naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Angry)
Despite all the things happening in my life and in my head right now, I'm afraid it's really not very interesting to watch. Still waters run deep, and all that. I can't even really articulate most of it, except to say that I'm making progress in every sense of the word, and yet I'm also restless, frustrated, weary, and irritable. Hair-trigger.

I think the next big thing is on its way down the pike, and that prospect frightens me. I need to finish up my current projects before diving headfirst into a book that's really going to whip the hell out of me. But I'm trembling to write it. That combination of lust and terror that goes into a really good ride. I love that feeling. It'll feel even better once I get out my blades and start cutting on it.

I'm getting a little tired of livejournal -- not the interactivity, which I enjoy, but of the sheer scale of it. I alternately feel like I'm dealing with these crates of huge, weighty issues, trying desperately not to step on mice and like I'm one of those mice, trying to avoid a whole crapload of cats and rats and other bastard mice who all want to eat me, fight with me, or fuck me. Which is not to say that I wish to discuss only Weighty, Intellectual Matters; far from it. I am simply tired of being batted at, played with, placated. I'm tired of flirting, of being flirted with, of making nice, of coming up with things to say and a tactful way to say them. I don't know. Feels like everyone wants a piece of me, lately. Trouble is, you can't pick the piece you get, and by now I'm down to mostly the yucky parts. The freezerburned rat testicles of my psyche, if you will. I'm tired. Burnt out.

This is probably why I haven't been posting much.

That and the fact that serious things are going on in the background here that I can't or won't or don't know how to talk about. My life situation is changing. Things are happening, coming together, making sense at last. I'm leaving a fog that's trapped me for the past year and more. I'm shedding old skin.

I've lost a lot in the past year. Two family members, a good chunk of my physical progress, some of my health, a lot of my sanity, a handful of friends, and, I'm afraid, all of my innocence.

I've learned to cut away what is dead, so it doesn't poison me, and I've learned that it hurts, but it's a good hurt. I've learned that fear doesn't wait up nights thinking about me, but I can sit up night after night waiting for it. I've learned that what is perfect will not necessarily protect you, and that what protects you is not always perfect.

Things have been getting better. I'm terrified of admitting it, terrified I'll bring down something awful on myself, but it's true. My health is improving, my skin is clearing up, I'm more energetic, more cheerful, more present. My sleep has gone all to shit, but it would be a perfectly acceptable trade for any one of those.

Even my leg has stopped bothering me seven days out of ten.

I'm limping, still, from time to time, but I'm back to dancing. Twenty minutes, forty minutes, an hour at a time. I felt something new this morning, waking up. I've gotten used to testing every muscle, every inch of skin when I awaken, making sure I have no lurking pain. I felt the dish of my belly when I woke and discovered my hipbones have come out of hibernation at last. My thighs are thinner, though they will never be lean. My body is changing again, slow and slow. That's me, the mutable Gemini witch pulling another shapechanging trick. Going into the black and coming out the same old wolf in a new sheep's clothing. I forget a little of the old dances every night, but I make new ones every morning.

I don't think I'll go back to dancing at the studio -- it was making me miserable. I don't understand why, completely. I loved the people, and I miss them a lot. I think it was just the pressure to perform, which required far more time and money than I had. I might return on a class-only basis, see if I can handle it.

Or I might spend the time doing something else. That nightmare of a book is calling my name so seductively.

That's the thing about life. It's always time. You just never know what it's time for. Time to get to work, I suppose. God help me, I hate it: the trying and failing and not knowing and desperately needing. It is so fucking hard, but it's work I have to do. Nobody else can dance these songs for me, write these stories for me, wear this body for me, fight this disease for me. I have to do it myself. And no matter how many people I can vicariously share it with in person or on the internet, I am ultimately very, very alone.

Not really a comforting thought to take to bed with me at three in the morning.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Angry)
Despite all the things happening in my life and in my head right now, I'm afraid it's really not very interesting to watch. Still waters run deep, and all that. I can't even really articulate most of it, except to say that I'm making progress in every sense of the word, and yet I'm also restless, frustrated, weary, and irritable. Hair-trigger.

I think the next big thing is on its way down the pike, and that prospect frightens me. I need to finish up my current projects before diving headfirst into a book that's really going to whip the hell out of me. But I'm trembling to write it. That combination of lust and terror that goes into a really good ride. I love that feeling. It'll feel even better once I get out my blades and start cutting on it.

I'm getting a little tired of livejournal -- not the interactivity, which I enjoy, but of the sheer scale of it. I alternately feel like I'm dealing with these crates of huge, weighty issues, trying desperately not to step on mice and like I'm one of those mice, trying to avoid a whole crapload of cats and rats and other bastard mice who all want to eat me, fight with me, or fuck me. Which is not to say that I wish to discuss only Weighty, Intellectual Matters; far from it. I am simply tired of being batted at, played with, placated. I'm tired of flirting, of being flirted with, of making nice, of coming up with things to say and a tactful way to say them. I don't know. Feels like everyone wants a piece of me, lately. Trouble is, you can't pick the piece you get, and by now I'm down to mostly the yucky parts. The freezerburned rat testicles of my psyche, if you will. I'm tired. Burnt out.

This is probably why I haven't been posting much.

That and the fact that serious things are going on in the background here that I can't or won't or don't know how to talk about. My life situation is changing. Things are happening, coming together, making sense at last. I'm leaving a fog that's trapped me for the past year and more. I'm shedding old skin.

I've lost a lot in the past year. Two family members, a good chunk of my physical progress, some of my health, a lot of my sanity, a handful of friends, and, I'm afraid, all of my innocence.

I've learned to cut away what is dead, so it doesn't poison me, and I've learned that it hurts, but it's a good hurt. I've learned that fear doesn't wait up nights thinking about me, but I can sit up night after night waiting for it. I've learned that what is perfect will not necessarily protect you, and that what protects you is not always perfect.

