All through the day/i me mine/i me mine/i me mine

I was pulling out some art materials today and came across some photos I had been meaning to scan and post. Yes, they're all me me me. About when I was born, my dad took up photography, setting up a darkroom and all that jazz. Thus, there are lots of photos of me when I was a tot. So these first two were taken by my dad. The rest, of course, are school photos.



I think this one is from 2nd grade. If only I could get my hair that color again...


Fourth grade, I believe. Check out the lesbian-chic hair and shirt!


Fifth grade, I suppose, sporting my version of the Dorothy Hamill hairdo.


I think this one is my eighth grade photo. While there was some nice accessorizing in the previous shot, I was coming into my own as a fashionista in eighth grade. I was voted Best Dressed in my class. Note the turquoise ring used as a scarf holder. And I wish I still had that scarf. The colors were gorgeous and it had a print of flapper girls and those wavy cloud-like graphics all over it.

That love is all/And love is everyone/It is knowing/It is knowing

The other day I walked into the living room to such a sweet scene. Steve, surrounded by Foxy Brown on the floor, Olive on the back of the couch and Lydia next to him. He was so engrossed in what he was doing, I don't think he even knew I took this photo.

You realize your fantasies are/dressed up in travesties/enjoy yourself with no regrets

I'm not in the habit of documenting it when someone says something nice about or appreciative of me. Everyone, of course, loves compliments, and I'm no exception, but even if you greatly appreciate the sentiment, you don't necessarily write it down or think about it later or share it with anyone else. Well, today I'm going to throw modesty (or whatever you want to call it) to the wind.

A friend with whom I have an intimate, albeit primarily written, relationship told me something extraordinary today. In a small discussion about my tendency to conversationally be, um, too much for some people, he said this: "You're like a sun...and too much exposure burns them up...now me...I like it when it gets hot."

An offhand comment maybe, but since it was in writing I guess it took on more gravitas than if it had merely been spoken. Whatever the intent, I consider it one of the best things anyone has ever said about me. It struck me dumb for a moment. Like a sun. Damn.

In a string of days in which my workplace has made me feel like I'm in a place where my personality is completely unwanted, it was extra sweet to be reminded that I don't rub everyone the wrong way, and in fact, a few people do like me for me.

So thank you, T.Rex.

Ever searching for what we were promised./Reaching for that golden ring we'd never let go,/but who would ever let us put our filthy hands upon it?

I should start with the trial. As I said last time, I was picked for the jury. We did learn during voir dire that it was a murder trial, though not with a capital punishment element. Had it been, I would certainly have been excluded as I am anti-death penalty.

They told us that we would almost surely be done in two days, by the end of Wednesday. I must admit that I was a little shocked a murder trial could be tried and decided in that short time. It doesn't seem appropriate to really discuss the case, so I think I'll offer some bullet points:

• overhead projections of the dead young man, shot in the head three times as he sat behind the wheel of his car.
• an overzealous, overconfident, though not very smooth prosecuting attorney.
• a badly dressed (on purpose?) public defender whom i found disarmingly effective.
• a case based on what I considered to be quite shady eyewitness testimony.
• a pointed absence of any motive (motive wasn't necessary to decide the case, but still!).
• the imposing presence of an audience composed equally of friends of the defendant and the deceased.

We were sent to the jury room shortly after the trial started the second day. I approached deliberations with a confidence that everyone felt the way I did -- it seemed so obvious! To me the prosecution clearly didn't prove their case, not beyond a reasonable doubt. I was quite shocked when we took an initial vote, just to see where the room stood: 6 guilty, 4 not guilty and 2 undecided. I knew there was no chance whatsoever of my vote being changed and after a good amount of discussion, it was clear that the guilty voters were immovable as well. The most we could hope for was bringing the two undecideds to the not guilty side. After a friendly group lunch, we resumed deliberations, got the two over to the not guilty side and ended with a firm 6-6 hung jury. It was shocking, really, that the life of a person could have been decided so quickly.

The lesson learned? Maybe I shouldn't be so eager to get picked for jury duty.

