Permission, and scattered thoughts

I heard a quote the other day. You need to give yourself permission to live life more fully. It struck me as apropos in the aftermath of losing my brother. I've been moping about for weeks, wrestling with a multitude of emotions. Sorrow. Disappointment. Despair. Melancholy. Uncertainty. Guilt. Wistfulness. Anxiety. And such. It's not just him. It's the holidays. I think I struggle with general melancholy every year, brought on by a warped sense of how things should be. I've observed that how things are is often a state brought about by overcompensation for how things should have been. For instance. The whole commercialized gift-giving thing. I've watched friends and siblings overcompensate unhappy childhoods by showering their children with excesses. They take it for granted, expect bigger and better every year, and lack satisfaction unless the status quo has been met by name brand or dollar amount. There is no appreciation for the simple things. Things that actually have meaning. Or usefulness. Things that somebody thought about and put effort into making. Material things don't make your children love you more. And they don't make up for what was lacking in your own childhood.

---

Sometimes I think empathy is a curse. Walk a mile in someone else's shoes. Feel their pain. But to what end? To what good? How can I retain clarity of mind to gain wisdom and understanding, rather than get caught up, as I am so apt to do, and sink in, spiraling downward into gloom and despair?

---

Words are very powerful. Once you put them out there, into the universe, there's no getting them back. For good or naught, they are launched on the winds of forever. That's why I just deleted an hour's worth of text. A pity party of one. What good would it serve, other than to get it off my chest? I wrote it out, part of it anyway, and released some of the sadness and tension in so doing. It doesn't have to be shared. It doesn't have to go out into the universe where possibly it could bruise someone else.

---

There is something that terrifies me. I realize, in many ways, I am very much like my brother. The one who found no recourse but to release himself from the confines of this earth. There are many ways in which I am not like him, though, and this helps assuage the fear. He was frighteningly intelligent. I am not. He was reckless. I am not. He was earnest to the (n)the degree. I am only earnest to the (n-3)rd degree. He drank beyond moderation. I do not. He was fearless. I am not. But in his heart of hearts? We are the same. I think. I get him. I think.

---

About living life more fully. What does that mean? Those words sent me further into the mire until I pondered what is actually meaningful to me. More than anything, my beautiful boy. That after a lifetime of yearning, he IS my heart's desire. To be sad that my life isn't full is to tragically overlook how incredibly blessed I am. And what else is fulfilling, in the world of Squished Piggies? A good job. A good wage. Food in the pantry. A roof over my head. A shirt on my back. A hot shower whenever I want it. The love of a good man. So I'm not a jet-setting glamour girl. I tried that. It wasn't any more fulfilling than kicking back on the sectional with my man and my boy, watching TV. (But it would be nice to be in better shape and wear cute things, and it used to be fun to shop for cute things, back in the day.) So I'm not a socialite. The friends I do have are warm and wonderful. Not a bit superficial. It might be nice not to have to work for a living, but I like to work. It would certainly be nice to have more sleep, get more exercise, see more sunshine, breathe more fresh air, and eat more fresh food. I get some, so it's still good.

Self Portrait Tuesday

Exploration of Identity
Obscure. Hidden. Concealed. Covered. Camouflaged. Protected. Inconspicuous. Undiscovered. Unnoticed. Unobtrusive. Sheltered.

Enemy number one

...from The Princess Bride...

Vizzini: ...you're no match for my brains.
Man in black: You're that smart?
Vizzini: Let me put it this way: Have you ever heard of Plato, Aristotle, Socrates?
Man in black: Yes.
Vizzini: Morons.

Even smart people need help sometimes. How can smart people get help, when the would-be helpers are, as Vizzini so bluntly put it, morons? How can a master of the mind take the average mind-professional's advice seriously, when said professional's skills and abilities are just that --average. What can they (the smart people) be told that they can't out-think, out-reason, out-diagnose, or out-wit?

They may well be their own worst enemy. It's not always a good thing to be smart. How many smart people have flown over the cuckoo's nest?