Things have been getting better. I'm terrified of admitting it, terrified I'll bring down something awful on myself, but it's true. My health is improving, my skin is clearing up, I'm more energetic, more cheerful, more present. My sleep has gone all to shit, but it would be a perfectly acceptable trade for any one of those.

Even my leg has stopped bothering me seven days out of ten.

I'm limping, still, from time to time, but I'm back to dancing. Twenty minutes, forty minutes, an hour at a time. I felt something new this morning, waking up. I've gotten used to testing every muscle, every inch of skin when I awaken, making sure I have no lurking pain. I felt the dish of my belly when I woke and discovered my hipbones have come out of hibernation at last. My thighs are thinner, though they will never be lean. My body is changing again, slow and slow. That's me, the mutable Gemini witch pulling another shapechanging trick. Going into the black and coming out the same old wolf in a new sheep's clothing. I forget a little of the old dances every night, but I make new ones every morning.

I don't think I'll go back to dancing at the studio -- it was making me miserable. I don't understand why, completely. I loved the people, and I miss them a lot. I think it was just the pressure to perform, which required far more time and money than I had. I might return on a class-only basis, see if I can handle it.

Or I might spend the time doing something else. That nightmare of a book is calling my name so seductively.

That's the thing about life. It's always time. You just never know what it's time for. Time to get to work, I suppose. God help me, I hate it: the trying and failing and not knowing and desperately needing. It is so fucking hard, but it's work I have to do. Nobody else can dance these songs for me, write these stories for me, wear this body for me, fight this disease for me. I have to do it myself. And no matter how many people I can vicariously share it with in person or on the internet, I am ultimately very, very alone.

Not really a comforting thought to take to bed with me at three in the morning.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Dance of Joy!)
Since my leg has been feeling somewhat better lately, I've been dancing every day for about the last week and a half. I'm up to about 15 minutes at a time, which is a third of what I used to do every morning, but it's progress.

And today is the first day in ten months or so that my leg has not hurt me at all.

Maybe all these weeks and weeks of sitting around like a scratchass jackaninny have actually worked some improvement on the fucking thing!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Dance of Joy!)
Since my leg has been feeling somewhat better lately, I've been dancing every day for about the last week and a half. I'm up to about 15 minutes at a time, which is a third of what I used to do every morning, but it's progress.

And today is the first day in ten months or so that my leg has not hurt me at all.

Maybe all these weeks and weeks of sitting around like a scratchass jackaninny have actually worked some improvement on the fucking thing!
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
Sounds like a band, doesn't it? Solitaire Shade and the Funky Doldrums.

This has just been a bum weekend.

There are times when I just want out of my life -- not in a permanent "up-the-block not across-the-street" kind of way but in an "anywhere but here" kind of way. This is one of those times. I want out of my life, not out of my life. And all my forms of escapism are stalling out on me. Any ordinary livejournaler would be posting maudlin lyrics.

I just have one of those unshakeable moods. It's been lingering for a while (since third grade?), and for the last week or so I've felt like I've just disappointed and pissed off everyone I care about. This includes family, real-life friends, and a few online friends. And, shit, let's throw an imaginary friend in there while we're at it. One of my characters is pissed at me, obviously, because my writing has stalled out. I did something wrong plotting this bitch and now it's just lying there like a tranqed-out Thai hooker while I pretend to enjoy fucking it.

Yeah. It does feel pretty icky. Why do you ask?

The intermittent sleeping problem I've been wrestling with off and on for weeks has finally settled enough that, just moments ago, I began the first draft of this sentence with the words "my insomnia," implying that it's enough of a thing to have its own identity. Like everyone should know what I'm talking about.

This is bad news because I have a rough week ahead of me with several early mornings, and I just don't know if I can hack it. I can't get up at ten if I go to bed at six. But if I can't sleep until six, all I do is lie there and listen to my husband snore.

No, I don't want sleeping pills, thanks, unless they're free. I have a $500 deductible to meet before I can get jack shit out of my unsurance company. And, yes, that started as a typo, but I'm leaving it.

My friends are dancing this weekend at Oktoberfest, and I won't be there. I can't stand to go and watch, even though I love them and I miss them, because it's so terrifically painful for me to watch something I can't be a part of. And I feel like I'm letting them down because of it. I should go anyway. Oh, God. I've missed birthdays, I've missed rehearsals, I've missed jokes and pep talks and workshops and crises and meeting new people. It's been almost a year since I've danced on stage. And, Christ, I'm not part of the group anymore because I called them my friends just now, and not my troupe. I'm not one of them.

I really wish my family had gotten a chance to see me live while I was still able to do it. I really do. Part of the reason I freaked so hard about the whole DVD thing last year was because I was desperately afraid Mom would miss it, and as stupid as it seems I put a lot into that dance. It meant a lot to me. Thank God I didn't know that would be the last time, because I think it would've killed me.

I'm sadly relieved that I never got that commemorative tattoo when I joined the big kids. It would be nothing but a painful, nagging reminder that I fucking failed. And saying it wasn't my fault does precisely dick. I could've tried harder and done more.

That's really at the heart of a lot of my pain -- my fucking leg. Yup. Sometimes I wish to God it were more fucked up than it is, because this halfhearted shit that keeps me from using it but doesn't visibly impair me is incredibly fucking annoying.

It's keeping me from exercising. I've put on fifteen or twenty pounds in ten months. And boy, isn't that great for the ol' ego? That alone is tearing me apart like you cannot fucking imagine. The leg is also keeping me from doing things I want to do, like dance, and keeping me from being able to express joy in what had become the simplest fucking way.

I'm not talking myself up, here, and I don't think this is going to do me any good, since I don't feel safe talking about what's really bothering me anymore, so I'm going to see if I can bang that tranqed-out whore until she wakes up, and then try to sleep through another night of horrible dreams. This is one of those times where I sincerely wish I had a drinking problem I could blame everything on. This is also one of those times where, if I had any alcohol in the house, I would definitely develop one.

