Vicarious Rising

Periodic Table

I don't exactly know why I wanted to name my post that, but I did. Maybe it's because I am enmeshed in home decorating and furnishing exploits. Not sure. We're not officially moved into the house yet because we don't have internet and cable connected (the rustic horror!), but it should all be in place this time next week. Meanwhile, I did order that Day Dreamer print that I fell in love with to go in my office.

I think I am trying to be clever with the word "irony" and the elements of gold, silver, and then the other basics. I read somewhere about some ne'er-do-well who had a custom table made to look like the periodic table of elements, and each square representing the element opened up to a compartment containing that element. Geek decorating. I think you can now get your own with just photos inside the compartments.

For some reason, I've been ruminating about that "everythings fabulous with the world" feeling I'd get with the early phases of being drunk. Not because I want to drink, but partly because I feel bits of that right now when I allow myself to not feel as if I need to save the world, cure cancer and cook the perfect dinner for my soon to be Nobel Prize winning child all in one day.

What I was musing is that we all want to be successes in our lives, some of us to the point of wishing for fame and fortune. And yet, many of those achieving those upper eschelons celebrate by using mind altering substances. I find this ironic. If you are figuratively on top of the world, the best, in your glory, why do you need assistance to feel better and have fun? Shouldn't you be happy for having reached your goals and having everything you thought you ever wanted?

It's not like this is a new perplexing question, but I was listening to my beloved Freddie Mercury and thinking of his fabulous rock star life as well as the lives of his bandmates. How many people want to know those kinds of people, be them, be their friends, lovers, confidantes? Roll in their money and bed linens?

Then why do they need the drugs and booze? What are they still trying to prove? Didn't they already make it? Aren't they who we all want to be?

I'm not just talking about the celebrities who go attention hunting, but also those who are brilliantly talented and successful in their chosen field. Some I have met are highly functioning addicts of some sort or another (yes, I know, I'm not supposed to label them, but fuck-it), indulging in excess, still trying to either vindicate themselves to the world or perhaps to convince themselves they are not actually frauds underneath it all. It's just an observation, the basic insecurity that does not seem to disappear for so many that gets obfuscated by chemical substances or other vices.

See, where I come in on this, at least in my experience, is not so much that I have because I've come into my own fame and fortune. But I've got a damned fantastic life, one that if I choose to will only get more fabulous. And yet for a time, I was choosing artificial joy so that I could take pleasure in what I already had.

And now, I still struggle to feel as if I am enough to deserve to be happy.

Fucking weird, isn't it? It doesn't matter what you have on the outside, it really is an inside job.

Bad Plumbing

Now that we've finally closed on the house, we've begun to slowly move our possessions in. We're not quite to the point of being able to inhabit the place yet, but I'm hoping to be able to spend the night there soon.

I have a few more photos to share, one of which is a picture of the front of the house. We finally don't have a parking lot of construction trucks blocking it. The front door will be stained mahogany to match the wraparound porch. I love how it looks as you come up the hill. We have a really long, 600 foot, driveway. I think the house looks like it fits properly up there and it looks deceptively small and unpretentious. The structure actually runs long on the property, so the southern side has the most exposure. All the views from the house are wonderful, but the southern side has a nice tumble down a hill into the natural woods that is really beautiful and peaceful.

The other photos are of a wall unit we bought from an antique shop in Vermont I mentioned before, The Country Gallery Antiques. I have some before and after pictures of what the proprietor, Borge, miraculously did with restoring the piece. I will, however, give myself credit for picking out the unit and seeing how fantastic it would look before it was redone. Even Borge and his wife didn't think it would look as amazing as it did when it was finished (Borge's wife, Janet, called it "ugly" but I wouldn't have gone that far. It was kind of rough and literally fuzzy, though). We bought a new TV set last night to put in the open cubby. My photo of it doesn't quite get the color right - it's more soft brown and less yellow than my pic makes it appear. (By-the-by, they ship all over, so if you like their stuff, check out their website.)