Humility. Patience. A willingness to listen. These things help, although they don't necessarily come easily.

Not everyone is a moron.

Finding balance

I love how he grasps my fingers with all his little might when he's tired and settling down to sleep. He pulls my hand to his face and doesn't let go.
My heart swells. It is indescribable, this feeling of being wanted and needed. I drink it up, breathe it in. It fills me up.
I know I shouldn't indulge him with too much coddling. There is a balance that I need to find, where he can know he's secure in me, that he is wanted and needed and loved, and where I know he's developing self-confidence, trust, and independence.

It is difficult for me. I caress his sweet little face until he drifts off to sleep. I slowly pry my fingers away.

red is red

Truth is absolute. Perception is relative. Reality is relative. Reality is based on perception. After all, beauty is in the eyes of the beholder. Red is red and green is green, but to one color blind, green is red and red is green. It’s not truth, but it is reality. One does not lie, to say red is green. Yet, in truth, red is not green. Does truth matter, then, if it is perception and not truth that influences and molds how we think and who we become? I maintain that truth matters. I seek after truth, but am impaired by reality.

Friday show and tell

Is today Friday? I've lost track. The theme is Something Special.

These stories brought hope and light to the mind of a very young girl, who, until reading them, felt alone in the world where nobody, not even her parents, knew her, or cared to know her. These magical stories of love and light and the battle between good and evil filled her mind with wonder and planted seeds of self-worth. These stories changed her life.



Many years later, this girl learned that another young girl, who recently lost her father, loves these stories. This book will be lovingly and beautifully wrapped, placed in the post and sent to a faraway place, so it will be something magical for a dear and special child to open for Christmas.

Scenes from a Memorial

Preparing for the trip was very difficult. There was so little time to get things together. Going through a lifetime's accumulation of photos. Finding the sum of a person's life is only 124 photos. Crying. Shopping for suitable ash containers. Creating a slideshow for the service. Finding the right music. Crying. Installing a DVD burner in my computer. Getting it to work. Packing up. Crying. It was emotionally and physically exhausting.
We had a display with photos and flowers.
Small boxes filled with his ashes for loved ones to take. The lavender baby blanket that all nine of us came home from the hospital in. Some letters he had written.
Ashes and flowers on the mantle.
And balloons with tiny tissue packets of ashes tied to the ends.
They were beautiful.
We released his ashes to the sky. It was a beautiful sight to behold. The winds carried him away. Up, up, and away.

When it's my time, I hope somebody sends me off like that. Up, up, and away.

Self Portrait Tuesday

Exploration of Identity

There have been better days

Friday show and tell

Red. I love red. Any time. All the time. There is much red in my world.

1. A perfume bottle. My prized possession. Art glass. Which I love.
2. A crystal bud vase. A gift my dad gave to my mom then took back for 'safe keeping'. She later gave it to me. I've always loved it, regardless of its twisted past.
3. Art. My departed brother's daughter, one of the apples of my eye. Oil pastels on artboard.
4. In case I ever go too fast on the treadmill. Not likely to happen. Ever.
5. Purchased by the super-case.
6. The gem of the kitchen.
7. Bought to brighten the room the day after my brother died. Now withered and dead.
8. The love of my life.
9. A watercolor print from a local artist.
10. Mini-diaper bag.
11. Candles on a bookshelf.
12. A gift from my honey.

Self Portrait Tuesday

Theme: Exploration of Identity

This series is from my big European adventure, mid-September through mid-November 1994, which was in itself quite an exploration of identity. My college roommate and I reunited to spend two months on a whirlwind Europe Through the Back Door tour, from Ireland to Greece and many places in between.






