Home Again. Jiggy.

Husband was released from prison the hospital yesterday: 2 months to the date since the drunk asshole in a borrowed SUV with SHITTY INSURANCE plowed into the motorcycle...yeah, I'm not bitter at all. But he's home, he's allowed to start working with crutches, and he managed it nearly three weeks earlier than we'd originally thought.

AND he's home for our 9th anniversary, which is (of course) Halloween.

My sister EVER so kindly bought him a hideous lovely brass bell, the kind you see on a dry cleaner's counter. To be helpful, I'm sure. So he can get my attention (intubation is HELL on vocal cords...he's been significantly lower-volumed since the accident) if I'm upstairs and he's in the living room.

Because she hates me. And wants revenge for my snarky comments about my nephew's night-owl tendencies being karma for HER having days and nights mixed up as a baby. I was four...I remember. "But she's helpful," you may say... well...I would agree except for the evil glee in her eye. I suppose that could be the glassy Han-won't-let-me-sleep effect, but I doubt it. Evil glee all the way.

Unfortunately, the bell was lost.

MORE unfortunately...that fucking thing is lost SOMEWHERE IN MY TRUCK.

That's right...the goddamn "help me now" bell randomly dings from the dog-fur-filled-recesses of my truck, and I can't find it.

On the bright side, neither can Husband.

Mwahahahaha.

My 250th Post Should Have Substance, right? (or, shit I'd do if Death was comin' to GET me)

But instead, I'm pirating from myself. So I have this really good friend who is mostly bored to death with what most people do for fun (strip clubs, TV, movies, the bar...) and likes to discuss deep shit. I mean Deep Shit: he persistently asks me hard questions. Not rocket-science or calculus or how to bake a Duff cake successfully...oh no. Not one query has been a random bit of trivia or fact I can just go look up...that'd be far too easy.

I mean hard like "what exactly does it mean to LOVE someone (for example, does Love include NEEDING someone, or do we get those mixed up)" and other sorts of philosophical and ethical issues that occasionally exhaust me. However, they've been fabulous distractions while Husband's been in the hospital, because honestly TV can only get a girl so far when she's lonely and bored at home late at night. Plus, late night TV fucking sucks donkey parts. Bo-Ring.

So...recently he posed the following: if I knew I was going to die "soon" what would I do and why? It's SORT of a bucket-list question, and sort of not...I mean, soon could be tomorrow or a month from now or a year from now, right? I suspect he was looking for how I prioritized them, but that's a different post.

• I would write, because it's a need I can't ignore (without harm to my brainpan).
• I'd read, because there's still so much I want to learn.
• I'd go back to Ireland. It's the only place I've ever been that truly felt like home the MOMENT I stepped off the ferry. I would take the people I love there so I could (selfishly) have everyone I love in the place I feel most whole.
• I would spend as much time touching the people I love as possible, because I'm not great at verbalizing but I AM good at cuddling and I want to be in their presence. While that could include sex it doesn't need to: sex is significantly better if there's love because of the intimacy that comes from love. So I wouldn't waste time fucking everything that moves, but sex as a physical expression of the love I feel for my beloved would be neat.
• I would swim in the ocean. Any ocean. I can spend entire vacations just sitting on the beach, listening: it both stirs and calms me. (Also, thank you Spellcheck for catching that I wrote "clams" instead of "calms" because seriously...that could've been awkward.) 
• I would cuddle with my dogs and ride horses more. I don't give the boys nearly enough of my time, love or attention, and they deserve it. 
• I would dance. I'm not a superstar bellydancer, and I loathe performing...I bellydance because it makes me feel powerfully female. That's rare and precious.  

Of course, thinking about all of this makes me wonder: if I knew when Death will knock on my door, would I tell anyone how much time I had left?

Would you?

 

I am not Yoda, NaNoWriMo

I've spent the past two months in an all-encompassing fog of anxiety, depression, worry, and exhaustion. That's not any sort of plea for sympathy...it's my excuse for crappy and intermittent posting. I simply have very little to write about outside of dealing with the accident and aftermath, and instead of inflicting that upon ANYONE in cyberspace, I've avoided my blog (except in the case of obnoxious dog posts, which are occasionally necessary in my world).

