Hindsight 2020 Vision Board!
WOW! Today was such a stressful and fretful day. I came home from work last night to find my little fatty’s ear had swollen with some kind of huge cyst or abscess. I took her to the vet this morning and had to worry all day.
I finally spoke to the vet, who diagnosed an aural hematoma. He couldn’t explain why she got it; She had no signs of former ear infection, which often is found to be the trigger. Ultimately, it will cost me nearly a thousand dollars. Oy! *sigh*
While I was on the phone with the vet, I got a call from an unknown number. I returned the call immediately upon hanging up to learn that the nurse from my dermatologist’s office had gone home already, having closed the office early that day.
Sure enough, she’d left a voicemail. But here’s the thing: I had a little bad patch of skin removed from my hand 2 weeks ago. The doctor didn’t think it was anything to worry about. Neither did I. Just figured, at midlife, it’s time to start that maintenance. He said he’d call if there was any cause for concern, not expecting there would be.
I clarified, “Okay, so you’re sending this to the lab and when I don’t hear from you, I don’t need to call panicking, ‘I had this thing biopsied and I never heard back…'”
“No. We’ll call you if it’s anything to be concerned about.” So this chick leaves me a message at the end of her day and leaves me to worry ALL NIGHT LONG about what the hell she was calling to tell me.
So then I reframe it. “Okay, Christie. It’s an opportunity to practice patience. You don’t have a choice, so just be.” I took a breath. “Anyway, it’s nothing. It’s probably something clerical or stupid, in which case it’s an opportunity to prepare to treat the caller with respect when you finally reach her, even though she created unnecessary worry for you.” (It’s not administrative. Otherwise, an administrative person would have called.)
In any case, it is what it is and I get to sit in the not knowing all night. Okay. I called my mom. We ended up having a lovely conversation. We’ve been speaking more and more the last couple of months. It’s been nice.Today, especially so.
I picked up my little fat kitty cat from the vet, and as I sat waiting for the cab I noticed the door of the pet hospital: “Hours: Mon.-Sat. 7-7, 7-7, 7-7, 7-7, 7-7, 7-7.”
Oh my goodness! It’s 7-7!
Oh my god! It’s Christine’s birthday! She was apprehended and questioned by the police, on her birthday, for the physical assault that occurred two days prior as I tried to escape last year. I was happy they were located and hauled in at all, but especially that it happened on her birthday. I knew there were no consequences beyond that. I’m sure the whole inconvenience took no more than an hour. All I wanted was for her to know that she did not get away with it.
I know who you are. What you did was wrong, and you know it, too. Christine loved that her birthday was 7.7.72. The reason for my visit last year was to celebrate our friendship one last time before finally phasing her out. She didn’t know my plan. I intended to celebrate her with one last round of blind drunkenness, and move on. You can’t get wasted enough to enjoy her company anymore, and I just wasn’t going to feel guilty about it any longer.
We were party girls together, Chrissy Squared. We were disgusting, the most obnoxious 20-somethings and beyond. She grew up in Salt Lake, but never lived here since I met her. She visited, often, and we had friends in common.
Of course, I saw the changes over real time, but I could keep up. I’m a drinker. Everyone has a friend you have to be drunk to enjoy anymore, so I joined her when she was in town. When I drink, I’m all in, still, and I’m perfectly aware of how obnoxious I am. Together, we were obscene. We had so much fun!
She’s not obnoxious now. She’s deranged. Violent, incoherent, out of control.
She harangued me for years to join her abroad. At last I agreed, knowing I’d be drunk around the clock, and then finished with her. With love. The end of a season. Good-bye, dear friend, now lost in alcoholism that took a different turn from mine.
My intentions were good, but I’m not in control either. I shouldn’t have gone.
I’m so grateful to be home and healing, continuing to learn. My family is getting better, stronger. My new boundaries are protecting me. I still feel a lot of pain and sorrow for the difficulty we experience(d) as a profoundly ill family, especially as I watch the trauma become more disruptive for one of my dear brothers. I think he’ll have a lifelong journey with Depression and anger, and so far I don’t have a lot of confidence that he’ll even look at it as something to recover from and live with.
But things are good.
My angels greet me now and then through numbers, and I don’t care if believing that makes me nutty. 🙂 Sometimes it’s just a little nod, a hello, but I’ve never got one like SEVEN sets of SEVEN in a row! What a reminder to take stock and express gratitude. Thank you, angels!Wow. I got a new follower moments after publishing this post. I checked out her site and right there on the front page was a post called A Copper Penny In Your Eyes.
Pennies became one of the first symbols of angel communication for me. I asked my Grandpa [after his passing] to send pennies, and he did! I was practically knocked out by pennies from heaven, there were so many the first five years or so. It’s less frequent now, and less personal. I don’t feel his energy, exactly, every time. It’s just a smiley face each time I see one now, but after the connection I felt this afternoon, I can’t help but find it to be a confirmation of the day I had and the feelings it inspired.