"Disciple Scholar Nymph Thinker Victor Irresistible Feral Bad Ass Rejoicing Cloaked Traveler"

Sorry I missed you

Dear Jack,
I'm sorry I didn't come visit you last weekend. I was feeling a bit selfish and just wanted to stay in. I didn't get out of my pyjamas all day. Or maybe all weekend, for that matter. You see, I lost my brother on October 27th. And learning to grieve is a new thing for me. Remember? I mentioned it on the 29th, the last time I saw you. Remember? I brought Boo in so you could see him in his Halloween costume, so it would brighten your day. It was all so fresh and I mentioned it to you, briefly. You didn't say anything, though. Not a word. I thought perhaps you might say I'm sorry for your loss, or this must be difficult. But you said nothing at all (which kind of hurt my feelings). Maybe it was hard to hear about another losing his life, especially one so young, when you were confined to that miserable bed in that miserable nursing home, your own life slowly fading away. The aide came to feed you dinner, so we said our goodbyes. Where's my kiss, you barked at me. It was too crowded for all of us in there. Me, Boo, the aide. I could barely reach you to lean over and kiss you. But since you put it that way... We had a nice visit, didn't we? You told me that I had rescued you. You were trapped in an airplane. You had been dreaming, you see, but I arrived in the nick of time. I'm glad I could be of assistance.

Today, I packed up Boo, even though I still don't feel like getting out and about, but I know how much it brightens your week to have a little visit from us. And your neighbor Herman sure loves our visits too. He always asks if he can keep Boo.

I was walking towards your room and the nurse stopped me to ask who I was visiting.
My friend Jack, I said. Oh, I'm sorry, he passed away, she said.
When? I asked. Last Saturday. The 5th. Around noon. He drifted away in his sleep.

So you see, you left us, on the day I was being selfish. I could have been there and held your hand while you drifted off to meet your maker. It's the time I'm normally there. Instead, you were all alone. I'm sorry I missed you.

In a way, I'm also a bit miffed at that person you call a son, even though he's not your son. He hardly ever visited you. He didn't even bring you clean clothes when you needed them. The staff asked me about it and I said I didn't know what your arrangement was, but that the so called son was responsible for your care. As far as I can see, he has done very little to reciprocate all that you have ever done for him, and I find that quite pathetic. He could have called me and let me know. He knows I'm your only friend here. I would have wanted to be by your side when they lowered your spent body into the earth. I know that every time we saw each other, we knew it might be the last time. And I'm glad you told me you weren't afraid to go. You lived a colorful and eventful life, my friend. I'm glad to have met you.

But I'm sorry I missed you.

My friend Jack.
August 1, 1916 - November 5, 2005

O migraine, how I loathe thee

O migraine, how I loathe thee
Thou vexation of cranial orb
Thy thund’ring rage woulds’t pummel
Yea verily torment
Even unto the spewing forth
Harken yonder, ‘tis sweet relief
B’neath veil of darkness still
With temper'd potion of ibuprofen
Yea, milligrams of one hundred times eight
And undulations, of rhythm most merciful
O King Kong, thou magnificent throne
I am at thy mercy
Thrice times the quarter hour
Thou hast brought me refuge
O soothing nectar of yon delicate leaf
Such comfort thou dost bring
O Ibuprofen! O King Kong! O Green Tea!
Thou art my truest friends indeed

Show and Tell, Part II

But wait! There's more! Okay, so the drinking receptacle also depends upon the particular beverage. If we're talking about green tea, for instance, then this is my favorite cup. I found a pair at a thrift store years ago, and last week or the week before (everything happened last week, and the week before) I was emptying the dishwasher and dropped something on one of them and cracked it. WOE IS ME.

What pleases me about this cup, you might wonder? Well. I'll tell you. First, its shape. It is somewhat square (like me) and somewhat round (like me) and somewhat stout (like me). Next, it's design. It is somewhat Asian (like me). And somewhat delicate (like me), yet somewhat rustic (like me). And, prior to the slippery dishwasher emptying incident, it was somewhat sturdy (like me).

Now it is somewhat broken (like me).

