Has it really been a year already?

I really don't want to have a birthday this year. I'll be 46, which is crappy enough on its own, and it's been the worst year of my entire life. I just want it to be over. And I'm kinda torn, because it's my birthday, and I really wish that it could be special, but I also just want it gone. It's a conundrum. And not in a good way. I wish I could just go to sleep and wake up and have it be 2010 already. And maybe make this year just a terrible dream. Where the hell is a reset button when you need one?

kd

Non-Sequitur, Anyone?

Boy, was I absent a while, or what? I love twitter. It's the new blog, and a lot easier, so I'm sorry, but I was cheating on you with twitter. I'd love to tell you it won't happen again, but I think we both know it will. Twitter just does it for me, baby. But we can still be friends. ;)

Let's see...anti-depressants. I've been taking generic Wellbutrin. Aside from the initial placebo effect, it doesn't seem to do much more than give me a vague sense of hope. But that's more than I had before, so I keep taking it. My doc says she'll up my dosage when I prove I can take it 2x a day every day, like I'm supposed to. So I'll be lying and tell her I have been when I go in again at beginning of December. I'm sorry but I just can not remember to take something twice a frigging day. I mean, I can if it doesn't have to be a set amount of time apart - in this case, 12 hours - but scheduling my damn drugs is just not something I can do. It's a serious problem when I have to take antibiotics 3 or 4 times a day. I mean, I have trouble remembering to take my birth control pill, for crying out loud, and that's something I just have to do once a day, at bedtime. Twice a day is really just asking too much. I could take it once a day at a higher dose, and when I was taking 150mg a day, that's what I did, but 150 made me feel twitchy, so neither I nor my doctor felt 200 at a shot was a good idea. So I take 100 twice. When I can remember. Oy.

Still job hunting. Still to no avail. I did send my resume to one woman who then called and said she'd be calling me back to set up an interview, and then nothing happened. It's part-time as a mammogram technician. Oo. Ah. What I'd like to do (assuming nothing really cool is out there) is wait tables. Decent money, part-time, and I can pursue my own stuff, which is really where it's at.

I wish I could figure out a way to make my photography pay. I also wish I could finish a novel and get it published. I was doing NaNoWriMo, but I petered out on what I was working on, mostly because I don't have a clear sense of direction on it, which wouldn't be a problem since that's how I write nearly everything, but this is chicklit, and that's a whole new genre for me. I know the salient points of the story, which I also always do, but I can't figure out how to dress them. Voice is no problem, it's getting from each point to the next that's the sticking point. It's just not telling itself at all. Usually when I write something, it tells itself, and all I have to do is the typing. That hasn't happened for a really long time, which sucks. I just feel empty inside every time I sit down to write. I can't explain it, and it's miserable. I have no fewer than 5 novels in progress, one of them more than halfway finished, and I just can't seem to write anything at all. It's frustrating.

I recently discovered The Bloggess on twitter, and as her name implies, she blogs. Very well. And this is hilarious.

I got a partial crown done 2 weeks ago, and it was hell. I really should blog it on its own, because holy moly. I have 2 more crowns to go, and I can't tell you how much I don't want them done. EVER. And now I have severe TMJ and do not have full range of motion in my jaw. And what I do have is really screwed up. Like Frankenstein screwed up. It is not good. :( I should take a picture, coz you guys will be all, "holy crap, what up with THAT, Katie?" And I'll be all, "yeah."

Know what I wish I had (besides $100 million, I mean)? A working oven. A working drier would be nice, too. Both need new switches, and I'm [this] far away from pulling each of the damned things out from the wall myself and getting in there to tinker, despite having absolutely zero knowledge of repair for either appliance. I NEED AN OVEN, folks. And a drier will be necessary once the cold and rain hit. I despise the laundromat.

My mom is coming here on Thursday and staying with my aunt out in Ontario. She'll be here till next Tuesday and wants us to do stuff like hike Mt. Baldy and go to Knott's Berry Farm. There will probably be dinner at my aunt & uncle's down in San Diego, too. That's a LOT of driving, yo. And time with my mother. I view the weekend with no small amount of trepidation.

Did I mention I'm shopping for dental insurance? My COBRA ends December 31, and since I really can't face having 2 more crowns done between now and then, I really have to buy more coverage so that I can have the last crown done next year sometime. I'm really not kidding you guys that I just can't have 2 done in the next 30 days. And I can't do them both at once, because the old fillings have to be drilled out first, and if you've never had that experience, you don't know what vile is. Seriously. I'll blog it later. You'll shudder. I'm not kidding. It still hurts. :( I'm not sure that dentist was a good dentist. I've never had such a bad dentist experience, but maybe this kind of thing is normal for crowns. You guys will have to let me know.