I hate to disillusion those of you who think I have my shit together . . . I really don't. I'm kind of a screwup.

(Comments enabled but they will not be emailed, to give me the option of looking or not looking.)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
Sounds like a band, doesn't it? Solitaire Shade and the Funky Doldrums.

This has just been a bum weekend.

There are times when I just want out of my life -- not in a permanent "up-the-block not across-the-street" kind of way but in an "anywhere but here" kind of way. This is one of those times. I want out of my life, not out of my life. And all my forms of escapism are stalling out on me. Any ordinary livejournaler would be posting maudlin lyrics.

I just have one of those unshakeable moods. It's been lingering for a while (since third grade?), and for the last week or so I've felt like I've just disappointed and pissed off everyone I care about. This includes family, real-life friends, and a few online friends. And, shit, let's throw an imaginary friend in there while we're at it. One of my characters is pissed at me, obviously, because my writing has stalled out. I did something wrong plotting this bitch and now it's just lying there like a tranqed-out Thai hooker while I pretend to enjoy fucking it.

Yeah. It does feel pretty icky. Why do you ask?

The intermittent sleeping problem I've been wrestling with off and on for weeks has finally settled enough that, just moments ago, I began the first draft of this sentence with the words "my insomnia," implying that it's enough of a thing to have its own identity. Like everyone should know what I'm talking about.

This is bad news because I have a rough week ahead of me with several early mornings, and I just don't know if I can hack it. I can't get up at ten if I go to bed at six. But if I can't sleep until six, all I do is lie there and listen to my husband snore.

No, I don't want sleeping pills, thanks, unless they're free. I have a $500 deductible to meet before I can get jack shit out of my unsurance company. And, yes, that started as a typo, but I'm leaving it.

My friends are dancing this weekend at Oktoberfest, and I won't be there. I can't stand to go and watch, even though I love them and I miss them, because it's so terrifically painful for me to watch something I can't be a part of. And I feel like I'm letting them down because of it. I should go anyway. Oh, God. I've missed birthdays, I've missed rehearsals, I've missed jokes and pep talks and workshops and crises and meeting new people. It's been almost a year since I've danced on stage. And, Christ, I'm not part of the group anymore because I called them my friends just now, and not my troupe. I'm not one of them.

I really wish my family had gotten a chance to see me live while I was still able to do it. I really do. Part of the reason I freaked so hard about the whole DVD thing last year was because I was desperately afraid Mom would miss it, and as stupid as it seems I put a lot into that dance. It meant a lot to me. Thank God I didn't know that would be the last time, because I think it would've killed me.

I'm sadly relieved that I never got that commemorative tattoo when I joined the big kids. It would be nothing but a painful, nagging reminder that I fucking failed. And saying it wasn't my fault does precisely dick. I could've tried harder and done more.

That's really at the heart of a lot of my pain -- my fucking leg. Yup. Sometimes I wish to God it were more fucked up than it is, because this halfhearted shit that keeps me from using it but doesn't visibly impair me is incredibly fucking annoying.

It's keeping me from exercising. I've put on fifteen or twenty pounds in ten months. And boy, isn't that great for the ol' ego? That alone is tearing me apart like you cannot fucking imagine. The leg is also keeping me from doing things I want to do, like dance, and keeping me from being able to express joy in what had become the simplest fucking way.

I'm not talking myself up, here, and I don't think this is going to do me any good, since I don't feel safe talking about what's really bothering me anymore, so I'm going to see if I can bang that tranqed-out whore until she wakes up, and then try to sleep through another night of horrible dreams. This is one of those times where I sincerely wish I had a drinking problem I could blame everything on. This is also one of those times where, if I had any alcohol in the house, I would definitely develop one.

I hate to disillusion those of you who think I have my shit together . . . I really don't. I'm kind of a screwup.

(Comments enabled but they will not be emailed, to give me the option of looking or not looking.)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
We have a phone again. The number has changed to something close enough to my parents' number that I will never be able to remember it straight. Stupid numbers.

We spent yesterday hiding from the world, and will probably do the same today. I am worried sick about my doctor's appointment on Monday. It should have been yesterday, and then it would be over and done with by now, and I'd know what I had to do to fix this fucking leg, which is acting up again. But no, they had to move it. Fucking mouthbreathing pinheads.

Between the financial problems around December, my fucked-up leg, and recovery from various procedures both previous and forthcoming, I have been out of class for nearly six months. With unemployment, future medical interventions, and likely more financial trouble, I probably won't see the studio for weeks more. And if I can't get this leg fixed, guess what? I'll have to drum if I want to be involved at all.

I fucking hate this. It doesn't even hurt that bad, but if I don't stay off it, it gets aggravated and makes it hard to do anything . . . climb on the bed, bend over, get up, sit down, go down steps . . . I HATE THIS.

I have gained seven pounds. SEVEN. Because I cannot exercise as hard as I usually do. This is not a good thing.

Right now I'm going to go exercise. As long as I don't bend over or twist, the leg is fine.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
We have a phone again. The number has changed to something close enough to my parents' number that I will never be able to remember it straight. Stupid numbers.

We spent yesterday hiding from the world, and will probably do the same today. I am worried sick about my doctor's appointment on Monday. It should have been yesterday, and then it would be over and done with by now, and I'd know what I had to do to fix this fucking leg, which is acting up again. But no, they had to move it. Fucking mouthbreathing pinheads.

Between the financial problems around December, my fucked-up leg, and recovery from various procedures both previous and forthcoming, I have been out of class for nearly six months. With unemployment, future medical interventions, and likely more financial trouble, I probably won't see the studio for weeks more. And if I can't get this leg fixed, guess what? I'll have to drum if I want to be involved at all.

I fucking hate this. It doesn't even hurt that bad, but if I don't stay off it, it gets aggravated and makes it hard to do anything . . . climb on the bed, bend over, get up, sit down, go down steps . . . I HATE THIS.

