Let Me See If I Understand You Correctly

I posted a comment recently on Facebook in regard to a man I follow. He trains police, military personell and firemen in mobility and fitness. I mentioned the city Swat team he would be training, the city where they would be training in, and said that he should give them riot gear made out of Nerf balls for peaceful protestors. His response was swift. He told me not to post “such inflammatory” remarks about the men and women he trains.

I was caught by surprise because this guy posts an enormous amount of material on tolerance. I deleted my remark, but have felt icky ever since. He’s a pretty big deal, and I am one of his fitness customer/consumers. I found it disturbing he would not take my remark well because we are living in an age where policemen are now shooting and killing unarmed people without being held accountable, and they are killing mentally ill people also, with lame excuses that they felt threatened. I am resisting the urge to debate anything with him, because it is a huge can of worms I don’t feel capable of opening. And yet, what makes him so righteous about this? Just because he trains them and knows them as people does not mean what they do is above question.

I have heard of people who have been teargassed, tazed, hot pepper sprayed, arrested, hit with beanbags, beaten, and even killed. I don’t know anyone personally who has been badly harmed though I know of 2 people who witnessed some of the Occupy violence of police in San Francisco and Oakland. I don’t know what it means to be one of these people, but I do know this: They are under orders, and if they are ordered to forcibly remove or harm protestors, they must do it. And I know they serve me and everyone by risking their lives dealing with dangerous criminals. Further, these people are under the authority of politicians and officers whom they do not get to question or weigh. Their livelihood depends on their obedience to big city police departments well known for corruption.

I realize that these people also have to deal with not only dangerous criminals but abuse from common citizens, including protestors who may or may not be armed, throwing bottles and rocks, baiting them and so on. There’s not a whole lot of press about people quitting police departments because they believe what they are being ordered to do is wrong. But I do know Whistleblowers in many other levels of our society are being persecuted in this age in horrifying ways by our government. Many believe democracy as we once knew it is dead.

I can also see that I want to worship this man, have him on a pedestal. Perhaps it’s time I take a look at that and stop.
Now it is a couple days later, and I read a new share from the guy which is an article about how police die from the stress of their job. I left a couple of comments, one which recommended a book written by a police captain about the same subject and talks about new programs some police departments have to help fire and police personnel
recover from the horrible PTSD they get from overwork, the super being role they have to play on their jobs, and the toll contact with so much death and evil takes on them. I then left a paragraph about my father and uncle being military, and the fact I respect police, contrary to conclusions made. I said the remark was not meant to be inflammatory, only that I feel for police who are ordered to remove protestors forcibly. I got a smart ass retort back, saying that it sounded like I was making an indictment. I am glad I mentioned my Dad and Uncle on Veteran’s Day.

I found out I couldn’t answer back, as the original comment has been deleted. I’m glad I have no choice at the moment. If that is really him making these comments, then he ain’t the saint he paints himself to be. The good news is that it now doesn’t matter. I don’t have to like or approve of him, nor he me. We are not friends, nor is it likely we will ever be, even if I continue to study his stuff and get certified in any of it. I can be glad for what he has brought the world without having to give a damn about him personally.

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Lost in a Life of Distraction

Today I asked myself a question I have never asked myself before. It was what would my life be like if I was rarely or never in distraction. I’ve been putting off finding out how much money I have and dealing with several upcoming bills it would be advisable to pay and not ignore. Two are car insurance renewals, and two are for a traffic violation and traffic school enrollment.

I actually went to the library today and sat down at a table, deliberately DID NOT go online, where I have the habit of getting lost in emails and looking at Facebook. I was rewarded by discovering I have enough money to pay the most pressing of these looming disasters to be today. This was also a result of me finally looking at what has been plaguing me most of my life, which is an inability to focus on creating and receiving success on the work/job/life career and love level. God knows I’ve chased learning about it, but have remained lost, permanently at sea, drifting from one thing to another.

This morning, while fiercely persisting in silently meditating about everything, I felt a huge wave of an inner shout. My mind said “WAIT A MINUTE. Something is really wrong here and there must be a specific answer or set of answers as to what it is and how I can change it. All this endless never getting anywhere stuff is bullshit.” My guy, who is finally growing a little heart awareness, had gone with me to the beach and we’d gotten caught in the rain and had an actual bonding experience. We came home to a warm and secure house, stripping off our wet clothes. All was well until he started cooking one of his classic meals of tater tots, fried egg with cheese and toast. He started having toast/toaster and kitchen issues.