But for now, I have to go to Kinko's and have some stuff printed for TB.

xo,
kd

For the love of...

I can not use a SINGLE ONE of the websites I use daily, and it's starting to really piss me off.  Both Twitter & the Daily Plate are failing to load.  I'm aware that some frigging moron - or group of morons - thought it would be fun to launch a punk/DoS attack on twitter.  I have no idea what the DP's problem is.  I can't get into a few other places either, so I suppose it's just the Day of the Asshole or Malfunctioning Web today.

I'm going back on anti-depressants so that I can actually live life and get things done.  I started a new one Tuesday night, and it knocked me on my ass.  In addition to making me feel like I hadn't slept in 48-72 hours, it also made me cranky, weepy, a little more hungry than usual, and almost completely lacking in impulse-control.  Part of my brain actually figured hitting people who irritated me in the face with shovels was a perfectly reasonable response to the irritation.  Thankfully, the rest of my brain was in control and knew that would be A Bad Thing To Do.  Still, it made for an extremely trying 36 hours, during which I got into a huge fight with the boyfriend, found it really difficult not to hit my dogs, and said really inappropriate things to everyone else I had contact with.  I also cried a LOT and felt utterly wiped out and exhausted, without the strength to get thru the 5 minutes immediately following, let alone the rest of my life.  It was still hazing me when I woke up this morning at 9:30, despite my not having taken it last night, because I had to be lucid to talk to EDD & B&N corporate today.  I went back to bed around 11, and when I woke up at 2, I was clear of it, at last.  I will be phoning my doctor tomorrow to tell him there is No Way In Hell I will be taking THAT again.  (It was mirtazapine - aka Remeron - for those of you keeping score or considering it yourself.)  I am mortified at the things I said when I went on a dog walk with my neighbors.  I said bad stuff to my long, no-longer-lost friend Vanessa on the phone, too, but at least she knows me enough to write off the really wacky stuff.  The neighbors don't, and trust me when I tell you, I was a bit psycho.  (And THAT ought to really freak out long-time readers of the KD blog.) :(

Vanessa is a post for another day; we finally found each other again after 29 years, and I'm thrilled.  We were really tight, back in the day, and I love her so much.  I'm glad we have a mutual friend who was able to connect us - and that's a story in itself. :)  Aside from my best friend Gayle, Vanessa is the friend I've had the longest.  I've known her since 5th grade.  It's nice to have a sense of history, you know?  When your parents move you around a lot, and your family is broken on top of it, it's really hard to maintain any sense of history.  The past disintegrates with every move and every broken connection to The Time Before.   So yay for the return of lost friendships. :)

ttyl; peace out.

kd

My Heroes Have Always Been Cyclists

Watching the Tour de France this summer, I've been examining near daily why it is I love Lance Armstrong - and by proxy, the Tour de France - so very much.  Why I love the Tour is fairly easy: it's one of the last situations on earth where cheating is not tolerated, good sportsmanship is expected, and determination is maybe just a tad more important than physical ability - an underdog has just as much a shot at taking it as anyone else, and the whole thing can turn on a dime; one day you're down without a chance in hell of catching up, the next you're in yellow and winning the race.  The men who race the Tour are incredible athletes, and I wish I had one tenth their drive and resolve.  So my love of the race is no big mystery.  But why Lance Armstrong?  What is it about him that causes such excitement and joy?  In part, that's a tough call.  What makes a sports hero, and why do we love them? What need do they fulfill?  On the surface, it's easy to check off the big things: he not only survived cancer, he came back from it to win the Tour de France a record 7 times in a row; he spends his time tirelessly working to raise money for cancer and help motivate others with the disease to kick its ass as he did; he's a good sportsman; he's a winner.  But those aren't actually the reasons I love the man, though they certainly don't hurt.  No, I love Lance Armstrong because he walks softly, carries a big stick, is a shrewd competitor, and he gets it done - without bluster or excuses.

At least, that's why I thought I admired him.

But this Tour has shown me there's more to it than that.  After 4 years away from the toughest sporting event in the entire world, he had the guts to return to it, at 37 years of age, in the face of near constant and false accusations of doping, against pretty much all odds, to say, "I'm back, I'm here, and not only do I not dope, I'm gonna take all the crap you can throw at me and more, and I'm gonna kick all of your butts AND take your names while I'm at it.  And you know why?  Because I love cycling, and I hate cancer, and I'm so committed to raising awareness that I'm gonna put up with everything you can throw at me, PLUS ride my bike 2500 miles in the heat and cold and wind and rain, up mountains other people can barely walk up,  and then right back down through winding, switchback roads at ridiculously high, dangerous speeds, all for FREE.  So taste THAT, World. I. Am. HERE."

