A Padded Room And Cigarette Breaks

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

I learned earlier this week that pop tart, Britney Spears' perks in the psych ward, were a rubber room and cigarette breaks. I so wished that could be me. I have hit the wall my friends. I can't do what I do anymore. Please, please, please let me have the rubber room.

Motivation, Or The Lack Thereof

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

Total lack of motivation has led me to gain weight, stop doing the laundry, stop paying bills and let the house go to hell. Here I sit in an ancient house dress that used to be cute, and my husbands over-sized Icelandic sweater. My hair looks good though. Also, my nails aren't bad.

Let us now journey into the mystery of where my motivation has gone. Down the toilet. Short journey.

How to get it back: No F-ing idea. Shorter journey.

Why I care: because it's boring. Everyone is doing it; losing their motivation for no apparent reason. I'm beginning to give my husband's conspiracy theories credence.

I have been rendered useless by a series of subliminal messages transferred through the television. I certainly watch enough of it these days. I have become a salivating pile of goop from messages hidden in a Reba re-run marathon, hours upon hours of HGTV, and the E network. The government is sucking the life out of women to keep us down. It is probably to keep us from voting for Hillary. God, that woman is always doing something. It's exhausting how she is making me look bad. The only thing that makes me feel like I can relate to her is her large, round behind, and the knowledge that she has a vagina somewhere under those tailored skirts. Work, work, work, work ,work. She has more accomplishments than the last six Nobel peace prize winners. But, does this impress me? Hell no! Because I have been systematically reprogrammed, and now suffer from Stepford Syndrome.

What gives me pleasure: coffee, alcohol, and my hair looks really good right now. I am an addict with a string of good hair days to my credit.

I tell myself the reason that I can not get started making lists is that I don't have a calendar. For the last 15 years I have received several complimentary calendars in the mail. You get those when you donate money to certain organizations. I have had my selection of calendars from NOW, to Habitat for Humanity, the zoo, Amnesty International, The Girls Next Door (I think someone else in my house must have supported that organization). This last year I did not open my mail or answer the phone. No one got any money out of me unless they hunted me down in person. Thus, no calendars. My husband offered one of his many welding supply calendars, but they don't give me any visual pleasure. And, since all I do these days is sit around and stare at stuff, that is a pretty important element.

Other reasons I may lack motivation:
1. The weather sucks.
2. One of the dogs keeps peeing on the carpet and I can't get her to stop so I've given up on everything.
3. My vision is going bad and I'm still mad that I shelled out 4,ooo bucks for the latest laser technology only three and a half years ago.
4. My bedroom is a mess so that I wake up and am instantly cranky with my spouse setting the tone for my entire day.
5. I am being suffocated by print (books, magazines, newspapers, web articles, piles upon piles of junk mail, etc. . .).
6. Perhaps I get some kind of perverted charge out of not getting anything accomplished (this is weird psychology bullshit, but thought I should throw it in the mix).
7. Aliens have taken over my mind and all of the time spent watching E is a sign that I should become a Scientologist.
8. The damned conservatives are trying to keep me from acting on my self-righteous anger over health care, education, and the environment by controlling my thoughts through narcotics released in airplane contrails.
9. Those fluorescent light bulbs, that are becoming so prevalent, are sucking the life force out of me one migraine at a time.
10. (I leave this for you, the reader, to contribute an opinion -- make it funny; I need the laugh).

My only hope seems to be to turn off the television, wear a gas mask, and buddy up to my favorite Scientologist, John Travolta.

May peace and a hunky childhood crush be yours from: The Goddess of Everything.

Anxiety Ridden

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

Guess what? I can't sleep. Again. I have to be the most boring blogger on the planet. Every other entry is about my inability to sleep through the night. What am I, a newborn?

Anyway, my fabulous sisters commented on my blog. Now I feel like I exist. Our mother made us get our pictures taken every five years. I've included the current photo. I know, I know, we're hot. Get over it.

I had acupuncture and a massage today. Still every muscle in my body is in the 'locked' position. My brain is a fog of anxious thoughts. I figure that is why I have allowed myself to be stupefied by the television and several dozen books this week. I even read, Into The Wild. Total guy book. Also, not for a mother of a teenage boy who reads Kerouac, and is looking to test himself.

My husband suggested I take one of my pills. That is code for, take one of your pills because I can not handle you when you are like this, and I really just want to listen to my night time radio program, while I fall asleep without any trouble. (That pill must have been a little bitter).

