Surprise Surprise Surprise

Sometimes things go to shit in order to get you where you need to go.

It takes you to strange places, even scary places, and it forces you to face your past. People and situations arise that can only force you to stop for a second and have a good head scratching. You find happiness where you weren't even looking.

Over the last month I have had to reevaluate the value of the people in my life. Some for the worse and some for better than I could have hoped. Some don't care about the damage they're doing, some don't even try anything, and some come in from the cold and make you feel like it's all worth it.

People surprise you.

I'm finally seeing things clearly for the first time in months, and years. Many years.

This past year, well it's been a ride for sure, and I'm still not convinced that the Wild Mouse isn't going to fly off the tracks. As a matter of fact, I feel a bit like I'm stuck on the ride. I want to run away for a weekend and be free of the demands of people who seem to want to kill each other one moment and are perfectly fine the next. I'm sick of being in the middle of people who can't seem to even try and play nice.

Remember how long I looked for a job, before I found this one? How it was nothing short of a miracle? It happens to be with three people I love working with, (the rest, well, meh) and I enjoy the variety of duties. Too bad it's owner thinks giving me a cut in hours is a punishment. It's an escape...and I don't know about you, but it seems a bit dysfunctional to want to go to work in order to get some peace. Especially when you're dealing with taxes and accounting stuff. Two things I hate with a plu perfect passion.

I have a lot planned this year and the next few months will be a test of wills, and I have no idea how it will pan out. I have choices before me that are so appealing, and choices that will inevitably alter the direction of my life. I like the promise of that.

I always try to listen to my heart. If my head took over all the time, well then, I'd be in some serious shit.

We can try to do the things that are "right", but sometimes it takes a tale-spin to knock you on your ass and help you figure out that comfortably numb is not the way to go. Why do we choose to be unhappy? Is it easier to go on hoping things will change for the better? When does a bump in the road become a sinkhole?

The last two weeks have given me a glimpse into a future that is uncertain but positive. Many people are going to suffer and fight...but the one thing I am sure of right now is, I'm done hurting. I'm done playing Ms. Passive-Aggressive in order to appease people who ultimately don't seem to care.

I'm sick of false promises.

It's time for proof.

The Barbecue Fiasco.......

Oh my darlings, I am so terribly sorry that I've left you 5 whole days without any snark. But the real world has been rather a douche nozzle to yours truly. And here's what you need to know about that:

I belong to a rather large organization, that every year donates millions of dollars to children's charities, medical research, etc. It's a benevolent organization with many chapters across the US. Of course, every year we are asked to do so many fundraisers. One for this charity, one for that charity, you get the general feel for it.

Our chapter has an average membership age of 65 and an average household income of $25,000 per member per year. We have alot of elderly, retired and disabled people in our membership.

The young people coming in are outranked by the older generations. Their ideas are pooh pooed, they never get taken seriously and never get elected to office.

Several times people have been called at the last minute to ask if they can help pay a bill to keep the chapter's doors open. It's generally the younger set who step up to the plate. Despite all of the crap they take, they still care.

Well this past weekend, there was a barbecue contest. It's a big fundraiser, (Raising nearly $1,000! Woo Hoo! Let the miracles happen!) and people were there all day cooking and competing. The cans were flying, knives were chopping, minions were cleaning, and the smells throughout the place were really driving us all to distraction.

Finally, we'll call the team, Randy's Rangers, a young team full of experienced cooks and large benefactors to the chapter was waiting on the judging. Their area was flawless, their meat was by all accounts of all of the other teams around them (lots of sampling the competition mind you) the undisputed winner. The general public came in, and within minutes the Rangers had completely sold out of their barbecue.

The judges had long since taken their samples and everyone's sitting around waiting for the judges to come out, when the chapter presidents wife came out to announce the winners. 3rd place....given to a chapter officer, 2nd place.....given to a wealthy retired new member......

Then the chapter president's wife calls out, " I swear this wasn't rigged, but the winner is "Dirty Don's Old Socks Barbecue"! (that team compromising solely her husband).

The look of shock and the incredulous gasp from the crowd said it all. Don still had a pan of meat left. No one was eating it. However, people were gathered and pictures commenced to being taken right in front of the Randy's Rangers table. Several extremely pissed off cooks were admonished by their leader to "smile. just suck it up and smile." As it was announced that all of the winners were donating their winnings back to the chosen charity.

The leader of the Rangers showed immense class when congratulating all of the winners and smiling in the face of the president's wife. Their area was immediately cleaned, vacated and they went to sit with their friends, their supporters, who were almost half of the people in attendance.

Here's what that chapter doesn't know. Randy's Rangers, that are members, may continue as returning members to the lodge. But only to rent the facility cheaply. As far as sponsoring the 3 large yearly events, well, that's all revenue lost to the chapter.

And one final thing, that all or Randy's Rangers don't know. The chapter president's wife, well she kept going on and on about how it touched her heart that the winners would donate their hard earned prize money back to the charity. The leader of the Rangers, smiled, agreed with her and said, "Well, that was our intention too, in fact whatever prize money we won, we were going to contribute back to the chapter with a matching donation."

The look on that woman's face was priceless.

I just wanted all of Randy's Rangers to know that......they know who they are.

Housewife Porn, disguised as fiction.

After finding myself reading housewife porn the other day, disguised as a mystery (mystery author and everything!) I decided that there must be a trip to Half Price Books….. soon, because I must have been getting desperate for reading material. In the meantime, I need to get something off of my chest!