It would have been easy to rest on his laurels, work with the foundation that bears his name, and hang out with more than a few of the world's hoi palloi and movers and shakers, living the cush life, but he didn't do that.  He came back to the race, and he did it pretty much on his terms, and he gives me a reason to keep going every day, even when I feel miserable. Because if Lance Armstrong can return to the Tour, I can get back in shape.  And if he wins, I am not old, and I do not have to give in to aging. Every single doping control he passes with flying colors (despite what seems to be a petty vendetta by the UCI) is vindication for my belief that a human being can accomplish great things honestly, without cheating or lying or doping or any other deceitful practice.  That, most of all, hard work and perseverence really do pay off, even if it's only some of the time.

It's been a rollercoaster ride, this Tour. Despite my hopes and the fact that he's been riding well, Lance hasn't won any stages, nor has he at any point in the race been wearing yellow.  And I admit to feeling more than a passing bit of animosity towards Alberto Contador, who may or may not be referred to as "the weasel" in this household...and a few of my tweets.  It was tough to watch Contador pull away from Lance and to see the Spaniard in yellow, especially when it seems as though Contador has more than a few attitude problems and demonstrates some very unsportsmanlike behavior - and on a purely emotional level, Contador's Stage 15 move into yellow was akin to watching Lex Luthor shoot Superman in the back and get away with it. But the thing is, with Lance, there's always next time.  And when you least expect it, he will roll right over you with an apparent ease mindboggling in its beauty.  So maybe this isn't the year he will once again stand in yellow on the podium in Paris, and maybe it is.  But one thing I do know is this: if he wants to, he'll stand there again someday.  And that is good enough for me.

So um...how'd that happen, again?

May be working on a memoir and book about Elvis Presley soon.  The random bizarreness of life in LA sort of sneaks up and sucker punches you, sometimes. I can honestly tell you that in summer, 1977, if you had told barely teenaged me that I was going to one day help write a book about Elvis Presley - or how that was going to come about, I'd have told you you were certifiably insane.  For that matter, if you'd told me that just last month, I'd have asked you if you were high.

Life is strange.  And getting stranger.  There's more to it, but that's all I feel at liberty to say without betraying confidences.

The book is actually already written.  My job will be to help shore it up for sending out - to edit it for an editor to edit, basically.  I'm pretty good at that, if I do say so myself.  Won't know more until I've had a chance to read the first chapter and make notes for the writer, and we can decide whether or not working together is something we want to do.  I feel if we can come to a satisfactory agreement on expectation and compensation, it should go well.  I'm really interested in the project, and the person writing the book seems very sincere.  So we'll see.

Can I get an eyeroll?

From The Free Republic today:

"No one can honestly make the case that the Palins didn't take more heat than other public families."

Really?  'Cause Hillary Clinton did not get POUNDED on when Bill was president, and NO ONE made fun of Chelsea Clinton or attacked either Chelsea or Hillary personally on their physical appearances, nor did anyone rip on the Clintons' relationship.

Riiiiiiiiight.

I hated the Clintons, and even I had to acknowledge they got brutalized.  TFR - and Kathleen Parker, specifically - need a reality check.  Big time.

The Revolution Will Be Tweeted

I have spent the last several days "watching" events unfold in Iran via Twitter and participating - to the extent that I can, sitting halfway around the world - in passing on what information I could verify as fact. It has been, in the way of the ancient Chinese proverb, interesting. Twitter has become the poster site for a new kind of communication, in a way I do not believe even Evan Williams and Biz Stone (the founders of twitter) ever dreamed it could be. It has proven its relevance to today's society arguably more surely than any start-up in the last 50 years.

Using the hashtag (a tag, or search term) #iranelection to search for news turns up thousands of new tweets every minute, a flood of information, some of it factual, some of it not, all of it (spammers aside) having to do with the protests in Iran. During the media blackout of yesterday - and the even heavier blackout all day and night today - it was the only way to find out what might be happening on the ground in Tehran and around that country. But more than updates from the front and support for those on the ground from the rest of the world, the hashtag has become a giant game of Telephone, a two-way stream of resistance passing the word from one protestor to another, sometimes directly, but also largely via strangers sitting at their keyboards thousands of miles away, retweeting (passing on) the information and sending it out to their own network of friends and followers, for even more people to see and pass on. Tweets* have gone out with everything from news of where the clashes between protestor and Basij were located, to advice on what to do when tear-gassed, the addresses and locations of hospitals and embassies offering help, locations protestors should avoid to escape capture or violence, outting tweeters who were fakes or government operatives spreading disinformation, and news of explosions, deaths, and injuries. In addition, protestors have used Twitter to coordinate their rallies and to get the word out about them, to pass on messages from opposition leader Mir-Hossein Mousavi, and to post the url's of other websites containing videos and photographs of the protests.

