Her Royal Highness

"I lead from the heart, not the head.... someone has to love people, and show it."

-her royal highness, Princess Lady Diana

21, 20 & 15 years ago

To the left is the only photo in my possession evidencing that I was a little punker chick in the 80's. I was fourteen years old, and was the go-to person to buy booze on the weekend. Apparently, I looked older than 14. I am in the photo booth with some pimply faced gay kid who was trying to look like Robert Smith from the Cure, I tore his face of a long time ago. I barely knew him and cannot recall his name. I am wearing the first piece of jewelry that my father ever made. He found a piece of smooth oval brown sea glass on the beach, and set it in silver and gave it to my mother. I still have the setting, but the stone was lost years ago. I still mourn that loss.

In the center is a photo of me, after I had left home and was on my own essentially. I am in the photo booth with my mother, she was visiting me in Texas from Wisconsin... I do not remember where she stayed, probably with some of her Christian friends. I was fifteen. Nice ketchup stain or something in the middle of my face on this one, and also taken before I got braces put on, which happened when I was two years older. I think I like this photo the best, because it was the year that I realized life was no joke, and was exactly what I made of it.

And to the right is me in the photo booth with my dear friend and roomate, Jette (not her birth name) She came from old money, and had been a roadie and band manager as well as a heroin addict for several years. She was thirty. I was not an addict, actually, I was a preschool teacher, don't i look like a nice teacher? I was twenty years old. I got my hair cut in the West Village by an Italian Buddhist named Vincenzo. He used to give me a discount because he liked the color of my hair. He was also a heroin addict.

Everyone tells me I should write a book of my life. Maybe I will, maybe they will make a movie of it. Who would play me, I wonder?

These are my favorite pictures of myself. They remind me of important times in my life. My very favorite photo of myself is currently M.I.A, I love photo booth photos.

If you don't know where to go

You can go STRAIGHT TO HELL. There you will meet Nick, and (possibly) Denny, EARL who writes in all caps and Free fer All Paul....who is a newcomer. This blog is only a couple of weeks old, and it is maintained by 3 or 4 guys who live together (maybe not Paul, I have not worked that one out yet.) They share a blog and fill up the comments section with good natured barbs. I have to tell you, one could spend an entire afternoon just catching up. The most recent post is brilliant, but they all have merit and every last one of them is R-A-W... Think Hulk Hogan, wrapped in John Belushi and covered in shrapnel. They are all Veterans, they all have a story to tell, and if your carburetor is broke, Paul's yer man. Now go, read this recent post, then start at the very beginning of the posts for a proper introduction, and tell 'em Infinitesimal sent ya.

Tree of Diamonds

K, I am gonna see my Gramma tomorrow because they are throwing her a huge 80th birthday surprise party up in the Northwoods where she lives (think: "Little House on the Prairie") Now think 2 story pink house on the corner of Hwy S and obscure road.... the one that leads by the crick a mile up.... when Mary used to make me go jogging with her so she could sneak cigarettes that she took from the cupbord of candy and smokes that Gramma sold to the "Guys" WWI and WWII vets who lived in the rooms upstairs. Oh, and Jim, he was retarded and never went to any war, but still lived as one of the guys. By the crick where sometimes was good fishing, but never any Muskies, you had to go to the river for them. And Mary swore she saw a black bear there, and made you run faster, it's coming!! But it was not as convincing as she thought because she had already been pegged for a liar and a thief, among other things.

Yeah, by that crick where I ran by myself one day to just get the hell away from Mary and how was I supposed to know, being from the plains in Texas, that when the sky is the color of a bruise, you do not go running down to the crick. We never heard of a creek up in the Northwoods, by the way, and when Great Uncle would play with all the great aunts and Gramma, him and all those guys would say "Tree, I got the Tree of Hearts, or Clubs, or Spades..... but I never did hear tell of no Tree of Diamonds.

Note to self: when you are 12 years old, and you want to go for a long run around the block (4 miles is a country block up Nort) [...and ya gotta CLIP that "T" when you say where you are up there, up Nort.] when you goes for a long-ass run Self, make sure you look at the sky, because if it is a deep angry purple up there at 4 in the afternoon in the Summer... Do Not, and let me repeat myself, to myself... DO NOT go jogging merrily down the road, towards the crick. Self, also please take heed when you see the farmer pulling up his tractor from the field half harvested. No farmer pulls the tractor up before the field is cleaned... and when he waves frantically after you, do not think "Hmmm, what a friendly guy!!" as you wave cheerfully and enthusiastically right back at him and his overalls.

