotion

Narcotics Anonymous has 12 steps that pretty much everyone has heard about. Lesser known outside of N.A. (or any other 12 step fellowship) are the 12 traditions. The traditions are a set of guidelines for the members and groups to help them in their dealings with each other, other groups, and the world outside the groups.

I've got the 11th tradition on my mind today. "Our public relations policy is based on attraction rather than promotion; we need always maintain personal anonymity at the level of press, radio, and films." What this means for me is this: if I am somehow thrust into the celebrity stratosphere, I probably shouldn't go running around proclaiming that I am a member of Narcotics Anonymous.

Why? Well, what if I wind up like Darryl Strawberry, Scott Weiland, or Lindsey Lohan--constantly making the news for yet another relapse, DWI, shoplifting, hit&run, escape from treatment, or any of that other shit these famous chronic waste-cases make headlines for? What does that say to the world about the fellowship? Nothing good.

This also applies to me on a much less public level. I probably shouldn't wear an N.A. shirt out in public if I am likely to act a donkey: whistling at women, getting arrested, trashing a restaurant or a Toys-R-Us, and any of the other silly shit humans do that isn't so attractive. Whether I like it or not, every single thing I do while sporting my N.A. teeshirt, tattoo, cap, or whatever reflects on the fellowship as a whole.

I wish other people would apply this wisdom in their daily lives. When you come into my place of business and act a donkey: snapping orders at me, telling me I didn't bring enough plates of food when you damn well know that you didn't order plates of food for those people that came in 20 minutes after you ordered, behave rudely and condescendingly, don't tip the wait staff, and leave a serious fucking mess on the tables and floor--what do you think it says about A) the church named on all your tee shirts and B) your religion in general? Nothing good. Your relentless promotion of your piousness and faith without works to back it up makes it all look like horseshit.

This also applies to corporate events: when your company throws an event, has a contract for specific services and set times, and you then start bitching because you aren't getting what you want, do you think this makes anybody want to do business with your company?

#imjustsaying

#foodforthought

#gratefuliaintyou

More reno teasers

Son we finally got an actual entertainment center! No more oversized teevee sitting on an oversized coffee table!

Believe it or not, we actually gained a couple square feet of floor space when we brought in this monster unit. It has a lot of storage, just with a smaller footprint than that coffee table.

Now, I have to figure out how to make this dark wood unit work with the things we're doing in the back of the magic bus. Black slate tile, chocolate grout, blue-ish/grey-ish/purple-ish iridescent murano glass mosaic wall tile with bronze border, white vanity and fixtures, and grey wall paint. Oddly, it all goes beautifully with our summer AND winter comforters. We have a chocolate and black couch, so I've got to figure out the floors in the front half of the bus.

Picking all the pretty things is so much more fun than the actual reno work coming this weekend. Anybody with any ideas, please help me pick all the pretty things for the front half of the bus.

Obsessions can be so RANDOM sometimes

I've been obsessed with some random shit lately. Living through a reno makes one a bit batshit, you know, and I'm no different.

I've become obsessed with spoons (and other flatware) thanks to the wondertwins Tia & SuperTeala. Tia wants spoons for a project, and Teala's dad once made a wind chime out of spoons and forks and shit, and a season 11 Project Runway contestant made a necklace out of spoons, and spoons are for stirring coffee, and in The Matrix, there is no spoon...