Why is it that in fiction all boy/girl parts anatomy must be regarded as "her sexuality" or "his pulsing member". You know that vagina and penis are just not words that turn anyone on. I mean, really, do people hump? No, they don't. But, I guarantee you that any couple, who has children, when given a precious night alone, doesn’t spend hours and hours, “languidly stroking every inch of her body, until, at last she cried out and he entered her, completing their union of souls and bodies.” I guarantee you it’s more like, “Yeah?” “Yeah!” followed by a ridiculous sprint to the bedroom and 15 or 20 minutes of furious noogie before you both decide it’s time for a shower and then go catch up on Downton Abbey.

Characters names must be outlandish things like River Stone, Paradiesie, Dimitri, or Whitney McAllister IV. No one has names like Matt Smith, Carrie Parker, and Winnie Douglas…..nothing simple. I have you know that Matt Smith, at least the one I know is a fabulously complicated character. And a total hottie.

And the past! Do go on and on and on about them...in a manner that makes the reader wonder if they missed the beginning of a series, or if they should continue reading to find out why the hell it's trudging on through the minefield of life. This is a fine line though, and must be handled carefully; otherwise your reader may get distracted by their gray hairs and toddle off to dye it pink...or something like that.

Don't forget that the person in charge is always an ass who somehow represses and antagonizes the main character. In reality, the behavior of Dr. House or Michael from The Office, would spell "lawsuit". However, it is considered acceptable in fiction. If you're confused as to what I'm talking about, please Netflix either show.

Bonus points for mentioning anything from 9/11. Because nobody is sick of hearing about that shit yet. Least of all me. Don’t start with me. I’ll get up on a soapbox so fast it will make your head spin. Just. Don’t.

It's acceptable to write book after book containing similar scenarios and/or similar characters. Even if they're not actually a recurring character in a series. No one will notice. Trust me. And your themes of great and tragic loss followed by a finding of oneself and a gaining of inner peace, well, you’ve been working that angle for 40 years. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a best seller. But I quit reading you a long time ago. I picked up this book, hoping for something new.

No one expects you to venture away from what you know, so feel free to have every single book you write take place in the same geographical setting. Southern California, Maine, or La-La land for example. And please, keep the same supporting characters throughout all of your novels. You know what I mean, the overly bubbly man who pumps your gas and maintains your car, the surly teenager at the drive thru, the hipster barista….I swear, it’s GOLD….too bad snarky doesn’t translate.

And never, ever, ever consult a thesaurus. Feel free to use the same words repetitively like sluice or bougainvillea. Oh, while you’re at it, throw that dictionary away too. Forget how to use spell check while you’re at it.

Pregnant characters must always go into labor at the most inopportune times, because fight or flight instincts don't exist. And labor and delivery must be swift! So swift that no one really has time to prepare and little Alexander Christian Bonaparte McMillian is wrapped in the work jacket of a local tow truck driver who just happened to be in the area.

When characters find themselves in a foreign country they must be masters of the local language. Having your character flipping through their English to Japanese dictionary muttering "What the fuck are they saying!?" just doesn't come across the same. True, it would be realistic, but not entertaining. Real life situations are never entertaining.

Women will never start their periods in the middle of the jungle. It just doesn't happen, so don't even think about writing it. Oh wait! Women in novels don’t have periods! Don’t write about the messy bits of life….ever…so droll.

It doesn't matter if your character is smack dab in the middle of the African jungle or Disney World, they must always have the darnedest luck and run into the bad guys.

Even if the bad guys are armed with automatic weapons, bazookas, tanks, or Atomic bombs...they will miss hitting the good guys, because they took all of their target training with Stormtroopers. Alternately, the good guys can take out fifteen bad guys with a BB shot from a frazzled straw found in a dumpster. I mean kill them dead. Seriously, earlier today when I was held up in a Quick Trip I fashioned a restraint system from a toilet roll and a trash can. The cops were amazed at my ability to thwart a criminal.

No one ever utters "There is no way you’re paying me nearly enough to take this shit."

After reading the housewife porn disguised as a mystery book I wondered how any self respecting author could look at themselves in the mirror after writing some of the nonsense that I read. I developed an appreciation for paragraph long PG rated sex scenarios. They had sex....and now we're moving on. Maybe it's the perpetual 12 year old in me, but I couldn't help laughing at some of the crap that I read. I was embarrassed for them.

I will never get that time back. Ever.

Now, as a writer myself, I know writers who commit all of the above errors. Trust me, when I’m in the heat of the moment, spell check, dictionaries and thesauruses are NOT at all what I have on my mind. I’m trying to get characters in and out of sticky situations, arranging horrible fights with family and friends or writing a sex scene that won’t get me stuck in the “Adult Fiction” (aka Housewife Porn) section. Fleeing, fighting and fucking my friends. It’s what makes stories for me. 

Then there’s that obsession I have with Love

21 years ago, I felt that I believed in love more than anything else in the world. Love mattered more than anything, and I was a person willing to fight for it, earn it, hold it, nurture it and protect it. I needed love so badly that I was willing to do anything for it. And unlike the Meatloaf song, I’d even have done “that”.

21 years ago a wonderful movie arrived in theaters, and it was like it was tailor-made for this wide eyed wanderer. Because it put love on a pedestal and for 105 minutes the audience got to find love, pursue love, fall in love with love, adore love, and worship love, and above all else, love. Above all things, love. No matter about distance, no matter about a broken heart, no matter about anything, LOVE won out, big time in the end.

21 years ago, this person—let’s call this person “Hildy” for the sake of brevity and clarity—knew what love was. Hildy knew all the facts about love, how it worked, how it was supposed to go. The more impatient among you may be tempted to suggest that Hildy was an idiot, and that would be fair, but the more generous and tolerant may be thinking that maaaaybe this Hildy person just had a lot to learn. A lot. A LOT to learn. Maybe. (Hint: YES. OMFG. A LOT.)

