Hallelujah, I Adore It!

So now that we all know how to find our cervices if we have them, it's time for a little fluff and fun.

I'm devoting this post to hair. I'm all about the hair, and it's a good thing, because I have a considerable amount. At last measure, my hair was just beginning to creep past my butt.

I was born with a head full of jet black hair. By the time I was about 3 or 4 my hair was about waist length if you pulled the curls straight. My hair is extremely curly, and as a kid, it was impossible for me to take care of it myself, so my mom did my hair every day until I was about 11, when i got my first serious hair cut. I went from waist length to just below my shoulders. I loved it! I was liberated! I was like everyone else.

I got nothing but really negative messages from many of the elder women in my family, like my grandmother. You'd have thought I'd taken the scissors to her head. Well naturally, that just made me want to cut it shorter. By the time I was 14 I had wicked short hair--about 2 or 3 inches in the top, and totally buzzed in the back. At 15, due to an unfortunate accident with a distracted hair-stylist, I had a Duran Duran-inspired mullet. It required excessive amounts of blowdrying, hair gelling, and curling ironing, but I made the most of it. Luckily my hair grows quickly. In eight months the mullet was gone and I had hair past my shoulders. Then I entered the phase of big hair. Make that BIG hair. It was the 80's, what can I say? I had an arsenal of hot rollers, and lots and lots of curly. Plus I was a teenager. It was around this time that I was also introduced to the Black woman's beautiful lie--rather lye: the chemical relaxer. It only really meant that I spent less time with hot rollers every day. I didn't understand what my otherwise lightning fast-growing hair seemed to stop growing. Or why my I let the beautician leave the chemicals so long that my scalp burned.

In college I did the wash and wear thing (still relaxed). All that perming did a little number on my hair and my scalp, so out of necessity I grew my hair longish, only to cut it into cute little bobs every year or so. I even had short little bangs for a time, during my club kid phase.

So I was in a vicious cycle for several years. By the time Primo and I started dating I was trying to grow it long again, which I did. I even tried to grow out the perm, but my hair broke off, and I needed a hair cut to even it out. My hair was about mid back, but I had a patch of short damaged hair in the back. I had considered cutting it really short into a pixie do, but couldn't bring myself to do it.

Then one day Primo, who has some mighty nice hair himself, came home totally bald. We didn't match any more. So a week later I cut my hair to about an inch or so. It was the shortest I ever had it, and barring illness, that will be the last time I ever have short hair.



I started growing dreadlocks about eighteen months after I did that last big chop. I had sworn off all perms, I was getting married, I spent the summer reading about Rastafari. It was time for a change. I'm not about being cool. It just seemed like the natural thing to do. I won't get into my reasons for doing it otherwise. It's been almost 9 years since I put a brush or comb to my head, and while I occasionally trim the undreaded sides and the kitchen, I haven't had a haircut in almost 10 years. I wish I could give a deeper reason as to why I have long hair, or dreads, but like tattoos, I like to keep the skin deep stuff skin deep. I do it because at some point it seemed like a good idea, and creature of habit that I am, I'm sticking with a good thing.

So that's my hair. But I'm into all hair, particularly natural, unpermed hair on African Americans, facial hair on men, and extremely long hair on everyone. Intentional extreme length either way is a subtle act of rebellion against standards of beauty that require excessive amounts of valuable time, money, and pain (in the case of relaxing or perming), as is being nappy, or dreadlocked if you're black. People--and I'm talking about total strangers off the street--ask me if my hair is real or all mine, how long I've been growing it, when I'll cut it, etc. And apparently, there are certain people who shouldn't have long hair: men, women over 30, children, women under 30, boys. I used to frequent the Long Hair Community, and people heard all of these and more. Long hair, nappy hair, and dreadlocks offend people. Another reason to love them. If you're offended by a grooming regimen, you deserve to be offended. God blesses the freaks.