I've also become obsessed with Rick Owens, Isabel Benenato, Martin Margiela, and their sort-of post-apocalyptic-looking clothing. These designers are masters; the deconstructionist elements fascinate me. Martin Margiela has made vests out of broken china plates; I'm obsessed with this perfectly beautiful and absolutely delightful thing. I'm also stalking some Balmain velvet moto pants at a consignment shop locally, which is actually a very constructed garment but so fucking bad-ass that it will just WORK. I'm thinking that all of my new purchases might be a bit much for this small town in the swamps, but I don't care if it IS a lot of look for these tea party Christian country folk. (Disclaimer: I have nothing against Christians; it's small minded judgemental intolerant assholes I have a problem with. I actually know a few Christians who are quite like their Christ, and that is noble. Also, country folk are fine until they become closed to anything that isn't countrified.) I'm just too damn old to worry about what some close minded person thinks of my clothes-especially when I don't like their clothes any more than they like mine. So now I'm trying to figure out how to make the plate vest, but Sunshine says 'NO!' because the sharp edges will cut me. Damn spoilsport.

I've also been obsessing over the details of my magic bus reno. I am debating painting the cabinets; this 80s blonde oak veneer cabinetry is hideous. I'm just trying to decide if I hate it bad enough to disassemble it, sand it, and repaint it, or if I want to try to figure out how to attach bought cabinets to RV walls. Neither option is attractive, so which is the lesser evil? Iono yet; thank heaven I don't have to know yet.

My other obsession lately? Leslie Satcher's "Gypsy Boots". So what if it's a country song? It's a rollicking good time, and Leslie is an amazingly beautiful woman. It kind of makes me want some gypsy boots, whatever those are.

So there are my random obsessions du jour. Enjoy them; I sure am.

Renovation realities

Charcoal (almost black) slate tile with a dark Terra cotta grout. The colors? Very Yves Saint Laurent 1976. This is my bedroom floor, and will soon be my bathroom floor.

One of these days, Sunshine is going to kill me for all these ideas I get from watching HGTeeVee and DIY. I made him put ditra under the tile; I wanted the moisture/vapor barrier and the flex that ditra provides. Thank you Mike Holmes for teaching me about it, and thank you Damon Bennet for convincing Sunshine we needed it.

When we get the murano glass mosaic tiles up in the bathroom, I'll post pics. I promise.

Real life DIY

I'm sitting here pondering one of life's great mysteries: why the hell are my home improvements taking so damn long when the entire 'crashers' bunch from the DIY network is in and out in three fucking days?

I've come to one conclusion. I don't have forty thousand dollars to spend on my bathroom reno, nor do I have an entire production crew to assist me.

Nevertheless, the improvements are happening rather quickly around here. We finally put one of those giant carport structures over the magic bus to give us some shade and help prolong the life of the roof of the RV. We only had to wait a month on those fuckers to install the damn thing after we paid for it, and Sunshine had to do some serious phone calling and bitching or we'd probably still be waiting. I don't understand how so many of these companies in the arklatex operate like that and yet manage to stay in business, but that's a post for another day.

During the month we waited, we finally got the old coffee table out from under the teevee and replaced it with an entertainment center that also has storage. Sunshine finally made the shelf for our storage shed so that he could move some of his hunting gear outside. We ordered a new sink, new faucet, and a vanity for our bathroom; I'd call it a new vanity, except for the fact that what is in the bathroom now isn't a real vanity--it's one luan side of a vanity and a door in its frame. That's right, my vanity only has one proper side (if you can call luan 'proper')--the other sides consist of the bathroom walls and a cabinet door. No wonder Elkhart Indiana has such a high unemployment rate.

The moment the carport got installed, Sunshine built a nice cedar privacy fence around the lot. His next move out there is a flagstone patio and then an outdoor kitchen. However, all that shit is going to be expensive, so wait we must.

Meanwhile, inside the bus, I ripped out the nasty-ass, fugly green carpet in the bedroom and the disgusting-ass linoleum in the bathroom. The new vanity sits up on legs, which makes now the perfect time to switch out the floors in the back half of the magic bus. I'm putting slate tile in the bedroom and bathroom floors, and murano glass mosaic tiles on the bathroom walls. Unfortunately, that is going to be a two week ordeal. I understand it, Sunshine doesn't want to pay somebody to tile the place when he is capable of doing it and doing it well; but that doesn't make it any easier to wait. So the next two weekends should be interesting, to say the least.