Perhaps, take pause, while considering stopping after mile 3 for a cold soda at the tavern where the guys all go to grab extra smokes on the sly because Gamma has cut them off at 2 pacs a day....but no never drink there, could interfere with the medications they all have in single serving cups on the formica kitchen table where they all gather to eat before the family takes the leftovers, or maybe Gramma sits in rocking chair by the cast iron wood burning stove and eats with them.

Gramma always got up around 5:30 am to make breakfast on that stove with eggs I gathered the day before from hens (all colors) who eyed me up that first day, and even though everyone swore they would just let my 8 year old hand go in and take their babies encased in shells, their mean glaring eyes told me differently, and I always whispered "sorry" to each one, as I took in the double yokers to gramma, who would fry them up in a cast iron skillet using the lard that she rendered in the fall of that last year. (By the way, you will need PLENTY of toilet paper crammed up your nose if you are going to try to breathe when Gramma makes homemade lard.)

She got migraines and requested milktoast to calm the nausea, every so often. A course, she called them 'headaches' and they got better once the massive brain tumor was removed about ten years ago. She could be a real bitch, but it was not until she started speaking in her own language, that anyone figured maybe she should have her head examined.

Gramma did not complain much. She married Granpa when she was 18 and he was home from the war, age 31. She just wanted to get the hell out of the house with her crazy Gramma who peed in the milk that my Gramma had to beg the neighbors for when she was 12 in the middle of the depression in the middle of the Nortwoods... when the family was starving and borrowed milk was all they had. She bought the cheapest wedding dress she could find for 50 bucks in the Sears and Roebucks catalog, (It is the most loveliest wedding gown I have ever seen.... all satin ivory with tiny satin buttons an loops all down the back, a hundred of them.) Her brother, Edwin, married my Granpa's sister, Della, and Della is one of my favorite people on this Earth. GOD I love Della. She will get her own post one day. Gramma and Granpa first had my Mom, and then had a son. After that, it was 4 more daughters, and everyone knows you need a bunch of sons to run a good farm. So, before he died, when I was 4, Granpa started the business of caring for vets, and sold the cows.

I still remember the strange hollow feel of the massive barn that yet had hay, and tons of swallows in the loft with the rope swing up on the hill where the well used to be that my Mom had to go fetch water from the pump to heat on the stove and place in a basin to wash all her siblings and then, finally herself on bath day. Behind the barn was the field, also abandoned where I would pick daisies and sometimes try to catch bunnies in the tall prairie grass. Gramma wanted the daisies to put into jars full of food dye so they would turn pink and blue, like the favored colors she told me on my cell today as I rode the bus downtown to the bank and kept her company, breathless and walking up the capitol hill.

Tomorrow I am going to celebrate Gramma's birthday at a big surprise party... her birthday is in November.

So there I am, jogging 23 years ago, and waving to frantic farmers, and dreaming of cool sodas in smoky taverns that smell like an old man's unwashed balding head... I turn the corner in the road from mile one and begin mile two. Addendum to note to Self: ....when the sky is the purple color of a fresh bruise, make sure you peer around the corner on mile two, and instead of thinking that you just made it past the woods where Mary claims to have seen the black bear... make sure you take a look-see up in the sky and make sure around the corner is not the pea-green color of a week -old bruise. Because self, if you take a peek at the sky, before you make that turn, you could get an idea that maybe green is not a color of a sky you want to be jogging under.

But really, I did not understand the waving farmer packing it in before the rain hit, (what's a little rain?) until I fully rounded that corner and saw what was in my path... the meanest, largest, blackest, fattest, tornado I have ever, ever seen. Like, ever.

"Shit" I think I cussed, as I turned and hauled ass, back the one and a quarter mile I had to go to make it safely to that pink 2 story house... the only building for miles around.

But as I glanced over my shoulder every other minute, I saw that fat-nasty fucker gaining on me, tearing down the mile, straight for me. And just when I figgered I better LITERALLY hit the ditch and wondered what sort of position one takes when posturing in a pasture.... The gravel road begins to spit at me, and I look up, in the direction of the house, to see Gramma, (her CB handle was "Leadfoot") and yes, she had a working CB in her blue station wagon with the fake wood paneling on the sides. "GET IN!!!!!!!!!!!!" she shouts at me, as the car spins out in a 180 and the door to the passenger side flies wide open. I dive into the car and Gramma is quite seriously halfway home on that gravel road before I even get the door shut.