Friday show and tell

I like Blackbird's Show and Tell game. This week I had the honor of choosing the theme - Favorite Cup or Mug. I've been on a quest for the perfect cup for quite some time, and I'm looking forward to oohing and ahhing and being jealous of other people's fine beverage-ware.

If I weren't so particular, finding a good cup wouldn't be an issue. However. Sort of like Goldilocks, things need to be just right, or I'm not quite satisfied.

Currently, this is the closest I've come. I discovered it last week, at Pier 1. But it's still not quite there. I love the cobalt blue. I have tons of cobalt blue dishes - food looks so nice when presented with this color. Bright green broccoli, orange carrots, multi-colored peppers... So lovely! So. Cobalt is one of my favorite consumption receptacle colors. I was therefore delighted to find this cup. And even more delighted that it was 20% off. I like the ribbon handle. This is a very nice ergonomic grip. I can fit all four fingers through the handle and wrap them snugly and comfortingly around the cup, or I can wrap all four nicely around the handle itself. Both good qualities. It is made of porcelain, which has a nice sturdy weight and feel without being thick and clunky.

I especially like the swirling leaves. The cobalt glaze is raised above the white floral design, so it has a pleasing texture as well. The only thing that is not quite right about this cup is the volume. It's a bit much for me. It stands too tall for my Senseo coffee maker (but that may not matter too much, as I have several issues with that particular coffee machine, and its days may be numbered). Beverages lose their heat before they can be fully enjoyed. This happens with small cups as well, though, as I tend to take my sweet time and a cup of something soothing usually lasts an hour or two.
I bought four, and am contemplating going back for another four. I might, after all, entertain, one day, in the odd chance that I make some (local*) friends and invite them over. It's also possible that more than two family members at a time might actually visit, in which case it would be nice to serve coffee or tea in matching mugs. The sale is on for a few more days. I will give it some more thought.

*My best friends are hundreds, even thousands, of miles away.

Hanging out to dry

I've been asked to help draft my brother's obituary. My family has a message board (we were way cool, before blogland ever was, ha ha so there, neener neener neener) that we use to keep in touch. I'm an emotional wreck, but I made a first attempt. I put it out there for the family's scrutiny. It went something like this:

1/12/71 – 10/27/05. Like a comet blazing through the night sky, P2’s life, though short, burned brightly with passion, faith, and love. He set for himself unattainable standards, which he followed with unstoppable drive and determination, fueled by his keen intellect and clever wit. P2 lived to love and be loved, and to do his very best. He gave it his all. Through the eyes of his family he was one to always share what he had, to keep the family in order; he was always de la moda, a faithful brother, a mechanic extraordinaire, smart, sharp witted, and an all around good guy. He was selfless, a loving father, and a great cook. He is survived by daughters J, K, and C, son M, granddaughter M, brothers T1, T2, P1, J1, and J2, sisters S1, S2, and C, mother P, father H, and (ex) wife L.

No posts. No replies. No comments. Nothing but Silence. I'm left hanging, with this girly emotional outpouring that I can't take back or delete. So I make another attempt. This time more concise, matter of fact, less emotional.

1/12/71 – 10/27/05
P2, born and raised in (God's Country), was a man of passion and intellect with a great love for his family, the outdoors, food and music. P2 died unexpectedly while living in Colorado Springs. P2 was a natural leader, with a proficiency for chemistry and mechanics. He served his country as an ELT on the US Navy submarine Pintado. P2’s memory will live on in the hearts of his family and friends.

Again, nothing. Silence. Inside I am screaming. Screaming. How can I be the only one putting words out there for the family to consider, and yet they say nothing. Are they offended? Do I sound like a stammering fool? Have I mocked his life? I didn't mean to. Have I romaniticized his life? I didn't mean to. What have I done? Why do they not say anything?

I've never written an obit before. I've barely ever read one. I trolled around with the help of Google and found some examples and tidbits and ideas. The generic newspaper obit is too boring and dry. Just a resume for the dead. Name, Age, COD, Job History, Family History, blah blah blah. Too impersonal. Too many shallow angles from which to draw judgemental conclusions. And to what end? What is the point of that information? What good does it serve? I. Don't. Like. It. Who the hell is an obit for, anyway? The general public? Or people who care. I think it should be for people who care. So I tried again.