I have gained seven pounds. SEVEN. Because I cannot exercise as hard as I usually do. This is not a good thing.

Right now I'm going to go exercise. As long as I don't bend over or twist, the leg is fine.
naamah_darling: A gray cat with a white chin squinting as though she smells food. (Fish)
Oh, boy. Pardon the cat posts, but cat-drama abounds.

Last night, we carried poor Frankenfishie to the litter for a potty break. She showed no interest and only wanted to go lay down again. Back into the room she went. She lay down, and in the elapsed time between leaving her there and bringing her a plate of food, she lost control and peed all over the bed.

She knows this is bad, and so she hid in misery. There is no way to explain to a scared cat that, no, really, it's not your fault and everything is just fine. It's just a little accidental pee. Okay. A lot. But still, she couldn't help it, the poor dear.

Since then, there have been no more errors; the lingering anesthesia apparently just made it hard for her to control her hind end.

However, after hauling her out to take her for her second potty break, we discovered a nasty wound on her neck; perplexing, since she hasn't even seen the other cats since she came home. Sargon was totally freaked out, but I recognized it for what it is: a ruptured abscess, caused by a closed puncture wound she probably got before we even brought her indoors. Luckily, I know how to treat abscesses so I did some field dressing.

Poor Fish was extremely good while I cleaned the wound. She did no more than grunt in discomfort a couple of times as I drained it. I've said it before, but it bears repeating. I can't believe how brave she is. The abscess should be okay until she's recovered a little more and I can take her back to the vet to have it checked and maybe get her some antibiotics to keep it from recurring.

It was just harrowing, having to deal with a sick kitty and convincing Sargon that, no, Sudden Death is not on the list of symptoms and side-effects of an abscess. In fact, they're incredibly common, and if they were generally lethal there would be far fewer cats. I'm just glad one of us knew not to blow a gasket at the sight of the wound (which was plenty disgusting, thanks).

After that was settled, we tried to sleep, but she threw up during the night (politely leaving the bed), and that was the last straw on the back of my panicky camel. I had a full-blown anxiety attack at 2 a.m., complete with chills and shivering, and I had to get up and read for a while to make it stop. This is way worse than it sounds, and was the most exhausting part, really. I had to wrap up in three blankets and apply a different cat to strategic parts of my anatomy before I felt human again. I didn't get back to sleep until six thirty.

To make things even more festive, I can't exercise. Class last night was a bust; I had to quit partway through and just watch. I did something to my leg about a week ago, and now the tendon that runs along the front of my hip and down the front of my leg is popping and snapping painfully. Usually, this kind of thing just goes away, but this has lingered. I have to stay off it until it decides not to hate my guts. So every time I stand up or sit down, it makes angry clicking noises and hurts me.

Considering how little sleep I got last night, a lack of physical exertion is entirely welcome.

For now, Fish is fine, lying in a sunbeam, and she shows every sign of making a full recovery. Cats are amazingly stoic, hardy creatures, and there's really nothing to fret about. It's just hard not to worry about her.

I did cry last night over her stitches, but Sargon is the one who asked me to put her on the phone this morning, and she's the one who cocked her head and looked around for Daddy, something none of the other cats have ever done.

That got me all teary, too, but in a different way. I'd better take damn good care of this cat. She means a whole Hell of a lot to my husband.

link
naamah_darling: A gray cat with a white chin squinting as though she smells food. (Fish)
Oh, boy. Pardon the cat posts, but cat-drama abounds.

Last night, we carried poor Frankenfishie to the litter for a potty break. She showed no interest and only wanted to go lay down again. Back into the room she went. She lay down, and in the elapsed time between leaving her there and bringing her a plate of food, she lost control and peed all over the bed.

She knows this is bad, and so she hid in misery. There is no way to explain to a scared cat that, no, really, it's not your fault and everything is just fine. It's just a little accidental pee. Okay. A lot. But still, she couldn't help it, the poor dear.

Since then, there have been no more errors; the lingering anesthesia apparently just made it hard for her to control her hind end.

However, after hauling her out to take her for her second potty break, we discovered a nasty wound on her neck; perplexing, since she hasn't even seen the other cats since she came home. Sargon was totally freaked out, but I recognized it for what it is: a ruptured abscess, caused by a closed puncture wound she probably got before we even brought her indoors. Luckily, I know how to treat abscesses so I did some field dressing.

Poor Fish was extremely good while I cleaned the wound. She did no more than grunt in discomfort a couple of times as I drained it. I've said it before, but it bears repeating. I can't believe how brave she is. The abscess should be okay until she's recovered a little more and I can take her back to the vet to have it checked and maybe get her some antibiotics to keep it from recurring.

It was just harrowing, having to deal with a sick kitty and convincing Sargon that, no, Sudden Death is not on the list of symptoms and side-effects of an abscess. In fact, they're incredibly common, and if they were generally lethal there would be far fewer cats. I'm just glad one of us knew not to blow a gasket at the sight of the wound (which was plenty disgusting, thanks).

After that was settled, we tried to sleep, but she threw up during the night (politely leaving the bed), and that was the last straw on the back of my panicky camel. I had a full-blown anxiety attack at 2 a.m., complete with chills and shivering, and I had to get up and read for a while to make it stop. This is way worse than it sounds, and was the most exhausting part, really. I had to wrap up in three blankets and apply a different cat to strategic parts of my anatomy before I felt human again. I didn't get back to sleep until six thirty.

To make things even more festive, I can't exercise. Class last night was a bust; I had to quit partway through and just watch. I did something to my leg about a week ago, and now the tendon that runs along the front of my hip and down the front of my leg is popping and snapping painfully. Usually, this kind of thing just goes away, but this has lingered. I have to stay off it until it decides not to hate my guts. So every time I stand up or sit down, it makes angry clicking noises and hurts me.

Considering how little sleep I got last night, a lack of physical exertion is entirely welcome.