She clucks me into the root cellar where everyone in the house (Bozo the toy bulldog and Trixie the toy pomeranian included... and that one orange cat that shat in Mary's new shoes that one time and I wished I could find it then, after she damn near broke it's back with the broom so I could slap it a high cat-five in appreciation.)

Once everyone heard I had been "jogging" in the worst tornado anyone could remember ever coming up Nort, well, they just shook their heads at me, and muttered something, sounded like: "Texans."

And that is the story of how Gramma saved my life.

For her birthday I made her a pink crystal and pearl bracelet, and a blue one too. I bought her a silk deep misty blue tracksuit (high end, but only 25 bucks at a sample sale downtown today) I also wrapped her french lavender bath products and one of them loofa sponge things. I put in a hand pump of my favorite soap, lime coconut... I got her some leather moccasin slippers (real nice) at a street sale for a DOLLAR!!!!! ummm what else, oh a stained glass window hanging, an embroidered purse pocket mirror and extra fancy super delux handmade toffee covered in milk chocolate and dusted with almond crumbs... and also two peanut butter truffles too. Now, Gramma is diabetic, but she cheats, and I figger, cheat big, or go home.

I got her a bunch of presents, because I think it is fun to unwrap birthday gifts when you are 80, and have 5 or six great-grandchildren. I got her a lot of gifts hoping one would make her smile. I have rarely seen her smile over a gift, she usually says "Ack, why do your spend your money? buy me tissues next time, I can use those."

Well, that's about all. I'll see yous guys innabout tree days or so, ya?

GAWD!!!!!!!

Would you like to know what is worse than having an assignment from a teacher who is rude and has no faith in you? I'll tell ya, it is an assignment from a teacher who thinks you are (one of) the best in the class.

So, I had to get an extension on my last project for group procedures class. I had just finished my statistics class and needed the extra time due to migraines mostly. And wouldn't you know I got ultra mega hella migraines all weekend and most of this week.

In an earlier conversation, the professor (Dr.) said that I should just turn in any old crap and that (not in these exact words) my crappy project would be just as good if not better than most other people's projects.... this speaks volumes for the educational system in America, because I am lazy and almost never live up to my true potential. It's sad, really, because writing is my strongest suit.

Yeah, so, I once as an undergrad had the evil Dr. E as a teacher and she clearly despised me, she told me I would be lucky to get a C. She was rude and just a real bitch to me. And so my APA style research paper that she assumed would be crap, actually surprised her and I got an A. I used up-to-the minute research and proved my theory even though she said I would not be able to. But as I read it over after I graduated, it was embarrassing to me, how juvenile the whole thing seemed to read.

But that was last year, fast forward to today. My absolute favorite teacher ahem... professor... is teaching his last class before he becomes department chair. I write down everything this guy says, because his lectures go at my speed, and every word he says is golden information.

So I emails him Monday to tell him about headache central over here, and to explain that I will need the full week (until Thursday) to complete the project... a 7 part instruction manual on how to lead a therapy group for people who have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. This includes a literary review and 6 workable session descriptions, and then I am adding a last section that is not required.

And anyway, my problem is thus:

I already have an A.

Like here is the email I got on Monday in reply to my request for a Thursday deadline:

"OK..... Glad you are feeling better..... I will be leaving town Friday aft ... so, as long as I have it before then I can give you the grade you deserve ....an "A" ....."

Seems my classwork was enough for the grade and this is just a formality... handing in the manual.

BUT now I have NO PRESSURE, and it makes me want to do my absolute best....

Enter in Super Hella Mega migraine today (Wednesday) and I lost the whole day, and now I am procrastinating writing this dumb diatribe instead of writing about the comorbidity of PTSD and addiction.

I also need to do depression and anger.

I can turn in any old crap, but I will stay up all night to hand in a polished piece that I can be proud of.

And it is 20 minutes to one in the morning right now!

Goodnight Irene!!!!!!!!

What it is.