The Long Hair Community
Other Hair Sightings. Just a small sample. I have friends with beautiful hair, but I don't carry a camera with me.

It Feels Like the Tip of Your Nose

This happens at every turning of the year: I start to freak out that I'm not living to my fullest potential, that I'm making a mess of my life and thus of my children's lives, that I'm not following my bliss enough, that I'm getting deeper into a rut that will become harder to get out as I get older. It's stupid and fruitless to worry that maybe I should have studied harder in school, or that I should have majored in Economics or Chemistry, or that I should have gone to Carnegie Mellon instead of Smith, or that I should have applied to nursing school after graduation like I wanted to, or that I should have been more disciplined about fiction writing in college. I should have slayed the dragon when he showed up on my porch, and it's no excuse that my knife wasn't sharp enough. I should keep my knives sharper. It never ends.

So here I am focusing on the fact that I don't love what I do for a paycheck, and there's not any real future in it. But the reality is our finances are structured in such a way that I need to bring home a pay check or we could lose our house and I couldn't put food on the table. Ideally my work for pay would be something I love. But the things I love don't pay very much, or they require that I quit my job to get a piece of paper to prove I'm worthy of doing what I love, or I shy away from them because people whose opinions I respect have discouraged me from pursuing the knowledge. It's really a combination of all of the above, except I probably wouldn't have to quit my job if I were to pursue what I really ,truly, honestly love.

Let's revisit nursing school for a sec, because it was so close to what I really want to do. I get a little defensive when I think about the fact that I never finished, and why I don't regret not finishing. I started nursing school with the idea that I would eventually become a nurse-midwife. Then I fell in love with psych nursing at the same time I fell out of love with being a CNM or L and D nurse. Did I really want to be a nurse? Yes and no. Going to nursing school seemed like a great idea at the time, and I think I would have made a damn good psych nurse, but it's not totally what I want to do.

I've been entertaining going to graduate school in psychology or to teach biology. Do I really want to be a psychologist or a teacher? Yes and no. And I'd probably be pretty good at either, too. But again, it's not the whole vocational enchilada.

I have a BA in Religion and Biblical Literature. I've entertained the notion of going to divinity school to be a pastoral counselor or a minister. Do I really want to be a minister? Abso-freakin-lutely not. Pastoral counselor, perhaps, but...

When I think about it without worrying about what other people would think, and without worrying about whether I'd make money, or any of the other insecurities I can conjure, I really want to be, and have wanted to be for many years, a midwife. Not a nurse-midwife, but a traditional midwife who comes to your house, and helps you give birth to your baby, who counsels you, consoles you, teaches you about your body and your baby and your family. A teacher, a nurse (in the traditional sense), a counselor, and a little bit of a minister. It's a totally illogical endeavor with regard to money and certification, but when I see myself doing what I love, I see myself catching babies and teaching women how to find their cervices, among other things, too many to list here. Maybe another post.

In reality, I will finish my game, and I'll teach the dog how to walk on a leash, and I may even start running. Those are easy goals. But the resolution I should have made was to stop worrying about what other people think of how I should follow my bliss (to quote a bumper sticker commonly found on Subarus around here), and to go ahead and follow it. Why is that so hard? One thing that scares me that I won't get the approval from people whose approval I've sought in the past, namely my mainstream, academically decorated mom and practical in all matters future and money father. Primo may say, "why don't you become a teacher?" but he'll get why, and if he won't he'll still be supportive in his own way. He's a little like my dad. Others may say, "why don't you go back to nursing school?" Because it's not what I wholly want to be. My approval-seeking has lead to point-proving in the past, which does nothing beneficial for me.

I should do it before I'm talked out of it again (by myself or other people).

What feels like the tip of your nose?

I'm Okay, You're Not Okay, but That's Okay, Because You Don't Exist.