The other couple pics are of our mudroom built-ins, another view of the pantry and one of the kitchen with some of our counter stools. For our 11th anniversary coming up in March, my husband has hired the guy who did these to do a custom bookshelf/file cabinet for my office however I want. Being the big nerd I am, I am really, really thrilled with this gift.

I've been dreaming a lot lately about water leaks, not just in my own home, but about me somehow being responsible for them when visiting in other peoples' homes as well. I don't know what to make of these dreams, but my subconscious is trying to tell me something. I'm always trying to figure out where the leak is from, trying to fix it, keeping it quiet that something is amiss, and - of course - making the problem worse as I try to repair the increasing flood of water.

The water begins to rise, and I am just stumped as to how this happened when I wasn't really doing anything intentionally wrong.

It never really ends, does it?

Id's Alive!

Cooking is a sensorial pleasure in which I've joyfully partaken since I was a very young girl. In first grade, the teacher would allow us to sign up to make jello or bake cupcakes in the toaster oven, and I signed up as frequently as anyone would allow. I'd also horn in on most everyone elses' dessert creation activity. I'm lucky I didn't get a cookie shoved up my butt. I wasn't overly fond of being sous chef.

Tonight I am toiling over a simple meal I learned in middle school home economics: stir fry. Actually, it's my Irish-Italian-Lithuanian-American version - meaning anything in the fridge or pantry is fair game for the wok. My family migrated to the U.S. partly because they were poor and hungry, so I blame genetics for making me practical with leftovers.

Normally, the chopping is enough to keep me out of trouble. I like the whole process of cooking, including experimenting. But when I glanced at the clock today, I found myself wishing that Buffy the Vampire Slayer reruns were still on at this time of day so I could watch while I fry. Then I thought, well, since that's not happening, wouldn't a glass of wine be nice? Just like the old days.

Seeing as the the old days are apparently victim of selective memory, I'm going to chalk that stray evil whisper up to the full lunar eclipse darkening the skies tonight. I haven't thought about drinking in conjunction with cooking in a long time. Really, I'm lucky I only stabbed myself once with a large knife because of my alcoholic tendencies. And that was because of withdrawal not intoxication. Needed stitches, bled like a geyser, knife sunk into my left hand about an inch. Felt just like a raw chicken breast. My whole hand and part of my wrist turned dark purple. Pretty.

My husband bought wine for our Realtor and our builder to thank them for their work on our home. He left the empty wine case in the hallway of his dad's house where we are still lodging for a few more days. That fucking empty cardboard box is driving me nuts. I really need to throw it out. But for some reason I am tentative about touching it. The boogieman might be residing in that box.

Where's Buffy to slay my demons when I need her?

Alcoholics Anonymous Blasphemy

Here's a new one for me. Someone from Iran found my site by googling "NAAKED WOMEN PICS".

Oh, Bill W. would be proud. When does the calendar come out?

Fountainhead

We closed on the house today. Picture me doing a happy dance. It's not pretty, but it's kind of cute. Trust me on this.

There's still details to be done before we officially relocate there, such as getting the glass doors put on the showers, but we can start the migration.

On another note, I'm feeling tense and pissed off that the Ass Clown has sent a couple emails to my husband trying to be all buddy-buddy with him. As of the moment, I haven't said anything to my husband about the fallout of our friendship (although my husband does know about this blog and I don't know if he's kept up with it or not). However, I seriously doubt my husband has missed that I have not said a single thing kind or nasty about my ex-friend in a rather long time. This is completely unlike me to not have mentioned Allen in conversation. That, added to the fact that Allen made a trip to the U.S. recently and made no attempt to visit us probably would be sending some curious red flags in my husband's head.

Frankly, I am of a couple suspicions. First, that the asshole might be trying to tick me off. I think this is not terribly likely, although I do rather like the idea that he might be trying to get back into my good graces via the backdoor of my husband. But that's my ego talking, not reality.

I think it more likely that the jerk is afraid of losing his business connections with my husband. The two of them have never really been particularly tight except through me. Now suddenly he has an attack of socialization and small talk? What bullshit. I smell a rat.