And as time passed, Hildy did, in fact, learn. A lot. Fucked up. A lot. Loved a lot. Lost a lot. Lost more.

But never once lost faith in love.

 Until.

There’s always an “until” in these stories.

Until.

I watched Sleepless in Seattle that night for the first time in…I don’t know. I don’t know how long it had been. And I found myself mourning that person with the enduring, unshakable faith in love and all it had to offer. And I don’t mean any kind of gentle, “awww, what the hell happened to my younger idealistic idiot self” mourning. I mean tears-running-down-my-face-wtf-happened-to-that-essential-core-belief-in-love kind of mourning.

In the last few years, during the course of some rather unpleasant relationship issues, I let that Hildy finally and completely slip away, and I never went looking. I let that wide eyed wanderer and her eternal belief in love drown just as surely as if she had been Jack hanging on to that door on the Titanic.

Tonight I pinpointed that moment when I let it happen. That moment when love—my faith in it, my belief in it—stopped being a factor. The moment when that part of me just…separated and went its own way.

And I…I just let it happen. I didn’t fight it; I didn’t scream and rail against the injustice of it all. I just let it happen. I became complacent, or was it defeated? Anyway it was very much unlike the same wide eyed Hildy that walked out of that theater 21 years ago.

21 years ago I stepped out of a movie theater, and skipped hand in hand with love down to the waterfront in Seattle. I felt vindicated, like someone else out there actually got what love was. I was pretty sure that getting in my car and driving home was just going to be fucking impossible, so I went dancing on the pier and wandering through downtown Seattle with someone I loved.

21 years ago I had a lot of necessary and painful lessons and experiences ahead of me. But losing that essential part of me, that love of love, should never have been one of them.

I never went looking.

I’m looking, now.

(In my best Scarlett O’Hara accent, clutching at my heart) “As God is my witness, as God is my witness they're not going to lick me. I'm going to live through this and when it's all over, I'll never lose my love of love again. No, nor any of my folk. If I have to lie, steal, cheat or kill. As God is my witness, I'll never lose my love of love again.”

Compassion pisses me off.

When it comes to compassion, people are the ultimate testers, and the closer they are in your circle to you, they more they will test it and make you want to rip out chunks of your hair and toss compassion out the window!  I don’t’ know how that happens and I’m not asking now ( DO YOU HEAR ME UNIVERSE!!??! ATTENTION! I AM OFFICIALLY NOT ASKING "WHY?"!) For me, it's easier to have compassion for the harried carhop at Sonic that I see every morning (*waves* Hi Brandi!)  than it is for me to have compassion for the co-worker making snarky remarks about co-workers. It's much easier to have compassion for people who aren’t in your immediate circle than it is to have compassion for people you talk to on a daily basis. Although my husband shows great compassion for me when I overload the dishwasher. ("And leave lights on. And don’t do your laundry. And...." he compassionately added.)

Anyway...Fairy of Great Compassion arrived at my apartment door recently, along with the Bad Nasty Entitlement Fairy. Both of those Fairies make tough guests. I love them for existing. I hate them when I'm dealing with them--much like dieting and litter boxes.

A few weeks ago, I sat down and had a conversation with someone in my community who had sent me a snarky, hate filled message on Facebook. They were angry that no one had reached out to them to check on them and they'd been going through a rough time--yet no one knew the extent of it. I pointed out that many had been very kind and supportive of them in the instances of when they'd reached out via email or social media. Yet, this person felt that they shouldn't have to reach out and let us know they were suffering--it should simply be something that the community did on its own accord: seek, discover, absolve the nasty business going on. More importantly, it was something that I as a High Priestess of the community, should have had on my radar to do: a.) Notice that t person hadn't been on social media for a few days and check up on them. b.) Reach out when seeing that the person was having a bad time--by phone, or in person. A comment on Facebook, no matter how supportive, did not cut it. They were not in my close social circle. I wasn't aware that they expected this of me. Even if I were aware, I'm not sure I would do it--with 300 to 500 people in my general community, I'm not in a position to notice if one disappears from the internet for a few days. I am also not a therapist or a social worker. I work hard at a job I hate and might like to work on my own projects once in awhile. I simply can't do it all, but I do the best that I can. 

With that, we talked about Entitlement.

"How dare you call me entitled???" They fired back. "After all I've been through! You sit there in a comfortable home with money to spare and you call ME ENTITLED?”

And I realized I’d given one of the nastiest insults one can to someone born after Generation X--a mistake from which there is no return, only blog posts to hopefully better explain it to other people.

Entitlement: the word people in the generation above mine throw at the generation after mine, calling them entitled for "thinking things should be handed to them," whereas Millennials respond, "We're more thinking we shouldn't have this much debt at this age." I'm stuck in a weird place as a Gen X and before the Millennials, so I don't feel like anyone was talking to me.

And, in this person, I was faced with a manifestation of myself from just a few  years ago—when my grandfather died.

When news reached my social circles (2006, so Facebook wasn’t my main form of communication), outpourings of love and support came at me from every angle. Long-lost friends texted and people I hadn’t seen in years showed up at his funeral. My world had just ended.

But a couple of weeks later, I was back in college and it was like it never existed.

I was a poster-child for Toby Keith’s song, “I wanna talk about me!”

A summary of messages/calls from people in the aftermath: 
"Just take it easy. Go for a walk or something." "I lost my dog Bingo...so; I know EXACTLY what you're going through." "What in the world could still be the matter? It’s time to move on; he’s in a better place."

Me: Well...he was my hero.
I can’t focus to study.
I want to talk to him so bad and I hurt so bad and there's not a friggin' thing I can do about any of it.
I have to go to work and school and be a mom because no one cares about my emotional state.
I'm not trained to cope with this sh*t and here I am coping with this sh*t...