A few years ago I came to a crossroads in my academic pursuit at the time, and due to circumstances both within and beyond my control, I veered off the academic road. This translates to: a few years ago, I was in nursing school. I'd wanted to be a nurse for many years, and while the time wasn't ideal, it was as good a time as any to be in school. But I took a semester off due to financial reasons and burnout from my work schedule, parenting, and heavy courseload. During that semester off, we had to buy a house (another story with another moral) and I got pregnant with Ingrid (already talked about). So I didn't finish nursing school, and it's doubtful I will before my kids are all in grade school. Which in a way is a shame, because I was really close to finishing, and I like to complete things I start. But not finishing was also a good decision in the long run.

Psych nursing was my thing. Talking to people about their shit, being able to balance empathy and detachment, all came naturally to me. I'm pretty good at listening to what people say and don't say. I'm not afraid of silence in a conversation. There's not much that shocks me so I didn't look surprised when clients admitted to doing fucked up things. And like my dad, I'm a people person with a dash of introversion, which apparently is comforting to some people. Incidentally, we also did a great deal of role playing in my psych rotation. My instructor said I played a very convincing drug addict. That was a complement. Better to be able to play one than actually be one.

So for better or worse, I psychoanalyze people a lot. Friends, family, co-workers, random people I observe in cafes, people that don't really exist. Primo does it, too, and we share our observations. Imagine Marion Woodman and Carl Jung sitting down with a glass of wine or a pot of tea and chatting about who they know. Okay not that high brow, but you get the picture. We're both people watchers, and people analyzers. In high school and college I wrote more short stories, and really focused on character development as a way to help propel action and plot. That way, my characters really brought their problems and conflicts on to themselves, and I just wrote about it. I generally drew from people I knew or had people watched. Same goes for role playing games. I tend to think of minute character details for RPG characters, ponder specific motivations for actions, and when all is said and done, I open them up, and pick them apart. There's always more there than there was in the first place. And that is so cool! It's like baking bread!

I had great fun psychoanalyzing my current favorite non-existent people/demon family unit. There's a little here. And poor Shizuka just developed even more after that. She baked well. I kept asking myself throughout the game, "Is she really as messed up as her actions indicate." I'd say yes, but I can also see her rationale. There's a neat dicussion on the Forge about our game.

I had a psych patient who was coming out of a really bad place, after hundreds of bad places. I believed that he sincerely believed he was going to stay clean this time, that this stint in rehab stuck, even though the odds were squarely against him. He was in his late 40's, a lifelong addict with multiple dependencies, he had a history of physical and possible other forms abuse at the hands of family members, facing hard time in prison, and had lost his support systems: church, family, home. I was haunted by his story, because it really sucked. He'd done some stupid things--really stupid because of a heroin or cocaine binge, or both. But I had empathy for him, and I hoped he could beat the odds. Writing his nursing care plan--essentially picking him apart and describing what could help him, helped me to let him go.

Here's a little of what I didn't write about Shizuka at the Forge. I had typed it up as a response to Ron's questions and thought it better not to post it. It hits a little close to home, and I felt it had a better place here (go figure). Thus, Shizuka gets no nursing care plan, but she was analyzed and picked apart suffiently this past week.
So I'd like to speak for my character, Shizuka, one of the totally
fucked up wives. I had so much fun playing her, but on many levels I found it difficult to play her. I felt like I had to make bad choices for her in order for her actions to remain in character. With her kicker, she believed that Tai, whom she more or less trusted and probably loved, betrayed her in a really awful way: she thought he was the one who left a dead baby in the attic. She knew he was lying about how it got there. And so she was emotionally unstable, depressed, and already prone to substance abuse. Not a fun person to be around or pretend to be. She didn't come from happy place.

