At some point, I will find a way to use this in a novel:
"I can suck a golf ball through a garden hose and fell a tree with my thighs, but if that's all you want to know about me, that's the last thing you will ever know about me."
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, October 08, 2012
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
Happy Birthday, From My Mother
Sometime last week, my mother sent me a Daily Show link. I have just gotten back to NOLA and to fast enough internet to watch it. Today also happens to be my birthday, so it turned into a lovely birthday present.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. The coffee's on me, today.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. The coffee's on me, today.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Wrapping Up, Coming Home, Moving On...With Pictures
The last post with the Agnes comic strips was actually very telling. It was the day I stopped being directly helpful in Connecticut. Oh, don't get me wrong; I was still supplying emotional support. But both the Lovely Cats and Princess Kitty were doing better.
We had gotten through the urgent, survival times. We were now at the point where I was sitting, reading Agnes, and nodding saying "that was great! what next?" as she worked her way down a list. She was at the place where it was time to learn to do it all without another person there to help, because that is their new reality. They had to learn to do it without me, or they'd never learn to do it without me. It was time to go home.
On Sunday the 16th, I hugged everybody and headed out. After a (far too short) airport visit with Nemeria, I made it back to New Orleans and Lithus. Who met me at the airport looking oh so beautiful, and with 9:15 dinner reservations at Mortons. But first we stopped by the apartment to drop my bags and I found...
We had less than 36 hours at home before we moved out again. They were a good 36 hours, though. And then...back on the road. To fight fires this time, rather than log. Into Idaho and Montana. Into this:
If this is what it looks like from the ground, you can imagine what it looks like from the air.
But life is ... as it should be. "Back to normal" doesn't work. The Lovely Cats, Princess Kitty, and the Silent Prince have a new normal, and there's no going back. Lithus' and my normal is anything but. Still, life is how it should be. Again. And finally.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
We had gotten through the urgent, survival times. We were now at the point where I was sitting, reading Agnes, and nodding saying "that was great! what next?" as she worked her way down a list. She was at the place where it was time to learn to do it all without another person there to help, because that is their new reality. They had to learn to do it without me, or they'd never learn to do it without me. It was time to go home.
On Sunday the 16th, I hugged everybody and headed out. After a (far too short) airport visit with Nemeria, I made it back to New Orleans and Lithus. Who met me at the airport looking oh so beautiful, and with 9:15 dinner reservations at Mortons. But first we stopped by the apartment to drop my bags and I found...
 |
| Flowers... |
 |
| Winnie the Pooh underwear... |
 |
| And oh my God, I actually own this jewelry |
We had less than 36 hours at home before we moved out again. They were a good 36 hours, though. And then...back on the road. To fight fires this time, rather than log. Into Idaho and Montana. Into this:
If this is what it looks like from the ground, you can imagine what it looks like from the air.
But life is ... as it should be. "Back to normal" doesn't work. The Lovely Cats, Princess Kitty, and the Silent Prince have a new normal, and there's no going back. Lithus' and my normal is anything but. Still, life is how it should be. Again. And finally.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, September 14, 2012
Interlude
It's been...strained...around here, for obvious reasons. Self-care is something I'm good at though and, as such, have rediscovered one of my favorite comic strips: Agnes, by Tony Cochran.
Until I have more time, allow me to share...
Because, after all, it is a fact. Rhinos do love the theatre.
Those are Pobble Thoughts, with some truth thrown in by Agnes. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee, and perhaps even a lovely partner at the ballet.
Until I have more time, allow me to share...
Because, after all, it is a fact. Rhinos do love the theatre.
Those are Pobble Thoughts, with some truth thrown in by Agnes. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee, and perhaps even a lovely partner at the ballet.
Friday, September 07, 2012
Just To Be Very Clear
In sociology, there are labels attached to people in groups that define what roles people play. One is The Star. The Star is exactly who it sounds like. The Star is the person around whom the group revolves. This person is the one everyone considers their best friend. This person is kind enough and generous enough and open enough and loving enough to encompass everyone in the group. The reason everyone considers this person their best friend is because this person is each of their best friend. This person is not me.
Another role in a group is The Power Behind The Throne (PBTT). This is the person the Star considers his or her best friend. This is the person who, when The Star needs just a minute, The Star calls The PBTT. This person is not the face of anything. This person is not a sidekick. This person is the Doc Holiday to Wyatt Earp; Han to Luke; Zoe to Mal. This person is me.
Recently, I've had some unexpected and humbling things said about me. And I don't mean humbling, as in "damn right I'm that good, but I don't want to come off as arrogant, so I'll say I'm humbled" but honest to God humbled. I would tell you what they were, but I can't bring myself to do so. Trust that it is appropriate for some humility in the face of it all.
My favorite though is that I was called Samwise Gamgee.