EVERYTHING'S NOT FINE. 

I got mad. How dare the world move on and think about things like elections, their own jobs, their own problems, or anything other than what I was going through? How dare people minimize what I was dealing with? How people talk about the loss of my grandfather without ever having known him? I had a lot to say. Why didn't anyone ask me? Had those people who checked in on me obsessively or posted about their "Friend Angela has suffered a terrible loss" only been in it for some kind of sensational drama in the moment? Strange how "into my well-being" they were when the action was going on....odd how they seemed to have forgotten it was something they cared about, only a few days later.

I got madder, and then I got bitter, and then resentful.

Maybe because I just got tired of being angry. Maybe because when trying to counsel others through the same thing, one has to take a step ahead and fix thyself first before going around and helping others fix thy own selves. But the final nail came when I was told I'd done wrong by another person by not fulfilling the role they thought I should. I finally accepted that I really wasn't owed the attention I thought I deserved back then, either.

Had the multitudes of casual online acquaintances ever promised they would come running to check on me? How many times had I given a public, fleeting glance at serious things that were happening in other places--maybe even tossed a few Sabbat collections one way or another--but then went on about my business again? Lots and lots.

I counted my blessings. I had my mom and grandmother. I had my husband and children. I deepened friendships with people currently in my world. And I took a look, a long hard look at my own entitlement.

We tend to treat the word "entitled" like an insult or a character flaw. It shouldn't be the former and it isn't the latter. It's an ailment on the soul. When we think we are owed something that we are actually not, we suffer and we cause others to suffer. When we assume others will act in accordance to how we think they should act, we are often let down and we suffer. Groups, Covens, friends, partners--there is an agreement, generally spoken but sometimes not--that support will be shared when it is required. That one's needs will be met without there being an ask. Yet, we can't apply this to everyone we meet and we certainly can't apply it to "the general population." Once we can get out from under the vise-grip of baseless "I deserved...it should be...they should have...it should be..." and focus on what we truly received, we can soar just a little higher on our spiritual broomsticks.

In the mirror of me embodied in this angry, hurt person then sitting before me, I found a glimpse of my own Entitlement leech. I also found compassion because we both knew what that leech's bite felt like. I found compassion for the people I thought ignored me. They hadn't--they were just living their lives and they didn't owe me anything. I dug just a little deeper into my own Well of Compassion again and this time, found even a little more freedom from spiritual slavery, just like the Goddess promised. 

I am thankful for this lesson.

But what I wonder about, are the other people around me, who drag around their own sense of entitlement. Who are invited to parties that clearly state on the invitation “bring a munchies to share and your own alcohol of choice”, and who show up with nothing in hand, yet expecting to partake fully of everyone else’s contributions.

I wonder about the people around me who refuse to get a job, any job, but whine and cry that their “art” isn’t completely supporting them. There are thousands of talented people out there that can’t support themselves solely on their art, yet they have jobs to support themselves and support their purchase of art supplies, ever mindful that they need to be continually plugging away at their bliss.

Then there are those people who I don’t wonder about. The leeches. The ones who find out that you’re in charge of the annual Fundraiser, and not only do they expect free tickets for entry, but complimentary drink tickets too! These are the same people who sneak alcohol into the same fundraiser because they don’t want to pay the “outrageous prices” at the bar. Never mind that it could cost the venue their liquor license. Those people, are just leeches.

I’ve found that the more entitled the person feels, the less true compassion they have, for anyone.  

What I’ve learned since my grandfather’s passing is that I really do try to take ownership of my shit. If I can’t afford to go out, I don’t. If a friend of mine takes me out for dinner or drinks, then I try to reciprocate as much as possible. If I know people who are involved in fundraising events that I want to attend, then I offer to help in any way possible. If they don’t need my help, I try to go anyway, because I enjoy supporting worthy causes.  If I want to go off chasing windmills, then I’ll finance it myself.

I don’t think I’m ever going to meditate on entitlement and compassion again. It pisses me off.

But I think my next meditation will be on the Mysteries of Chocolate and Wine. 

Friday Ramblings

Most folks learn from their mistakes. Maybe not the first or the second time, but eventually most people get it after a while. I usually get it the first time around, sometimes it takes a second attempt, a third...tops.

I over think things, I tend to make them so much more difficult than they need to be. Maybe that's why the phrase it is what it is makes me insane.

I just think that there must be more.

Over the last few months I've learned an insane amount of things. Most of these things are relevant to the last year, but many items pertain to seemingly unrelated events occurring over the last 20 years.

That's a long time to be chewing on an issue...or a hundred of them.

Here is the short list of some of the things that I've learned:

People are people. Yep, Depeche Mode sang it, and for you kiddies who know the song...well, you should be stuck with the loop in your head for the next little while. My earworm gift to you. You're welcome. What I'm getting at, because I do have a point here, is that people surprise you. They disappoint, help, hurt, hinder, make you smile, and sometimes all it takes is a text to let you know that someone out there is thinking about you. Humanity saves us from human nature. So, if you haven't reached out to someone lately, get on that.

I love you. It's never wrong. My son tells me that he loves me when he leaves the room, if I accomplish nothing more in this life, I will have that. Why people fear these three words is beyond me. I would bet that 90% of my friends have heard these three words from me, and 100% of my family has. If you're afraid to say it, I have to wonder why. What's your definition of love? To me, it means giving up your weekend to help your friend move, going out of your way to spend time with people, answering the call at four in the morning, and a million other small sacrifices that add up. Yeah, you want to sit around watching T.V. all weekend, but more than likely the lunch date with your friend will do you both some good. If you love someone, let them know by your actions and your words because that opportunity can be snatched away easier than you think.

