No pictures, just words

I've been posting a lot of pictures lately. LOTS. To be honest, it's probably because I've got some heavy shit going on in my life now and it's easier to ignore it than to write about it. And, to be totally honest, when I feel like this, I shut off from folks - even myself. Pictures are nice because they show only what you want them to - I can choose what pictures to put out there, but believe it or not, I cannot always choose what words my fingers type. But, here it is, Wednesday morning and I actually have been so freaking productive already that I'm not going to tell myself that I have a million things to do and therefore have no time to write. I'm going to write and maybe you'll read and possibly, when it's all said and done, we'll sit around a campfire and gorge ourselves on S'Mores. Or not.

Have I mentioned how screwed up some of my family members are? Immediate (whom I've written about) and extended (whom I've also written about,) I have some real LuLu's in my family. It's hard because sometimes I want to scream at them, "OH YOU GOTTA BE FUCKING KIDDING ME!!" This would go over about as well as a fart in church (thanks for that one, DDFF.) For many years I have sort of tip toed around what I said to some of them because, in all reality, some of them are somewhat parental sorts. This has always put my non-existent panties in a wad because really, aren't we just peers now? We're all adults, spouses, parents, home owners, voters, tax payers, etc. The "need" for these people has gone from a survival thing (meaning they are needed to survive,) to a survival thing (meaning, oh dear Elvis and eggs over easy, I have to survive yet another encounter with them.) As of late, I've just sort of said my mind. They don't cuss, but I do, so I guess they're hearing a lot more "shit" and "damn" and the occasional "fuck" than they've ever heard before. "But what about respect," you say. I say, "Yeah, what about respect? What about respecting my choice of words as a literate, educated, adult woman? What about respecting my right to NOT censure myself!" I think they're getting it. This past weekend, I told one of them to, "Go ahead and bury your head a little deeper in the damned sand!"

And the choir said, "Lord almighty, who passed gas???"


This morning I watched a documentary about The Endurance. If you haven't heard about this amazing story, let me give you a brief run down. In 1914, Ernest Shackelton crewed a ship with 28 men on a journey to Antartica. Less than 100 miles from the shore, they become trapped in pack ice. Long story short, these men spent over 2 years away from home, rowing across the ocean to small islands, surviving blizzards and ship wrecks and dysentery and frostbite and everything you can possibly imagine and more - and they ALL SURVIVED. The details are so mind boggling, it would be nearly impossible to believe had it not been for a film maker and photographer that went along on the journey (photographic rights were sold in order to finance the journey.) Were it not for the actual footage and photographs, I highly doubt any living soul would believe the tale. This brings to mind 2 very profound thoughts. 1) Don't tell me you cannot live without Cable TV. These men lived without drinking water and adequate food and land, for Elvis' sake. You can, too, fix that toilet. These men lived in an overturned safety boat for over 4 months! And, thought number 2) Could I have done what it took to survive? Could I be the amazing leader that Shackelton was? Would I give my own ration of food and drink so my crew would not lose morale? Would I forfeit my fur sleeping bag and sleep in soggy wool so that my crew would remain warm? Amazing. Just amazing. And the honor of these men was simply overlooked because of Europe's involvement in WWI. You have to learn about this trek. You have to learn about these men. You have to fix your own freaking toilet.

I've been reading Protecting the Gift by Gavin de Becker, author of The Gift of Fear. If you have children, you MUST read this book about keeping children of all ages safe from violent crime (kidnapping, physical abuse, sexual abuse, etc.) It's amazing, this book, full of ideas that contradict all the age old advice we've passed on to our children for years ( "Don't talk to strangers," "Never say NO to a grown up," "Do what the baby sitter says,") yet what he says makes so much sense. And I have to say, there's nothing flowery about the way he writes, which is a wonderful thing because, frankly, when talking about self defense and protection and avoidance of risk, the last thing we need to read is, "Maybe it would be a good idea if you tried to listen to that little voice." What we need to hear is, "YOUR INSTINCT IS TELLING YOU WHAT TO DO. LISTEN OR DIE, YOU IDIOT." It is overwhelming, to be sure. I wonder if I'll be able to teach my children what I need to. But, I just have to go with my gut and if I teach my children to listen to theirs, that's a pretty damned good start. READ THE BOOK.

My brother in law is getting married in a few short weeks to a wonderful woman that I am so pleased will be sharing the fun fun fun life of having the same in-laws as I have. Okay, in all fairness, I really have lucked out. I bitch about my in-laws, but truth be told, other than some rather extreme quirks, they're really quite right on. But, you know, those quirks are a bitch. Ah, I digress ... So, there's a wedding. My husband is best man. My two sons are both ring bearers. Count 'em, that means 3 tuxedos. I am not in the wedding (a first in a long long time,) which thrills me, but you know, I am the "date" of the best man and the mother of the two little boys in the fancy pants, so I'll more than likely be noticed by someone at some point. There will be family pictures, as always, and I'm sure I'll have to be in at least one of them. So, considering all of this, I realize that I must buy a dress. I don't want to be surrounded by the men in life wearing tuxedos while I look like I just schlepped out of Wal-Mart on my way to Hardee's. This buying a dress freaks me out. So, any suggestions as to where to get a semi-formal dress for an evening wedding without having to take out a second mortgage and without giving up every cell of my bohemian existence are welcome.

Jerry died 10 years ago today. It's so hard to believe. No, I'm not mourning and I'm not wearing tie dye (although DuCK is,) and I've not got "Box of Rain" on repeat, but I am thinking about Jerry, the Dead, and how my life has been impacted by the music and the art. My first Dead album was Skeletons and then American Beauty came following shortly thereafter. I remember getting into my car when I was a teenager and driving with the windows down, Dead blaring, speeding like nothing else, chain smoking Marlboro lights, trying to get away from my truth - my parents were splitting up and I had nothing to lose. Friend of the Devil, indeed. The Dead and, later on, Jerry and David Grisman, have carried me through broken hearts, broken marriages, broken promises, shattered dreams, and bottomless pits. And I've also danced and laughed and loved and lived more than most folks, with the music as the soundtrack. Working Man's Dead is my husband's album and it tells his story of youthful escape and the mature realization that you can never escape yourself. I'd say that I miss Jerry, but the truth is that he's still around, played at least 3 times a week in my house, touching souls and minds at a magnificent rate (and, of course, nauseating others at the same speed.) His influence is growing and expanding - like a Ripple in Still Water.

There's more in my head, but I'm spent. Have a great day, everyone.