Everything was all wrong. The kitchen is too small. The sourdough bread is too small, doesn’t fit into the toaster right. What are we doing with this awful toaster that only toasts enough toast for 2 people? He hates cooking. He hates the house. The war with objects began looping into a self hating distorted mess of crazy, so I began contemplating fetching my car keys and leaving. He saw me going to that place amid the rain of super neggy distorted perceptual , snapped out of it long enough to say: “Don’t leave”. He said it twice.

I stayed, we ate, and he calmed down enough to leave angry nutbar land. Wonders will never cease. But there is something very wrong with me and I think it’s an addiction to confusion, aversion and distraction. This was because I have spent my entire life around unhappy, unconscious people who didn’t or don’t know how to find and face truth. I intend to break this situation for myself, come hell or high water.

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The Day I Successfullly Detailed the Kitchen Floor

Two days ago I cleaned the kitchen floor. I moved a wooden round table, two metal folding chairs, a hand made wooden bench our cat eats off of, trash and recycling containers, and a cooler out of the way, then vacuumed. The kitchen floor, which is made of vinyl, is simulated wood grain, and had spilled coconut oil, ground in pieces of food, and grease marks. After I vacuumed up spider webs, cat hair and some spilled food particles, I filled the recycling bucket with hot water and Simple Green, with only a little bit of dish soap.

I used an ordinary sponge mop and did a section at a time. After each section, I got on my hands and knees and used a scrubbie to remove any ground in food, grease stains, or whatever, then wiped it dry with terry or micro fiber cloths. I took my time. I did not use a lot of force or a Swiffer or Mop N Glo. I also wiped down the very edge of the floor, cleaned the white heater vent of grease, and wiped down the table and metal chairs where they rest on the floor.I was surprised to find how much a medium wipedown had effect on things.

You have to understand, I live with a man who is the God of Detailing. He is either completely oblivious to everything in the environment, or unpredictably obsessive compulsively unhappy about the status of things to a superhuman degree. He does not clean or pick up; he exists in a portal of extreme poles where things (mainly his vehicles, clothing, tools and teeth) are DETAILED, or they are “a) GROSS/FILTHY” or b) INTOLERABLY FUCKED UP.
While I generally regard him as a factory of delusion, there is the fact that when he details something, it exceeds the state of clean, looks and feels good. Detail God smells things I do not; and if things don’t smell right they are considered traitorous skanky shit which looks clean but is worse than dirty.

The kitchen floor had been in a state of medium dirtiness, which I elevated to to freak out level for his Analness at 3 am in the morning by spilling coconut oil on it. Itching things had been keeping me awake and coconut oil soothes inflammation. Detail God has not been spared when he got up and was making himself coffee. He had stepped in drops of white goo, gotten it on his workboots, Oh the HORROR! He offered to clean the floor himself, an offer that can only indicate hell had, in fact, frozen over. The fact that he then left and was away when I did the floor was a sign of complete divine intervention.

I knew, even before he got back, that I’d really done it. I was inspired to further feats of detailing magic. I took a small rug, brown with grease and cat hair, hosed it, scrubbed it with Simple Green. When it dried, it was a nearly brand new yellow and brown rug. I hand wiped 5 front blind slats. Only 5, you understand, and I retaped a scotch tape repair from Detail God’s flying remote control helicopter inside the house days, now thankfully past.

The secret of detailing comes down to being in a cosmic love space that is not linear oriented. You are not merely cleaning something, you are loving it by being in communion with it. You have contact through your hands, use clean rags, don’t hurry, and if you are using chemicals, they’d better be really good ones you feel comfortable with. You are willing to make whatever you are working on look good and feel good to the touch. You care about all this without being obsessively attached to anything, including the finished result.

It’s taken me years to attain this; I have failed to understand or come anywhere near meeting any standard with Detail God. My father had that sort of thing going on with his tools, his cars, and sometimes with cooking. And he was as incomprehensibly attached to the idea that detailing is superior and somehow above cleaning. I now understand so well how horribly infuriating it was for my mom to have to live with my dad and his patriarchal blind arrogance concerning her cleaning, She was, after all, forcibly coerced by her mother and our culture with the still insane expectation that women be domestic cleaning slaves from cradle to the grave for all of her married life.