The Twitterverse has responded to those in Iran with a tidalwave of support, coloring their icons green, the color of Mousavi's supporters, changing the location and timezone listed in their profiles to Tehran or Iran, and passing the word not to repeat the names of Iranian tweeters once it became known that the Ministry in Iran had started to search the site using those parameters to identify members of the opposition. A popular message retweeted at the moment says, "On 9/11, the World said we are all Americans; today, we are all Iranians." Sitting at my keyboard half a world away, waiting for news and hoping for the best, passing on what information I can verify and hope will help, while pundits on CNN rattle about with less information than I, it feels true. In the face of a government-imposed blackout and restrictions resulting in a complete absence of any information-gathering tools of their own, networks and news agencies have themselves turned to twitter for reports of events as they unfold.

Just a few days ago, one of my friends remarked that she just doesn't see the need for twitter or understand why anyone would want to use it. I have a feeling that's about to change. The website has eclipsed its function as mere trend or messaging service and evolved into something more. A new kind of beast. It will be interesting to see where it goes.

*tweets are 140 character text messages
(I blurred the names in the above image to protect the tweeters.)

New Answering Machine Message

"Thank you for calling Dante's Inferno Room, deep in the 7th Level of Hell. We are located at the corner of It's Not My Fault Drive & I Was Only Following Orders, right next to Good Intentions Bar & Grill. Reserved seating now available."

Also, no new word from the Gel-Nails people.

Spin

On May 17, I contacted the gel-nails.com website to let them know I was really angry about the very inconsiderate (and I feel, rude) comments made to my entry about scattering Daddy's ashes. I wasn't very nice about it, either. As in, at all. I was more than a little angry, and not inclined to be respectful. Not very cool on my part, since it makes me look bad, but here's what I wrote:

I appreciate that you used a blog entry about my father's death and the horrible experience of spreading his ashes as a springboard to your gel-nails website. What a thoughtful thing to do. I commented to that effect, and you actually commented AGAIN trying to sell me and others on your website and product. You are contemptible. I can only hope that one day, someone does a similar favor for you. Asshole.

Someone there who only identified him/herself as Gel Nails Management replied to me the same day, and this is the email I got back:

How are you,

We are really really sorry for that, we are using marketing company to advertise for us, we have delivered them your email and made complaint, they assured me that who did this will be terminated. We are really sorry and don't know what or how to cover for our mistake, we know we are responsible for it because we hired them.

We apologize for anything they did, our company goals was always to run only best business.

Please forgive us.

Thank you
Gel Nails Management

I figured that was the end of it, and then I got this mail on the 22nd, I assume from the same person, as it bore no closing:

We are extremely sorry about the comment that has been posted on your blog and we would like to rectify this situation by finding out who has done it. We would really appreciate it if you can let us know your blog URL, the username of the person who has posted this comment, the comment posted and the date and time when such a comment was posted.
With these details we will try to track who has done this. Your cooperation in this regard will be really appreciated.

Sincere apologies once again for the inconvenience this has caused you

Interesting. Half of me - okay, a little more than half - thinks they're just trying to placate me and do damage control. But they might be serious. I'll keep you posted.

Mercenary Asshats

So, the fuckwit who tried to sell me nail glue in comments to my post about spreading Daddy's ashes came back. Are are her/his/its comments, followed by my own, in case the moron gets embarrassed and tries to remove them, because I plan to do everything I can to spread the word about this jerk. Let's see how many other people's grief he/she uses to sell fucking nail products. His/her comments are in italics.

4 comments:
gel said...
Interesting content.

Just wanted to share some information that may help busy professionals caught up with work and who have less time to maintain their nails. You can try out gel nails which are now becoming a hot favorite as they are natural looking even without nail tips and the best way for nail enhancement. Also, if you are allergic to those strong smelling chemicals which you can experience with acrylic nails, then you should use gel nails as these are odorless.

However, when you are planning on gel nail application, make sure you approach a nail salon or a nail artist who is well versed with gel nails and is properly trained and mastered in gel applications. This will save you from problems that can arise with improper gel nail applications.

March 20, 2009 1:40 AM


Katie said...
Dear Gel -

I thank you for your very thoughtful comment regarding the care of my nails. We busy professionals do have trouble finding the time to clean the ashes of our DEAD FATHERS out from under our nails and keeping healthy nailbeds when they've been scoured raw from the grit of ashes and the small bits of bone left after a cremation. It means the world to me that you took the time to offer your thoughts on how I could achieve flawless nails without using harsh chemicals or applying acrylic nails, which I'm sure would fail to stand up to the abuse of dipping one's hands into the ASHES OF ONE'S RECENTLY DECEASED FATHER. I shall hie me to a professional salon and locate a nail artist well versed with gel nails, which I'm sure would stand up much better to the dense grit and mass of cremated human remains; the last thing I want is for a cheapass acrylic nail to come off in the bag with MY FATHER'S ASHES. That would be bad.