All is well. “Cuddle doon, me bairney,” Grandpa used to say. It’s a Scottish poem.
The author of the poem I found today used pennies to represent the low regard shown by a false friend. Nevertheless, my meaning for pennies remains untarnished and the poem itself is quite profound and well-written, about honoring oneself and drawing on courage to stand tall in the truth of who you are. (A timely nod after my reminder of Spain today, and confirmation that I did well to leave my own false friend.)
Fatty’s surgery is slated for SEVEN SEVENteen at SEVEN a.m.
I don’t make this stuff up.
(For those of you keeping track, that SEVENteen SEVENS in a row.)
“The repeating Angel Number 7 indicates for you to keep up the great work you’ve been doing of late. Your angels are telling you that you are on the right life path and that you will find that things of a positive nature will flow freely for you. Your job is to maintain your momentum and enthusiasm, with the highest outcomes for all in focus.
Angel Number 777 is a positive sign and means that you should expect miracles to occur in your life.”
I love this site by Joanne Sacred Scribes. I don’t remember when I first found it, but I just love it! 77777777777777777! http://sacredscribesangelnumbers.blogspot.com/
THE YEAR OF THE ANSWER IS WORKING! 42! (7×6, like the wall of the vet clinic. 🙂 )
Mid-life is kind and difficult and funny and strange and wonderful and MIRACULOUS!
Turn 40! Jump out of an airplane – at last! – on my birthday, April 27th… weeeee!
Go paragliding on my bestie’s 40th – June 18th… weeeee!
Fit and Fabulous and Forty is living AWAKE and all the way. Here’s how I’ll do it:
Eat actual food… Learn a new recipe every month… Play with slowcooker and solar.
Lose this 15 pounds! No reason not to be my high school weight. Healthy, strong, trim. (Binge-eating/food addiction journal?)
Coffee and Diet Pepsi are occasional treats, not daily necessities. Green tea.
I am smoke free. Completely smoke free. Not one cigarette. Bright, clean, pink lungs!
Move to a place with more space, SUN SUN SUN, and cheaper rent (suburbs, gulp).
Surround myself with plants.
Write every day… journal… blog… poetry… vignettes… articles… Write every day.
Master circular breathing… Didge daily… Play with others… Meditate…
Pray every morning… Angels said Leaf Pose for me… Pray every morning. For reals.
Choose gratitude every day, even the bad ones. I sit peacefully at the center of my life.
Read A Course In Miracles! A miracle a day for me in two, zero, one, and three!
Study throat chakra blockage and clearing… Heal it… and others… eventually…
Get voice coach… Learn 2 each, upbeat song and ballad… Have them at the ready.
Identify and perfect 2 monologues, comedic and dramatic… At the ready…
Audition for everything… Fail gloriously!… Relish every chance to improve and learn… Have fun! ENJOY the practice! “Thank you for the chance to celebrate my craft!” I love to audition! I love to audition! I’m so good at auditioning! Can’t wait to audition!
Invest in good headshots… ? blerg… hate to spend money… Can’t my bestie just do it?
Get one paying gig… anywhere… anything… Rebuild resume… Network… PERFORM! Love the stage again. Revel in the play and laughter of rehearsal and take it seriously.
Perform with Africa Heartwood Project… traditional chorals/ basic percussion…
Get a drum of my own.
(Re)learn guitar… Progress… My wrist is tight but fine. It will stay fine. Play through it.
Play the piano. I have such a pretty little [poor neglected] piano.
Travel. Go to a new state. See a new country.
Cruise for the first time, possibly (friend’s June wedding if I’m not in a show)
New York for another wedding (and if so, all of New England!)
At least one old festival and one new festival
$ Oh yeah, money. I’m over it. Poverty is not this life’s sacred! Money. Thank you. $
Continue African Dance… Add Afro-Brazilian (Samba Fogo) and/or Zumba weekly…
Add three elements to hooping repertoire… PRACTICE… more fluid and dance-y-like…
Conquer blinding dizziness of LED hoop… Use it, silly! (smaller diameter than I like)
Get my own fire hoop… ? … At least spin again in someone else’s.
Jog the steps of the Capitol at least once a week.
GET UP GET UP GET UP! I slept the first half. Now it’s fun. Wake up and LIVE!
When you joked, “… epitaph will read, ‘Lovingly gave half her life to sleep,'” you didn’t know you were manifesting the first half, did you? Get up, little wildfire. Don’t be afraid anymore to live out loud. It is what you came here to do. Get up and do it.
“If you asked me what I came into this world to do, I will tell you: I came to live out loud.” Emile Zola
me, too… 🙂
I only just began to understand that I can let go my Screaming Banshee and live out loud. She had a job, to protect me and insist on personal truth. I don’t need protecting anymore. Life isn’t so scary anymore. My truth is finally pleasurable. What a relief!
I freaking love 40. Happy New Year!
(P.S. Totally didn’t mean for my [first] vision board to match my bedroom. Isn’t it pretty?)