Yup. I'm an avoider. Nope, I'm pretty sure "avoider" isn't a word.

Indeed, spellcheck agrees.

It took me six weeks to gather enough nerve to sit in front of my keyboard and just let my fingers go. I'm not sure if that makes sense...

I learned in my high school creative writing class to turn OFF my critical mind and let whatever lurks behind the wall to bypass my editor and just come out on paper. If you're a writer at heart and haven't read Natalie Goldberg's Writing Down the Bones or Wild Mind it's really time you do. (Thank you, Mr. Benson, for those lessons.) The key is to keep your hand moving and just write down whatever comes out. Keeping you hand moving (pen to paper or fingers to keyboard) without re-reading purges what hides in your soul.

Last week I finally sat down in front of a blank word document, closed my eyes, and typed. Thirty minutes and six pages later I discovered I was crying uncontrollably, but I didn't stop writing.

I'm still not ready to put anything down in an actual journal (after all, anything typed can be deleted, or even printed and burned if necessary), but at least I'm writing again. And I'm slowly opening that box-o-mess I've kept locked up tight in my chest since August. 

Which brings me to the impending November writing exercise: National Novel Writing Month. I've never successfully completed the challenge. I have two weeks to get my characters and plot ready: I don't know if I'll have time to finish 50,000 words in 30 days this year with Husband coming home from the rehab unit sometime soon, but I'm sure as hell going to try.

I know, I know. Do, or do not. There is no try.

I'm not Yoda, people. And while I haven't gotten nearly enough lately, I DO enjoy sleeping.

Also, it has come to my attention that my current contract position is ending in 2.5 months. Not that I expect to write and sell a book in that time and replace my job...but it IS fairly motivating. Plus...what the hell else am I going to do while Hubby games/naps all afternoon when he gets home? Work?

Bah.

Indeed, you WON'T like me when I'm angry.

The boys are pissed of this week.

I can tell. The carpet by the upstairs bathroom has a brand-new-pee-spot EVERY GODDAMN NIGHT.

They're so mad, they're not even peeing on the tile.

Do you have any idea how much urine a 100 or 145 pound dog carries?

A. Lot. Sigh.



I may be the pee devil, but I'm cute. And currently POSSESSED.


And I'm not sure which one did it. All I know is they BOTH hide when I get home.



I don't know who you're yelling at, but it wasn't ME.

 UPDATED: I'd still rather deal with pee than eyeballs. That should've been the title of this post.

Random Shit: Because I Still Can't Write A Real Post

The weekend was a flurry of hospital time, family time (parents are heading back to California today, because they're assholes who live where it's warm), and errands. I suck at blogging lately, it's true.

I spent quite a bit of time surfing facebook in the dark because Husband was napping and I couldn't turn the goddamn light on to read. I found this and was amused:




I see you looking with your judgy mcjudgerton pants on.

In other random news: 

  

• Today is his birthday: husband is spoiled rotten and getting an iPad to entertain him for his last month in the hospital (he's aware of this gift already). I still have to do SOMETHING though, right? So his birthday card  is AWESOME. And not just because it has Indiana Jones on the front page...because it plays the goddamn Indiana Jones THEME. Mwahahaha.

• My new FABULOUSLY cute nephew, Harrison, who is a whopping 14 days old today, peed in his own face recently. Hey, it takes time to work out the kinks in a brand-spankin-new body, right? I mean, he hasn't even discovered his own fingers yet (as evidenced by his inability to stop from smacking himself in the face while flailing). That's right people, the boy will be "Han" to me from now on. Which is probably less psychologically damaging to his future 16 year-old self than "Sprinkle" don't you think?  



I SHOT FIRST!

Update: This was going to be a real post, but then there was an angry dog. And Bellydancing Chewbaccas.

There's a real post coming, and the next flash fiction entry for my Seven Deadly Sins project (which was sidetracked by broken pelvis scaffolding and hospitals). In the meantime:

My sister is a HUGE Viking's fan.

I'm not a football fan in general (although I AM quite a fan of Vikings punter Chris Kluwe, but that's a different post)... apparently neither is my sister's Chihuahua, Kiki.



Fuck. You. All.

You're welcome.
Also, I saw this today, and I CAN'T UNSEE IT. Therefore, so shall you: