May 18th, 2009 | 15 Comments »

I just got home from a gathering of the clan. The first leg of the trip was planned so I would meet up with my brother, Dizzee, at Skinny Bitch’s house. I didn’t quite know how it would go with the family (these things can vary, since I’m a Tool of Satan and all), so I felt it would be good to start things off well.

Skinny Bitch wanted to be sure I felt welcome, since I arrived while she was still at work. My brother arrived later.

(She calls me Gracie) It made my heart glad.

Somehow, with all the cameras present (but not mine) I only got a few images captured in time to share with you. The first thing I saw when I came in the door was a sign she displayed in the entryway: “Crazy doesn’t live here.” That sign summed it up. SB had created her own haven of peace that totally reflected who she was. Bliss.

She was so relaxed living by herself in her own home that her OCD was not in full force. The place mats on her dining room table did not line up precisely, and this did not bother her enough to correct it.

Who knew?

The house was beautiful. It could totally have been a bed and breakfast inn if it weren’t for the pesky cooking thing. Oh, yeah, and guests who would mess her house up. She doesn’t much care for that.

She had bought a bed so I would have a place to sleep, but it was so pretty, and the bedding and pillows so crisp, I was afraid to sleep in it and drool on the pillows. Instead, I slept on the far side of her king-sized bed, just far enough away that she couldn’t reach to kick me if I snored. It was the most comfortable bed I have ever slept on. Bar none. From her bed, we could watch the firemen across the street in their workout room. I know! The way she makes me suffer!

The only thing that struck me as out of place was this:

I had to ask. The explanation did not disappoint. These are new shoes, not to mix with the others in the shoe museum. (How I wish I had that image to share with you!) She wants them to feel special, at least until she has worn them outside. She puts them on top of the tv so she can admire them while she is relaxing. Then, and only then, will they take their place alongside the pedestrian (HAH!) shoes in the shoe museum.

There has been so much drama in my life lately that I needed at least one evening of gut-splitting laughter. Skinny Bitch is a healing balm in my life. We left after she had gone to work the next day.

I left her a message that I knew she wouldn’t completely understand, because she is so not computery. But I wanted to share it with you, too.

And you? Are all computery.

We’ll see if I blog about the family reunion. It went well.

May 13th, 2009 | 20 Comments »

I had a TMI post all written about how Herman got his name, but then I recalled two things:

  • I had stupidly sent emails to the people where I do my banking (Hi! wonderful banking people!) that contained a link to my blog in the sig line. Since they have met me in person, I knew they would associate that post with me every time they saw me.
  • I had promised Kelley, who is having blog problems, a guest post, even though I, myself, have been posting maybe once a week. But I love her and she is all kinds of the awesome, so someday, Kelley will let you know about Herman. He has a twitter account, really.

Did you know it was mercury retrograde? Consider yourself warned. Back up your data. Expect miscommunications, misunderstandings, and old issues to resurface. Travel plans, especially short term travel plans, are certain to be a fool’s errand.

I am embarking on a fool’s errand tomorrow. I was supposed to leave today for a sibling type reunion, but hello?? Merc retro.

A client had insinuated herself into my life because she was hurting so much. I didn’t give much thought to the fact that she had ABSOLUTELY NO EMOTIONAL SUPPORT. (She had alienated everyone else in her life. Hah! How smart was I? But, she was suffering. She really had some terrible things happen in her life.)

As a result, I worked less hours (logged on) than usual to accommodate her many visits, even though I was trying to collect enough hours to take a week off. (I need to be firmer with my boundaries)

Then last week, (full moon in scorpio, uh oh) she showed up (while I was logged on) and proceeded to berate me with all the crazy ways that I was not BEING HER FRIEND. (Did I mention boundaries?) How does a client I felt sorry for become a friend? A “friend” that gets extremely unhinged if you don’t meet her needs in the way that she wants them met? I would say see a therapist, but a therapist has those pesky boundaries where you have to actually make an appointment, and can’t just drop in to dump all your shit on because you have been dwelling and DWELLING on it and cannot stand it another minute unless you share the misery RIGHT NOW.

After placing the entire blame on ME for her being so stressed she had to take a leave of absence from her work, she stormed out. Great. It usually takes me about three days for my energy field to clear itself after such an intense encounter. I was useless to work. So, I took a mini stress leave, because I didn’t feel I could serve my clients properly.

That might have been over and done with, but she wasn’t finished with the demands. By email. My refusal to meet these demands were met with vicious assaults on my character and psychic abilities. I had to block her email and instruct her not to call or drop in ever again.

I don’t know why I let her upset me so much, but I continued to be unable to work. I was planning for last week to be a humdinger, so I could make up for the week I was planning to take off to visit with siblings a short journey away. (Siblings and short journeys are third house matters, which are ruled by Mercury, which is retrograde.)

Now I don’t have the reserve funds to travel that I had, and am trying to contact my brother, Dizzee, who I cannot reach by phone. We are supposed to meet up at Skinny Bitch’s place, and we can travel to the gathering together, then afterwards, he and his long-lost daughter, Hidden Treasure, will come to my place to visit, driving me home. Except I can’t reach him to determine if he will be also travelling with another brother, Mr. Trick and his daughter, Cutie Pie,in which case there would be no room. Mr. Trick is not answering his phone either. Damn you, merc retro!

April 24th, 2008 | 29 Comments »

My long suffering younger brother, Dizzee, father of Wild Child, still speaks to me after all the torture Mr. Trick and I put him through. I’m grateful for this because he is basically kind and quite funny.

We had a period of estrangement in our adult lives that we decided to put aside when The Papa got really really sick. I think we did it for him, although I believe The Papa didn’t care much for Dizzee’s decision to associate with a Tool of Satan.

When we were kids, we lived the military life. No disobedience, no questioning orders. The Papa may have been a corporal at work, but he was the General at home.

When my parents separated, the kids went with The Papa. There were periods of time that we were only supervised by our older sister. This would be the one that made us smoke when she babysat us so we wouldn’t tell on her for smoking. I love her, really, but people? That is messed UP.

So older sister became the queen bee. Dizzee was around nine by the time he really started acting out because he missed his mom. We all did, but I think it hurt him the most.

He would have temper tantrums and Mr. Trick and I would fill a tub full of cold water and throw him in to “cool him off”. We really just wanted to shut him up because he was an annoying little brother. And because it was one thing we could get away with. We totally wanted to smack him, but we weren’t allowed.

He must have marvelled at what great parents we would be someday.

Our fun-loving favourite uncle visited often, and regaled us with what I now realize were inappropriate stories. We figured he could do no wrong.

One of the stories involved a friend passing out drunk, and to punish him, Unk and his other buddies painted the guy’s willy red, so he would have a lovely surprise when he woke up all hungover.

We thought that was the best story ever. We laughed and laughed.

And schemed how we could have that kind of fun without access to alcohol.

We secured a supply of red paint, and the next time Dizzee had a hissyfit while The Papa was at work, we held Dizzee down and painted that puppy red.

I still remember how gobsmacked we were when The Papa was furious with us over this particular stunt.

“But, Dad! We didn’t smack him!”

Oh, the injustice.

Like I said, it’s a wonder Dizzee talks to me at all.

(Dizzee didn’t mind whipping it out when it wasn’t red.)

And? He’s such a good sport, he gave me permission to publish this picture.

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Posted in Dizzee, down home