Crestfallen Subsumed Diabetes

Spammers - be aware. I have done stupid things in my life (see post entitled Dumb-Ass Extraordinaire). However...

I am not so stupid as to open an email with that as its subject line.

Neither am I so stupid as to open an email from Rebellious M. Angry, Furious P. Meandering, or Definitive L. Pitcher.

Just so's you know, you know?

Update: Prunes K. Reformed won't work either, folks. Sorry.

Not.

Chicken or the Egg

I was listening to the 80s station on my way to work and happened across the thought that the music of the 80s really fit the 80s -- reflecting a sort of post-modern melancholy loss of connection underneath the go-go business and technology mentality. But did the music create that feeling in me (and the rest of society) or was the music just reflective of what was already there? Does the music of an era focus the gamut of that era's citizenry into a tight beam of drama or does it shower the emotion across the populace?

Just a thought.

Beige?

Kelley's first rule of fashion: caucasians should not wear beige. People should not blend in with their clothes.

Kelley's second rule of fashion: heavy people should not wear beige. It's the whole giant dingy marshmallow thing.

Kelley's fashion frustration: I need a cocktail dress for an event next Friday. I have been unable to find one that doesn't violate both my first and second rules of fashion.

Argh.

I Don't Mind You Coming Here And Wasting All My Time

Things I Ought to Be Doing

• Making those cookies for the fire department
• Picking up the immense pile on the kitchen island
• Checking my business voicemail and email
• Finding a form calendar for 2007
  
• Revising my 2003 client calendar with 2007 dates so that I can print, trim, and deliver same to the gift shop that ordered 3
• Beginning the first draft of the Stargate SG-1 and Silmarillion crossover fanfic that's been banging around in my head for months now (all that banging's giving me a headache)
• Updating my business website
• A zillion other things

Things I Ought Not Be Doing

• Eating Girl Scout cookies
  
• Reading fanfic
  
• Blogging and checking email (again) (and again) (and again)
  

Things I Am Doing

• Blogging
• Checking email (again) (and again) (and again)
  
• Searching out other fanfic
  
• Eating Girl Scout cookies
  

You know, it's too bad that "Procrastinator" isn't a paying job. I'd be tops in the class, I think.


20:32 update
Finished the box of Girl Scout cookies
Found a form 2007 calendar online

Dumb-Ass Extraordinaire!

That would be the one and only me.

Who found her husband's flight was coming in a half hour early, hustled herself and the baby out the door, was gone for 2 hours, and completely forgot the sippy cups sterilizing in the green pot on the stove.

The green pot now has a colorful plastic lining. The house reeks.
The good news is that we know our smoke detectors work and are loud enough to hear outside the house. The other good news is that nothing caught fire and the C02 levels are miniscule.

Fireman No. 1 comes in the door, "I know that smell. It's burning baby bottles. " Fireman No. 2 follows him in, "I've done that." Fireman No. 1, "I think we've all done that."

I definitely owe NVFD Co. 1 a batch of homemade cookies.

Maudlin Warning

I lift my daughter from her crib, small limbs draping over my arms. Tiny no longer, though. She's a big girl. Six months have passed since she was wrenched forcibly from the wet protection of my body into the cold, harsh light of the OR. She is almost 2 1/2 times what she weighed at birth. She is 6 3/4" longer than she emerged.

She doesn't really want to be awake now; arms and legs somnolently limp, then pudgy little hands rub at her eyes in confusion. Where is Pink Kitty? The binky? Is it time to eat maybe? I know this smell. If I turn just so, the light isn't so bright.

My heart clenches, trite though it may be, at the blinking eyes, the small face burrowing into my bicep. Hostage to the eternal connection of parent to child, the invisible strands that connect the generation.

I am struck by the feeling that pervades my emotional room. She will never know, she cannot possibly know, until she is a parent herself, how very much I love her. How the frustrated and furious anger that emerges at a screaming juncture dissipates like the residue of her powdered formula under the faucet when I see her face, slack and peaceful in sleep. How my heart screams for joy and pain at the sight of her smile, as she jumps with joyful abandon in the dining room doorway, the clanking of the spring reinforcing the clanking of my heart.

And I hope that I, at the very least, can follow the essence of the doctor's creed. I hope that I can preserve the hopes and dreams and future of this small creature, this burden, this blessing. At the very least, do no harm.

Food (and Drink and Pills) for Thought

Had lunch with a long-term friend. (Note, I did not say old. That would make me old, which I am not, I only feel that way sometimes.) She's been my friend since she moved into my school district in second grade. So, that's what?, something like 30 years?

She detoxed in December. She said it wasn't bad - in fact, she rather enjoyed it. Nobody to look after but herself, they made all the food, she could hang around all day in her pajamas. How sad is it that the only way we can get a few days to ourselves anymore, and reduce the pressure we feel, by checking into detox? When did the madness that's become the life of a working mom get so bad that we need to self-medicate with alcohol and prescriptions? When being on an anti-depressent has become a way of life. My grandfather was an alcoholic. My mother tells me he wasn't always. The people he worked with had a hard drinking lifestyle. They could handle it; he couldn't and, in the end, he was "asked" to retire. I wonder if the pressure of providing for a family, of meeting the needs of everyone but himself were factors for him. My grandmother worked too, and hard; she was a brilliant woman who helped set up Medicare in our home city. Did he feel he wasn't good enough because she had to work. My mother says my grandmother worked because she had to. But would she have worked if she didn't have to?

I don't know.

Regina Who?

I like my choir director. I really do. He's funny. More importantly, he's an excellent musician. But sometimes I wonder what planet he's coming from. I was always taught that, in Latin, at least sung Latin, e is pronounced as a long a. Therefore, Regina Coeli (Queen of Heaven) would be pronounced Ray'-gee-nah Chay'-lee unlike my sister's good friend's name, which is pronounced Reh'-gee-nah.

Well, Mr. AntiFlyingButILovePeppyPilotGirlAnyway is off to the Big D (little a - double l - a - s) for the first round of March Madness. In 11 years (12 years?) of doing this, at all sort of venues, all over the country, they still have never seen a team from (a) any of their alma maters, (b) any of their home towns, or (c) any of the towns they currently reside in. How cruel the fates are.

And, in the meantime, I have gone to visit old friends about 45 minutes up the highway, stopped at the bookstore, been to choir rehearsal with the baby, washed all the dishes and the baby (much to her very loud chagrin), and set two business appointments. I'm Getting Stuff Done.

Woo and hoo.

Every Day is a Winding Road

Or so my radio just said.

Post 2 and I still can't figure out how to get my picture into the profile area. I am so fucking hopeless sometimes.

Ok, here's the discussion for today. My mother wants the URL for my blog. I went back through my old Live Journal blog (username: peppypilotgirl) and there's really only one post that had her in it. Several she might object to on language or other bases but only one that dealt with her. (Although many could, I assure you!) So, do I figure that if she reads my blog she goes in knowing full well there could be stuff there she wouldn't like? Or do I hope she forgets about it. (Which she probably would.)

Music: Sirius Channel 30: Coffee House.

In the Beginning

There was the word.
And the word was on the Web.
And the word was the Web.