And, for the first time in eternity, I have gotten repeated kudos from Detail God about the kitchen floor after years of crushing disapproval, patronizing lectures, and some really vile condemnation about the state of everything. What is really challenging about detailing is that one can easily fall from it’s true zen like state into obsessive compulsive cleaning, which seems the same physically but is not.Besides the actual rhythm of working on something to detail it, there is a serendipitous flow of moving from one project to another. There is just enough in-the moment attention, balanced by an almost mystical awareness of when to start and stop, and move on. The feeling is completely different from obsessive, specific goal driven amounts of completion.There is no overwhelm, no taking on too much, trying to work harder, faster, better. There is no hurrying, pushing oneself, straining, resisting, and feeling yucky because you don’t wanna do it.

After my miraculous experience, I was able to envision slowly but steadily doing the whole house, piece by piece, area by area, section by section. And then even beginning to repair,replace and upgrade a number of things long needing it, at last unhampered by the obstructive madness of Detail God. To actually claim my house, which Detail God has referred to as “This Shithole”, by detailing it.

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The Blinding Loop of Covert Emotional Incest

Last night, as I watched “Dead Poets Society” for the third time, I discovered I had left my stodgy old Dell PC on without realizing it. I paused the DVD player, got back on the internet, and began looking for material about fat and what it symbolizes in Jungian symbols. Years ago I bought a number of books by female Jungian analysts I could barely read or understand. The most notable of these were Sylvia Brinton Pera and Marion Woodman. Woodman had a great deal of material on women, femininity, and eating disorders. Other books examined Scapegoating, taken from an actual ancient jewish ritual, and there was more nearly incomprehensible bad news about being female and “medial” in a book called “The Cassandra Complex”.

Though it was like trying to read an alien language, I stubbornly kept on periodically reading the books and trying to use some of the ideas and images in countless process paintings. I paint concrete things, not abstract, so what I would end up painting were attempts at depicting literalized symbols. This was all an attempt to tap in to my inner archetypal self, get down to the deep inner stuff beyond my conscious mind. I also made clay masks which were molds of my face and tried to help deal with my endless inability to mature or get anywhere. Last night I had the real and current appearance of my body in my mind: My body is encased in a rounded, soft,swollen casing of water and fat. I am carrying about 50 lbs of extra weight, which hangs in folds off my body in too many places

Then I began to recall a recurring theme in all those Jungian books about “Covert and/or Emotional Incest”. I started looking that up and found it roundly defined and discussed on the web where in the past it was vaguely referred to and not very often though touched on a great deal in the Jungian texts by many women analysts. I ended up reading about some horrific examples of such abuse, which I now believe is a completely inadequate term to use for any of this kind of shit.

And I’m newly appalled at the tremendous societal, familial, cultural denial and ignorance about it, along with the secret war of women against women. I consider childrearing and parenthood in it’s present state to be one of the most barbaric, stupidy-ridden atrocities of all time. I’m now absolutely certain NOT marrying, NOT having kids and perpetrating this madness has been a must for me, despite the desperate and somewhat awful life I have had to live.I look at the man I’m with, at the people I know, and every single one of them is a product of insanity that is far from minor: alcoholism, drug addiction, severe traumatic abuse, incest, and the blind conditioning of thinking marriage is a thing to do.

I’d do paintings, read the books, have no one I could actually discuss any of it with, be roundly misunderstood and ignored, and I’d sink further into despair. It’s different for me now, I’ve grown into a better place despite great and prolonged, unwanted suffering and struggle.
I also have swam my way through clinical psychology and psychiatry and found them wanting, because there is too much playing god stuff involved with even the most minor definition of what is mental illness. Where I have finally found useful information about so called mental illness is with the orthomolecular pioneers who have learned how to treat deficient brain chemistry with mega vitamins.

Clearly now there is a critical mass of SOMEONE out there who have defined and tried to work with so called “Covert/Emotional Incest”. I’ve now seen a few actual approaches where some therapists have actually cared. Most rest in their definition of the pathology, which by the very nature of it’s terms and attitudes identifies, separates, and sets apart the “victim” from the world of the diagnoser. I call it the “Boy are you fucked” syndrome. It’s like a social quarantine for something that is so rampant and interwoven in our culture that it makes the diagnoses a fetter that the “victim”, if she or he gets healthier, eventually has to break out of and escape.

I’ve had some good help and support from therapists, but I’ve also been exploited, confused, and put down by others. I’ve wasted a lot of time and money trying to get help for me and help for my guy from therapists who had no conscience regarding their success or failure. They dont’ have to give a fuck because people who go to therapists are desperate and vulnerable. They get away with failure all the time, and they get paid regardless.
I’ve floundered in Al Anon and AA for years, lost in the even more amateur delusions of people there, many of which have no business sponsoring anyone in the deep and swirling waters of subconscious projection.

But I am clear on one thing: Our Society and human Culture is one big series of “Covert/Emotional Incests, with the attendant denial, amnesia and maintenance of the masquerade of it all being something else normal and healthy. It sheds once more a light on why I still can’t “STOMACH” a lot of things in my life, self and world.

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20 Minutes of Practice-Back to the Cuban Future

It’s been 2 days in a row now where I took my borrowed, garage sale quinto and congo drums down from their shelves, and placed them on my back porch with the blue owl kitchen timer, my bamboo contra clave’, two drumsticks and a chair. I have actually PRACTICED methodically, doing all the basic Afro-Cuban percussion patterns I’ve been learning from my pal the Shekere’ maker. I have a notebook I’ve tried to notate them in repeatedly, and get the names straight.

This is something I’ve wanted to be able to do for at least a decade! HOORAY for Me. I know now, more than I ever have, that the only way I can ever really drum is if I create enough critical mass of practice to get better. Repetition and lots of it is the key. My body and my ear get it in ways my mind cannot fathom. No amount of thinking about it, intending to practice, or fumbling around gets it done. Only actual practicing and playing does.

Last Weekend I hit a double header and got to the class of my Congolese Master to play, something I can no longer do every week because he isn’t coming to my home town anymore. The next day I attended a Cuban Festival in SF where there were a lot of dance classes and took a beginning cuban percussion class from a friend of my ex Cuban Master.

The inevitable happened: I ran across the man who used to be my Cuban Drumming Master. He was there passionately banging away, playing with his friend in the flesh. He looked right through me. That is, he didn’t let on he knew me. I gave him eye contact, smiled at him, but did not wave or approach him because he has not been visible since the relationship he had with a friend of mine ended despite still living in my home town. It’s clear to me he has roundly avoided all contact with me.

I could only reflect that he gave me much as a teacher and leave it at that. Whatever he is thinking or feeling about what happened in relation to me and what I know personally is none of my business. I supported him a lot on many levels, but that’s all water under the bridge. What I know about him is also no one’s business but my own. He was a dedicated teacher, and he had some real faults, but I made my choices, stayed his student for about 4 years, and I got what I got. I learned to focus and became three times the drummer I was before I made it through the crucible of his unrelenting drive for perfection.

When I mentioned I had seen my teacher, my guy said he’d been approached by said Cuban teacher since the split. I’m not too surprised. My guy opined that “he doesn’t want to be hated”. I have no idea if that is actually true, but the good news is that I don’t really need to know if that is true. It could easily be my guy’s projection. What matters to me is me, my playing. I’m not holding my breath waiting for my ex teacher to show me either affection or respect. In Cuba, you either play well or you’re nothing.

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Another Fine Mess: My #1 Blinding Loop

I have been praying lately, not to have my Character Defects removed, but to find out what my Blinding Loops are, so I can stop being blocked and controlled by them. Blinding loops are what Dr. Mario Martinez says are self delusions we have created around behavior patterns that keep us in deprivation. In my case I have three chronic major life disasters: My body, my guy and my nearly non-existent work/income making life. And I’m praying I will be clearly informed as to what EXACTLY is going on, ONCE and FOR ALL. I figure I’m ready for it, having reached 60 and surviving through molto hells I never thought I would.

I got mad this morning at the twitchy, poorly functioning laptop my guy has hooked up to a big screen because I couldn’t get an unsubscribe clicked on a site that keeps sending me ads by email about “FUCKBUDDIES.” I tried to update an email address and send an overdue email, only to have it bounce. I got mad because I’ve requested help by phone and email to be able to apply for a job at the Ritz Carleton in my actual choice of professions, massage, and I couldn’t figure out the crappy att email format to send them something terse because they haven’t done what they are supposed to: respond and get back to me. I got mad because I asked ATT NOT to put their blue advertising band at top of my email in my face, and THEY HAVE, ALL ALONG. I got mad because my guy clicked on some intro offer to a movie download which will automatically charge somebody 50 bucks monthly and he never cleans up his own messes. After I cried, shattered the glass, yelled etc, I calmed down and looked at it from a different angle. I have a pc that is slow, cluttered, barely functional because I keep living from the place I don’t deserve decent computer stuff, don’t want to spend the time, money, attentions, etc. I have a false idea I can’t choose to create different and better for myself, that it’s too complicated and so on. My life reflects this nonsense.