Thank you for your concern for my wellbeing and the health of my nails. I am deeply, deeply touched.

Asshat.

March 22, 2009 2:34 AM


Gel-Nails said...

Good information.

I came across many queries in several forums where people have been asking for advice on the best glue that can be used on nails and that is not only strong but also safe on nails. This was the same question I had sometime back when I used to apply nail gel myself. Initially the glue I got would never hold on the way it used to when done in the salon. I then came across the nail glue being sold on gel-nails which lasts very long and is pretty easy to apply. It provides a strong bonding for my nails and also does a great job in repairing the nail tips.

Most important of all is that this is strong glue I was actually looking out for and this is used by nail salons and nail artists for professional applications. It is available at a cheap price at gel-nails and I remember seeing it at a discount of 74% which is great. Maybe this can help if you also face problems relating to poor glue quality as I did earlier.

April 3, 2009 2:57 AM


Katie said...
Again, I would like to thank you for the taking the time to extend your sympathies toward me in a time of grief by making sure I know I can go to your website in order to buy an excellent glue for the gel nails I will almost surely have purchased by now to replace my own human nails, which I broke while struggling to scoop a handful of the cremated remains of my dead father, an activity so shocking, it very nearly caused me to throw up from the stress of it. Your pathos is so entirely evident, I do not know how I could have been of the now clearly erroneous understanding you did not bother to read my original post - or the reply I made to your very generous original comment. Please forgive my dunderheadedness when you have patently proven yourself to be, not a mercenary asshole of the first and highest order, but instead, a kind, giving individual who would never, under any circumstances whatsoever, intrude on someone's grief and horror to sell them nail products. Please rest assured I shall proclaim your heartfelt generosity far and wide on my twitter account, so that all who come here can read your sympathetic comments and patronize your business. I know nothing could have been further from your mind in using my grief as a springboard, but I feel you should be rewarded by everyone on the internet I have in my power to reach finding out what a gigantic piece of work you really are.

No really. I insist.

May 17, 2009 3:08 AM

You have to be kidding me.

God must really have a soft spot for idiots & jerks. I love how the blogger profile is private. Good thing, too. I'd have to pester the living hell out of her, otherwise.

Fat bottom girls, you make the rockin' world go round.

I walk into Chevron on the way to Jonny-C's tonight, and the guy behind the counter says, "You've put on a little weight."

Yep. It is not good when the guy at the gas station notices your butt has gotten bigger. I know he wasn't trying to be mean or anything though, so I nodded and said yep. I get my Diet Coke and a meal replacement bar and set 'em on the counter, and he says to me - I kid you not - "This, too, gives fat."

Mm-hm. Yeah.

*sigh*

Aside from that, I had an awesome time playing Rock Band at Jonny-C's. I got my character all set up and rockin' with cute outfits and adorable hair, and the name of my band is Neon Antler, on accounta when I went to Toronto with a bunch of friends the week before Christmas in 1985, we were at a mall, and the displays were these big ceramic reindeer that all had neon antlers, and one of the guys observed that Neon Antler would be a good name for a band, and that if he ever formed one, that's what he was going to call it. I concurred, so tonight when we were trying to think of a band name, I grabbed that out of the distant passages of my memory, dusted it off, and slapped it up on the wall. So that's who we are, a chick band out of Montreal, named Neon Antler. My character is Siouxsie, because that's more hip than Katie-D., and I wasn't feeling especially creative namewise. Now I just need my own Wii. :)

xo,
kd

Wow, coincidence.

So, I was just watching this clip of The View (a show I never watch), and Alicia Silverstone says she became Vegan because of her dog...which is exactly why I stopped eating pork, which opened the door to the end of eating beef, which I also don't do anymore. No more mammals. I'm an ornipiscitarian. ;)

There's no such thing as fair.

You know how I know this?

Beautiful, kind Natasha Richardson is dead at the age of 45, leaving a grieving husband, 2 young boys, mother, sister, aunt, etc., while a sac like Ann Coulter is still walking around spewing ignorant bile at will.

Satan definitely wins this round. :(

Dollhouse Again

FOX still wielding The Big Bat of Obviousness, which is really damaging my enjoyment of what would probably be a very cool show if the dumb@$$es at the network would just shut the hell up, get out of the way, and let Whedon do his thing. I saw just enough Joss in the last episode (Gray Hour) to make the show even more excruciating to watch, since it becomes more and more clear what he must be up against. I really hope he's learned his lesson and will never, ever work with those dinks again.