I got my inspiration for her from personal darkness, and from patients I had cared for during my psych rotation in nursing school. A lot of these people were at some of the lowest points of their lives. They had hurt people they loved to feed their addiction, made unhealthy choices for themselves, and did just really stupid things. Still, my psych patients were likable people. I think all of our PC's and NPC's were likable people and demons in their own way. Even Prometheus, despite Joshua's attempt to make him otherwise. Even Tai. Even Sophie, who piled on the lies to protect herself and to keep from justifying the morally objectionable action of putting a demon into her dying husband--because she couldn't deal with him dying. [See the Forge post about how I liked Harriet]. I didn't like Shizuka's mother so much.

Anyhow, fucked up as it was, Shizuka and Tai reconciled. Shizuka's mother sent Tai back to her contained in a teapot. (Here's something odd: for Christmas, both my mother and mother-in-law gave me teapots!) At first she pretended to have forgotten everything that had happened up to the night before she found the dead baby in the attic--as if to say, "I'll forget what you've done so we can go back to the way things were before I found out what you'd done". Tai didn't seem to believe her, so she confessed that she remembered everything. Her price was large gap memory loss--which she tried to use to her advantage to no avail. I imagined that she had a file cabinet of things she knew she'd forget, but she never read what she wrote. Then *she* apologized for being disagreeable, promised to be more agreeable, begged him to stay, and they were once again bound. She accepted all responsibility for Tai leaving her.

Up until the very last minute, I couldn't decide if Shizuka would rebind or banish Tai. The healthiest choice obviously was banishment. Shizuka, however, was not a healthy person who was able to form and grow healthy relationships. In one scene, Harriet asked Shizuka why she wanted Tai back, and Shizuka admitted that she liked "bad boys". (This is something that someone once pointed out to me when I young and self absorbed. I did not deny it then, but years later, when marriage material presented himself, he was refreshingly not a total bad boy, but he was bad enough without being sociopathic or otherwise dangerous.) Tai's need was to make her happy, and other than the low level but constant bickering between them, I assumed that he usually made her happy, even with missing babies. So, in Shizuka's mind, there was marriage to Tai, which could be a happy endeavor as long as she ignored/forgot his transgressions. And it would be filled with good food, a nice garden, other pursuits of sensual gratification, and seeing the world, vs. no Tai. And from the glimpse she got of no Tai, that was dreadful, with the fingertip getting chopped off, the opium binge, being alone, etc. It was creepy and wrong, but reconciliation was the logical choice.
Marion Woodman
Carl Jung
Sigmund Freud
Pacifica Graduate Institute One of the places I'd apply to attend when it's time to go back to school.

Ingrid and the Bad Cat

A few years ago, Primo found what we believe to be a cat's skull while he was hiking around Poet's Seat Tower/Greenfield Mountain with our late dog Kaya. I'm probably the only one in the house who likes this thing, but I like anatomy and bones and bodily functions and biology-type things. Every time the discussion arises as to whether we should throw it away, I am the loud lone dissenter. And the cat skull now resides atop our CD rack, where the dog can't get it.

A few weeks ago, annoyed and exasperated by Sal, our male cat who still sprays despite being neutered, I threatened him with the skull. I stuck the skull in his face and I probably said something like "If you don't stop spraying, you evil cat, this will be what's left of you." Then I probably muttered on and on about how Sal is evil and bad. It hasn't helped at all. I can accept that all cats are essentially evil, but even evil cats can avoid spraying in the house. As much as it pains me, because he is technically my cat and I otherwise adore him, I've considered finding a new home for him.

Ingrid witnessed the whole thing, and has become fascinated with, if not a little afraid of the skull. After dinner this evening, she climbed into my lap and said, with the conviction of a 23 month old, "I want to see the bad cat." We weren't sure what she was talking about at first, but she kept on pointing to the CD rack. I asked her if she wanted to see the cat skull and pointed to it, and she said, "Yes! Cat skull. I want to see the bad cat." So Primo handed her the bad cat, and at first she recoiled. But he said that it was the bad cat, and happily she took it and carried it around singing "bad cat! Bad cat!" Her older sister, who is into Living Dead Dolls and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, won't touch it.