For now, Fish is fine, lying in a sunbeam, and she shows every sign of making a full recovery. Cats are amazingly stoic, hardy creatures, and there's really nothing to fret about. It's just hard not to worry about her.

I did cry last night over her stitches, but Sargon is the one who asked me to put her on the phone this morning, and she's the one who cocked her head and looked around for Daddy, something none of the other cats have ever done.

That got me all teary, too, but in a different way. I'd better take damn good care of this cat. She means a whole Hell of a lot to my husband.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I said it already, but I'll say it again.

Be warned. This is a freakin' huge post. With self-indulgent pictures (put behind a cut).

It has been a week of partying hard.

On Yule, Sargon and I went to a non-denominational solstice gathering at a friends' house, had some stew and some cider and some fire. I even got up and danced, despite a painfully full belly and the cramped quarters. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. I know I enjoyed it immensely.

It was all improv, so it felt a bit like flying by the seat of my pants, but I did well enough to do myself some credit, at least. It's a lot more fun dancing for people than it is just dancing alone, which is a no-brainer, but the difference is profound enough that I feel I should comment on it. And dancing for friends is best of all.

Wednesday night was a Night of Pain, which consisted of a movie party with [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie, Sargon, and I. You have already seen the results of that.

The 'Zombie also picked up his Giftmas Present (Danger Girl!), which he has probably read by now. And, thanks to him, we are now the proud owners of Chaos Bleeds -- one of the Buffy video games -- and the special extended edition of Return of the King.

And, Dude? If I gave you brainworms, I'm sorry. You can always hope they eat the memories of Timeline first.

In other news, on Thursday I got to the mail before Sargon, and I am now the proud owner of a Men-Men zipper bag, which is the perfect size for one of those whisper-quiet ninja stealth maxi pads. As a bonus, it smells like a vinyl swimming pool – one of my favorite non-food smells. And, now that I think about it, it would really be kind of icky if it smelled like strawberries or something.

Thank you, [livejournal.com profile] emu_bitter_babe!

Christmas Eve was its own thing. It went well, but that is about all I want to say about it right now. More on that later.

Christmas was fun. We had scrambled eggs and cinnamon rolls, and tore into our presents with a will.

After Sargon and I exchanged gifts, it was time for the presents from the Legion of Doom. There were enough of them that I am petrified I'm leaving something or someone out, though if that's the case, it's not because I don't remember or didn't like it, it's because it immediately got yanked out of the stack of stuff, got separated from its tag, and is being played with. And there's a lot to play with.

Because, by the bright blue bosoms of Ereshkigal, you people sure came through in a pinch.

I have pictures!!! )

So, thanks to all of you, to those who sent gifts, and to those who sent wishes or good thoughts. Touching your lives daily, and being touched in return, has been the most amazing experience of the last year. For maybe the first time in my life, it's been brought home to me that if I am just myself, and don't pretend . . . well . . . that's good enough, dammit, and more than good enough.

This Christmas was merry and was bright. I am truly grateful. And sorry that I could not buy things for all of you, as you all deserve so much more than I have the money to give.

Thank you all.

Oh. One more picture.



Let it never be said I am afraid to look really silly in front of you people.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have lots and lots of movies to watch, books to peruse, and porn to read.

If you need me, I'll be in my bunk.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I said it already, but I'll say it again.

Be warned. This is a freakin' huge post. With self-indulgent pictures (put behind a cut).

It has been a week of partying hard.

On Yule, Sargon and I went to a non-denominational solstice gathering at a friends' house, had some stew and some cider and some fire. I even got up and danced, despite a painfully full belly and the cramped quarters. Everyone seemed to enjoy it. I know I enjoyed it immensely.

It was all improv, so it felt a bit like flying by the seat of my pants, but I did well enough to do myself some credit, at least. It's a lot more fun dancing for people than it is just dancing alone, which is a no-brainer, but the difference is profound enough that I feel I should comment on it. And dancing for friends is best of all.

Wednesday night was a Night of Pain, which consisted of a movie party with [livejournal.com profile] spacezombie, Sargon, and I. You have already seen the results of that.

The 'Zombie also picked up his Giftmas Present (Danger Girl!), which he has probably read by now. And, thanks to him, we are now the proud owners of Chaos Bleeds -- one of the Buffy video games -- and the special extended edition of Return of the King.

And, Dude? If I gave you brainworms, I'm sorry. You can always hope they eat the memories of Timeline first.

In other news, on Thursday I got to the mail before Sargon, and I am now the proud owner of a Men-Men zipper bag, which is the perfect size for one of those whisper-quiet ninja stealth maxi pads. As a bonus, it smells like a vinyl swimming pool – one of my favorite non-food smells. And, now that I think about it, it would really be kind of icky if it smelled like strawberries or something.

Thank you, [livejournal.com profile] emu_bitter_babe!

Christmas Eve was its own thing. It went well, but that is about all I want to say about it right now. More on that later.

Christmas was fun. We had scrambled eggs and cinnamon rolls, and tore into our presents with a will.

After Sargon and I exchanged gifts, it was time for the presents from the Legion of Doom. There were enough of them that I am petrified I'm leaving something or someone out, though if that's the case, it's not because I don't remember or didn't like it, it's because it immediately got yanked out of the stack of stuff, got separated from its tag, and is being played with. And there's a lot to play with.

Because, by the bright blue bosoms of Ereshkigal, you people sure came through in a pinch.

I have pictures!!! )

So, thanks to all of you, to those who sent gifts, and to those who sent wishes or good thoughts. Touching your lives daily, and being touched in return, has been the most amazing experience of the last year. For maybe the first time in my life, it's been brought home to me that if I am just myself, and don't pretend . . . well . . . that's good enough, dammit, and more than good enough.

This Christmas was merry and was bright. I am truly grateful. And sorry that I could not buy things for all of you, as you all deserve so much more than I have the money to give.

Thank you all.

Oh. One more picture.