I've been in denial. For the 3 months that my brother had cancer, I consciously knew that he was not going to make it through. So why is it, as I stood by his grave staring at his casket, that I was just so incredibly stunned and raw? Why is it that I could give a dry eyed eulogy and yet a little over two years later and I still can’t cry? Why is it that I felt my world shift so far off its axle that I couldn't breathe when my grandfather died in 2006?

I really, really hate to cry. Although I don't consider crying a sign of weakness in general, I do feel like it comes at the most inopportune times. Like when you're discussing sensitive issues with a man, to start crying only comes across as an attempt at manipulation. Which some women do, and some don't. I belong in the “don’t” camp. I feel weak and vulnerable when I cry, and question my own credibility...so I can only imagine what's going on in the head of the flabbergasted confused guy sitting by me.

We are very primal beings. Every action we make is based on a primitive urge. All of those actions come down to one thing, protecting our asses and staying entrenched in our own comfort zones.  Sometimes what we fight to protect is our own unhappiness, and why would we protect that?? Because change is hard, and change threatens the primitive urge to protect what we have...and it goes around and around and around.

Change can be a good thing though. Getting divorced from my first husband was one of the most drastic and profound changes in my life. And let me tell you, he reads this blog and he’ll tell you that it’s the truth. He’ll tell you that I’m happier and weirder than I’ve ever been before. He’ll also tell you that not all change is good as he is now on major anxiety meds, blood pressure meds and heart meds. His mother will tell you that it’s a broken heart causing his symptoms. I argue with her about that, because he has remarried.

I am not a mechanic. But it's fun to watch me try. I’ve replaced an alternator, a fuel line, brakes, EGR sensor, radiator, windshield wipers, hoses of every kind and my favorite, a motor.  I think I'll stick to changing fuses and gassing up.

Work is stressing me out. I can’t go into a lot of detail, but it aggravates my heartburn something fierce. I wonder daily whether or not I’m going to show up to a “Closed” sign on the door.

I need to go to Key West. Need is defined by Merriam Webster as:

¹need

 noun \ˈnēd\

: a situation in which someone or something must do

 or have something

: something that a person must have : something that

 is needed in order to live or succeed or be happy

: a strong feeling that you must have or do something

So, in order to be happy, I NEED to go to Key West. I have a strong feeling that I must go to Key West. I must have this trip. So, yes, I do “need” this trip in October. However if the Gods and Goddesses smiled down on us and an event happened to where we could move to Key West, then well, I’d be grateful for that too. There’s something about breakfast at Blue Heaven with the chickens scratching the ground around you, which makes a person homesick. Well, that and I need to visit Keith.

Life is uncertain. What is today may not be tomorrow. What you think you know, will be altered at some point in time. Even the darkest days of our lives bring good things. Sometimes life has to issue a huge wake-up call in order for us to realize that we've been living in piles of chaos without realizing it.

Be spontaneous. This week I attended an impromptu lunch with a co worker; I met new people and got a couple of hours of laughing my ass off.

Get outside more. The snow and cold has been an added downer for me over the last few weeks, so I am looking forward to the possibility of nice weather and sunshine this weekend. You never know how much good you can get from one long walk, unless you take one. It’s amazing, it truly is.

Do what makes you happy. Oddly enough, it's the only way to be happy.

I think that's enough philosophical ranting for one day. So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to walk out to the warehouse and chuckle at our engineer. 

Dear Hildy - When he turns out to be a douchenozzle

Dear Hildy,

Several months ago my best friend confessed to me that he loved me. Not that “love” like, “Oh GIRL I LOVE that Coach purse!”, but the love that fairy tales are made of. We have always been close, from day one of our relationship; however, lately it all seems to be going to hell in a hand basket.

You cannot, under any circumstances know what sort of pain and confusion that has caused in my life. Because, from the day he made his confession to me, our relationship has gone severely downhill.

He didn’t get me anything for Valentine’s Day, my birthday or Christmas. He didn’t even call or text me. He didn’t show up or call or even RSVP to my birthday party or New Year’s Eve party. I’ve seen him maybe 6 times in the past year and he lives less than 20 miles from me.

On those rare occasions that I have seen him, it’s like I’m clinging to a life preserver. However, he is only in the relationship when it is convenient for him. He never responds to texts or FB messages. But he’ll text me if he wants something. Several friends have remarked that he is my Kryptonite. I just can’t seem to tell him no.

What do I do?

Hopeless in Harmony

Hopeless,

You’ve said it all. Pull your head out of your ass, recognize that he doesn’t love you or he wouldn’t be putting you through this shit. Get rid of him. Delete and block him from Facebook, because we all know you stalk his ass there. Delete and block him from your cell phone. From Instagram, Twitter, Blogger and Reddit. Eradicate him from your life.

You are, was and always will be a convenience to him. Never a priority.

Suck it up and put on your big girl panties and deal with it.

Hildy

Big Love, or Get Over It, I Support Polygamy.

I think that my brain just exploded. Or maybe imploded. I'm not sure which description would be better suited to my current fundamental paradoxical confusion.

I'm a curious girl by nature. Not in what would happen if I put the hamster in the microwave kind of curious, sort of way, but more of a what the hell are all these people thinking and what is up with that chicks hat and why is my little toe itching, sort of way.

I also wonder why we have hair on our sphincters. Go visual on that...I dare ya.

Anyway...

Once upon a time a long time ago, I had become exposed to Big Love at a friend’s house that had HBO. I don’t have HBO. I also cry and fuss and whine and genuinely act like a toddler when it comes to getting cable, which would only be an additional five bucks to my already overpriced internet cable bill. But, that five bucks wouldn't even give me HBO. So fuck it already and give me a damned cookie to shut me up.

