Becoming Real

I hadn't really thought a whole lot about it until I decided to blog again but I've had separate identities for close to a decade now. There's the me that the people on this side of the monitor know and of course the person that the people on your side of the screen are more familiar with. The two really are not so different. I have a fairly strong personality and it translates accurately. People are just as confused here as you are there. I am a very multifaceted person, I've dealt with a lot, and I have the spirit of an artist. How could I not be a little... eclectic?

Even so, there is the Kij0 persona which has overtaken Laurel for all intents and purposes. There is also the old Rhode Island life that involved many of the people I grew up with as well as the ex (the Laurel). There is the  life that happened after I walked away from all of that (the Kij0). Then there is the now. But up until now I've not really mixed Kij0/Laurel too much. I may seem to be very free and open about a lot of my life but I hold a whole lot back and I am much more private than most think. I am not a picture person, have not been since I was a teeny bopper. I just don't care for my image everywhere so that's one thing that is constant between the two personas. No flashy stuff.

When I chose to venture into painting and started kicking around the idea of going "pro" it occurred to me one of the failings that would be inevitable. I would have to merge the two. Somehow to me it feels like I'm showing my panties. I can't really hide behind one or the other, I have to own my own works. Things I've written, drawn, created, and been involved in are vital in my overall body of work and in proving to myself I deserve the title "Artist". I cringe when I reread things I've written more often than not. Again with the panty flashing. It's worse than an accidental camel toe, seriously.

Social networking is lovely for linking everything together and automating your life. Birthday reminders, intimate detail updates, and mixing every person you've ever known in one feed. Sort of like walking into a room of people and realizing you've slept with all of them, and they aren't all the opposite sex. Not that I've ever had such a thing happen to me....

So all this flaunting and shameless socializing is playing with my brain. There's that other alias to consider. The seizure side. The sick side. The side that should be stuffed in the closet but instead trapped me in there. The "real" me. It took me a long time to find out I was epileptic, longer still to accept that diagnosis. I spent almost a year hiding it and my ears still burn and my cheeks flush when I say it out loud or in public. It is the one thing that truly can be blamed for a great many unwanted changes in my life. Some people call them excuses, but something about a debilitating disorder really changes you. It teaches you genuine fear, humiliation, mortality, and vulnerability. When it hits you that your body controls YOU not vice versa it's earth shattering.

No matter how much it has crippled me physically, mentally, emotionally some small part of me refuses to give in. I am not ready to accept that I am disabled or incapable of finding some way. I've pulled myself out of the mud when it was ear deep. More than once. I've moved across states, changed my entire life at least four times. Changed job fields at least three times, and even had another baby. I've fought the odds a long time and won. So now comes the mother of life altering events. Merging all the fragments into one working plan that allows me to continue feeling like a contributing member of society. I just simply have to change all of my current ways, learn and implement new and better habits, and be really annoyingly... social. Ugh.

I'll do it. Watch me. :D

The Sacrificial Lamb and the Pit of DOOM

We used to own a sectional couch, and of course the center piece that joins the two ends of it is rounded. Naturally it was a fairly large piece of furniture and when put in a room it covered a good portion of two walls and the center piece had a triangular space between the back end of it and the wall.

One day my daughter dropped her stuffed lamb Lovey in that space behind the couch. She ran to her brother afraid to plumb the depths of the unknown pit and pleaded with him "Bubby I dropped my Lovey you have to save him! " He asked her "Why can't you get him?" She pushed out her bottom lip and in her most despairing voice she said "He's in the… the… the pit it's dark in there."

He reluctantly stopped what he was doing and marched into the living room and descended into the "pit. " She nervously awaited his return standing poised ever so carefully by the edge of the couch end. He decided he would teach her not to interrupt his diabolical plans and laid on the floor of the "pit" and tossed Lovey up in the air while covering his mouth producing a muffled but audible "Helllllp! Ow..owow.ahhhhh!!"

He threw the lamb up several times which attracted our 25lb cat Archimedes. Well Archy ran round the back of the couch intent on pummeling the flying lamb. Just as he got to the rounded part his weight compounded with his acceleration wreaked havoc on his paws and he fell off taking the throw on the back of the couch and Lovey with him. He landed directly on top of my son. This completely unexpected turn of events elicited a shriek of terror from my blanket blinded child.
My daughter, shocked and horrified that I was in fact laughing at this catastrophic affair went running for backup.

 "Daddy! Daddddd Bubby and Lovey fell in the pit of DOOM and they can't get out!" Being the good Dad that he was he came running to find me in a fit of giggles as his son hefted Archy over the top of the couch and came out fussing Lovey's foot clenched in his shaking fist. He threw the lamb at his sister proclaiming he would never ever return to the pit of DOOM again she could save her own lamb! He lectured her further explaining that a stuffed lamb could not die whereas HE nearly did.