Let it never be said I am afraid to look really silly in front of you people.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have lots and lots of movies to watch, books to peruse, and porn to read.

If you need me, I'll be in my bunk.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (belly)
I finally got the screen caps from Oktoberfest up.

I've made my photo album public so you can go look without me having to tag every damn picture. So, go check it out.

I'm still making you look at these.

Here I am looking sexy. Note the glitter on the tummy.


More behind the cut! Guaranteed 100% Ham! )

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (belly)
I finally got the screen caps from Oktoberfest up.

I've made my photo album public so you can go look without me having to tag every damn picture. So, go check it out.

I'm still making you look at these.

Here I am looking sexy. Note the glitter on the tummy.


More behind the cut! Guaranteed 100% Ham! )

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I suppose I should update so you people don't wonder what happened to me.

I've been having the Weekend From Hell.

The US Postal Service has changed some basic shipping rules, which means the cards are going out flat, in large envelopes, and not boxed, as I had hoped. Since that means they aren't folded, I won't be able to stick the bumpy sequins on the Queen of Heaven cards. I'm just pissed about this whole thing. Terribly sorry, all.

I'd send them a different way, but at this point, making other arrangements would be so time-consuming and horrible that I can't manage it. I can barely swing getting the car for fifteen minutes at a time. So they go out stuffed into Priority envelopes, and I have my fingers crossed that they don't arrived folded, spindled, mauled or mutilated.

I now hate both the USPS and Kinko's, but I won't go into that here. Or into any of the other ways my weekend decided to fuck me over and steal all the free time that I would normally use for relaxing. My blood pressure is already too high, and dwelling on all that is not helpful.

Instead of brooding the shit out of you lot, I will attempt to be more positive.

Writers' Meeting! )

Dance show. )

The rest of the weekend, and how bad things suck. )

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I suppose I should update so you people don't wonder what happened to me.

I've been having the Weekend From Hell.

The US Postal Service has changed some basic shipping rules, which means the cards are going out flat, in large envelopes, and not boxed, as I had hoped. Since that means they aren't folded, I won't be able to stick the bumpy sequins on the Queen of Heaven cards. I'm just pissed about this whole thing. Terribly sorry, all.

I'd send them a different way, but at this point, making other arrangements would be so time-consuming and horrible that I can't manage it. I can barely swing getting the car for fifteen minutes at a time. So they go out stuffed into Priority envelopes, and I have my fingers crossed that they don't arrived folded, spindled, mauled or mutilated.

I now hate both the USPS and Kinko's, but I won't go into that here. Or into any of the other ways my weekend decided to fuck me over and steal all the free time that I would normally use for relaxing. My blood pressure is already too high, and dwelling on all that is not helpful.

Instead of brooding the shit out of you lot, I will attempt to be more positive.

Writers' Meeting! )

Dance show. )

The rest of the weekend, and how bad things suck. )

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
Things suck.

Oh, my God, things suck.

It is a Litany of Suckdom. Slow, life-sucking suckdom. This is The Purple Suck.

Most of it you know about already (broke, dying mom, car accident/insurance/repair shit, crushing ennui), but to put the frilly cap on the ghoulishly bald head of a freakishly shitty couple of months, over the weekend, I lost two pets.

Not one. No. That would have been bad enough.

Two.

Rhadamanthys, a cape gopher snake, and Chen Fu-Jen Wu Nu, one of my pair of beloved Elaphe carinata, or stinking goddess snakes.

We don't even know what was wrong. Rhaddy had been unwell for a long time, and no amount of worming or temperature adjusting had helped . . . so his passing did not come as much of a surprise.

Lady Chen, though . . . that's horriffic. She had been perfectly healthy, and though she'd refused food a little, recently, she hadn't lost weight or been regurgitating, so I assumed it was just her occasional finicky nature making life difficult. I had absolutely no idea that she was apparently very ill.

None.

To make things worse, it looks as though several of our other snakes are sick with whatever it was that Rhadamanthys and (maybe) Lady Chen had.

So, on top of everything else, we have some sort of herpetological hot zone breeding in our snake room. Buliwyf, Leviathan, Zyni, Shabako, Baba Yaga, Anath, Baal, and possibly Ankhy and Azrael all need to be screened and quarantined.

So now I'm standing in front of an endless mountain of parasite screenings, worming paste, and trips to the vet, not to mention the bills. And we still have to feed them all, which means ordering frodents next month at the very latest, because we're already low.

I'm in so much pain about it that I'm just numb. I can't even cry for my kids, not even when I buried their cold little bodies yesterday. I feel, deep down, that it's my fault, you see. I haven't had time or strength to keep up with feeding them, they haven't been cared for very well.

Now, it's entirely possible that nothing I could have done would have helped. I won't know until I know what killed them. But that doesn't stop me from feeling so guilty I can barely stand to look at the ones who are still alive, let alone do the necessary maintenance on their cages. This isn't good for anyone.

I want out. I want out from under this mountain of exercise, cooking, cleaning, writing, dancing, that I have to do every day. I want a week where I can do nothing, without having to pay for it by coming back to a mess that will stress me out so badly to clean up that it will render the break meaningless.

The sad part is that it isn't even that difficult. I do amazingly little from day to day. But even getting out of bed is hard, especially when there are days, like today, where I can honestly predict the rest of my day from hour to hour and know that there is nothing, not one thing, that I am looking forward to.

Sargon is also not well. Job stress and home stress are causing him nasty physical symptoms that I can't prevent or alleviate. And anytime I need to vent or go to him for comfort, it just makes him worse, so I'm denied that release, too. I have to just sit in my corner and stay quiet and try not to set him off.

He's "getting help" for it, by which I mean he has found his insurance card, but has stalled calling anyone for a month. I'd ride his ass about it, but I don't have the strength anymore. I just can't hold his hand this time. He has to do it himself.