But in all fairness, I do need to ask myself if I am displaying sour grapes over his solicitous behavior towards my husband. Perhaps I am being petty, paranoid and jealous? I must admit there may be some of that.

But I do feel disconcerted by his actions, between contacting my husband and his har-dee-har-har birthday email to me. If I cannot trust him, I want him to stay the hell away from my family. At one time, I thought I wanted him to care for my son should anything happen to me and my husband. Now I am horrified at the idea of this person who has never been accountable for anyone but himself raising my boy to be like him. But, shit, my son's middle name is Allen after him. Once upon a time, I thought the sun shined out his ass.

I am so fucking broken over this. Still, I need to look hard at myself and be sure I am not being defensive fully out of anger. The last thing I need is to let this ass clown get me to poison myself.

I just want to do the right thing. Everything in my life is so good today. I want to stay on this path.

My Micro Valentine

Given all my intimacy issues and romance-deficiencies, it's not surprising I am not a fan of Valentine's Day. I probably ranted about it last year, so I'll skip my griping. I hate it when I get all negative anyway. It accomplishes nothing.

But my recent spate of good tidings has me feeling rather loving in a world peace goofy sort of way. I came across this little organization in, of all nincompoopish places, Cosmo magazine. It's called Kiva.org, and individuals like myself can make small business loans to the entrepreneur(s) of my choice in poor countries (with a $25 minimum). So far, about $19 million in loans have been made and over 99 percent have been paid back. Cosmo says that this is the first person-to-person microlending website.

I'm kind of in love with this idea, so I'm going to contribute.

Kumbayah, y'all.

Chickens, Otherworldly Omelets, Going Off Half Cocked & Things That Seem Too Good to Be True

I'm knocking on wood and throwing salt over my shoulder the last couple days. I'm really not even all that superstitious. But, yah know, a couple days after saying some less than nice things regarding The Powers That Be, and some strange HooDoo's been going down in my usually boring little world.

Mind you, not complaining. Just in the Realm of This Stuff Doesn't Usually Happen to Me.

Oh, it's really not all that big a deal. I mean, aside from the whole delay in closing on the house, I won the Grand Prize for a trip to L.A. that I'd entered way back last summer for kicks. Airfare, swank hotel, dinners, a little spending money. Sweet.

Yes, I am 99 percent certain it is legit. But that's where the knocking on wood and TGTBT comes in. Who really wins these things? Not me, anyway. And it includes a meet and greet with one of the cast members of one of my absolute favorite TV shows. I guess it does pay off to be a goofball fan and sign up for things on their official websites.

And then there's that my husband may need to go on a business trip to Paris in the next couple weeks, and if he goes he has invited lil' ole me to go along. I love Paris. I can definitely be soothed about the delay in moving into my house by a trip to Paris. The other two times I went to Paris I was still drinking, although I can safely say I have never been drunk in Paris. Still, the idea of being 100 percent sober in Paris seems sort of invigorating to me also. Plus, there's all that Parisian food. Have I mentioned I like food? Oh... and baguettes, just baked and warm... heaven. My personal opinion is that French bread kicks Italian bread's butt. But I'd rather have espresso in Italy than coffee of any sort anywhere else. Mmmm... getting off track, but I do love food. Hence the kitchen and pantry in my house. My husband and I both love to cook. Which reminds me, I need to get some gym equipment for the rec room. I'm getting to an age where my metabolism isn't what it used to be.

I have no issues with The Powers That Be or The Cosmos and I am not counting eggs or chickens before they hatch or putting any of them in one or even several baskets. I'm not messing with any of the poultry products, and it's not because I am one big scaredy cat. I'm just thinking it's Thanksgiving time come early for me, and I might be one of those Presidentially pardoned turkeys.

Salute to the Cosmos

Of the single digit sort. I should know better than to underestimate the Cosmos.

