Ever get annoyed? Ever feel like someone needs to be told where the dog died? Or handed a crowbar and a tub of Elbow Grease to help them pry their head out of their arse? Congratulations--you've come to the right place.

And when I'm not commenting on the latest thing to piss me off, I'm trying to figure out my own twisted life. Because, hey, I'm like that.

On a gentler note: for anyone dealing with depression, anxiety, and other assorted bullshit: You are NOT alone.

And if you're looking for a laugh, search on the key word "fuckery." It's just my little thing (as the bishop said to the actress).

Saturday, November 6, 2010

On Being an Old Broad


“No man is failure who has friends.” Samuel Langhorn Clemens

St. Teresa has just asked if I’m ready to go out. Argh. I hate being rushed, and I operate on Empress Time, which is pretty much about half an hour behind schedule because there’s always something I forgot to do. I find this statement amusing (although it drives all the hyper-organized Capricorns who surround me INSANE). I have heard it called “black folks time,” “Latino people time,” “Pagan folks time,” “Lesley time,” etc. which basically means damn near everyone runs behind schedule. So tell me, is there ANYONE (besides Capricorns, of course) who is ON TIME? Except Germans, of course. (And there are at least three people in my life who just got winked at and who are laughing at that line, so anyone who isn’t, GET A FUCKIN’ SENSE OF HUMOR AND LIGHTEN UP!)

It r ma birfday, as the LOLCats would say. And I am 43 on this cloudy November day. It really kicked off last night over at Leesh’s with my first b-day gift: a copy of How to Survive a Garden Gnome Attack. Just the right note! Baked apples, Lucky therapy, writing, IMing with Potential Paramour (things shifted there; long story), actually impressing Josh with the Jim Jefferies gig story, and then running into one of my favorite (currently enrolled) student with her lovely boyfriend as I was getting out of the car and shooting the shit for an hour in the chilly post-midnight hour—GREAT way to kick off the b-day weekend! (And nice to see a sweet, fabulous person happy, with a good guy. Hey, if it ain’t me, I’m glad it’s my friends.)

My day started with my phone going off around 11ish, realizing that Piddy Pat was sleeping in my right armpit, purring away (I sleep on my left side, FYI), and found a gajillion happy b-day wishes waiting on the Happenings screen of my restored ‘droid and a couple of b-day text messages as well. The only way my morning could have started better would have been waking up in a posh hotel room with the scent of a full breakfast (including bacon, sausages, fresh cinnamon buns, baked apples, cooooffffeeee, V8, a slightly green banana, and a raspberry mango smoothy) in the arms of the current Celibricrush after seeing his gig last night and with a front row seat for the Nottingham gig tonight with all my UK friends whom I haven’t seen in a dog’s age. (The realistic version of that fantasy would be waking up in the arms of Old Sbux Crush and breakfast at Supreme Kitchen. I don’t think he’s checked out the blog, so the secret is safe, although I think he’s figured out I’m attracted. *shrugs* No whooper—girl’s gotta dream, and needs to aim high.)

I have not been the nicest person this week—I have been incredibly depressed, irritable and spazzy due to PMS/PMDD, thyroid being out of whack, horrific insomnia, anxiety attacks, weird vibes at work, the b-day, and a few other minor kerfuffles.

The pre-b-day depression, fueled by all the attending bs, was not fun and was compounded on Thursday night by an email from Brit Boy #5. I am recovering from it, slowly. My heart is hurting—I still miss him, whether I want to admit it or not. I really thought that was going to work out. *shakes head* I miss his eyes, his smile, and being in his arms.

Vicki has been an utter trooper this week—all the shit she’s dealing with and she’s had to babysit my depressed ass via IM. I hate that awful feeling of being a complete failure, and boy, did it hit me this week. I really felt like utter shite—like a complete waste of space on the planet. I know that I’m not; it’s just been a rough year.

See, for me, today is New Year’s Day. I think it’s one of the reasons I don’t get into the whole Samhain thing as the Pagan new year, and ditto for New Year’s Eve. Today is the day my new year starts, and all of the assessment and re-evaluation that goes into those holidays for other people goes into today for me. This past year has been… argh. It’s been an incredible mix of great and horrible, and I don’t know what the new year is going to bring. My life is shifting so rapidly, and I know that come this time next year, I will be in a very different place.
Where I’ll be is the biggest question. I could very well be living in Nova Scotia by this time next year; or, I could still be in Boston but no longer in Hell’s Vestibule, something I would desperately love but also fear. This has been my family’s home for over 70 years; it probably will no longer be by this time next year. That will be traumatic in a lot of ways. It’s a cultural thing—the Irish are weird about Their Land. You want to see me go insane? Threaten my home. Violate my property. Friends have seen me drop everything and challenge fisticuffs to someone fucking with my house. If you’ve ever seen Gone With the Wind, Gerald O’Hara has this little speech to Scarlett about what it means to own land. It’s a very real thing ingrained in the Irish, I think, especially in light of our history, and something that hasn’t died out in a lot of us, for good or ill.

I’m behind the 8-ball artistically right now—I haven’t written a bloody word for NaNoWriMo, haven’t finished the sodding rewrite of Book 1 (and am only on page 31, argh, argh, argh), have ANOTHER craft show next weekend, and the house… Christ, the house. At least Elder Services has approved a sliding scale fee, so the heavy chores guy won’t cost an arm and a leg. We may get this monstrosity cleaned out yet.

The cat is snoring on the comforter across from me—curled in a ball, making little snuzzy “ook” sounds. What makes this REALLY funny (for Pratchett fans) is that a) she is the same color as The Librarian (of Unseen University) and Horace, my stuffed orangutan (who has appeared in the UU scarf that went over for Hogswatch), has frequently been mistaken for Piddy asleep on the couch; b) she IS a librarian’s cat. I like it.

Today’s epigram is to remind me of how utterly, completely blessed I am—there is no way on heaven, hell or earth someone surrounded by such incredible, loving friends could be a failure. Just not possible. It’s reminder to me to think about how I define success—that it’s NOT about money or fame. It’s about people and how you touch their lives. It’s about leaving the place a little better for your having passed through. If the outpouring of kind regards today is any proof, I’m doin’ OK. :-)

Now, I have to get my arse in gear and take my Mum shopping. She’s already had to deal with me being grumpy with her (for anyone considering getting involved with an artist, particularly a writer, remember, WE ARE GRUMPY BASTARDS when tapping away on the lappie). Time to be a good kid.

Tonight is all about celebrating. Seeing friends (if you’re in the area, come on over!) to nosh and drink (although I’ll probably be going non-alcoholic tonight), and then will head for the ocean for a stroll and to meditate and clear my head.

Sadly, it’s too cold for a skinny dip (although a perfect night to act like a teenager and snog in the backseat).

Remember, kids—growing older is mandatory. Growing up… growing up is for the unimaginative.

Much love,
Your Empress

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