What I have been doing is cruising my kids' web-sites and copying their pictures. I found a really cute one of the twins. They are both 23 now. Six months apart with different parents, but it
works for them. They are out celebrating the current birthday right this second. Thank god they have each other.
I am such a terrible mother. I didn't even get my
child a card for his special day. I called him. He'll get money. Hopefully, he won't fret about no cake. My children are not fond of cake. That has presented some birthday tradition problems over the years. Birthday fruit salad seems to be the favorite for the young one. This one would probably vote for a beer with a floating candle. Oh, how they grow up . . . If I could, I would fly to Texas to smack his girlfriend upside the head. There's a story there, but I guess it falls under mother/son confidential. I'm sure his soul friend will give him some great advice tonight. No, she will probably get him drunk and let him sleep on her couch with her cat. Whatever cheers him up. It used to be pop rocks and a pillow fight. Like I said, how they grow up.

This is about the time I wish that one of our hot tubs worked. I could use a soak. I must run a bath, and try to submerge my rubenesque form into the warm water. It's only an hour into the next day.

May peace and a deep tub be yours from: The Goddess of Everything

Ewwww. . . He's Eating My Crayons.

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

OK, here it is. I am a teacher. I am a teacher of small children. These kids will walk across the room to wipe their nose on me, or worse. I have a six inch band of snot running a perfect circle around my waist. None of these little kidlets are aware that they are sliming me, it's just what they do.

It is cold and flu season in our neck of the woods, so you can just imagine the mucus that is flowing around me. Last week, the vomiting started. My teaching partner and I draw up vomit charts every year, the way football coaches draw up a schematic of the field. We keep a record of who has upchucked, where they were at the time, and who they sit by. With this in hand we can triangulate the area, and get a pretty good idea where the spew will come from next. Of course, you have to factor in the, 'get up to walk across the room to my teacher' component. (Small children will bypass two other adults, a bathroom, three sinks, several trash cans, and a field of grass to get to their teacher just in time to vomit on her new $150 Naturalizer boots).

Body fluids aren't the only freebie my little darlings share. They just do weird things, which any other child will find fascinating or disgusting, but will still join in on. The other day I found an entire table group licking the name tags on their desks. I don't know why I took the time to question this behavior (sometimes I only ask myself, "Why ask why?"), but this time I did pause to inquire. Each child looked up, startled, and immediately pointed a finger at someone else, "He/She did it first!", of course. What was I thinking to even wonder?

Small children will put anything in their mouth; I am here to tell you that, "Yes", I have seen it all. One poor little bow-headed girl, in my room sits by a particularly hedonistic little boy. This boy will, and does put anything in his mouth. My dear, bow-headed, little cupie doll spends much of her day, being horrified, with her hand in the air,
"Teacher, Teacher, he's eating my crayons!", "Teacher, Teacher, he's eating his hair, his scab, his eraser, my eraser, my scab . . ." She doesn't get that she is way more annoying to me than her seat mate. While he keeps himself quietly occupied, she is quite the lesson interrupter. And, as she has not spent time cultivating the appropriate public school immunities, she was the first to throw up. Not a surprise to me, of course; I have been keeping a close record of germ accumulation since day one. The little scab eater will be the last to spew, if he even spews at all. Frankly, I doubt that he will miss one day of school -- EVER.


May peace and a good constitution be yours from: The Goddess of Everything.

Brrr Baby, It's Cold Out There . . .

Today the goddess speaks about herself:

It is not warm outside. The sky is blue. The sun is shining. It is damn cold. It's so cold the outdoor animals want in. Barn kitty mewled at the front door until I realized that he wanted to be let in. I couldn't figure out why he was making all of that noise so close to the house. Even our dog, who prefers being outside above all else, was reluctant to go out for a quick potty sojourn. I'm sure that if the goats were free to leave the barnyard, they would be knocking at the front door, bleating to be led to the rug in front of the fire.

I've been cozily, wrapped up in a fluffy blanket, reading by the fire all day. My book finished, I carefully maneuvered my way out from underneath a blanket, a cat, and two dogs (praise the saints, no goats) to refill my cocoa cup and find a new book. All hell broke lose as everyone realized that their lazy goddess, was actually, and finally, available to put food in food dishes. Oh, the barking, and the meowing. What a cacophony. It was only two hours later than usual. How the day goes by when it is cold, and there is nothing to be done but read.

I honestly don't think that I should have to go to work when it is this cold. I could get frostbitten walking to the car. That would not do. I Cold Day is most certainly called for. I doubt the phone tree will be activated though. People, in power, can be such cretins. The pioneers knew to hunker down in the winter; to keep the wood on the fire, and conserve energy. Hmmm. . . 'conserve energy'. That is what I have been doing all day. I was not lazy at all. I was being as a pioneer.