1/12/71 – 10/27/05

P2, born and raised in (God's Country), was a man of passion and intellect with a great love for his family, the outdoors, food and music.

P2 was a natural leader, with a penchant for cooking, chemistry and mechanics. He served his country during the 1990s as an ELT on the US Navy submarine Pintado.

P2 developed a lifelong friendship with his first child J, born of N and adopted to the A's in 1986. In 1994 he married L and stepped in as a father figure to K (born 1992); C was born in 1996, followed by M in 2000. The marriage ended in divorce early in 2005.

Always an excellent cook and lover of good food, P2 had entrepreneurial dreams of becoming a restaurateur and chef. P2 had a discriminating palate and enjoyed fine wines and micro-brews, but he also kept a place for his good friends Jack and Jose.

Most recently residing in Colorado Springs, in a show of eccentricity and necessity coupled with a sense of humor and frugality, P2 announced earlier this year that his new home address was “The North Face of Mount Gibbler, Uncompahgre National Forest, Under the Blue Tarp Lean-To.”

Whether hunting, fishing, biking, playing golf, or snowboarding, P2 was at his best when able to enjoy the outdoors, especially in the company of his brothers, sisters, and children.

P2 always had a flair for the dramatic, and enjoyed many genres of music, from Broadway to Punk Rock. His eclectic sense of style mirrored his taste in music. He could just as easily look as though he stepped from the cover of GQ magazine, as from the pages of Rolling Stone.

P2 was deeply spiritual; a seeker of “Truth, with a Capital T.” He wanted little more than to love and be loved. He set for himself unattainable standards, and he gave it his all. He fought the good fight. He finished his course.

P2 is survived by daughters J, K, and C, son M, granddaughter M, brothers T1, T2, P1, J1, and J2, sisters S1, S2, and C, mother P, and father H.

P2 wrestled with bipolar disorder. His memory will live on in the hearts of his family and friends.

A small memorial celebration will take place on November 19, 2005 in (God's Country). For information, please call xxx-xxx-xxxx.

I await feedback from my family. I am too tired to scream anymore. I hope they will finally step in and help me.

The kindness of people

So many people have shared warm and kind sentiments at the loss of my brother. Some friends I used to work with sent this gigantic and fabulous bouquet of Peruvian lilies, which I adore. I am touched by all this kindness that is pouring out for me and my family. Thank you all so very much.

Simple pleasures

His favorite things are cardboard and paper. Notice in the box he's holding his favorite postcard. When the mail comes, it's mostly junk mail. Look! I say to him. Some mail came for you! He rips it to shreds with glee, and tries to eat it as well. I am vigilant and remove it before he ingests any. How he loves doing what I'm doing! If I'm reading my mail, he wants to read his mail. His postcard came from a real estate duo who paid a little extra for that marketing edge, for it is no ordinary postcard. No, indeed. This clever postcard is laminated. We treasure this item in our household and are quite careful not to throw it out. He has gotten many miles of safe reading and chewing pleasure from it. In retrospect, I still have mild regrets at the hundreds of dollars wasted spent preparing for the arrival of my first child. When all that was needed was cardboard and junk mail.

Self Portrait Tuesday

Exploration of Identity - Rock Star

The Rock Star is a typical expression of insecurity and low self esteem. A cry for attention. The Rock Star would parade before the masses, entertaining them, but only in exchange for feeding on their adoration. Look at me! Validate me! I wonder how many rock stars had parents who didn't like them.

This picture was taken twenty years ago. 80s era glam rock. It was all in good fun.