I'm getting rid of the ugly in this magic bus. Slowly but surely, decor that looks like Carmela Soprano chose it when she time traveled back to the 80s on a bad acid trip? Is leaving.

I just wish the DIY network crashers crews did RVs, because being DONE in 72 hours would be worth every aching muscle.

Magic Pencils

Hey y'all!

Cindy-Lou asked me to write another post to let you all know what I've been doing with all the bits of things she mails to me.
 

To be honest, until this week, I haven't been doing much crafting. I've been battling my anxiety and flaring from RA which has made for a hell of a combination. To be blunt, I've been a bitch to be around lately.
 

But...
 

Last week I got I ginormous box in the mail from Cindy-Lou. And let me tell you, it was full of the random. Everything from tools to gorgeous new-to-me handbags to lace. As I unpackaged each new thing, I stared in bewilderment. What to do? Where to even begin?

And then last night, I dreamt.

See, I've been working on projects for a couple special little kiddos I've adopted. One is the daughter of one of my closest friends, the other, the son of another close friend.

Jack is a VERY special little guy. He is fighting cancer. And I say “fighting” because this awesome kiddo isn't giving in, not even a little bit. He fights every single day. And? He's kept that wonderful childhood creativity through it all. He believes he's an alien, wants to be one of Lady Gaga's Little Monsters, and he draws wonderfully detailed pictures with fascinating stories to go along.
 

From day one, Jack has been one of my heroes. I mean seriously, if this courageous kiddo can get up each morning and face the world, so can I, right? Jack has taught me how to fight back, how to not give in to my disease. And so, whenever I can, I try to send him a little something.

Last fall, I made him a Top Secret Agent kit, with tools to go into space and meet an alien that he brings home for dinner. I wrote a little story but left the pages blank so he could fill them with his artwork. There were glowsticks and little alien cut outs. I had so much damn fun making that box, I felt like I was a kid again myself.

Last night I learned that Jack wants to write a book. I fell asleep thinking of brave little boys who still dream in the face of difficulties, and when I awoke this morning, it hit me like a bolt of lightening.

MAGIC PENCILS!

See, in that ginormous box of goodies, Cindy-Lou sent me a couple pencils. Now, I don't own a pencil sharpener and kinda prefer mechanical pencils for my sketches, so I was perplexed as to what to do with them. Now I know. I will work my creativity and they will be magic pencils. I will mail them to a special kiddo and tell him that they will help him to write the greatest story ever.

There is nothing more powerful in this world than sharing your words. Add in a healthy dose of imagination, and you are unstoppable. Jack is unstoppable. And I'm happy to do whatever I can to encourage him.

Magic pencils, y'all. And I did it with Cindy-Lou's help.

The problem with recovery

Recovery is good, don't get me wrong. I know freedom from active addiction. I live happy, joyous, and free.

However, recovery means applying spiritual principles. Recovery means constant self-examination. I must constantly check my motivations for doing the shit I do. I have to look at my reactions to shit, and WHY I reacted the way I did. Part of my deep introspection is probably spurred by Sunshine's journey into fringe science, zombie programs, neurophysiology, and pseudo-philosophy.

When I refuse to let my boss be generous because I am questioning what makes her tick, I have to start asking myself why her behaviour bothers me and why I am being so unyielding.

My boss is a little bit of a perfectionist, a little OCD, a little bit stubbornly proud. When I find myself thinking about all that, I can't help but look at myself. Part of me remembers being very much like that. Part of me wonders why I am still like that in so many ways. Part of me just wants to go buy myself some new shoes, because all this self-examination is cooking my noodle.

A desire to buy new shoes kicks off a whole new avenue of self-examination. Why do I want to buy new shoes? What is my motivation? While there is nothing inherently wrong with wanting or buying new shoes, there is something off about doing it for the wrong reasons. See, I can fix with new shoes and new tops and new pants and cookies and all that other shit I can use to distract me from feeling the way I feel.