She apologized, her lower lip quivering "I'm so sorry Bubby I'll never do it again I don't want to lose you!" She hugged her grumbling brother who nearly escaped death at dooms hands tightly. Thereafter any dark area deep enough to fit a lamb was considered to be 'of DOOM'

Later that evening we were going out for dinner and the hallway light had blown out. While waiting for the guys my daughter standing at the top of the stairs peered down the darkened stairwell. She turned to Lovey and whispered "It sure is dark down there Lovey, I think it could be…of DOOM." She hugged her Lovey tight and said to him matter of factly, "Go see." With that she pitched her (sacrificial) lamb down the stairs and cocked her head listening for the impending sounds of  DOOM. My husband called out "I think we're out of light bulbs." My daughter satisfied there were no sounds of Lamb DOOM replied "Lovey says it's safe Dad we don't need one."

My Grandma

I've been doing a lot of personal reflection lately, wondering how I came to be who and where I am today. I expect I am experiencing a mid life crisis, but in all my self analysis it occurred to me to consider the cloth I am cut from. I have said many times, I am not like other women/people though most smile and nod and think uhuh that's what everyone says. With that I thought I would like to share with you some stories involving the fabric from which I am cut.

 My Grandma is a truly unusual woman. I can honestly say that I have never met anyone in all my life even remotely like her. That probably accounts for why the majority of my family are unique individuals as well. Grandma has been playfully described as 4' tall x 4' wide. While that may sound unattractive, believe you me she carried it very well. She has always been a beautiful woman, perfect baby soft skin, gorgeous hair, and so full of personality that we think she literally had schizophrenia. I lost count as to how many times she's been married but last tally was either 5 or 6 and to date even in the nursing home she had a boyfriend… or two.

While she was undeniably beautiful, and charming enough to be promiscuous well into her 80's she is also mind numbingly insane. She used to do the damnedest things. For instance she was a kleptomaniac and a religious fanatic. She always had a small blue paperback prayer book a scapular and a dozen or so of what I would describe as little scapulars completely unsure what they are.

She loved to visit everyone unexpectedly. She would show up out of nowhere in the afternoon, and steal things. Sometimes a fork sometimes a small knickknack or photo, but she would always leave in its place some religious symbol, be it a mini-scapular or card. She would take nonsensical and completely random things she had no use for, well that any of us knew of.

When you went to her house you would inevitably come across one of your things. If you asked her about it she would blush and giggle and say God worked in mysterious ways. Well yes he is .. God HE can get away with that, however it wasn't very explanatory for her.

There is also no food on this earth she did not like. The family took turns taking her out for meals. She would take out her dentures and set them in a glass of water beside her plate. When she cleared her plate she would then pick it up and lick it clean. Yep, right there middle of the restaurant despite the guffaws and gasps from mortified onlookers.

She once explained that as a child she was told never to waste a thing and that she had best lick that plate clean which apparently she took quite literally. She would go to salad bars and request doggy bags. I think the most unusual of her habits was where she kept her belongings. Everything, scapular, prayer books, money, random forks, was wrapped up in either plastic bag or napkin and tucked into her bra.

She did that right up til the day she died. How she fits it all without ever looking misshapen is a mystery alas she managed it.

One afternoon my uncle Robert had taken her to Pondersa's breakfast buffet. Where she asked for a doggy bag and was refused. Not only refused but I think between the dentures in the glass, the plate licking and then the doggy bag request the concierge was about fed up and got a bit sarcastic with her. She was pretty well upset and made her last trip up to the bar.

Afterwards my uncle Robert who was about as embarrassed as a person could be from her adventures decided to take her for a ride to his brother Fran's house. They arrived where he had at the time a full house but welcomed them just the same. My uncle Fran had a dog named Sasha who was running circles around her, jumping on her and even peeing a little.

Everyone watched surprised that the normally quiet dog made such a big fuss over her assuming she must have some knack for animals. Sitting on the living room couch in front of all the guests she suddenly looked as though she had epiphany. "I know what she wants!" She proclaimed grinning like a madwoman.

She reached into her bra and produced, her typical prayer book, scapulars, a bag of rolled quarters, two spoons, a butter knife, prayer beads, bottled water, a happy meal toy for her grandbaby, moist towelettes, ziplock baggies, a stack of napkins and finally wrapped in one of those napkins a pair of Ponderosa's finest breakfast sausage. She held them up triumphantly and promptly fed them to the dog.

 It has on occasion been pondered if she carried her children when she was pregnant in her bra as opposed to the normal way.

Is it really any wonder that I have always been a bit different from most? While I don't carry around everything but the kitchen sink between my titties I am fairly certain I stand out just the same. I guess it could always be worse after all, but I think now that I really must be losing it because when thinking back I seem to understand what may have driven her at least to swipe the silverware. I would think to make sure she was never without something to stop and have a bite to eat with, after all her bra (of DOOM) could accommodate a breakfast in napkins. Heh she had no need for restaurant devices to bring home leftovers she had her very own boobie bags.