I came upon a DVD set of the first season and watched it in its entirety. At the expense of grocery shopping, feeding the pets family, and personal grooming I'm sure. Partway through watching the first season I received season two on DVD. Until the last episode...I never watch the last episode until I have a follow-up episode available. Those cliffhangers man...they keep me awake at night.

If you were unable to decide my freakiness factor before now...well, there's your confirmation.

You're welcome.

I haven't been watching anything lately, because I've been attending NetA (Netflix Anonymous)...which is a complete and utter lie. I haven't been watching anything because frankly there is nothing worth watching. Sure, sure, they throw me a Downton Abbey every now and then, but other than that I have been screwed. Not to mention that, for the last few weeks all I have been subjected to is an unmitigated amount of stress in my work and  I have become so accustomed to wearing mental earplugs in that I think I'm losing my hearing and can't hear a word anyone says to me.

Tangent...

Holy shit get to the point!

I should explain my fascination with Big Love.

I am a big supporter of polygamy. I come from a large family of Mormons, of which, I’m not Mormon. I love Utah. I have a large clan of friends live in Utah. Big Love is a show based in Utah. Which is complete and total crap, because the show is filmed on a movie set in some lovely location in California, and they send some poor schmuck here to film snippets to give us Utah folks a frame or two to go "I know where the hell that is!” Not real.

The premise of the show is based on a character and his three wives and their children, and the fact that they live in three side-by-side houses and believe that they are fooling anyone.

Dream on.

I have several complaints about this simple premise:

--No one in any Mormon based neighborhood can mind their own business long enough, not to have figured that shit out in about 2 seconds. I know that housewives women in general tend to be gossipy by nature, but come on!? Anyone with 2 eyes and 3 brain cells would be slightly suspicious about three families moving in next door to each other at exactly the same time...not to mention, when one of them is wearing a neon flashing sign on her noggin that screams "POLYGAMIST!" Since her father is such a high powered, highly visible public polygamist.

--Their kids go to school. There are no polygamist secrets in schools, especially grade school. Have you ever had a phone call from school about something you didn’t want to go public? I have. Kids talk. 

--The show is situationally based in Utah. I realize logistics and the magic of movie and television production is appearance, but seriously. Utah has four seasons, and often ALL four of those seasons will present themselves in the same damn week. If you, as a producer are going to produce a show based in Utah, and reference, oh, say, Christmas, DO NOT SHOW A SCENE IN WHICH THERE IS GREEN GRASS, A CLEAN POOL, AND DRY GROUND. On that note, these characters never wear coats. And I believe that one of them was planting grass before Easter. Not happening. 

--My final complaint would actually make the entire show somewhat redundant. Should I, with my 2 eyes and 3 brain cells, figure out that my three neighbors were part of a polygamist lifestyle...well, I hate to say this, and it might come as a complete and total surprise to everyone, but...

I WOULDN'T GIVE A SHIT.

Seriously, not in the least. No authorities would be called. No lawsuits would be filed. No eggs would be thrown at houses. I wouldn't even call the Better Business Bureau and complain that my local home improvement store owner/operator was insane enough to not only have three wives, but three houses to go along with them as well. I wouldn't contact the homeowners association. I wouldn't even call the newspaper.

I would not care. As a matter of fact, I would probably go out of my way to befriend them, just so that I could ask them a million questions about their lifestyle. I would also be willing to sit on their front porch with a shotgun for when those blasted Juniper Creek in-laws show up. Cause I am a giver that way. That and I’m a damned good shot.

Anyway, what started this whole brain fart thought process was the fact that I was surfing the net looking for info on the third season of Big Love and I stumbled upon Margenes blog. Yes, one of the characters has a blog. Is this common? Have I been missing out on checking out the thoughts of my favorite fictitious people? Can fictitious people have thoughts? If just the mere fact that a fictitious character has a working blog, I was further thrown into orbit by the comments that were left in regards to said fictitious polygamist blogger.

I have missed the boat.

Clearly.


*Just to be perfectly clear here. I don't care about lifestyles practiced by consenting adults. I DO have HUGE issues with marrying off tween girls to pervy old men. That is not something practiced by all polygamists...just the ones we get to see in the papers. For obvious reasons.

The secret keeper

I must look like the most trust worthiest person on the planet.

I say this, unsure as to why, but because people tell me the craziest shit. Not drunk girl confessing at a bar crazy shit, but “Why are you telling me this shit?” shit.

Several things spurred me to post this, and I needed somewhere to dump it all, so viola here I am.

I will admit that I am a plethora of sympathy, to an extent. In my 42 years, I have been to hell and back, twice, without water nor a parachute, and I imagine that I radiate some sort of telepathic tell me anything, because I've seen it all and will understand sort of energy.

However...

Do not tell me while I am sitting with you in the hospital, in the wee hours of the morning, that you tested positive for more drugs than Charlie Sheen. Not while I’m sitting with you, hearing that your baby girl was stillborn. Not after I have spent the night losing my shit, drinking till I passed out, and after minimal sleeping have returned to the hospital to be with you, even though you told me the truth as to why she was stillborn, it will take me years and years and years to accept that you were young, stupid and made a deadly mistake. It takes many years to suppress the memory of dressing a tiny 2 pound baby girl in the only clothes she'll ever wear, without feeling so pissed off at you that I want to strangle you at every family function I see you at. I'm haunted by the nurse who came over to me and said "I've been a labor and delivery nurse for 35 years, and I've never done what you’re doing.", while I am crying hysterically, trying to dress her before the funeral home comes to get her.