I had what my guy calls a “Tizzy” and slammed a glass cupboard door, shattering glass all over the floor, the counter below, shelves and dishes inside the cupboard, and part of the kitchen table. I was barefoot at the time and in my jammies. We have cats, not a lot of space, and I had to clean up all the shards and glass. Luckily, the guy was not around, and when he came back, I told him about it because I wanted him to know what happened, and demonstrate my concern for him, truth and our home.
He did not see the point of my talking to him, and used to this to pressure me to eat something he’d brought home which I did not want, and ask me what I’d been doing all morning to eat breakfast so late (10:30 ish). I did not allow this disrespectful treatment to fly. He yelled at me, called me names in the driveway and stormed off. He came back to overfeed the cat, glare at me while I was talking on my cell, and leave again.

Last night I watched the classic movie “Dead Poet’s Society” to see Robin Williams play the teacher who champions his students finding their own voice and life. I’m NEVER MINDING the fact the main character kills himself because of a brutally controlling father and that Robin Williams is dead.
I need to find my voice and tell the truth about somehow being so worthless that I have to be with people and situations that are shitty for me, that there is nothing else, and I’m helpless, have to stay in it.

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No More the Housecleaner

Recently I asked someone I know if I could clearn their house for money while I am seeking employment. I used to clean houses, never full time, but I did it with some regular clients for years. I think both of us knew it wasn’t going to work, but I was aware of wanting to do it to see how I have changed since I last was doing it and be around this persom’s unusal home environment.

They live in a spacious warehouse/loft with a very high ceiling. They have tons of large plants inside, some tree sized, and an indoor water feature with a series of waterfalls. They have a lot of stuff stacked vertically which cannot be cleaned from the floor, even with a stepladder. The floor is concrete, with a chipped and spotted surface that never looks clean no matter how clean it really is.

The plants, much like a mini Rain Forrest, shed leaves, dirt, and dust 24/7 all over the place. There’s a skylight over the kitchen from which pollution in the form of diesel particulates drops black specks. Definitely not what I was prepared to be responsible for as a cleaner in a kitchen with a lot of fancy and expensive exposed dishes and kitchen equipment. There were two large cat towers with plant debris and spiderwebs on them in an area where past cleaners hadn’t been cleaning.

I discovered soon enough that they had ideas about cleaning and what is sanitary or orderly that exceed what they can reasonably expect from a regular housecleaner. Further, they were there when I started to clean, never a good idea, wanted me to literally BE them, read their mind, and have super powers. This is often the case with would be cleaning clients. Housecleaners are a projectional free-for-all, a handy container to catch the deep longing for a Great Mother force in the form of a troop of elves or fairy godmother who will magically and instantly grant every wish and fill every need. An uncleaned home is a metaphor for just about anything and everything that is unaddressed or troubling in a person’s life.

Though our supposedly democratic and liberal society won’t admit it, housecleaners are associated with absolute class, gender and race dominance and there is a disturbing, incestuous intimacy involved because of a paid stranger being in the home space of another person and being around their secrets, stories, needs, problems and things. Women, so conditioned to ignore and suppress their power needs, can easily act out them out on a housecleaner, who is considered a disinfranchised, captive audience and non blood recipient of whatever the mistress or master want to dish out to them, much like indentured servants or slaves.

They wanted no harmful chemicals but had cleaning liquids of mostly unknown origion, including Simple Green, which I didn’t know is actually not non toxic, and expected me to be able to put away their cleaning tools in a closet jammed with things I could not hope to know how to arrange. There was no learning curve allowed right off the bat. There was a broken steam cleaner left out for me with the illogical hope I would a) be able to use it, when in fact, it was unusable,not broken by me and something I have never used. b) that I would somehow want to use it, c)that I would fix it with my magical powers.