In fairness, Sam comes off a little sidekick-y in the beginning, but watch long enough, and you realize he's not. He is, indeed, the power behind the throne.
He carries. He is constant. He is there. Remember this exchange:
Sam: [Both are overcome by exhaustion] Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo? It'll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields... and eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?
Frodo: No, Sam. I can't recall the taste of food... nor the sound of water... nor the touch of grass. I'm... naked in the dark, with nothing, no veil... between me... and the wheel of fire! I can see him... with my waking eyes!
Sam: Then let us be rid of it... once and for all! Come on, Mr. Frodo. I can't carry it for you... but I can carry you!
This was the exchange that caused the person to say I was Samwise. And this person is right. I will own it. I carry. I am constant. I am there.
But there is another quote of Sam's. One most people didn't even notice at the time, let alone remember:
Sam: [tearing the spider silk away from Frodo's face] Oh no! Frodo... Mr. Frodo, wake up... Don't leave me here alone. Don't go where I can't follow... Wake up.
And this is what I want to be very clear about: I am selfish. I am a selfish, self-centered, self-serving bitch. I am not The PBTT for just anyone. There is this small group of people... I need them. I have accepted this about myself and about them and I need them. I will not give them up without a fight. Because I will follow them anywhere. I will carry. I will be constant. I will be there. But I don't want them going anywhere I cannot follow, so I will fight. And I will be stronger than whatever it is that I have to fight; I will be strong enough to carry whatever I have to carry. And I will win. Because I need them.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. And it will serve people well to remember them.
Another role in a group is The Power Behind The Throne (PBTT). This is the person the Star considers his or her best friend. This is the person who, when The Star needs just a minute, The Star calls The PBTT. This person is not the face of anything. This person is not a sidekick. This person is the Doc Holiday to Wyatt Earp; Han to Luke; Zoe to Mal. This person is me.
Recently, I've had some unexpected and humbling things said about me. And I don't mean humbling, as in "damn right I'm that good, but I don't want to come off as arrogant, so I'll say I'm humbled" but honest to God humbled. I would tell you what they were, but I can't bring myself to do so. Trust that it is appropriate for some humility in the face of it all.
My favorite though is that I was called Samwise Gamgee.
In fairness, Sam comes off a little sidekick-y in the beginning, but watch long enough, and you realize he's not. He is, indeed, the power behind the throne.
He carries. He is constant. He is there. Remember this exchange:
Sam: [Both are overcome by exhaustion] Do you remember the Shire, Mr. Frodo? It'll be spring soon. And the orchards will be in blossom. And the birds will be nesting in the hazel thicket. And they'll be sowing the summer barley in the lower fields... and eating the first of the strawberries with cream. Do you remember the taste of strawberries?
Frodo: No, Sam. I can't recall the taste of food... nor the sound of water... nor the touch of grass. I'm... naked in the dark, with nothing, no veil... between me... and the wheel of fire! I can see him... with my waking eyes!
Sam: Then let us be rid of it... once and for all! Come on, Mr. Frodo. I can't carry it for you... but I can carry you!
This was the exchange that caused the person to say I was Samwise. And this person is right. I will own it. I carry. I am constant. I am there.
But there is another quote of Sam's. One most people didn't even notice at the time, let alone remember:
Sam: [tearing the spider silk away from Frodo's face] Oh no! Frodo... Mr. Frodo, wake up... Don't leave me here alone. Don't go where I can't follow... Wake up.
And this is what I want to be very clear about: I am selfish. I am a selfish, self-centered, self-serving bitch. I am not The PBTT for just anyone. There is this small group of people... I need them. I have accepted this about myself and about them and I need them. I will not give them up without a fight. Because I will follow them anywhere. I will carry. I will be constant. I will be there. But I don't want them going anywhere I cannot follow, so I will fight. And I will be stronger than whatever it is that I have to fight; I will be strong enough to carry whatever I have to carry. And I will win. Because I need them.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. And it will serve people well to remember them.
Thursday, September 06, 2012
What It Looks Like
Do you see that body language? That is a family position, not a posed one. That is a personal moment, not a political one. That is a peaceful, happy family, not a cast of characters.
Do you see that expression? That is a man in love. A man in lust. A man in awe. A man in respect. A man in admiration. A man with an equal and he is looking at her.
Do you see that man? That man believes he is the luckiest man in the world in that moment. Not because of his job or his title, but because of the women in his life, who love him back.
That's the brass ring, people. That's what it's supposed to look like.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a hell of a lot more than coffee.
Wednesday, September 05, 2012
Really? That's It?
I'm learning I am really, really hard to shock. Don't get me wrong; I'm not hard to offend. There are horrors and horrific people in the world and I am appropriately offended by them. But shock? Shock is different.