In which Katie goes home again...and finds home has gone somewhere else

I had a long weekend, both good and bad. Mostly good. I suppose the bad was really more sad/bittersweet than anything else. Assuming it started on Friday.

I spent the day Thursday herding cattle and burying Daddy's ashes. Neither had much to recommend it. I'd never herded beef cattle before, and I have to say, dairy cows are much easier to deal with and smarter. Though I suppose an argument could be made in favor of the beef cattle as well, since one could conclude that most of the time when beef cattle are being herded somewhere, it's toward certain death and someone's dinner plate, so it actually behooves them not to go along and cooperate. Dairy cows want to be milked, because it relieves them of the pain of a swollen udder, so since generally the only time anyone tries to herd them, it means either food or milking (and usually both), they want to go where you tell them. They will, in fact, line up at the gate and wait for you to open it for them. There's not a lot of work involved in herding dairy cattle most of the time. Beef cattle, otoh, do not care where you want them to go. They get their feed out in the pasture, so they don't find anything of interest up in the holding pen and are, in fact, deeply suspicious of the fact you want them to go there. Especially if they're new to your property and are still trying to suss out how they fit into the whole thing and where the best place might be from which to launch an escape. Cattle are very big on escaping. That's why the expression "the grass is always greener on the other side of the fence" came into being. Because to a cow, truer words were never spoken.

We were severely understaffed, being only me, my stepbrother, a guy who didn't speak English, and a man I knew when I was a kid who is not fully mobile, having lost most of one of his legs several years ago on an oil rig. There was lots of rounding up and re-rounding up and moving quickly and cows charging past and going through the fence and stuff like that. It was also unseasonably warm (like in the 90's). I got sunburned and covered in dirt and grime, to the point of being gritty. I do not like being gritty. I like being hot, sunburned and gritty even less. And there are still 5 cows and 3 calves wandering around in the pasture, since they just refused to cooperate. I'm worried about one of the calves, an adorable little red calf with a red and white speckled face who was only a few days old and whose mother my stepbrother could not identify. So I don't know if she went with him. This is bad for 2 reasons: calves that young need their mothers and the ultra-rich milk they provide which is necessary to a tiny newborn, and mothers need their calves because if they aren't nursed regularly, they develop infections and poisoning and can die. Not to mention the pain they're in from swollen udders. So I desperately hope the mother went to auction along with her baby. Otherwise bad things will happen to both, and I can't stand that. It hurts my heart. I may not be overwhelmingly fond of cows, but they're animals and beings and need to be protected. I don't even want to think about that adorable little baby (whom I had to give water to because it was hot and he was panting badly) growing up to be slaughtered for someone's hamburger. In fact, I think I just this very second gave up beef. For that very reason.

After hours of that and sending the cows off to auction in the afternoon, my stepbrother and I put my dad's ashes in a heavy decorative box, sealed it shut, and took it out into another of the fields to bury under a huge oak tree up on a ridge. The ground was really hard, thanks to the area suffering a very long drought, and we had a hell of a time digging a hole deep enough. I wanted to go 3', but we ran out of light and had to settle for 2, and that required a pick axe and post hole digger, as well as our two shovels. It was hard work, and I was really sore by the time we were done. It's on the highest point on the property, so hopefully if the river floods, it's safe, and Daddy used to like to go there and think and watch the sun set. After we filled it back in, we went and got a bunch of rocks and covered it with a mound of rocks. I'm going to get a stone for it later, when I actually have money. Assuming I ever do, since unemployment in California has topped 10%, and not only do I not have a job, I can't reach unemployment for my extended benefits, either. *sigh*

After that, my stepbrother made me a baloney and cheese sandwich, since I hadn't eaten all day and it was by now past 7, and then we rode around the back pasture and down to the river, where I went down the bank to the place we used to swim when I was a kid and got a handful of sand to take home with me. It's difficult to be in a place at once familiar and so completely strange. The lay of the land was the same, the barn and houses were in the same place, but it's been 30 years, and everything is in such a state of abandonment and disrepair as to be shocking. Everyone who ever leased the place seems to have stolen anything of value and left their junk behind, and neglected care of the buildings and fences. Then too, your memory has gaps, so you remember this or that, but not the next thing, so the place you see in your mind's eye does not at all translate to the place stretched out before you. I don't recommend the experience, frankly. It was a relief to leave it behind. One day, we'll restore it, but for now, it was very sad. You really can't go home again. Or maybe it's just that I've had too many. I don't know.