When you divulge dark things to people, you burden them. There are burdens that people are more than willing to accept, and there are burdens that people just can't deal with. I signed up for the burden of witnessing a baby entering this world, while knowing she would never live in it. In a sick way, I guess I signed up for the knowledge of why she would not live in it as well. But, I never signed up to never forget.

I could never work in customer service. On one hand I am a perfect candidate for customer service, because I can be friendly, chatty, and I operate with a fully intact brain. On the other hand, I hate stupid people, and they are the folks you most commonly deal with. Years ago, I worked at a small restaurant; we were located by a mall and typically saw the same people who worked at the mall day after day. One day while I was working, a women about the same age as myself came in and told me she really needed to talk to me. I had spoken to her approximately twice before, but obviously she felt that we were tight, because she proceeded to lament to me that she had lost her job, couldn't deal with her ex, and was having a hard time coming to grips with her married boyfriend and an abortion that resulted from that relationship.

I should have gotten an Emmy for my following performance. I was able to refrain from screaming "Why the hell are you telling me this?" and instead offered her some advice. Find another job and keep that job by not bringing your personal life to work. Dump the married boyfriend, because...obviously. And finally, pull out the divorce papers and figure the shit out with the ex. This woman may have just needed a third party to listen to her tale, and maybe I was handier than her hairdresser. I'm sure that was a good reason why a lot of strangers told me things that perhaps, they shouldn't have.

I am an excellent secret keeper. I have things stored away that people have told me, and I have not ever breathed a word of it. I know things that could end marriages, jobs and probably lives should I disclose it to the wrong people. I know that when people tell you deeply personal things, it is because they have trusted you with something. While I feel honored by some things people have trusted me with, other things I wonder about. Of course, there are people who over share, which negates the whole thing anyway.

One thing that kills me is when people start a sentence out with "I probably shouldn't tell you this...but". No buts, NO. Don't do it. If you have to start something off like that, then more than likely you shouldn't tell me, or anyone else for that matter. If you have a problem, and you need help, I am more than happy to comply. If you just want to talk about your irrational or destructive behavior, the way some people might talk about car maintenance or shoe shopping, then please, don't talk to me about it. Even though I am a solution oriented person, I am willing and sympathetic about discussing your cancer treatment, because it sucks and you need to talk. Now, if you want me to sit back and lolly gag about your extramarital affair or your drug use, please count me out. I need to solve the problems that have solutions, not watch people self destruct.

Being sympathetic does not mean that I am without judgment, even decades later. When you choose me to witness something, to share your secret, I take part of your burden. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to judge you.

And for fuck’s sake, if you just HAVE to tell me something, please be aware that you are placing a burden on my shoulders. A burden I might well be able to bear, but, am I willing? 

Life on planet Hoth

That's ok, I know that only a handful of the cool kids will get that joke, but seriously, I never realized how snow and sub arctic temperatures could affect my life!

Starting with this morning, my dh started my car and it ran, for over an hour. I probably burned enough fuel to power 3 or 4 Smart Cars at least. I finally got into my car, put it in reverse, and it died. I put it in park, turned the engine over, she fired right up and soon we were on our way. I was relieved, thinking the cold had a more dire effect on her than I imagined.

My relief was short lived when going up the small hill out of our neighborhood, the car didn't want to accelerate. Ok, it just needed some more active drive time warming up....or so I thought. But no.....that was not to be the case at all. I was traveling down the highway when I started the approach to this large hill. My car immediately slowed to less than 30mph. With my foot all the way on the accelerator and pressed all the way to the floor. My car was in real danger of not making the hill on a super busy highway.

I reached up and punched the flashers button and eased her over into a turn around lane, and prayed I got home in one piece. At one point, I think I had a Smart Car pushing me up one hill.

But, I digress. I am now safe at home wondering what sort of mischief I can get into today. I suppose I can start working on tomorrow's blog. Seeing as how I completely blew it off all weekend. I'm sorry DR's....I truly am. Let me get used to this new pattern and you'll see what sort of havoc I wreak. After all I'm the one who trained Chaos....

Love

Hildy

Quit being wishy washy!

Wouldn’t you just love to declare that you are sick and tired of being a wishy-washy, indecisive mousy little pain in the ass?

Wouldn’t you?

But it doesn’t work that way for you….does it? (<— notice I leave you opportunity) should you desire to prove me wrong and put a Witch in her place.

Now darlin’ don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m not saying you’re incapable of kicking that crap. I know you’re a Rockstar! Lord knows I tell you that lie all the time. Seems like you really do believe it….

I’m just saying I don’t want you to get discouraged if it doesn’t work out that quickly for you. I mean nutting up and taking control of your life and all. Never been one of your strong suits has it sunshine?

And if wishy-washy is your curse, then lighting a fire under your ass and keeping the flame strong may be something of an uphill battle for a spell. For you that is.

Why bother if it’s something like work? You put so much effort into all you do anyway. (Please tell me you’re reading my snark, otherwise I’m going to have to read this aloud to you.)

As if feeling kind of blaisé weren’t enough work already? I mean it has to be rough to be that non committal!

I mean, wouldn’t you rather have a delicious, funky, groove mix as the soundtrack to your life rather than the elevator Musak they play in your shrink’s office?

Yeah, I said it.

Now there’s a minute possibility you may be wondering what in the world this has to do with being a rockstar witch?

Well, EVERYTHING….DUH!

Digg on this: The rock star witch lives aligned nay, immersed in her core essence.

And just try arguing with me on this one: your core essence may be described in many ways, but wishy-washy is not one of them.

Feeling wishy-washy or indecisive is just an energetic pattern holding you in a suspended state of borderline paralysis. Break the pattern and you release yourself from suspension.