Several times during the summer ~ even going back to late spring ~ people have said to me "I don't know if I should tell you/show you/share with you" some great thing in their lives because they are concerned it will shock me. It will be too much for me. It will change the way I feel about them.
Each time, I have assured these people that they can tell/show/share with me anything they want to and, if it shocks me, I will at least respect them for being able to admit to this huge thing and we would go from there. Each time, they have shared with me. Each time, I have waited and waited for the other shoe to drop ~ for the horror to be revealed.
A messy basement. A teenage pregnancy. A teenage abortion. A couple tattoos. A closet full of bondage toys, used consentually. Several too many drunken evenings. ... ... Really? These are supposed to shock me? Do you know me? Have you met me?
The Lovely Cats "confessed" her messy basement to me. Talked it up so much that I expected a crack house lurking below us. Wouldn't let me go down there because it was, as she had been told by another friend, "like an episode of Hoarders." I finally took matters into my own hands and went down there. Obviously, these people have never actually seen an episode of Hoarders. Where were the dead bird carcasses? The piles of trash and waste? The towers of moldy newspapers? There aren't even paths down there, because there don't need to be paths! The stuff is spread out enough that large-ish stepping gets you through.
And, of course, there are the stories she is finally sharing with me that come out of her marriage. Again, don't get me wrong; they are awful. And yes, I would happily hand him his dick. And yes, she is a different victim because she is who she is in my world. But folks, I worked domestic violence for thirteen years. I can take what she can tell me.
It has been a season of Confess to the Pobble, because all of those abovementioned things have indeed been shared with me by different people. But no one has mentioned shooting up cocaine into their genitals, or molesting children, or drawing a weapon for the first time before they hit puberty. Also, no one has confessed to wearing flip-flops to high tea, cutoffs to the opera, or a t-shirt to dinner at 5-star restaurant, either. A warm salad fork I can handle, but just because I love you.
For months now, my friends and acquaintences and family have talked and I have listened. And the only thing that shocked me was how hard it is to shock me.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Several times during the summer ~ even going back to late spring ~ people have said to me "I don't know if I should tell you/show you/share with you" some great thing in their lives because they are concerned it will shock me. It will be too much for me. It will change the way I feel about them.
Each time, I have assured these people that they can tell/show/share with me anything they want to and, if it shocks me, I will at least respect them for being able to admit to this huge thing and we would go from there. Each time, they have shared with me. Each time, I have waited and waited for the other shoe to drop ~ for the horror to be revealed.
A messy basement. A teenage pregnancy. A teenage abortion. A couple tattoos. A closet full of bondage toys, used consentually. Several too many drunken evenings. ... ... Really? These are supposed to shock me? Do you know me? Have you met me?
The Lovely Cats "confessed" her messy basement to me. Talked it up so much that I expected a crack house lurking below us. Wouldn't let me go down there because it was, as she had been told by another friend, "like an episode of Hoarders." I finally took matters into my own hands and went down there. Obviously, these people have never actually seen an episode of Hoarders. Where were the dead bird carcasses? The piles of trash and waste? The towers of moldy newspapers? There aren't even paths down there, because there don't need to be paths! The stuff is spread out enough that large-ish stepping gets you through.
And, of course, there are the stories she is finally sharing with me that come out of her marriage. Again, don't get me wrong; they are awful. And yes, I would happily hand him his dick. And yes, she is a different victim because she is who she is in my world. But folks, I worked domestic violence for thirteen years. I can take what she can tell me.
It has been a season of Confess to the Pobble, because all of those abovementioned things have indeed been shared with me by different people. But no one has mentioned shooting up cocaine into their genitals, or molesting children, or drawing a weapon for the first time before they hit puberty. Also, no one has confessed to wearing flip-flops to high tea, cutoffs to the opera, or a t-shirt to dinner at 5-star restaurant, either. A warm salad fork I can handle, but just because I love you.
For months now, my friends and acquaintences and family have talked and I have listened. And the only thing that shocked me was how hard it is to shock me.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
What A Difference A Week Makes
But it actually starts sixteen years ago. My ... "friend" seems so inadequate ... she's my sister as much as anyone related to me by blood and biology. My Cats. My lovely, Lovely Cats. Sixteen years ago, she married a man who had made her cry the day before. And for sixteen years, he has worn her down. He has called her names until she believed them. He has showered her with insults until she thought they were true. I have seen him beet red and screaming, so close to her face he was spitting on her. And, still, what I saw wasn't as bad as it got, because it was always better when he had a witness; he was on his best behavior.
Last Saturday, he sent her to the hospital. He slammed her arm in the door to the point everyone thought it was broken and then wouldn't let her leave the house. Afterward, he made her beg to be taken to the emergency room.
It wasn't the first time the police were called. It was the first time neither of them could cover it up, excuse it away, charm it back behind closed doors.