Friday night, I drove out to my best friend since 10th grade's house, and we hung out and talked the whole weekend and watched cheesy b-movies like The Beastmaster. It was really good to do, but also really sad to leave. We went out to her dad's on Sunday for a few hours. I used to call her parents Mom & Dad, and when Dad answered the door, man, I hugged him really hard and started to cry. He's really reserved, so I think he was a little flummoxed, but he coped. He's not one for crying, but when someone asked if I was all right, he said I just needed to be a kid for a moment, then he patted me and said okay, and I let go. I cried again when it was time to go. Poor Gayle - I wouldn't let her hug me when I saw her on Tuesday night, because I didn't want to cry in front of strangers, and Tuesday was a hard day, and then when I left, I told her no hugs because I didn't want to cry, and then I turned around and hugged Dad and cried anyway. I'm sure she's confused. I'm nothing if not a huge contradiction, sometimes.

Sunday night, I had dinner with my brothers and my sister-in-law and that brother's two kids, and we talked about some of the probate stuff. Then I came home. And now I have to hire the attorney and talk to my friend Dagmar about an assets search on my dad. Ah, probate. Thou art a joy. Or something.

On one hand, I just want to go back to Cali. On the other, I know it's not going to be any easier there. I really wish it could be easier. And I want my life to be different. I'm tired of being unhappy and overweight and unsuccessful and lonely. I want to be the person I thought I'd be when I grew up and live the life I thought I'd have. This isn't it, and life is just too long and miserable to live it otherwise.

I have to go get lunch now.

Later.

It's LeWar! (or, Let's Have Some Silly For A While)

First there was this.

Then, LeVar Burton responded.

Michael Ian Black at once threw down*, and the LeWar was on.

* (At which point, I have to ask, what kind of culturally dead cretin does NOT know LeVar Burton played Kunta Kinte in Roots, let alone one who makes his living largely by commenting on American mainstream culture? Srsly.)

It's a battle royal between the cool hip of Mr. Geordie LaForge, the Reading Rainbow Man himself, LeVar Burton, and the tragically trendy, culturally shallow (I can only surmise) Michael Ian Black. He with the most followers wins.

So get thee to Twitter, my peeps. Get an account and choose a side. You'll be glad you did. ;)

Peace out,
Katie

Whisper To a Scream

On the way home from work tonight, I heard a song I haven't heard since junior high. Since I was working on the farm with my dad. Next thing I knew, I was sobbing and dealing with the realization that my dad is dead. He is dead. I will never see, hear, speak to, or hug him again. I have not seen him in almost 6 years. I sat in my car and screamed for an hour, and it's hard not to cry now. But I can't, because I don't want to upset my mother. My heart is raw, and it hurts in a way you can't know unless you've lost a parent or child or maybe sibling. You might think you know, but you don't. I imagine losing a child is worse, because children are not supposed to predecease their parents, and there's just no way you can prepare for that. But you can't really prepare for the loss of a parent either, and I feel like I'm going to explode with the pain of it. I want my daddy. Just one more fucking time, I want my daddy. I want to hug him and be hugged and tell him I love him. I want to know that he is okay, in a good place, and I want to be able to look at him and say I love you, Dad. And I hate God, that it doesn't work that way. I do. I hate him so much, because He could make it happen, but He won't, because that's not how it is, and it's arbitrary and stupid, and I want my dad.

I still have ashes under my fingernails.

So, it turns out scattering ashes in real life is absolutely nothing like it is in the movies. They do not waft gently on the breeze, nor are they particularly easy to get out of the container. In point of fact, they resemble not so much ashes as grey sand with tiny bits of grey shell mixed in. They're also heavy. I suppose it makes sense that a 250 pound human being compacted down to a 4x6x8" space might be a little heavy, but it's still a shock when someone places that box into your hands and you find out that it's not at all like a box of fireplace ashes and is in fact about 15 pounds worth of stone weight. Seriously, it may as well be a lead brick, for the weight of it. That was my first shock of the day.

The service was nice, if sparsely attended. There were 30-50 people there. The minister had known Daddy for about 35 years, so he spoke well and personally. I said something clumsy and brief, and my Uncle Charlie, my dad's baby brother, told a story or 2. Then we sang Old Rugged Cross (always a safe one), and retired to the fellowship hall for a reception. My stepmother and siblings were there, and that was nice. I saw my friend Tommy Oliver, who I hadn't seen in 30 years, and that was wonderful. It was so great to see him, and it means a lot that he came. I wish he'd stayed longer, but he had to go back to work. I also saw 2 of my old teachers, Mrs. Stuteville, who taught me math in 8th grade, and her BFF Ms. Jarrell, who taught me HomeEc at another school in 9th & 10th, and who was a real lifesaver to me in those years. Both of them are loving, wonderful women I am grateful for knowing, and 2 of my favorite teachers. I wish they'd stayed for the reception, as well. I was looking forward to the chance to visit with them.