Deep down, you know what you want. Doesn’t matter if you know why—in fact you probably don’t. If people are really honest with themselves, half the time they don’t know what they truly want until it smacks em upside the head like a cold, wet trout. You my dear, haven't been smacked good and hard in a long, long time. 

Indecision means that your soul is saying one thing and your head is saying something else. When they are aligned, you’ll know it. Angels will sing, the heavens will part…no wait, that’s bullshit. You’ll just know. On some level, you will know.

On some level, you’re needing to be reminded that life is a big-fat-nutty game and it’s time to stop taking yourself so seriously. Time to get Lively. Spunky. Groovy. Whatever your dish is.

What you’re actually doing is disrupting the patterns that you fall into by default. You need to stir up that fire under your ass. And then, letting that flame shine the light on reconnecting you with your soul and everything you want out of life.

The process is simple:

Notice pattern (i.e. that you are feeling wishy-washy).

Wait! You don’t KNOW you’re being wishy washy. I’m having to tell you! Well..proceed.

Do something DIFFERENT!

Noticing the pattern gets quicker the more you do it which is great because the faster you catch yourself, the easier it is to stop. You just kinda have a problem noticing patterns don't you sunshine?

Just like quickly catching a leak in your faucet makes for much easier repair than if it’s been leaking like a fiend all night long, running all over your kitchen and ruining your tile and carpet. Same general principle, just less mess.

You might even want to acknowledge out loud to yourself: Hey! I’m feeling wishy washy. Which is about as blatant a self-observation as you can make. You’re not too good at that so let me tell you:

YOU’RE BEING WISHY WASHY!

Doing something different can be tough because in the moment, you just ain’t feeling it. If you’re feeling wishy-washy, how can you feel anything but that?

Right there, ma’dear, is where you get to be creative. Remember, all you’re looking to do is change your energy.

Here are 4 ideas, but really, do whatever works for you. I know you’re a shy retiring violet and God FORBID you do something out of the norm.

Sing out loud—do it loud enough to make people think you should be checked in somewhere. And for goodness sake do it in public. Go on down to the Wal-Mart…..wait, that’s normal there. Go on down to Whole Foods then. Do it.

Jump around shaking every limb and body part you possibly can. Do the damn Hokey-Pokey in the parking lot at church!

Blast your favorite music and boogie down like nobody’s business. It doesn’t matter that you aren’t  feeling it, doing it will start getting you to feel it. There are perfectly logical psychological reasons for this which I’m not going to get into right here, right now.

Plaster a big ole shit eating grin on your face and hold for at least five minutes. Can you do that? Seriously? I’ve not seen you crack and hold a smile longer than a few seconds. No wonder you can’t find men to date.

You’ll notice that most (eh hem, ALL) of these involve some form of making a complete ass of yourself. 

Yah, well, what better way to shake it up than getting crazy?

Life can be too amazing and too damn short to live it being a wishy washy wimp—it just doesn’t make sense.

OK, enough of my rambling. Now bitch, get on out there and get down with your bad self. 

I'm going to go dance through my office. 

Love ya bitches! 

Hildy

Dear Hildy - When Friends Can't Get Along

*a not often recurring series of tips, tricks and advice from everyone's favorite witch*

 Dear Hildy:

A couple of my friends hate each other and it's putting me in a really awkward situation. I don't know exactly what led to the ongoing argument they're having, but it's starting to become really hard to continue friendship with all but one of them. We range in age from 30-45, so you think these high school games would be over with, but not so.

Every time we're together, friends A and B trash my other friend C and say really negative things about her. Everything from cuts on her attitude, her choice in men, and even so far as to douse her professional life. It makes me uncomfortable. At this point I don't know what to do but I feel that they are totally wrong.

I know she’s a good person and we have great time together, but I don’t want the issues they are having with the other friend to be the end of our friendship...and I’m afraid that if I say something that it might because they are so incredibly serious about how they feel and their thoughts on the situation.

I've learned to just keep my mouth shut, but I feel guilty and I don’t know if it’s something I can do much longer. They've now started to refuse to come to events where I invite friend C.

Signed, 

The Peacemaker

Dear Wishy Washy Queen of the Dumbasses.....seriously, 

You are all grown women. You have no vested interest in the beefs between your girlfriends. You weren't there, you were not affected. That is not your fight. 

Tell Bitch 1 and Bitch 2 to grow the fuck up, get over themselves and quit putting you in the middle. If they don't like your choice in friends and question it, remind them that they were your choice of friends. If they don't want to come to your events, fuck em. Take shit tons of selfies with you and Friend C, and everyone else having a fucking rocking ass time and let those two cunts sit back and bitch and moan about all the fun they are missing. They're obviously not worth your time. 

Hildy

The New Year's Resolution

Oh let the New Year’s begin. I spent all of last year writing about things I was thankful for. Butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth as I took Facebook by storm, writing post after post about my wonderful husband, my brilliant children and my much admired cadre of friends. I also wrote of my successes in the craft world, how wonderful my fur children were and posted picture after picture of my wonderful life.

This year I made a New Year’s resolution. To finally blog about what pissed me the fuck off. Instead of writing yet another vapid blog about yoga pants, Diet Coke and adventures in being a passive aggressive twatwaffle, I decided to get real. I will dish about real people, their real life fuck ups, and I will hold nothing back. (Except the names, to protect MY identity)I will tell you about bad manners, bad decisions made with the aid of alcohol, post high school girl fights (the passive aggressive ones), the Jesus Saves Me co-worker, the husband’s acts of WTF, the Facebook female friend no one else knows, and dumb shit my children do.

I will swear, I will rant, I will call people out on their bullshit. And, if you’re not careful, I will call you out on yours.

Now, welcome to Hildy’s world.