OK, I WILL NOW TELL YOU HOW IT IS:

For starters, the Bush Family is friends with the Bin Laden family.
The physics behind 9-11 in New York, clearly indicate that the twin towers did NOT collapse due to a plane crashing into them, in fact, the twin towers were actually CONSTRUCTED to withstand such an event.

There were a significant amount of explosives in the ground floor, and the load bearing beams (vertical) were hauled to China and melted down so as not to provide evidence of the planted explosives. Whoever authorized the explosives to be planted there, (It must have been an inside job) did not want the evidence of a planted bomb, and so proceeded to enter the crime scene (ground zero) and removed evidence. All I can think, was that would require an executive order.

Well, Bin Laden was seen on video for a few months and then suddenly the American public was supporting an invasion of Iraq to oust Saddam Hussein. Well, the culture of Iraq was erroded, the American bombers REPEATEDLY "accidentally" bombed museums, universities, research labs, and libraries. If you do not believe it, I do not care, this is my effing blog and I saw it on video, I posted links to all this information, and how you can see for yourself in previous posts. Now I am just reiterating just how it really is going down.

Meanwhile, Iran was getting ready to defend itself with nuclear arms.
As far as gaining entry to Iran, we first tried with Afghanistan, (The Bin-Laden smokescreen) however, USA quickly realized that Iraq would be easier to take in a fight, so suddenly, we manufactured a "War on Terror"
The patriot act was approved by congress, my super fabulous crush dreamy Senator RUSS FIENGOLD was the only ONLY person to vote NO on the patriot act.... and so it was passed and our freedoms and rights as US citezens began to erode. Soon all Americans will be required to carry the REAL ID card which will contain a computer chip with GPS tracking technology. You will not be allowed to purchase gas or other goods without first showing the REAL ID card.

Interestingly enough, Russ Feingold's office was the only one to have been targeted with ANTHRAX... the ONLY SENATOR'S OFFICE TO BE TARGETED BY "TERRORISTS" WAS ALSO THE ONLY ONE TO OPPOSE THE PATRIOT ACT. THE PATRIOT ACT BASICALLY GIVES THE EXECUTIVE BRANCH OF OUR GOVERNMENT CARTE BLANCHE AUTHORITY. They can do anything they want y'all as long as there is a declared state of war. And as a side note, Russ also was an activist in campaign finance reform. As soon as the bill was about to be passed restricting the amount of money one single candidate could put forth in a presidential campaign, Ol' Hillary Clinton was asking him where the loopholes were, and how could she circumvent the law. Just so you know, Obama is the honest candidate, and Hillary is not who she seems to be.


(*the great* HOWARD ZINN ON FIENGOLD, HILLARY, AND THE PROPOSED CENSURING OF BUSH)

And so the war on terror rages on, through Iraq and now finally entering Iran. Soldiers have been reporting for years about covert operations to lay pipeline underground from Iraq ro Iran, when they questioned their mission, they were told that it was top secret. Well, today we have come out in the open with it, we just paid Iran for permission to lay more pipe. I wonder what we said to them to scare them into submission.... And so, there is a lot of oil in Iran, and once we have it, we will have won, and end the "War on Terror." AND THAT, IN A HORRIFIC NUTSHELL, IS HOW IT IS. THE OIL WILL THEN BE SPLIT BETWEEN BRITISH PETROLEUM (BP) AND SHELL OR WHATEVER GAS OUTLET IS CURRENTLY OWNED BY THE BUSH CONGLOMERATE.

And now, here is the grat speaker and thinker: Howard Zinn, author, teacher, veteran, historian, cultural anthropologist, and humanist.

If you think you are too busy to watch all four of these right now, then you are dumb.

HOWARD ZINN, "JUST WAR"
Part One


Part Two



Patr Three


Part Four

HumDingers

Postsecret has some good secrets posted this week... I concur with the above!

Is the older lover male or female? hmmmmm, male suggests incest, but female suggests opening a delicate flower of feminism, or some such crap, I mean, is is wrong to be into someone who has similar DNA?
Anyway, my money is on it being lesbos.

Uhm.... sucks in breath.... Oh--------Kaaaaaay.... not much to be said here besides the obvious, was this free-range penis, or was it captured in the wild? Perhaps it was penned and fed non-nutritive feed until it was plump enough to be roasted.
And what kind of spice to you use for such a dish? ROSEMARY? Cracked Black Pepper, a little lemon butter sauce.... What????