I'm sitting here, trying to find the words to explain just what he did, what it was like, and have just decided that I can't. It is impossible. The words I can find though, are the words that will follow her as she moves forward. And is she ever moving forward.
She is stronger after only one week than I have seen her in sixteen years. She is a better mother than she's been in thirteen years. She is more resolved than I've seen her ever. This will not happen again.
Is it easy? Of course not. Is she okay? Of course not ~ except that she is. Her brother said that maybe things were going as well as they could be, and I was able to reassure him that they were going even three baby steps better than that.
It's been a long week. It's going to be a longer...however many months the state requires and then he drags this out. She will go through times when she is weaker than she is right now. She will only continue to get stronger. She is already surrounding herself with better people, people who know the difference between love and control. People who understand that her being at her best is a good thing, not a threat. People who want her to succeed, not fail.
I watched her today at the beach, playing with her children, smiling and laughing and at peace. We were barely adults ourselves the last time I saw her like that. I've missed my friend. It's good to have her back.
It's been a long week. But as I was telling the Princess Kitty, as scary and sad as this week has been, this one week has made every day for the rest of our lives so much better.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Last Saturday, he sent her to the hospital. He slammed her arm in the door to the point everyone thought it was broken and then wouldn't let her leave the house. Afterward, he made her beg to be taken to the emergency room.
It wasn't the first time the police were called. It was the first time neither of them could cover it up, excuse it away, charm it back behind closed doors.
I'm sitting here, trying to find the words to explain just what he did, what it was like, and have just decided that I can't. It is impossible. The words I can find though, are the words that will follow her as she moves forward. And is she ever moving forward.
She is stronger after only one week than I have seen her in sixteen years. She is a better mother than she's been in thirteen years. She is more resolved than I've seen her ever. This will not happen again.
Is it easy? Of course not. Is she okay? Of course not ~ except that she is. Her brother said that maybe things were going as well as they could be, and I was able to reassure him that they were going even three baby steps better than that.
It's been a long week. It's going to be a longer...however many months the state requires and then he drags this out. She will go through times when she is weaker than she is right now. She will only continue to get stronger. She is already surrounding herself with better people, people who know the difference between love and control. People who understand that her being at her best is a good thing, not a threat. People who want her to succeed, not fail.
I watched her today at the beach, playing with her children, smiling and laughing and at peace. We were barely adults ourselves the last time I saw her like that. I've missed my friend. It's good to have her back.
 |
| Saturday night |
 |
| Monday |
 |
| Wednesday |
 |
| One Week |
It's been a long week. But as I was telling the Princess Kitty, as scary and sad as this week has been, this one week has made every day for the rest of our lives so much better.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
One! Two! Three! (Ah, ah, ah...)
ONE! ONE giant leap for mankind:
TWO! TWO different characters:
THREE! THREE sad losses!
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a happy childhood.
TWO! TWO different characters:
THREE! THREE sad losses!
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you a happy childhood.
Sunday, August 19, 2012
A Toast
...to the women who:
* finally say "no."
* recognize when enough really is enough.
* pack their shit.
* know that as scary as this is, it's still not as scary as it could be if they let it.
* know that as scary as this is, it's still not as scary as it will be if they let it.
* protect the right people.
* make the phone calls.
* don't make any more excuses.
...to the men who:
* know the difference between love and need.
* don't hit, yell, name call or abuse.
* are "real men" ~ in all their forms.
* don't need excuses.
* understand that fear has no place in a home or a family.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
* finally say "no."
* recognize when enough really is enough.
* pack their shit.
* know that as scary as this is, it's still not as scary as it could be if they let it.
* know that as scary as this is, it's still not as scary as it will be if they let it.
* protect the right people.
* make the phone calls.
* don't make any more excuses.
...to the men who:
* know the difference between love and need.
* don't hit, yell, name call or abuse.
* are "real men" ~ in all their forms.
* don't need excuses.
* understand that fear has no place in a home or a family.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, August 17, 2012
Getting It Right
Recently, I have been corrected regarding events here in NOLA. Corrected by two men who used to know more about the city than I, but who don't live here, have never lived here, and no longer know more about my hometown than I do. By two men who I have, in the past, thought knew me well enough to know that I a) rarely talk out of my ass b) usually admit to it when I do talk out of my ass and c) take polite correction (reasonably, if unhappily) well. I would actually prefer my friends to correct me, so I don't make a fool of myself in front of people who don't love me. But... If you are smug, and self-righteous, and seem to take pleasure in correcting me, I gotta be honest, it makes me question if you are actually my friend.
For the record, the weeks leading up to Fat Tuesday are indeed called Carnival. Mardi Gras is only the day before Lent starts. Locals don't interchange them.