And, I'm blonde again. Not as light as I'd like, but it's getting there.

I wonder if those changes/Have left a scar on you/Like all the burning hoops of fire/That you and I passed through

Last time I wrote I was sitting in the living room area of deGreeff Hospice House. That was a week ago. We lost Brad on Tuesday afternoon around 3:30 p.m. Even though we had a lot of time to prepare for that day, it was still shocking and terrible and very sad. At the very least, it’s ridiculous to leave this world at such a young age. Brad was 45, less than one year older than me. The cliché lesson, of course, is to not take anything for granted; and enjoy your life NOW. Not later, not when you’ve saved up enough to take some exotic vacation or buy that ‘perfect’ house, but right now. You know the saying: live every day as if it’s your last. Be good to other people, make sure your loved ones know they’re your loved ones. Have fun. Don’t do things you hate because it’s what’s expected of you. Hate your job? Find one you like (yeah yeah, I know…). What are you waiting for?

While I despise the whole funeral rigmarole, obviously some people need the closure of those official events to help them along in their grief. Nobody’s asking me, but handing out $6000+ dollars for a big box and some flowers and a hole in the ground just does nothing to alleviate my grief and pain. Anyway, there was a funeral, which means a period of ‘visitation’ where everyone comes to support the family and look at their oddly made up and ‘laid out’ friend, family member or co-worker. I find it rather barbaric and I’m glad my family does not like the practice either.

At any rate, on Thursday, the visitation was held. Steve refuses to look at open caskets, so he remained in the lobby area of the funeral home and spoke to friends and family there. It seemed to me that people were relieved to be out of the main room – they could relax a bit and not feel guilty for sharing funny stories. I know it meant a lot to Steve that his friends showed up. It meant a lot to me too. Never underestimate the power of friendship. Just the presence of someone you love can make a sad situation better. But you know that. More on the importance of friendships later.

I was dreading the funeral on Friday. I’m not a religious believer and I tend to have eye-rolling reactions to overt religious talk. I knew I had to temper myself and just accept that it all had absolutely nothing to do with me and everything to do with Steve’s mom. And it wasn’t so bad. The pastor performing the funeral service was a cousin of Steve’s. Originally from St. Louis, Wally is now a Baptist minister in Arkansas and he sounds exactly like Billy Bob Thornton (and looks a bit like him too). He was funny and warm and good at his job, plus he introduced me to a version of the lord’s prayer I had never heard. The Baptist version, perhaps? It wasn’t as dark as the familiar one. Anyway, Steve and his brother Ken had shared some funny stories with Wally and had arranged a special way to end the services that left us all chuckling a little and really thinking about Brad the guy rather than Brad the cancer patient. Yes, the funeral ended with Metallica’s “Master of Puppets,” one of Brad’s favorite songs. It was genius, really; so inappropriate and so very, very Brad.

On the subject of friends and friendship and their importance, I have to bring up my online life. One of the things I decided not to write much about earlier was about my emotional involvement with a few of my online friends. I have no doubt that whatever I say will be misunderstood and misconstrued by some so I didn’t even want to open that can of worms. But I have to give credit where it’s due. I know that whatever bonds I might be forming with someone I only know online might be superficial and fleeting, but in the here and now, they’re real and important. As I’m virtually unable to maintain a purely surface identity and request the same from my friends – I talk too much and ask too many questions -- (though I have opened myself to more scrutiny than they have, I suppose) I do feel a little vulnerable. But with that vulnerability comes a crazy sort of intimacy that has surprised me. Last Monday I was sitting at the hospice, hours of time on my hands as Steve sat with his brother. One of my friends, a rather mysterious world traveler and adventurer, spent hours chitchatting with me, just shooting the shit and keeping me distracted and amused. He never said that’s what he was doing nor did I think about it at the time. It was only later that I realized the significance. And the next night, following a lot of sadness and stress in my house, he lulled me to dreamless sleep with a very selfless act. If these things aren’t in the definition of friendship, then I don’t know what things are. I don’t know what my real point is, except that I’m grateful for friendship and caring wherever it might happen. And if it is indeed fleeting, then that’s okay too. It doesn’t make it any less significant or real.