To make things even worse, out of nowhere and for no real reason, I have pain in my right ankle whenever I put weight on it. It's not severe, yet, but I can't go up on relevé on that side at all, which means that, unless it goes away by tonight (which I admit it might), I may as well not bother with class, because Khalil, the dance we're working tonight, is so fast it all has to be done on the toes. The way it is now, this ankle definitely won't stand up to an hour of relevé. Not if I want to be walking tomorrow.

And I still have to do my weight-bearing exercises today. I don't know if I can do the lower-body stuff with my ankle all twingeing. I can do upper body and abdominals, I guess, but if this lasts more than a couple of days, I am screwed. I have a performance on Saturday.

So, a lame ankle on top of dead pets, horrible, crushing guilt, and an uncooperative, sick husband. Oh, yeah. And Bush is still "president," despite the fact that I think he may have lost this election, too.

I will be shocked if I even get out of bed tomorrow.

My poor babies. I just don't understand what happened. I feel so helpless. If I couldn't stop it from happening to them, how can I stop it from happening to the others? I failed. They're dead because I didn't do enough, because I didn't convince the man with the money and the car to do enough.

I'm tired of watching people and things around me get sick, go wrong. My mom, my husband, my pets, my fucking country. They aren't well.

Yes, it's probably just PMS talking. I should probably take some happy-pills or something. I can, after all, choose not to suffer, as so many people are so fond of pointing out. I can just feel whatever I have to feel and move on, or something. Yeah. See how easy that is? Or, better yet, I can put it all into a box and forget about it. Because people only want you to have good feelings. Anything else is bad and should be hidden, covered up.

But no amount of forced smiling and popping Wellbutrin is going to change the fact that my life, itself, is sick. Something is not right, or I wouldn't feel this way so often.

I'm going to go try to write, though my word count is creeping down towards shite. I only wrote about 1,000 words all weekend (oh, yeah, and I'm pissed about that, too). If I can get a couple thousand words of pulpy adventure in, this day will be redeemed.

Edit: Insult to injury -- the ONLY CD I want to listen to apparently wandered off with my husband when he went to work.

FUCK!

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Emo Icon)
Things suck.

Oh, my God, things suck.

It is a Litany of Suckdom. Slow, life-sucking suckdom. This is The Purple Suck.

Most of it you know about already (broke, dying mom, car accident/insurance/repair shit, crushing ennui), but to put the frilly cap on the ghoulishly bald head of a freakishly shitty couple of months, over the weekend, I lost two pets.

Not one. No. That would have been bad enough.

Two.

Rhadamanthys, a cape gopher snake, and Chen Fu-Jen Wu Nu, one of my pair of beloved Elaphe carinata, or stinking goddess snakes.

We don't even know what was wrong. Rhaddy had been unwell for a long time, and no amount of worming or temperature adjusting had helped . . . so his passing did not come as much of a surprise.

Lady Chen, though . . . that's horriffic. She had been perfectly healthy, and though she'd refused food a little, recently, she hadn't lost weight or been regurgitating, so I assumed it was just her occasional finicky nature making life difficult. I had absolutely no idea that she was apparently very ill.

None.

To make things worse, it looks as though several of our other snakes are sick with whatever it was that Rhadamanthys and (maybe) Lady Chen had.

So, on top of everything else, we have some sort of herpetological hot zone breeding in our snake room. Buliwyf, Leviathan, Zyni, Shabako, Baba Yaga, Anath, Baal, and possibly Ankhy and Azrael all need to be screened and quarantined.

So now I'm standing in front of an endless mountain of parasite screenings, worming paste, and trips to the vet, not to mention the bills. And we still have to feed them all, which means ordering frodents next month at the very latest, because we're already low.

I'm in so much pain about it that I'm just numb. I can't even cry for my kids, not even when I buried their cold little bodies yesterday. I feel, deep down, that it's my fault, you see. I haven't had time or strength to keep up with feeding them, they haven't been cared for very well.

Now, it's entirely possible that nothing I could have done would have helped. I won't know until I know what killed them. But that doesn't stop me from feeling so guilty I can barely stand to look at the ones who are still alive, let alone do the necessary maintenance on their cages. This isn't good for anyone.

I want out. I want out from under this mountain of exercise, cooking, cleaning, writing, dancing, that I have to do every day. I want a week where I can do nothing, without having to pay for it by coming back to a mess that will stress me out so badly to clean up that it will render the break meaningless.

The sad part is that it isn't even that difficult. I do amazingly little from day to day. But even getting out of bed is hard, especially when there are days, like today, where I can honestly predict the rest of my day from hour to hour and know that there is nothing, not one thing, that I am looking forward to.

Sargon is also not well. Job stress and home stress are causing him nasty physical symptoms that I can't prevent or alleviate. And anytime I need to vent or go to him for comfort, it just makes him worse, so I'm denied that release, too. I have to just sit in my corner and stay quiet and try not to set him off.

He's "getting help" for it, by which I mean he has found his insurance card, but has stalled calling anyone for a month. I'd ride his ass about it, but I don't have the strength anymore. I just can't hold his hand this time. He has to do it himself.

To make things even worse, out of nowhere and for no real reason, I have pain in my right ankle whenever I put weight on it. It's not severe, yet, but I can't go up on relevé on that side at all, which means that, unless it goes away by tonight (which I admit it might), I may as well not bother with class, because Khalil, the dance we're working tonight, is so fast it all has to be done on the toes. The way it is now, this ankle definitely won't stand up to an hour of relevé. Not if I want to be walking tomorrow.

And I still have to do my weight-bearing exercises today. I don't know if I can do the lower-body stuff with my ankle all twingeing. I can do upper body and abdominals, I guess, but if this lasts more than a couple of days, I am screwed. I have a performance on Saturday.

So, a lame ankle on top of dead pets, horrible, crushing guilt, and an uncooperative, sick husband. Oh, yeah. And Bush is still "president," despite the fact that I think he may have lost this election, too.

I will be shocked if I even get out of bed tomorrow.