French Quarter shopkeeper: I probably make 25% of my yearly profit during Carnival.
Uninitiated: Oh, so Mardi Gras is good for you?
FQS: Oh hell, no! I'm closed on Mardi Gras. I don't want their drunken asses in my shop!*
Also, White Linen Night is a Warehouse District Event in August.
It's a community stroll, where the shops and galleries stay open late, offer wine and hors d'oeuvres. People ~ yes, wearing white linen ~ come and stroll and look in the shops and galleries, drinking wine and eating hors d'oeuvres. Dirty Linen Night is a French Quarter event that takes place the next weekend. A few years ago, someone from the Quarter decided thatno one else in the city the Warehouse District shouldn't get any attention at all have all the fun, and created Dirty Linen Night. It's the exact same thing, only down Royal Street, with more liquor and less wine, and dressed in the linens that got dirtied last week in the Warehouse District. I know this exists because I got caught in it last night when I decided I wanted brussel sprouts with my dinner and went to the grocery store. Plus, there's a website and signs and announcements and shit like that. Locals know about this.
Local 1: Did you go to White Linen Night last night?
Local 2: I did, but I dropped a cocktail weenie on my top.
Local 1: At least you're ready for Dirty Linen Night next week.
Local 2: True that.*
* Dialogue may be exaggerated for effect.
So, when I referred to Carnival and Dirty Linen Night, I actually meant Carnival and Dirty Linen Night. Surprise! I actually know about my town. Don't get me wrong; I'm not hurt that you corrected me. Not in any way. However, I would remind you when you correct me, be correct. Or, at least, don't be smug, and self-righteous when you correct me and you're wrong.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
For the record, the weeks leading up to Fat Tuesday are indeed called Carnival. Mardi Gras is only the day before Lent starts. Locals don't interchange them.
French Quarter shopkeeper: I probably make 25% of my yearly profit during Carnival.
Uninitiated: Oh, so Mardi Gras is good for you?
FQS: Oh hell, no! I'm closed on Mardi Gras. I don't want their drunken asses in my shop!*
Also, White Linen Night is a Warehouse District Event in August.
It's a community stroll, where the shops and galleries stay open late, offer wine and hors d'oeuvres. People ~ yes, wearing white linen ~ come and stroll and look in the shops and galleries, drinking wine and eating hors d'oeuvres. Dirty Linen Night is a French Quarter event that takes place the next weekend. A few years ago, someone from the Quarter decided that
Local 1: Did you go to White Linen Night last night?
Local 2: I did, but I dropped a cocktail weenie on my top.
Local 1: At least you're ready for Dirty Linen Night next week.
Local 2: True that.*
* Dialogue may be exaggerated for effect.
So, when I referred to Carnival and Dirty Linen Night, I actually meant Carnival and Dirty Linen Night. Surprise! I actually know about my town. Don't get me wrong; I'm not hurt that you corrected me. Not in any way. However, I would remind you when you correct me, be correct. Or, at least, don't be smug, and self-righteous when you correct me and you're wrong.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Restless
I always know something's going on when I start to get restless. As I am these days. I know what it is, and it's easily fixed. More writing, less second-guessing. All will be well. But until I get back in my rhythm, I am restless.
I have suspected it for a few days, but just really got it today, sending an email to a friend. See, just recently, Lithus and I made the conscious, deliberate decision that we would stop looking outward and elsewhere and beyond. We love New Orleans. Love it. And no, we really don't want to leave unless the reason for leaving is massively worth leaving. Manhattan? Boston? Sure. Absolutely. Missoula, MT? Hoboken, NJ? You know...really not so much. Which is why it took me a little while to realize I was restless this time. Because I am happy, and I do love where I am, and I want to stay here.
But I've spent the last few days not being satisfied with this:
Or this:
Or even this:
No, I realized I was restless when I found myself thinking that this:
or this:
could make my life so much different.
The truth, however, is that if I'm not writing in New Orleans, I won't be writing in New York or Puerto Rico. If I'm second guessing myself here, I'll second guess myself there, too. The geographic cure only works when the problem is the geographic location, no matter how restless you are.
Because really, there ain't a damn thing wrong with this:
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
I have suspected it for a few days, but just really got it today, sending an email to a friend. See, just recently, Lithus and I made the conscious, deliberate decision that we would stop looking outward and elsewhere and beyond. We love New Orleans. Love it. And no, we really don't want to leave unless the reason for leaving is massively worth leaving. Manhattan? Boston? Sure. Absolutely. Missoula, MT? Hoboken, NJ? You know...really not so much. Which is why it took me a little while to realize I was restless this time. Because I am happy, and I do love where I am, and I want to stay here.
But I've spent the last few days not being satisfied with this:
Or this:
Or even this:
No, I realized I was restless when I found myself thinking that this:
 |
| photo by Vivienne Gucwa |
could make my life so much different.