I've always known that had I been a pioneer, I would have died on the trail; probably very early on in the trip. My husband would have had to take on a child-wife to raise the children that my early demise left behind. Of course, had there been a pregnancy, I would have died in childbirth. There might have been one child, but no more. No, not even that. I would have died of dehydration during my pregnancy. Had it not been for demoral and IV fluids, I would have died in the 20th century. The century in which I actually did incubate, and deliver two children. So, I am positive I wouldn't have made it as a pioneer. If I ever go back in time, I will not leave the east to follow an adventuring husband. He will have to understand that I already know the ordeal would kill me. In fact, I wouldn't survive my teen years. I would throw myself off of a cliff during a P.M.S. episode. No need to wonder if I would have made it as a pioneer then.

I do like the idea of conserving energy, in winter, anyway. Why must we race about, acting as if these arctic days are no different than any other cold day? Why can't the world stop for a week, or two? We could all use the time to hunker down, and enjoy a good book, by a crackling fire. The animals seem to have the right idea. It was probably a cat who wrote, "It was not a night for either man, or beast".

May peace, a warm fire, and a cat on your lap be yours from: The Goddess of Everything

Party Goddess

Tonight the goddess speaks about herself:

In considering my last post, I am reminded that when I party, I sometimes do sleep for a few, restful hours. This was the case on New Year's Eve. I know, I know, I complained hardily of having to change out of my pajamas. But, change I did. Of course, just as I predicted, I had a fabulous time. We were the first to arrive to the party, and one of the last to leave.
It was the dancing. We danced and danced. In fact, I danced so much that the many champagne cocktails I enjoyed had no ill after- effects whatsoever. Mmmm. . . champagne cocktails. It was my first time. Who knew? Champagne usually gives me a headache. Adding more alcohol to it never seemed like a good idea. Now I know that it is the best idea ever! I was also introduced to the music of a true party princess (albeit a train wreck), Amy Winehouse. I have danced to, "Rehab", nearly every day since.
What was truly amazing, is that I did sleep. I slept well. It was between the hours of 4 a.m. and noon -- not exactly real world hours, but it was a great sleep. Some may say I was passed out, but I beg to differ. If only every night were New Year's Eve. . .

May peace and a comfortable couch be yours from, The Goddess of Everything.

Why Does Sleep Elude Me?

Tonight the goddess speaks about herself:
Why can't I sleep? Where does sleep go when it is not with me? Does it miss me? Does it dis me? I wish I remembered what it feels like to wake up refreshed.

I'd really, really like to sleep like a baby. I've tried everything from herbs to acupuncture, and meditation to heavy doses of alcohol. Hot baths help, but I can't be getting in and out of the tub at all hours of the night. Melatonin only works to make me more relaxed, which is nice, but not an answer to my not sleeping problem. Sex works great! It works great for the guy in my bed.
While he happily snores away, I am left tossing and turning.
I'm beginning to develop a theory that my brain won't switch off. Somehow it isn't getting the right signal. It is like a workaholic on cocaine. I can't seem to stop thinking.

Thinking, thinking, thinking . . .
. . . thinking about what?!
Nothing can be this important that I have to be in a constant state of processing information. Do I really have to be alert when I am filing away my day, or assimilating new information? What about osmosis?
Osmosis sounds like a lovely cocktail served by cabana boys, on a tropical island, under a swaying palm tree. Please, I'd like some osmosis.

Dreams. I don't remember dreams because I apparently don't have time for them. Could my brain be protecting me from bad dreams? If I knew, would I prefer my constant state of 'awake'? Perhaps. Perhaps, but I'll never know.

If I were a party girl this would be the perfect situation. I would party all night, and sleep all day. Oh, didn't I mention? Falling asleep during the day isn't too much of a problem. I could doze off at anytime. I just don't let myself for fear that any sleep during the day will make it harder to fall asleep at night. Ha!! I don't seem to have any problem falling asleep after 7 a.m., or when I am in Hawaii, or during long vacations. This wouldn't be a problem if I didn't lead a normal life; a normal life that includes a job -- DURING THE DAY. Sigh. I guess I was meant to lead the life of a rich party girl. The answer is now glaringly obvious to me. I am not fulfilling my contract on this little blue planet. Would that I could.

May peace and a fashionable pair of dark glasses be yours from: The Goddess of Everything.