I wish I had the luxury of just saying fuck it.

I don't.

If I don't constantly check my motivations, my reactions, my actions, I am doomed to eventually repeat the cycle of insanity known as active addiction. I don't have the luxury of NOT looking at myself and asking "why?"

Ultimately, the why isn't important. Well, it is and it isn't. It doesn't matter why I'm an addict; what matters is what I want to do about it. However, part of doing something about getting into the solution involves checking my motivations, excuses, and reasons. I have to ask why.

I can do anything and go anywhere as long as I am doing it for the right reasons. I can't do seemingly normal things for fucked up reasons if I want to live happy joyous and free.

So, now that I've looked at my boss' motivations, and taken my own inventory in the process, I understand that there is still a lot of sick thinking going on.

I also understand that I am probably about to go buy new shoes for all the wrong reasons.

Will that stop me? Not bloody likely.

At least I find that there are a whole lot less negative consequences associated with buying new shoes than buying (and using) dope.

Just for today, I'll take that as a small victory. Maybe tomorrow, I'll sit down with my sponsor and look at the sick thinking that makes it more of an example of continued insanity.

Who knows? Maybe I'm just overthinking it all.

It's my Friday

I work weekends, so today is my Friday. Thank heaven! I'm tired. More tired than usual this weekend.

Apparently, it shows, because my sponsor gave me a seven day writing assignment. Gratitude lists, every day, 10 things, no repeats, and I can't be grateful that the sun is shining in Alaska because that doesn't directly affect me.

I'm sure I can find 70 things to he grateful for, right? This is why I have a sponsor, yo. I can't so this shit alone.

I celebrated 8 years in recovery last night at my home group. I have to be honest--I never thought I'd still be clean eight years after I picked up my last white key tag. Of course, I couldn't think that far ahead back then.

It's been a lovely journey thus far, in spite of some of the barren wastelands I have caused myself to have to travel through. But y'all probably don't want to read about barren wastelands; y'all want to hear about celebrations.

I wore sparkly shoes. We busted a pinata. There were glow stick bracelet party favors. It was fun, yo.

Now, I'm off to get ready for work. Because it's my Friday. Imma sleep a lot tomorrow, which is really the best way to handle everybody else's Monday, don't you think?

Further efforts to minimalize

Alternate title: More bits and bobs for Tia.

We got an entertainment center this weekend. The teevee no longer sits on a coffee table that strains under the weight of a 52" monstrosity. (Yes, I absolutely realize the ridiculousness of having a 52" teevee in an RV. I like ridiculousness.) The new entertainment center has STORAGE. This means that some of Sunshine's stuffs and things are now hidden away in a nifty unit that was built to hide entertainment components but was too small to hold our satellite receiver/DVR unit. Oh, well, overall I would have to call it a great success.

As I started packing away all of Sunshine's piles of books and shit, I uncovered a whole pile of bits and bobs that I have been meaning to ship off to my craftiest friend, Tia. So, I put them all in a restaurant-sized frozen french-fry box and wrapped the box in a 50 pound Domino sugar bag from the same restaurant. Now, I just have to get off my ass and go to the post office, but the local post office closed almost an hour and a half ago (and it is only 3;30 in the afternoon as I write this).

I suppose this means that I will have to get off my ass tomorrow in the rain they say is coming and drive my ass to the UPS place somewhere nearby. Is there a UPS place nearby? I fucking hope so, I have some shoes to ship off to TerraCycle and an item to ship off for extended warranty claim. (Turns out that there is a UPS store not too far from me. WOOHOO!)

I am glad to get some more things and stuffs out of my house RV. It's not like we have that damn much space in here to begin with, and when Sunshine insists on filling every possible square inch with hunting stuffs and things (rather than put the hunting stuffs and things in the storage compartments UNDER the bus) then I quickly become overwhelmed by the mountains of winter hunting clothes and boxes of bullets and knives and gun-cleaning-kits and optics devices and bow-and-arrow sets and heaven-only-knows-what-else.