Phil and I went to San Francisco and I came home inspired! We attended their Burning Man Decompression. Decompression is where the good people who revel in the desert get together post-burn to bond and party, to share stories from the “playa,” as it’s called. Or Black Rock City, the fifth largest city in Nevada for the week of our festival. Salt Lake City’s Utah Decompression was the following weekend, last weekend. You follow.
I made my entire outfit – vest, hat, bustle – in a day and a half. Then I put it on and walked out the door. Just like that! I even bedazzled a cool fedora for Phil. We were super sexy and cute. I even stitched the leafy “feathers” that adorn my shoulder shrug and chapeau!
I burned after all! I never felt so much like I was at Burning Man at home. Dalai-Mama named her house “Camp Letting Go” and, um, we did! Wonderful, wicked, warm, happy moments. I love my life sometimes. Then I sober up, ha!
It was, in fact, truly lovely. Also, wild. And all weekend!
“You’ll know I’m dead when the noise stops.”
On Labor Day, I walked over to my neighbor Mila’s place. He had a BBQ last year too, and to my great surprise and delight, Yerka had returned after five-and-a-half months in Thailand! With Tomash and me there, we were precisely the same four who reveled together last year. So it seems a new, deliciously perverse tradition is born: Labor Day with the Czechs! This year I threw corn-on-the-cob on the barby, but found out that’s an American thing. (Fun factoid, yeah?) I alone slathered it in butter. Yum!
I need a nap.
and completely inconvenient.
I had to change my number, which thoroughly angers me because I loved my number. It ended in 222, my number! Jerk. And now I have to move. Ooh, I’m annoyed! He only knows my apartment building, not the unit number, but I don’t feel safe. I’m just so entirely put out by this stupid OkCupid creeper.
He redialed for hours every day. One call after the other, for hours. The messages were screaming, psychotic, straight out of “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof.” “CHRIIIIISTIIEEEEEE!!!!” I stopped listening. But he screamed my name via text, too, all caps. Endless texts.
It was within the first 5 minutes of our second date that I realized he was unhinged, so when he asked how my OkCupid experience was proceeding, I told him I was going out with several people. The truth. He made a scene in the restaurant and I left early.
My first stalker started harassing me in 8th grade. We had a class together. I didn’t even know who he was, but it escalated for 2 years until it became perverse, progressive and dangerous, and he graduated from high school in juvy. My second stalker was an assigned co-ed roommate at Boise State in 1995. I met him when I moved in. He was sentenced to 3 years in Idaho State Prison for Disturbing the Peace. They couldn’t get him on Attempted Murder, because he didn’t actually try, just handed the neighbor a gun and warned her to protect herself because he going to kill me.
And now this loser.
Stalkers are stupid and very inconvenient. Ugh.
“An estimated 3.4 million people were reported victims of stalking during a 12-month period in 2005 and 2006, announced the U.S. Department of Justice’s Bureau of Justice Statistics. Stalking is defined as a course of conduct directed at a specific person that would cause a reasonable person to feel fear.”
I feel so out of touch! I lost my internet connection, i.e. the unsecured network I’m snaking off of for free, so finally I got my ass down to the library to reconnect with the blogosphere. I very quickly came to love this form of processing my emotions, so it’s nice to be back.
So Dreamboat from Rhode Island showed up for our date, after all, and it was, well, dreamy. We saw each other, oh, 5 or 6 times before he left. He showered me with such playful, giddy, delicious, passionate attention, I was over the moon. He was completely cool with me not wanting to have sex with him. You never know if a stranger meets a cute girl and thinks, “Well, hell, if there’s a chance I’m getting laid I’ll spend my time here.” I made it clear that a week’s borrowed dalliance was not the circumstance I seek for that level of intimacy, and we proceeded to explore my beautiful city with gallery strolls, leisurely hikes, fine meals, casual snacks, and days and nights of endless sighs and kisses. He had a subtle, teasing sense of humor and I cannot say enough how thoroughly delightful it was to get to know him.
In fact, it hurt my heart a little to let him go. In fact, I actually cried. Who knows what else was stirring? You know how that is. “What is going on?” I found myself wondering. “I’m nowhere near PMS.” But cry I did, just a little, and it felt fine. By darn, I think I fell a little in love with a dreamy boy from Rhode Island and, oh my goodness, am I glad I met him! Bless my strange, enchanted luck for our chance encounter and my friendly smile, but, oh! I miss his dreamy eyes. (Also, he’s impossibly handsome and it’s ridiculous how perfectly built and sexy he is. *groan*)
Rhode Island, I called him, was just the inspiration I needed to believe again that everything I wish for in partnership can be mine. I want love! Passionate, exciting, curious, playful, intelligent, inquisitive, tender, teasing, giggling, hungry, voracious, deep, abiding love.
So I’m definitely buying a car in June. If neither of us has a romance in Fall, I’m driving out to see the New England colors, and Maine (lighthouses!), VERMONT (I’ve always dreamed of seeing Vermont!), at long last New York, and a boy I call Rhode Island.