I bet I can get Ingrid to eat a waterbug.

Being Productive?

A few days ago, I sat down in front of the laptop and worked on my game a bit. My plan was to put in a few more hours last night, but I felt so crappy yesterday, due to the meds I'm taking (I made mention of a kidney infection earlier here, and low and behold...), that I never made it back to the computer. I actually managed to get to the Y, did a little work out--on the treadmill, no less, sat in the sauna for 10 minutes, and felt even worse. I went home, laid on the couch, and could barely move for the next 6 hours. I had a brain splitting headache, I had the chills, and I thought I would throw up. Primo insisted I was getting a cold, but I know it's the side affects from the medication. I hate side affects. So much for being productive.

Friday night, Primo and I went to dinner with all but one of my coworkers (there are 4 people in the whole company). Our boss took us out to one of the snazziest restaurants in the area. The food was delicious. I was so not looking forward to is (see previous post), but good food and wine can brighten any mood. It was actually really fun and I realized that I do like my boss. Come to think of it, I knew that already, but my work morale is so low right now, it's hard to keep that in mind. I'm both motivated to show my boss I'm not the bad employee she painted me to be in my performance review, and to look for another job. Yes, the whole crappy performance review is a lemon which will make for good job-searching lemonade.

I also finished my first homework assignment for a correspondence course I signed up for back in September. I signed up in part because it's something I've always had a big (but quiet) interest in, and partly because African American folk magic (rootwork, conjure, hoodoo) figure prominently in my game.

While my parents were here, I had some heated words with my father about how he doesn't manage his diabetes. He took those words to heart and now checks his blood sugar 2-3 times a day like he's supposed to. His blood sugar is still in the 200's, but while I was checking it last week, it was fluctuating between 300 and 500. Way to go, daddy! So it appears that he heard me, and is making an attempt to change and get healthier. I know that's easier said than done, and I'm happy he's making baby steps towards that goal. I am still very worried about him, though.

I'm not sure what the point of this post is, other than I haven't been feeling very productive lately, and needed to take stock of what I'm doing. Game writing, hating job and doing something about it, being sick and still going to the gym, doing homework, feeling like my dad heard me. If I believed in astrology, I'd say something was in retrograde that affected some house that put me in a funk. Simply put, I'm trying to de-funk.

Furthermore, pleasant as you are, you totally and utterly suck!

Yesterday the universe dealt me nice big smack in the face. No need to get into the particulars, because there are so many. But here's the abridged version.

I was scheduled to have my yearly performance review at 2 pm. At 9 am, my boss hands me a pile of work that needed to be completed before I left for the day. At 9:30 am she hands me this form I'm supposed to fill out for my review. It was the kind of form that really deserves several hours of thoughtful contemplation. So between doing all the work she slammed on my desk, the office meeting, the constant interruptions, and the lunch I never got to eat, I devoted all of 25 minutes to my self appraisal, and I never quite finished it. Plus I left half an hour later than I should have, had to race over to pick up Ingrid, and proceed to the potential bright spots of my day.

It was also the day the bookkeeper comes in, and she had a thousand questions for me, and interrupted me basically ever 20 minutes with a question whose answer needed written 0documentation.

The performance review was the absolutely worst review I've ever received, and since I had no time to prepare, I had little proof that I'm actually a thoughtful and hard-working employee, despite my flaws. It was really bad, much of it was just wrong, inaccurate and completely unfair. And I can take criticism. I really had to hold back the tears and suck it up. I've never had a bad review. Ever. Not ever. When I brought up my good qualities, my boss wholeheartedly agreed with me, but since it wasn't in writing, my entire review on paper just sucked.

And then the migraine came without warning. Three hours later, when I was home, I downed 1000mg of acetaminophen and drank some tea. That made me slightly less cranky and a bit less in pain.