The truth, however, is that if I'm not writing in New Orleans, I won't be writing in New York or Puerto Rico. If I'm second guessing myself here, I'll second guess myself there, too. The geographic cure only works when the problem is the geographic location, no matter how restless you are.
Because really, there ain't a damn thing wrong with this:
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
A Little More Than a Week On...
...and I'm getting better. The itching has all but stopped. The swelling is gone. Once everything heals up, I'll be able to shave again! Yay!
It's the little things.
Those are getting healthy Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
It's the little things.
Those are getting healthy Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, August 10, 2012
Time Passes
I woke up this morning to the headline "Three Special Forces Operations Soldiers Killed in Afghanistan." First, it's not hard people. "Special Forces" are the Green Berets. Nobody else. "Special Operations" are all of the elite units, including but not limited to, Green Berets. Second, I... didn't care.
Don't get me wrong. Of course I care. The war is supposed to be over. Soldiers are not even supposed to be there, let alone dying there, any longer. But that worry that it is the SGM, that worry that maybe the Golden Boy finally got caught... Nope.
It just seems so long ago now. He seems so long ago. I am happier than I ever was. I am loved more than I ever was. I love more than I ever did. Lithus and I have known each other a little over six years, been living together for five, and married for three and half. And he was...so very long ago. Which is odd, considering this blog was started as a way to process my divorce from him.
Reading the news, I realized no one would think to call me if it was him, but also, even if they did think to contact me, no one would know how any longer. And I am just fine with both of those facts.
As the day went on, more information came out and it appears they weren't Special Forces, which means it wasn't him, which is fine, because I do not wish him ill. The Golden Boy lives to fight another day and good for him.
But me? I'm where I belong. Living my life. With my dear Lithus. I can't imagine anything else, any longer.
Those are peaceful Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Don't get me wrong. Of course I care. The war is supposed to be over. Soldiers are not even supposed to be there, let alone dying there, any longer. But that worry that it is the SGM, that worry that maybe the Golden Boy finally got caught... Nope.
It just seems so long ago now. He seems so long ago. I am happier than I ever was. I am loved more than I ever was. I love more than I ever did. Lithus and I have known each other a little over six years, been living together for five, and married for three and half. And he was...so very long ago. Which is odd, considering this blog was started as a way to process my divorce from him.
Reading the news, I realized no one would think to call me if it was him, but also, even if they did think to contact me, no one would know how any longer. And I am just fine with both of those facts.
As the day went on, more information came out and it appears they weren't Special Forces, which means it wasn't him, which is fine, because I do not wish him ill. The Golden Boy lives to fight another day and good for him.
But me? I'm where I belong. Living my life. With my dear Lithus. I can't imagine anything else, any longer.
Those are peaceful Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Tuesday, August 07, 2012
Of Chicken, and Other Treats
It's Starbucks Day! Grab a coffee or a tea or a cookie or a bottle of water today and show your appreciation to companies that support LGBTQ rights. And, if you're craving a chicken sandwich while you're out, here are some alternatives.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ but the one from Starbucks is gonna cost a bit more.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee ~ but the one from Starbucks is gonna cost a bit more.
Friday, August 03, 2012
94
Wednesday was a holiday for me, so I decided to take some cornbread and fruit and a couple sips of rum down to the river and watch the sun set. The entire walk there, I'm thinking to myself "just make sure you don't sit in an anthill." See, I am highly allergic to ants. And not just the red fire ants. Little, black, garden variety ants will get me.
In fact, the last time I was bitten by an ant, I went into anaphylactic shock. Another allergen was present ~ toasted coconut ~ and no docctor has ever really been able to tell me if it was one of these, or the combination of the two, that led to the anaphylaxis. I just make it a policy to avoid both.
Which brings us back to Wednesday evening. I get to the river and look around. No ants. Fabulous! I sit down, begin to unpack my cornbread when I realize my dress has pulled up and the grass is dry and therefore biting into my skin. I adjust my dress when ~ and I know you know ~ I realize I am covered in ants. On my hands. On my feet. On my legs. And yes, they are biting.
This is where I will toot my own horn. I did not start screaming. I did not throw myself into the Mississippi River. I did not panic. Instead I packed back up and started paying very close attention to my breathing. So far so good.
I mentally mapped the hotels between me and my apartment, figuring I would stop there and ask them to call for help if necessary. I remembered I had my phone and called the Divine M, who rose to the occasion beautifully. And I made it home.
Even holding off what could be a medical emergency, there is something disconcerting about stepping into a shower fully clothed. But I did it. Rinsed everything, washed everything. Still breathing well. I even thought to drown whatever ants were still in my clothes so they wouldn't be crawling around my apartment.