I was rebuked, before the day was out, for not wiping the top of a kitchen compost bin, when in fact, I was waiting to find out exactly how they wanted it emptied. I sprayed Simple Green on a couch stain because I have used it to get out stains, only to be told it is not non toxic, though it was their Simple Green I used, and they admit they use Simple Green elsewhere. It was assummed I would mop the floor and then take off my shoes once I had. People don’t get it that they have to begin with getting to know their own needs and allow the process to reveal how the cleaner can evolve with them to fullfill them. There has to be some consciousness and trust. When there is not, it’s disastrous.

Essentially, I was to meet an inhuman standard of cleanliness they themselves cannot do or meet. Most people start out in this stage and then eventually learn to be happy to come to a house that has been wiped, dusted, vacuumed, washed, and so on. They don’t want to know how it’s done, and the less they think about exactly how or how much, the better. Over time, cleaning a space becomes a dance between what the client thinks they want, what they actually get, and the way a cleaner forms a relationship with the space and finds a way to create order and cleanliness which create satisfaction for the cleaner and client.

In this case I knew we would not be continuing, and I was fortunate to be allowed to come the next day and finish up alone, actually get paid and be told exactly what had to be done over, though once again, what was perceived as not being done had been. The exit email was mercifully undetailed and decisively non hostile. My reward was being able to see clearly what was happening, not take it personally, and find out that what I would really like to do is make my own cleaning substances. I’ve been in love with a little book I bought years ago on the subject.

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God’s Latest Dish Commandments

A miracle happened a few days ago. God actually did the dishes. By this I mean he immersed all of them in hot water with soap, possibly rubbed them with a sponge or wet rag, rinsed them, and piled them into the dish drainer, where they air dried completely. I witnessed this after being gone in the evening, having fled to a friend’s house so I could sleep without having to listen to God work himself up into one of his endless rages.

But this miracle has not prevented God from coming forward with more commandments, handed down on high to me, the deeply inferior female being. According to God, the silverware drainer is “really gross”, despite the fact that I clean it periodically and God NEVER DOES. God has now told me that if I do not put the rinsed silverware either handle up/or handle down( I can’t remember which, having succumbed to my astonishment that God is so blindly and tyrannically OCD), that bacterial safety cannot be obtained. He was definitely not pleased that I bluntly refused to accept this new commandment as red, telling him basically he is full of shit because he has never done ANY dishes, EVER.

He started calling me names. He emphatically declared “YOU ARE A MONSTER” several times. I told him that I am not, that he is, and started telling him he has 60 days to move out. I returned, hours later, there was a silent truce, and I left in the evening to pick a friend at the airport and stayed at her house overnight. I told him I would be staying overnight, he didn’t remember, and called me at 3 am to find out where I was.

God’s latest dishwashing peeve is that I have left soapy water in the dishpan overnight. He has decreed this taboo, not suspecting that he is the one who has been leaving the dishpan full of cold, greasy dishwater with food in it and dishes that need to be scrubbed for about 3 weeks since he began this campaign. He leaves buckets full of greasy water from detailing his vehicles, flea laden dirt water from combing the cat, and open cans of cat food without tops unto eternity but is not aware he’s the one doing it. Such are the ravages of malnutrition brought on by decades of substance abuse coupled with severe abuse from infancy. There is no short term memory, and God has regular fuck you fights with himself over the fact he can’t find stuff, like his lighter. Lately God has been telling himself he needs to quit smoking pot but has no real idea it’s possible. I say nothing, as usual, having exhausted any kind of hope he could ever hear what I have to say. I know he will never listen to or believe anything I say.

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No More Ta Ta Tamer

I have been informed that Windows 8 is no longer “being supported” by Microsoft, and that I must upgrade by downloading a new version, 8.1 because I am “unprotected”. I tend to treat the endless waves of tech demands from life much as I treat ticks I find walking around on my body, my cats, or my house. I remove them from my world and forget about them as fast as I can.
This works well with most things, but I know this particular thing ain’t going away.

I just managed to actually LOOK at my bank balance, line out the bills, write the checks, seal them in envelopes, with stamps and return addresses, make clear records, and put them in the mailbox before the post person came today. My guy even let me find the remaining ones he had hidden from himself and handle them, be on the same page, and let me sort, file and shred. I’m so proud of myself. I feel wonderful. This is because I have a deep pattern of infantile fear around money,work, managing things and self worth that I fall into aversion and stay there.

Taking the steps necessary to “handle” the bills becomes this looming, gi-normous, dreadful torture, and the longer I procrastinate, the worse it looms. I forget I’m actually capable of doing it, that I still have shelter and food and so on, and I somehow leave my cringing emotional fetal position and grow into a 60 year old within an hour.