After last week it would be nice to have a return to routine; alas, that’s not to be. I reported for jury duty this morning and got on a panel by 10:45 a.m. or so. That’s all I can say about my specific situation at the moment. I’m rather hoping to be picked for this one.

I really like jury duty, but it’s not quite as fun when it’s not a paid vacation like when I had a regular job. When I got a two-week trial on my first go-round I was ecstatic. Two weeks away from work, paid, and I got to live my own little L&O episode. Now it’s going to make me poor, but oh well, it’s still my duty and I’d never try to weasel out of it by fibbing during voir dire. I do wish, however, that my seat was 1) more comfortable and 2) not the squeakiest wooden chair in the frakking world. In the very quiet courtroom, every move I make sounds like a wild animal crashing through the woods.

Post Script: I was picked for the jury. I had a feeling I would be. I can't wait to get started tomorrow!

Cut myself on angel hair and baby's breath.

What is it, March 3? When are the ides of March? A quick Google reveals that 'ides' means the 15th of the month. So, never mind. Except that there is grief, if not doom, in my future. I've spent the last couple of days hanging with Steve and his family here, where we are right now. Steve's youngest brother, Brad, was diagnosed with lung cancer about a year ago. He fought it tooth and nail, but it's gotten the best of him. I hope no one ever has to deal with such a thing themselves, but if you do, you'd be very lucky to have a place like the deGreeff Hospice House. It really is a lovely place; built like a sprawling ranch house, it really is more home-y than hospital-y. The care is kind and considerate and it's a really comfortable environment.

So as if it's not bad enough to be dealing with this, my manager has not been particularly supportive of my being away from work to be with my family. I'm not sure why a terminal illness and a desire to support my husband at a really horrible time for him doesn't merit some understanding, but so far, not so much. It's hard to get used to this kind of mentality. In all my other jobs, just a hint at a family crisis got an immediate "get out of here and be with your family" order. I'm feeling really queasy about dealing with this and it think it's fucking shitty that I've been put in this kind of position -- like I practically have to choose between my coffee whore job and my husband. Maybe I'm overstating. I hope I'm overstating. Maybe it's my own inflated sense of responsibility. I don't know. At least I was scheduled to be off tomorrow so I won't feel guilty.

Let's just all hold hands and stop it from snowing, 'kay? Last thing we need this week is shitty weather.

I'll take you home/Get you on your own/Sweetness, don't be bashful

It is the eve of our 12th wedding anniversary (though I just realized I was proclaiming it our 13th at work today - d'oh). It seems at once more and fewer years. I suppose because I've known Steve for 26 years it seems longer and then because it's been [mostly] such a happy time it seems shorter. We've had a lot of adventures together and I fully expect to keep having them with Steve until the day I'm no longer alive. As cliche as it may be, he's my soulmate and I love him more every single day.

I doubt we'll be celebrating much tomorrow. It's been a hell of a week: I'm exhausted from work and have a nasty chest cold, our schedules have not coincided very well all week, and, most importantly, Steve's youngest brother is very, very ill and needs and deserves most of Steve's attention. I'm not particularly sentimental about dates and such, so we'll celebrate when we can.

I got payment today from the Sheldon for items I've sold in their boutique. Contrary to my last entry in which I stated I might be inspired by said check, I was not. In fact, I didn't even remember the idea until I reread the entry. *shrugs* So, clearly, no inspiration. Someday.

My regular online forum has taken a strange turn. Not only did an epidemic of high school-ish behaviors erupt (people renamed themselves things like "Jill, Property of Jack" and "Jill, Jack's Sex Toy"; girls complained of cyber man troubles; and complaints were made that "all you bitches" were talking behind someone's back), but this odd young fellow who styles himself as a millionaire and an administrator of the room started threatening to report the room activity to Interpol. (Why Interpol would care about some random sex chat I can't imagine.) Not only that, he and another regular (she of the "all you bitches" comment) consummated their love/hate relationship with some rather shocking public cybering, involving a gun and knives. Hopefully these behaviors will run their course very soon.