Yesterday, once the swelling started to go really go down, I decided to count the individual bites. I gave up after 94. Figured that was enough and I didn't need to count any higher than that. Now? Now it looks like I'm a plague-ridden serf from Tudor England and I itch so badly I can just barely stand it. And I'm more or less bedridden because getting up and moving around causes everything to swell back up and hurt. And I'm stoned out of my mind on benadryl, because longer than four hours and the itching gets to the point that I can't stand it. And everything, including my kidneys, aches just a little as my body processes everything.
The pictures below are a little icky, if you're squeamish. Feel free to skip them. You're not missing much else in terms of writing. Instead, envision the town crier coming through, yelling "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!" and that's about the same thing. :)
But I'm livin'. And I'll take that.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
In fact, the last time I was bitten by an ant, I went into anaphylactic shock. Another allergen was present ~ toasted coconut ~ and no docctor has ever really been able to tell me if it was one of these, or the combination of the two, that led to the anaphylaxis. I just make it a policy to avoid both.
Which brings us back to Wednesday evening. I get to the river and look around. No ants. Fabulous! I sit down, begin to unpack my cornbread when I realize my dress has pulled up and the grass is dry and therefore biting into my skin. I adjust my dress when ~ and I know you know ~ I realize I am covered in ants. On my hands. On my feet. On my legs. And yes, they are biting.
This is where I will toot my own horn. I did not start screaming. I did not throw myself into the Mississippi River. I did not panic. Instead I packed back up and started paying very close attention to my breathing. So far so good.
I mentally mapped the hotels between me and my apartment, figuring I would stop there and ask them to call for help if necessary. I remembered I had my phone and called the Divine M, who rose to the occasion beautifully. And I made it home.
Even holding off what could be a medical emergency, there is something disconcerting about stepping into a shower fully clothed. But I did it. Rinsed everything, washed everything. Still breathing well. I even thought to drown whatever ants were still in my clothes so they wouldn't be crawling around my apartment.
Yesterday, once the swelling started to go really go down, I decided to count the individual bites. I gave up after 94. Figured that was enough and I didn't need to count any higher than that. Now? Now it looks like I'm a plague-ridden serf from Tudor England and I itch so badly I can just barely stand it. And I'm more or less bedridden because getting up and moving around causes everything to swell back up and hurt. And I'm stoned out of my mind on benadryl, because longer than four hours and the itching gets to the point that I can't stand it. And everything, including my kidneys, aches just a little as my body processes everything.
The pictures below are a little icky, if you're squeamish. Feel free to skip them. You're not missing much else in terms of writing. Instead, envision the town crier coming through, yelling "Bring out your dead! Bring out your dead!" and that's about the same thing. :)
 |
| These are just of the one ankle. |
 |
| You don't really need to see the rest of my body |
 |
| See? Plague-ridden medieval serf, right? |
But I'm livin'. And I'll take that.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Overheard in NOLA
From a woman, getting into a cab:
Take me somewhere not here.
It was so not a good night, for her. But an intriguing little snippet of someone's life for me.
Those are southern Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Take me somewhere not here.
It was so not a good night, for her. But an intriguing little snippet of someone's life for me.
Those are southern Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Monday, July 23, 2012
Thinky Thoughts
Lots in my brain the last few days...
Aurora, Colorado. We were living there on April 20, 1999. Columbine. The SGM gave up his automatic weapon after that shooting because it made him rethink if people really needed access to that kind of weaponry. It was, simply, horrific. I know I'm not the only one remembering it in the wake of the movie theatre shootings. So much pain.
I still have my t-shirt. Timber saw me wear it once, and asked me if he could have it, because it was cool. My answer was no, because I knew it actually wasn't.
Sally Ride. "Ride, Sally Ride" was the chant. She was smart and she was beautiful, debunking so many myths just by showing up. She deserved to be up there.
She wasn't just part of a generation that opened doors for me, she was one of the individuals who came crashing through those doors, exploding them open. Thank you.
The Muppets. For the win. Not only are they breaking ties, they are refusing to make money. Check out the statement. So many reasons to love them.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the definition of class ~ delivered by a stuffed frog.
Best Friends, Old Friends. My best friend and my oldest friend both had birthdays this weekend. Interestingly enough, while their birthdays haven't changed, this the the first ever year I've been aware that they are within two days of each other. Seriously? I have known Nemeria since we were in 4th grade and been with the Divine M for (oh dear lord, hold onto your butts) twenty years now and have just now put together when their birthdays are.
The truth is that I would be utterly lost without etiher them. But they've stuck around, so I'm just going to keep being grateful. And try to remember their birthdays.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Aurora, Colorado. We were living there on April 20, 1999. Columbine. The SGM gave up his automatic weapon after that shooting because it made him rethink if people really needed access to that kind of weaponry. It was, simply, horrific. I know I'm not the only one remembering it in the wake of the movie theatre shootings. So much pain.