The good news is that Sunshine promises to get a fancy storage shed for our yard. The bad news? He refuses to do this until after he lays a flagstone patio, which he refuses to do until they come out and install the carport/roof/cover thing over the RV (and fuck if I know when that will happen--we only paid for the damn roof/carport/cover thing a week and a half ago).

The whole experience of getting the entertainment center installed inspired me to clean out the fridge. I won't go into details, but I will say that something should have inspired me to investigate those Rubbermaid containers quite some time ago. I have no idea why the hell there was peanut butter in a plastic container in our fridge, nor do I have any clue when it arrived there; needless to say, both the container and the peanut butter are long gone.

Slowly but surely, I continue to progress down the path of minimalism and intentional living. I am continuing to re-evaluate all my stuffs and things (I'm down to a frighteningly small number of pairs of shoes these days), and I am starting to think of my impact on the planet in other ways. I may never get as far down this path as I would like, but at least I am on the journey.

About those zombies

Sunshine has recently learned about zombie programs. I don't know where he learned it, probably David Eagleman (which is probably also the same place Sunshine learned that there is no now).

Anyway, zombie programs are those programs that run in our brains that require no conscious thought. What this means, in simple terms for simpletons like me, is that we do something on autopilot. Sunshine likes to use the example of tying shoes, which I could understand if I knew how to tie a shoe; however, I cannot remember the last time I wore shoes that had laces. Either way, I get the point.

The theory behind zombie programs isn't about zombies, or about us doing things without having to think about them. The thing about zombies programs is really about consciousness. The theory is that we only require a consciousness when two or more zombie programs are in conflict. For example: Mollie is a dog, and dogs follow the smells; Mollie also comes when I call her. When Mollie is following something she likes the smell of, and I call her while she is in the process of doing so, a consciousness would decide which program gets to run. Although if I remember correctly, dogs supposedly don't have any conscious, or something.
I digress.

So, what do these zombie programs have to do with me and Sunshine? After all, we are just simple people trying to make it one day at a time.

Well, the argument is that addicts operate on zombie programs. Think about it--what do addicts do? They use. They do whatever it takes to use more.
Stay with me here.

So what Sunshine says we have to do through the process of recovery is to write NEW programs and those become the new default zombie programs.

My zombie program can't even tie a fucking shoe, how the hell am I supposed to write new default programs to live a better life when I can't even tie my fucking shoes? Oh, wait, I don't wear shoes that tie. Whew, I was worried there for a minute.

I don't like to think of these zombie programs. When I am forced to think of these zombie programs, I don't like to think of them in terms of zombies. Sunshine? Likes the idea of zombies--they fit right in with his whole black helicopter mentality. I am not technologically resistant like Sunshine. I grew up in the computer age, learning how to program Apple IIe desktop models in my sophomore year of high school. (yes, I am that damn old. Shut the fuck up, I try not to think of it in terms of how many generations of Apple products I have lived through. Just saying I'm fortythree years old sounds so much better. However, having my first computing experiences on Apple products probably explains why I hate windows with a purple passion to this day.)
I think I digressed again.
Age of computers, right. I grew up on computing devices. I prefer to think of these zombie programs as TSR programs (terminate and stay resident). I think my way of thinking about it fits much better with the addiction model and the 12 step treatment method. See, it doesn't matter how many new default zombie programs I write, if I don't keep them running then that old terminate-and-stay-resident program of using drugs will become the default operating system again.

So there is my very basic (and probably fairly misinterpreted) explanation of Sunshine's zombie programs. Now, my default program is telling me I need a nap, and much like the windows OS, this machine is about to crash for no apparent reason. Wish me sweet, zombie-free dreams!