After an hour or so, the family left to go back to the farm and scatter Dad's ashes. I asked the minister how to do it, and he said well, most people just used their hands or emptied directly from the container. Emptying that way seemed pretty much like emptying out a container of trash to me, so I chose to use my hands. We got back to the farm, and me, my brothers, their significant others, my uncles, cousins, 1 stepbrother, and Daddy's cousin Joyce went down to the river in the back pasture to scatter, and when we got there, I got made the de facto ash disperser, whether I was up for it or not. I asked Darth Brother did he want to do it, and I guess he saw my face, coz he said well, he'd help if I wanted him to. I said if he wanted to help, I'd appreciate it, so he stepped up, and so did my stepbrother. Yoda Brother and I opened the box, and then my Uncle John said a really nice prayer (he's a minister). Then I reached into the box, which is where I got my second shock of the day: human remains do not break down into ash as you most likely think of it. As I said before, they look like sand and tiny bits of shell, and their consistency is that of the part of an ocean beach where the waves are washing in - very dense, very compact. Except that they are totally dry. But the top layer looks like silt, so you think it's going to be soft, and then when you try to reach into it, you find you have to really dig - I actually broke a freaking nail doing it. Seriously, it was shocking.

But I grabbed a handful, and then so did my stepbrother, and then my brother, and they both got the same shocked looks on their faces as I know I must have, and my stepbrother even said "oh, wow," in a strangled tone, and then quickly turned away and let his go, and then he broke down and had to walk a bit away to compose himself. My brother said something under his breath when he reached in, and he let his go too, and then everyone just looked at me, and no one would take any. So I took a few more handfuls, but you seriously can not grasp how many ashes are in a box like that until you're in that situation - I mean it, it's like a neverending supply. I finally had to give up and tilt the box so that I was holding the top of the bag in one hand and supporting the box in the other, and tried to gently sift the ash from the box, but no matter how well you do that or how the wind is blowing - and we had a good stiff breeze - the bits of bone still fall to the ground, which is just unsettling in the extreme. I mean unsettling. There's your father, on the ground. It just isn't right. So I just kept walking and feeling like I was doing it completely wrong and stupid, and everyone but Darth Brother and Stepbrother stayed back where we started, and after I'd gone about 50', I turned and asked my brother what I should do next, and he didn't know either. Then Stepbrother said that we were standing just above the point in the river that my dad liked to swim in, so I asked if we should go down the bank and finish there, and they didn't know what else to do, so the 3 of us did that, and they stood at the top of the bank while I scattered ashes on the sand there and then walked to the river's edge and let the wind carry the rest downwind, which it did pretty well, and it was a really pretty spot, with an old fallen and hollowed out tree and everything. I looked down to where all the bits of bone had fallen into the river and sunk to the rocks along the bank, where they were pretty bright against the green algae, and I told myself well, it was okay they were in the river, because it was sort of like they were gold, and while that was bothersome, it was better than on the ground. Then I realized I only had 1/3 of the box left, and I want to bury some under a tree on the property and put a marker there, so the 3 of us sealed the ashes back up and then climbed back up to where everyone else was and had to be careful not to step where we'd scattered ashes - you could clearly see the heavier grains and the bone. Let me tell you, having to warn your brother not to step on you dad is not for the faint of heart; it was yet another surreal moment in the day. When we rejoined everyone, we stood telling family stories a while and took some group shots, and then broke it up to all head our separate ways. There's more to it, but I'm going to skip it, as it was all estate-related about the need to buy more cottonseed for the cows ASAP and get them to market, etc. Basically we all broke apart and headed home. I stopped a few times to take pictures from the roadside, which helped, but jeebus, what a freaking bad day.

And I still have Daddy's ashes under my nails. I had to dig so hard into them that they're way under the nailbed, and I just can't get them out.

My Life is Like Star Wars...Sort Of

I have two brothers. One is cool, generally calm, generous, caring, and values family beaucoup. The other is snide, selfish, sarcastic, and doesn't really care all that much for any of us. I love the first brother. The second one? Not so much. I mean, I love him, coz he's my brother. But dude: he is Darth Brother to my other brother's Yoda. My mother is a kinder, gentler version of Grand Moff Tarkin. Or maybe the Emperor. She adores Darth Brother beyond all else. And me?

I'm Princess Leia in the bad dress and ridiculous hair, hanging out in the detention center on the Death Star, and today, my life was a garbage chute of epic proportions.

Where the hell is Luke Skywalker when you need him?