My poor babies. I just don't understand what happened. I feel so helpless. If I couldn't stop it from happening to them, how can I stop it from happening to the others? I failed. They're dead because I didn't do enough, because I didn't convince the man with the money and the car to do enough.

I'm tired of watching people and things around me get sick, go wrong. My mom, my husband, my pets, my fucking country. They aren't well.

Yes, it's probably just PMS talking. I should probably take some happy-pills or something. I can, after all, choose not to suffer, as so many people are so fond of pointing out. I can just feel whatever I have to feel and move on, or something. Yeah. See how easy that is? Or, better yet, I can put it all into a box and forget about it. Because people only want you to have good feelings. Anything else is bad and should be hidden, covered up.

But no amount of forced smiling and popping Wellbutrin is going to change the fact that my life, itself, is sick. Something is not right, or I wouldn't feel this way so often.

I'm going to go try to write, though my word count is creeping down towards shite. I only wrote about 1,000 words all weekend (oh, yeah, and I'm pissed about that, too). If I can get a couple thousand words of pulpy adventure in, this day will be redeemed.

Edit: Insult to injury -- the ONLY CD I want to listen to apparently wandered off with my husband when he went to work.

FUCK!

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Yesterday was hideous. I mean that. The weather was like a giant runny nose.

Today, the sun is a big ball of fire in a blue October sky, the leaves here are still green, and everything looks simply beautiful from where I'm sitting.

I'm sitting because my feet are killing me.

Why, WHY does performing hurt my feet when the hour plus of practice I do every day does not?

At least the show tonight is shorter.

Oh, and did I mention improv last night? No? We had to solo to drums. Each of us got up and danced for a minute or so to the drummers. I was next to last, and Farideh had to sneak up behind me and slap me with her fan to get me to go offstage, because I was turned the wrong way and was so busy gettin' down I didn't see the cue to get down. I was embarrassed, but my husband says it was really funny in a good way.

We have to do it all again tonight.

I am going to keel over and die.

I pray – PRAY, do you hear me?! – that my sister and her family bring the DVD recorder tonight, along with a camera. I really want to be able to post stills, if nothing else. Ideally, I'll post a clip from the solo. I think posting the whole thing is probably not a good idea, as the dance is, after all, She Who Must Be Obeyed's property.

Feh.

Anyway, on to business.

If you have placed an order for cards please be patient. I'll be sorting through those and generating shipping quotes this week, after I've had a couple days to settle down.

If you have asked to be added to the porn journal, again, be patient. Some people I am still checking out.

Also: I now have several shiny new Tanith Lee books, courtesy of David, and a new Riddle-Master book and Last Unicorn soundtrack, courtesy of Keith. I would like to say thank you. In really big letters. THANK YOU! I would also like to say that I saw the Last Unicorn in the theater when I was five. That was twenty-two years ago. I have been looking for the soundtrack ever since and was purple with joy when I discovered that it was available as an import. I just hadn't had the cash to order it from Amazon yet. So that was especially cool. A two-decades-long quest comes to an end. (I am glad you enjoyed the parenting rant. Spread the love.)

I will review the books as soon as I've read them. I can't wait to get started. Tanith Lee and Patricia McKillip. My two favorite female authors.

After this, I'll need some Howard to flush the estrogen out of my system. Solomon Kane should do nicely.

And, last but not least: I will be posting more porn. Yeah. Once things settle down, expect more regular updates. I had wanted to do them biweekly, but I've been lucky to get in one a week. I'm sorry about that. I am not fulfilling my kitten-death quota, and for that I am ashamed.

I'll be back on the horse presently, don't worry.

link
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Yesterday was hideous. I mean that. The weather was like a giant runny nose.

Today, the sun is a big ball of fire in a blue October sky, the leaves here are still green, and everything looks simply beautiful from where I'm sitting.

I'm sitting because my feet are killing me.

Why, WHY does performing hurt my feet when the hour plus of practice I do every day does not?

At least the show tonight is shorter.

Oh, and did I mention improv last night? No? We had to solo to drums. Each of us got up and danced for a minute or so to the drummers. I was next to last, and Farideh had to sneak up behind me and slap me with her fan to get me to go offstage, because I was turned the wrong way and was so busy gettin' down I didn't see the cue to get down. I was embarrassed, but my husband says it was really funny in a good way.

We have to do it all again tonight.

I am going to keel over and die.

I pray – PRAY, do you hear me?! – that my sister and her family bring the DVD recorder tonight, along with a camera. I really want to be able to post stills, if nothing else. Ideally, I'll post a clip from the solo. I think posting the whole thing is probably not a good idea, as the dance is, after all, She Who Must Be Obeyed's property.

Feh.

Anyway, on to business.

If you have placed an order for cards please be patient. I'll be sorting through those and generating shipping quotes this week, after I've had a couple days to settle down.

If you have asked to be added to the porn journal, again, be patient. Some people I am still checking out.

Also: I now have several shiny new Tanith Lee books, courtesy of David, and a new Riddle-Master book and Last Unicorn soundtrack, courtesy of Keith. I would like to say thank you. In really big letters. THANK YOU! I would also like to say that I saw the Last Unicorn in the theater when I was five. That was twenty-two years ago. I have been looking for the soundtrack ever since and was purple with joy when I discovered that it was available as an import. I just hadn't had the cash to order it from Amazon yet. So that was especially cool. A two-decades-long quest comes to an end. (I am glad you enjoyed the parenting rant. Spread the love.)

I will review the books as soon as I've read them. I can't wait to get started. Tanith Lee and Patricia McKillip. My two favorite female authors.

After this, I'll need some Howard to flush the estrogen out of my system. Solomon Kane should do nicely.

And, last but not least: I will be posting more porn. Yeah. Once things settle down, expect more regular updates. I had wanted to do them biweekly, but I've been lucky to get in one a week. I'm sorry about that. I am not fulfilling my kitten-death quota, and for that I am ashamed.

I'll be back on the horse presently, don't worry.

link

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