As found from WFMU’s Beware of the Blog… Radio broadcasts from the NE Ohio area have been interrupted what what seems like pirate radio broadcasts advertising Radio Free Ohio. Their website used to include diatribes about other local stations, including those owned by Clear Channel.
The kicker? Radio Free Ohio’s IP shows that it is, in fact, a Clear Channel station. Shillitude of the nth degree.
While in New Orleans last week, we saw a contingent of the Red Hat Society having cafe au lait and beignets at Cafe du Monde. They looked fabulous. I was jealous. I want to join. Of course, since I am under 50 I would have to wear a pink hat and a lavender dress.
Testing timestamp. I just realized all my posts have been 10 hours off.
I lie in my bed for nearly two hours this time before giving up. Wonder if maybe the sleeping pill fell out before I thought I swallowed it. Think about all manner of things. Past hurts, and how I developed defense mechanisms to keep them from happening again. What to do with this summer, which seems like it’s almost over already between the kids spending so long at Grandma’s house (they say they don’t want to come home, and cry if I suggest it) and the fact that school starts the second week of August. Is there time to do all the things that kids need to do?
There are so many things to do and so little time to do them. Is there time to take a week off for Bulletfest? I don’t know if I can stand being away from the girls for so long, so soon after this visit away. Hub claims that the night they come home, we will all sleep together in the big bed.
There’s so much grownup stuff to do, too. Bulletfest. ARGFest NYC. Looking at land. Contemplating a career. Each day I rush through so I can do something else – wasn’t that a poem somewhere? I have too much to do. I don’t have time to be sidetracked with unkind words. Friendly ones, yes; not hateful ones. Decided long ago that life is simply too damned short to be unhappy, so if something’s making me unhappy, it is my responsibility to myself to move on. I have used up my unhappiness quotient for this lifetime. I hope.
I don’t want to be worrying about test results. It leads to the inevitable “Better think about doing it now, just in case…” and the “just in case” is said (in my mind) barely above a whisper, as if it can hear what is said about it.
Last night I dreamt about land again. I have a recurring dream about the land that I own. Sometimes it looks like the ranch. Sometimes it looks like nothing I have seen, but it is still familiar to me. The soil is dark and loamy. There are hills and hollows in the riverbottom. If you take that road to the right, you’ll come to the stock tank just past the hill. The entrance is down a long dirt road; the front field clear from brush and full of green grass and an occasional flower. There’s a drive down the road where you admire the field for a while before you get to the gate. Once in a while there’s a tree hanging over the fence. Last night we were driving through a slough full of snakes. I was not scared of them, in my dream. I was happy to be on my land.
I wonder, is this property out there somewhere waiting for me, as I have been waiting for it in the past couple of years of my dreams? And what on earth am I going to do if I am ever confronted with the land of my subconscious? Would it be a good thing or a bad thing to see it? Does it mean I will live there or die there? While I’m there, will I dream about some other piece of land?
If I find it, I might name it Through the Looking Glass. Or Brigadoon. Narnia? Avalon? A place which should not be, but is.
Last night for my birthday, my husband got us tickets to see The Producers, which was most excellent. Before the show, we went to Eastside Cafe to eat. We were enjoying a happy meal, surrounded by kids having early dinners on their graduation nights. A good time. Until.
A couple is seated at a table near us. The man has his arm wrapped in a dishtowel, ice pack, and something else. He keeps fiddling with the towel to scratch underneath. A little weird, but hey – everyone gets poison ivy once in a while, right?
Then a little while later, the woman goes to use the facilities. While she is gone, the man digs some Caladryl out of her purse. He then proceeds to lift up his shirt at the dinner table and applies Caladryl to his stomach.
That’s disgusting. What kind of person would think that is appropriate behavior for the dinner table, much less one in public at a nice restaurant? I’m dumbstruck by people sometimes.
Some of you might remember the big biopsy of ’02. I just got back from the doctor after having a pelvic ultrasound last week, and they found a “mildly complex cyst”. I got blood drawn today for the much-touted CA-125 test, and have a consultation with another doctor on June 8.
When you see something like that, when you see someone exposed like that, it’s an element of voyeurism which is thrilling through its anonymity. The problem arises when you come to the conclusion that it’s not so anonymous. Not only is there a real person behind the pained words, but it’s someone you know. That’s when their pain becomes your embarrassment, your awkwardness. Your conversations will always have that other image as a subtext, even though you would never dare humiliate them by telling them you know. You begin to wish you didn’t see it. You begin to wonder what it is like for priests in small parishes who hear confessions of their acquaintances. Do they subconsciously treat people differently after they hear the dark things that lie in the bowels of the brain? Would they ever mention it outside of the confessional?
Probably not, and even though the confession wasn’t to me (or perhaps especially since it wasn’t to me), I shall pretend I didn’t read it.
“Nakedness is often seen but never noticed.”