I still have my t-shirt. Timber saw me wear it once, and asked me if he could have it, because it was cool. My answer was no, because I knew it actually wasn't.
Sally Ride. "Ride, Sally Ride" was the chant. She was smart and she was beautiful, debunking so many myths just by showing up. She deserved to be up there.
She wasn't just part of a generation that opened doors for me, she was one of the individuals who came crashing through those doors, exploding them open. Thank you.
The Muppets. For the win. Not only are they breaking ties, they are refusing to make money. Check out the statement. So many reasons to love them.
That, ladies and gentlemen, is the definition of class ~ delivered by a stuffed frog.
Best Friends, Old Friends. My best friend and my oldest friend both had birthdays this weekend. Interestingly enough, while their birthdays haven't changed, this the the first ever year I've been aware that they are within two days of each other. Seriously? I have known Nemeria since we were in 4th grade and been with the Divine M for (oh dear lord, hold onto your butts) twenty years now and have just now put together when their birthdays are.
 |
| The Divine M |
 |
| Nemeria |
The truth is that I would be utterly lost without etiher them. But they've stuck around, so I'm just going to keep being grateful. And try to remember their birthdays.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Fitting In
As I have written here before, I tend to stand out. This is not anything intentional on my part, in that I do not dress to shock or make a statement. I have always said that if I were ever to stop standing out, I would be okay with that, would still dress the way I do, because it's not about any of that.
Over the last several months, I've realized I meant what I always said. Because here in New Orleans? I don't stand out. In my purple dress and my purple parasol, I was told once that "that's an awesome outfit, ma'am" and in my black lace camisole carrying my black lace parasol, I had a little boy inform me that he loved my umbrella. And the rest of the time... I just fade into the scenery.
I am more colorful than some. Not nearly as colorful as others. Mostly, though, I am just me. For the first time in my life, for the first time anywhere ~ I am just me. The Boston Pobble. And I am infinitely okay with this.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Over the last several months, I've realized I meant what I always said. Because here in New Orleans? I don't stand out. In my purple dress and my purple parasol, I was told once that "that's an awesome outfit, ma'am" and in my black lace camisole carrying my black lace parasol, I had a little boy inform me that he loved my umbrella. And the rest of the time... I just fade into the scenery.
I am more colorful than some. Not nearly as colorful as others. Mostly, though, I am just me. For the first time in my life, for the first time anywhere ~ I am just me. The Boston Pobble. And I am infinitely okay with this.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
Thursday, July 19, 2012
My Own Private Noir
It's been a while. There's been...stuff. Including a busted computer and crappy internet. But I'm back. Because tonight was one of those nights.
We had a storm here in New Orleans. The lightning lit up the sky like special effects out of a movie. Neither Lithus, nor I, have ever seen anything like this. When it was just a burst, it would burst ~ and burst again, and again, and again, as if someone were standing offstage, flicking the lights. When it would crackle cloud to cloud, it would break off into two, three, sometimes even four branches. When it drove itself into the ground, it would spike down and then relight itself and relight itself again.
We grabbed our umbrellas and went out into it, standing in front of the old courthouse, watching the lights, listening to the booms and the rumbles. Under the streetlamps flickering with actual gas. And that's when the music started. Under this storm, in the rain, with the gas lamps...came the low, slow sound of a single saxophone.
I am not even making this shit up.
At that moment, we gave ourselves up to the night. There was nothing else to do, no other choice to make.
She walked up to me and asked me to take the job. I could tell she was trouble and my streak of bad luck had been as long as her legs. The last thing I needed in my life was this dame. But then I saw the the look in her eye. My luck was about to change...for the worse.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
We had a storm here in New Orleans. The lightning lit up the sky like special effects out of a movie. Neither Lithus, nor I, have ever seen anything like this. When it was just a burst, it would burst ~ and burst again, and again, and again, as if someone were standing offstage, flicking the lights. When it would crackle cloud to cloud, it would break off into two, three, sometimes even four branches. When it drove itself into the ground, it would spike down and then relight itself and relight itself again.
We grabbed our umbrellas and went out into it, standing in front of the old courthouse, watching the lights, listening to the booms and the rumbles. Under the streetlamps flickering with actual gas. And that's when the music started. Under this storm, in the rain, with the gas lamps...came the low, slow sound of a single saxophone.
I am not even making this shit up.
At that moment, we gave ourselves up to the night. There was nothing else to do, no other choice to make.
She walked up to me and asked me to take the job. I could tell she was trouble and my streak of bad luck had been as long as her legs. The last thing I needed in my life was this dame. But then I saw the the look in her eye. My luck was about to change...for the worse.
Those are Pobble Thoughts. That and a buck fifty will get you coffee.
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