Oh, there's more

I used to own an old building in a small town off the beaten path on the scenic route to somewhere. I bought it with an ex-fiance when the romance was fresh and we were living on dreams of a new and better life. We were going to make a bed & breakfast and live a simpler life in a sleepy small town. The reality set in. The romance fizzled. Lies, corruption, that sort of thing. Much drama. I bought him out of his portion. Real estate values were flat for years and years. I gave him a fair price. More than fair, if you ask some. (Although I'm fairly certain he thinks he's been had.)

This place was a sitting duck. After the breakup, there were several breakins. I suspect the ex was involved in some of the first breakins, but that's all water under the bridge. I'm over it. Karma will visit him, if she hasn't already. I suppose I can hardly blame anybody for vandalizing my property. After all, it was sitting there, vacant, begging for someone to throw rocks through the windows. Begging for someone to pry the doors off. Begging for someone to kick the chimneys in. Begging for someone to climb out on the roof and kick bricks down. Begging for someone to spray paint obscenities on the walls, counters, floors, mirrors, toilets. Yes, even the toilets. Begging for someone to start a fire in the middle of the floor. Oh, that building wanted to be abused. Yes indeed.

How stressful that was for me! We would drive 7 hours, work like fiends to run damage control and secure the place, attempt to eradicate the weeds (nasty letters about noxious weeds and the illegality thereof would make their way to my post box from time to time) , and drive 7 more hours back, all in the course of a weekend. It was brutal, and I must say the cool cat was heroic and his help was invaluable. True love. I still loved the building for what it was, but it just wasn't practical to keep in the family, and it wasn't fair to try and hold onto it when it represented the hopes and dreams of a previous romance. I sold it this year. Karma was good to me. The market was inflated and I made a tidy profit. (Enough to buy a new truck, thank you very much, with some leftovers to invest in new hopes and dreams, this time with my partner, friend, and forever-man, the Cool Cat himself.)

So the cool cat has a nice new truck to drive, and I have no more stress from this beautiful historic building that screamed for abuse. Karma has been just.

A rant on vandalism

We are not uppity well-to-do uppercrusters. Okay, admittedly, I am a snob sometimes, but I'm working on that, and I'm not a complete snob, and am actually quite humble here and there, depending on the subject matter. I am very well acquainted with the low income lifestyle and the school of hard knocks.

We have a new truck. It's quite a nice vehicle, and it cost a fortune (in my book, but I am also known for being a tightwad, the queen of thrift, or, as others who live hereabouts might sometimes say, the Fun Police, Party Pooper, Party Police). We got a flat tire, not too long ago. Upon closer investigation, the cool cat discovered that somebody deliberately jammed a peanut into the valve stem so as to cause a slow leak. Now, what I want to know, is WHY? Why would somebody do this? Give us a flat tire because we have a fancy new ride, and they don't? Peanuts, to my knowledge, do not naturally occur in valve stems.

We passed a large new truck on the road today, while I was ranting, and I noticed a long scratch, from the passenger door to the rear quarter panel. It certainly looked like a key scratch to me. Further fueling my tirade. There must be new truck goblins that flit about, looking for squeaky clean vehicles to teach a lesson, to show the what for.

Very annoying. Especially when some people work very hard for a living, and scrimp and save and make sacrifices for years in order to be able to do something monumental like buy a new vehicle. Which they intend to make last for at least the next decade or two. Sometimes appearances may be that things come easier to the haves than the have nots. Just know this, like my friend Earl says, Karma has a way of finding these things out and settling the score.

A Logical Fool

Hrumph. Bok bok what?!, said I, when the results popped up. Below average. Impossible! This is an outrage! And all this time I thought my logical intelligence was above average. But I don't know what is considered logical intelligence. This test, it must be rigged, methinks. So I cheated tried it again, and went back and changed answers in various combinations, but nothing I could do could budge that logical intelligence rating. I didn't try changing answers to the questions I knew I had right. Maybe I should have. Maybe they would have been logical, but not mathematically correct. Oh who knows. I am hitherto resigned to the fact that I am a logical fool.