The house closing will not be happening tomorrow. The engineer who needed to write some silly memo about the percentage of artificial lighting required in each room was on vacation last week and wasn't able to submit his memo in time for the inspector to review it for his inspection on Monday as scheduled. Would you like to know what this memo consists of? Glad you asked. Basically, the engineer is going to take the number of canned lights we actually have in the ceiling of each room and use that to calculate the percentage of light required for each room. Then the inspector will come back and count the number of lights to be sure we have the number of lights that the engineer put in the memo that he freaking based his calculations on.

Don't get me started on the window in my son's bathroom which is a half an inch too low by code standards. It's in the shower stall and is about 5 feet off the ground, give or take. The alleged danger is that someone could slip in the shower and fall out the window. The likelihood he or any other human will fly up and out of said window is about as likely as the house dropping down and ejecting him out. We missed the half inch because the cast iron tub edge was raised slightly higher than we expected.

Argh. In theory, these building codes are to protect us, the homebuyers, from unethical builders and bad construction practices. However, these zealots with excess power and too much time on their hands...

Alright. I can live. We did order new mattresses and found a great sofa. It'll be fine. It'll be home sweet home and one new household catastrophe to fix after another before I know it.

On the upside, I've come up with my story submission idea for this summer's workshop (the workshop being the New York State Summer Writer's Institute). For those of you not with me last summer, part of the deal with the workshop is to work on a piece of writing. I'm going to go for an intermediate class this go around (this crazy risk-taker, me). I've been lackadaisically working on a novel idea for about a decade about a young woman who inherits a bed and breakfast in a middle of nowhere town in Iowa. She's a northeastern city gal with a wreckage of a past looking to escape, but doesn't exactly fit in. Another character is an older dude who is hiking is way across the U.S. and decides to stay in this nowhere town for a bit and befriends the girl (sound like anyone, David?). There's other stuff going on, some small town mystery type things, but it's mostly a character study about finding camraderie, trust and home in strange places.

I've been kicking this around a long time and have written various parts. I figure it's time to get formal about it. I would think that after last year's positive experience my fear of writing without alcohol would have subsided more than it has, but it still hovers over me, like a nasty cloud threatening a downpour.

So, maybe I ought to sit on my hands rather than give mean-spirited salutes to the Cosmos for foiling my home closing. Or even better: get my fingers typing.

Tunnel Vision

It looks like we have the closing of our house scheduled on Wednesday afternoon. Knock on wood. We have to pass inspection tomorrow.

Everyone cross fingers for me. The inspector is a bit of a (ahem) stickler.

Meanwhile, I found out I don't qualify for the writing scholarship because I am not a full time student in a writing program. Oh well. I still need to get off my bum and apply for the summer program regardless of whether I pay for it or not.

My therapist and I decided it was time to cut back therapy to once a week. I'm thrilled, but feel a bit like I did when I first left rehab: ready but a little wobbly on my feet. I told him it felt like he and I have more of a regular parent/child relationship that I never had with my own parents. That I want to break free and be on my own, but a part of me wants to stay in the safety of a loving parent too.

Lately I feel like such a cheeseball because all I can do is grin. I probably ought not admit that. Isn't that when the Cosmos punishes you for your good fortune?

Or maybe it's just time for me to sabotage myself. E-mail the old Ass Clown or do some other self-destructive ill-advised thing. How about I don't do that? Making things harder on myself's an old bad habit I could do without.

I hope you listen to this song from the late 80s, Dream Kitchen by the Brit group Frazier Chorus. I couldn't find a single upload of it online and only a scant few references, so I uploaded it myself. Can't even Google the lyrics as far as I can tell. It's a gem, imho, and especially appropriate for today's post.

Author! Author!

I got an email today from that summer writing program I was in last year telling my that my teacher had nominated me for a scholarship. The catch is I have to get off my ass and apply with some sample work before March 15.

Uh, I don't have anything remotely close to entry-ready. But it sure would be nice to not have to pay tuition for the workshop this summer.

If I were one to look for God Signs in things, I'd say:

This Is One.