I’m also proud because I actually applied for a job and interviewed for it. It took all I had to admit to my Al Anon sponsor I could not do it alone and allow her to help me for a day filling out the hated “online application” for checker/stocker/deli-juice person OR nutrition and body clerk. I went and bought job appropriate clothing: actual blue jeans, size 16 that fit, and an on sale robin’s egg blue Land’s End V neck T shirt. That and a bra, size 36C.

The bra, a brand new, blazing white, Bali Flower underwire, was a radical move for me. My tits were falling. They seemed to be getting bigger, looser and lower. I finally put a stop to it. I’ve worn Bali bras for years, and I used to be a 34B. Underwires are supposed to be very bad for breasts, confining them and the lymph drains around the armpits, and being receptors for Electromagnetic Fields detrimental for health. I don’t care. When I was getting clothing for my nephew’s wedding, a fat, but tan saleswoman told me I needed a 38D. much like, I believe, she was wearing. I bought and wore it a few times. It had no underwires, had soft cups and was fairly expensive. When I wore it, I felt like I had large fat lumps, not breasts, and I recently decided I didn’t want to be a D cup OR a 38.

What occurs to me now is that I can see and feel a Bali Flower underwire, feel it around my ribcage, feel the underwires separating my breasts, and I feel supported. I can imagine and project that my breasts, which CAN fit into a 36C, are not collapsing and getting firmer, higher and shaping themselves into a more compact cone shape that I like. I took the the 2 very worn out bras I had and the Ta Ta Tamer to the “Us Again” clothes dumpster. I got tired of the cross back feeling, and of my breasts being squished together in a shapeless, sagging “uniboob”.

I know I have flesh hanging from my upper arms, and there is fat gooshing out the sides of my back armpits. I have 2 fat front abdomen continents and a line of fat from the top of my inner thighs to my inner knee. My legs look better than they have for years because I’ve shaped them with spinning, walking, clubbells and aminos acids, but my ass is square, large and my back is covered with fat. I’m at least 50 lbs overweight. While I feel pretty good, I know I need to lose the weight for my health and well being.

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God’s Dishes and Laundry Commandments

Today was a perfectly fine morning until I dared, in my blatant and flagrant stupidity, to touch a dish in the kitchen. God gave me a foul look and explained that I was not to touch his eternally soaking dishes, the ones he does not take OUT of the soaking water EVER. It’s only been 2 weeks since God took over the kitchen, laundry and dishes, but he has finally divulged why he has had to take over things: “YOU DON’T GET THEM CLEAN.”

God, on the other hand, does not eat meals, does not put away whatever salty and fatty food he has cooked, does not put the lid on the open cat food cans he opens, doesn’t put dishes in the drainer( OK so I saw him do it ONCE) and apparently believes that my using the sink or kitchen at all is “Not letting me do my dishes.” My terrible cleaning incompetence and bacterial failure notwithstanding has somehow been good enough for God to lean on and not lift a finger for 28 years, though God has inquired periodically if I actually use soap when doing the laundry before.

God’s idea of laundry is heavy loads on hot soaked in original Blue Tide. Nothing else but the strong and unmistakable chemically toxic scent of Tide, a planet killer, will do. God has suddenly become concerned with water conservation, another horrifying failure of mine, according to God. But then God tends to believe I’m shit at everything, unless he’s about to become homeless. Then God is kind of soft on my crimes and ubiquitously glaring defects of character, until I let him get settled in and complacent again.

God has taken to forbidding me to dump vacuum dust and cat hair over the fence, or organic carrot pulp, or cat box pee divots. God does not believe in sustainability and the efficacy of compost, rotting organic matter and the way it feeds both the soil and rodents, like mice which our cats like to hunt and eat. God has now switched his divine will from hating and wanting to shoot the raccoons who live under the empty mobile home next to us, to wanting to feed them his cheese scraps and wasted wet cat food. Never mind that setting out wet catfood close to where we feed the feral cats on our porch may in fact give a wrong message like “COME and GET it- we love you as much as we love these cats we overfeed!”

God is not big on allowing me to have my say on anything. He likes to have a tantrum to get his way, forget about whatever agenda he has, then get mad because he’s got some new one he’s never bothered to inform me or the world at large about. I’m about to find out how to evict God. I’m tired of his hateful, miserable, disrespectful, delusional dope fiend ass.

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