I will simply add that I hate winter and it can't be over soon enough. Word is we have three more weeks of miserable weather ahead of us, no to mention the ice that is on everything now. Ugh.

How come I end up where I started?/How can I end up where I belong?/Won't take my eyes off the ball again/You reel me out and then you cut the string

Ain't it funny how time slips away? How is it possible so many days have gone by since I wrote last?

I know I promised more tales and details courtesy of my chatroom adventures, but I think I’m going to remain mum for now. Perhaps I’ve grown too cognizant of my audience or maybe I’m just not prepared to properly express my sometimes conflicted feelings about what and whom I’ve done. Probably a good amount of both of those things. Suffice it to say that my adventures continue, I’m constantly surprised and challenged, and some day I will be more forthcoming.

But for now, let’s talk of other things. Last week I was equally thrilled and alarmed when the Sheldon Art Galleries called me and asked for some more merchandise for their boutique. As has been well documented here, I have been basically unable to channel my creative energy into anything resembling a tangible end product for some months now. Luckily, a frantic search through my back stock unearthed a few items for the store. I almost, almost, felt energized to create, but alas, no. Perhaps when the check arrives for the items I’ve already sold I will feel inspired. Is that wrong? To be inspired by financial gain? Shit, I have to get inspired by something, someday. I hate to think I’ll have to take my hand out of my pants in order to be an artist again. That’s a rather tragic trade-off, don't you think?

Speaking of artistry, I’m still perfecting my adaptation of Madhur Jaffrey’s recipe for aloo gobi. I have a love/hate relationship with Indian food. There was a time in the last decade when I really loved it. Out of nowhere though, on a trip to an Indian restaurant, I was unable to eat almost anything. I actually felt nauseous. It was weird. I let a few years go by and decided to try again one day at lunchtime with an Indian buffet. Steve was overjoyed, as he loves Indian and had not had much opportunity to eat it since he was no longer with his Indian food loving co-workers. I went in with an appetite and ten minutes later I was contemplating running for the ladies room to throw up. Even the tandoori chicken was inedible to me. So, I thought Indian was lost to me forever. Until I saw Madhur Jaffrey preparing aloo gobi on Sara’s Secrets on the Food Network. Aloo gobi was the first Indian dish I ever ate or cooked and I had always loved it. I had it first at a homey little restaurant on a spur of the moment road trip to Albuquerque (on that trip I also acquired my third tattoo). Upon my return from that excursion I asked an Indian co-worker if she had a recipe and she gave me a great one. (I will never forget that she and her sister had sibling kittens that they named Aloo and Gobi.) Anyway, I made it a couple times and sort of forgot about it. So many years later Madhur’s recipe seemed more complicated and somehow better. Risking imminent stomach distress, I prepared it and the obsession began. I’ve made it at least every week since. It's a fairly high-fat dish in this recipe and I need to experiment with a way to make it just as good but with less oil. Hell, maybe I'll make it again today.

My mom’s 80th birthday party was on Saturday and I found it another opportunity to make aloo gobi. I thought that the particular crowd at this party would not be very interested in the dish and that me, my sister and my niece would have it all to ourselves (with our husbands being allowed some too). Who knew that the resolutely Amuuurican-food eating folks would gobble down this spicy Indian dish, leaving not a scrap in the dish? Dang, so much for leftovers. It did restore my faith that small town folks can live outside their box, even if it’s only to eat an exotic food once in a while.

The party was fun but it’s crazy to contemplate my mom being 80 fucking years old. Considering she’s healthy as a horse aside from some creakiness, I suspect we’ll be celebrating her 90th. I hope we will, anyway. And it gives me hope that I’m not even halfway done with my life. Middle aged my ass.

Well, that’s it for now. Coming up: musings on Battlestar Galactica, our 13th wedding anniversary and my undying hatred of long winters.