I managed to finish the project, more or less. It was finished to my boss' satisfaction. I picked up Ingrid and went home. So here's where it gets better. Meg and Vincent dropped their kids off so they could go talk to people about buying the house across the street from me. And their meeting went well. Oh how I would love for them to be my neighbors!

So I started cooking dinner. Pork sirloin, peas and rice. A simple, but tasty meal. And since I hadn't eaten dinner or breakfast, I was really looking forward to eating with my family. But they (Primo and Bea) didn't show up until 7 pm, and had already eaten, because they had gone shopping! I won't even go there.

After dinner, Ingrid took all her clothes off and peed on the couch and the floor.

Primo went on at length at how I should write a rebuttal to my review. I really needed him to say, "yes, that sucks, dear. Keep bitching until you get it all out." He did tell me I was hotter than Diana Ross and Donna Summer and the pretty woman he checked out at the bookstore. That was nice, I guess.

I got Ingrid to sleep, packed up my new green teapot, and walked around the corner to Meg and Vincent's house for our weekly game night. Things got better after that. Joshua, Emily, and Vincent, and I went for a walk (Jeddy, too) after playing Carcassonne and Pirate Rummy (Meg played, too, but didn't go on the walk), and Joshua bought me two donuts, and I got a nice pity party and group hug at the Dunkin' Donuts. That's where I remembered the two parking tickets I got that day. Lovely.

I'm looking for a new job. Thank God for my friends and husband.

The Attic is Still a Scary Place

So we finished our Sorcerer game. Shizuka and Tai reconciled. She discovered that Tai had not killed one of their kids, and he (Taiichi) was living in the attic. This made her happy. When she and Tai re-binded she suggested that they send Taiichi to live with her mother in Kyoto. Tai had reservations, fearing mom might not be pleased, but Shizuka reminded him that Taiichi was mom's grandson. And grandchildren are all mom wanted. I think everyone lived happily ever after--at least in Shizuka's story. Meg started a hilarious journal from Harriet's POV at The Forge. Hopefully Joshua and Emily will give their reports, too. Me, too.

So why is the attic still a scary place? Because every time I go up there I end up bringing more stuff down than I intended. I was just looking for a couple of books. I came down with many more than a couple--more like 25. There were the rare fragile books that needed to be kept elsewhere, the books that I will need to work on my game, the books on Japanese tattooing I'll need to finish designing the tattoo on my arm, the game books, the books I've already read, but like to have around, the graphic novel I'd started reading before we bought our house and misplaced (Blade of the Immortal, book 2 I think), a book I thought Joshua would be interested in reading, and Bea's Waldorf doll, Millie Cookie. I was really just looking for my Japanese tattooing books. Now that the half sleeve is well underway again, it's time to plan ahead to making it a 3/4 sleeve, which I'd like to have done in the next two years. I needed some inspiration, although I know what I'd like to have done.

We have many many boxes of books that we have yet to unpack. I cannot bring myself to get rid of a book, but I know the time will come where I'll have to do it, otherwise we'll never be able to finish the attic. We need to get rid some stuff. Anyway, last night I had an interesting dream where I was looking for the two Japanese tattooing books, but all I could find was Summer Sisters by Judy Blume. Guess where I found the books in question: in the same box as that Judy Blume book! I had other dreams last night that were weird, if not a little geeky. I dreamed of a recipe for a mojo bag I'd been thinking of putting together but have not been able to figure out what I needed, and I also dreamed that there was a strange, but friendly being who lived in the walls of our house and wore a black mask, who knew my "true nature as the one who gives the marks." I had a little too much to drink last night, I think.

I think I also have a kidney infection again. I had one this summer, and was totally miserable. I don't even remember getting the initial UTI. Everyone in my house has had a cold with a nasty gooey nose and a sore throat, except me. I get a kidney infection. Life is unfair.

Happy New Year. Gotta go cook some black eyed peas, or my mom will have my head on a frying pan, or we'll have bad luck, or both.

Other cool Noh Masks!