Your IQ Is 135

Your Logical Intelligence is Below Average Your Verbal Intelligence is Genius Your Mathematical Intelligence is Genius Your General Knowledge is Exceptional

A Quick and Dirty IQ Test

Excerpts from a letter

He sent me a letter and some pictures, years ago when we could still communicate. On the back of this picture he wrote, "I think my smile is out there somewhere." He's been melancholy for so very long.

April 10, 1993
Don't worry, I'm still your little boy. I still remember when I was little, and it seemed like the whole world hated me and the only place I had to turn was you, and you were there. I still need you as much as when I was little. As I grew up, life sucked more and more. I don't remember exactly when the fire in my eyes went out, when my dreams and ambitions went away....

...Every day I wish I could change. I can't have fun. I can't smile. Something inside me won't let me...

...Don't worry though, I'm still your little prince and you can hold me and make me forget about all my troubles and then make me make tea for you...

...take care... I love you!

He has found his smile again, and now he is at peace. How my heart has ached for him. How I wish he could have found his smile another way.

Simplify, in small steps

In light of recent events, I am taking it upon myself to simplify my life. I've removed many of the links from my blog stalking list. I spend far too much time reading other people's blogs, and while I greatly enjoy this activity, I must cut back and be less obsessive. I've left a few links, and these fine folks have links to the blogs that I've removed from my list, so I will still stalk from time to time, while passing through. I've added a few people to my links. These are people who have shared warmth and compassion from across the miles, and I would like to gently stalk them so that I can return the warmth and send good thoughts their way.

One step at a time, bit by bit, I want to find my way to the place where I savor life, all aspects of it, more fully. So layer by layer, I must peel away the extras, until I reach that gleaming core.

Friday show and tell

Today's theme is Addiction. Suddenly addiction is a difficult word for me. I would make light of it in earlier days, but now, there is a solemn hush that settles in my mind when I consider the word. Addiction. In some form or another, Addiction reared its ugly head and consumed my brother, rendering him nearly unrecognizable, and barely a shell of his former self. Ultimately, a vessel only, with no life remaining. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. His earthly vessel is no more than dust now, and his spirit and soul have been released into forever, where he is free and at peace, himself once more, unentangled and unencumbered by addiction. Addiction. HOW UGLY YOU ARE! I shout it to the universe. LEAVE US ALONE! Alas, we are not wholly powerless in the matter. We fall snare to addiction by our own choices. It's a subtle dance we dance. Seldom do we see it coming, and if we do, often we look the other way. It won't happen to me. Who gets the last laugh? Not you. Not me. Addiction.

I don't want to make light of addictions today. Today I will show and tell my obsessions. Similar, but not quite the same. I have many obsessions. I am somewhat OCDly (Obsessive-Compulsive-Disorderly), after all. I made up my own acronym-adjective, thank you very much. Or is that an adverb? I am awful with grammatical terms and definitions, although I can sometimes manage to string words together in a not-too-unpleasing way.

Obsession Category: The quest for perfection. Currently the quest is for the perfect tea and coffee cup. Volume, density, weight, shape, design, color, price. These are all important factors. Previous quests included the search for the perfect pepper mill. I didn't find it. I gave up and then sold most of my surplus on eBay. The measure was found at J. Paul Getty Museum restaurant in Los Angeles. A compact stainless steel device that ground fine to coarse with such smooth perfection. I could never find its equal.

Other obsessions can be read about, ad nauseum, if one were to peruse this blog. The number one obsession, unparalleled, unmatched, hands down, is none other than MY BOY BOO. As it should be.

My little viking

Even when times are sad, the beauty and innocence of a child does wonders to heal a broken heart.
Especially when said child is this cute. I took him on an airplane with trepidation in my heart, but my little champion did splendidly. He met his cousins for the first time, and dressed up and went trick-or-treating. He liked being part of the group. He is oh, so fierce and ferocious, don't you think? I already had the fabric from previous projects, and only needed to buy the fur. It was $20/yd, but I just bought 6 inches and had plenty for the effect. I like the boots and hat the best.