Since my better half is hell-bent on not letting me sleep--unfortunately, not for fun reasons--I'm up again already, until he's had his fill of whatever the hell it is he's listening to downstairs. Actually, he's not only listening. Richter scales on the San Andreas are lighting up. Usually it's something like Pink Floyd or Jethro Tull, making the neighbors think he's on drugs. Tonight it's a newly discovered band a decidedly younger co-worker introduced to him....a band called Type O Negative, real-life vampires, he tells me.....and from the sounds of it, the neighbors NOW think he's on drugs AND has erected an altar to Satan in the basement, and is in the midst of Black Mass. So, not only am I expecting the police to show up.....but there might even be a Jesuit priest knocking at the door soon. I think I'm going to re-name him 'Regan', and I keep bracing myself to see him turn his head all the way around spewing pea soup.
Then there was the late-night text message from one of my friends....not the first I've received from her; but not for the first time since Friday night, I've found myself thinking about the three people who I am closest to--and Sigmund Freud.
I really am going somewhere with this. According to Freud, there are three distinct parts to one's personality: the id, the ego and the superego. (Admittedly, Freud had too many issues, too much time on his hands, and too much cocaine up his nose.) But I think I'm onto something here.
The Id, aka the pleasure principle. In my life, AKA Kelly. Kelly is the one who keeps me in touch with what Freud would call my primal instincts, even if she can't provoke me into giving in to them. (Lead me not into temptation; I can find it all by myself.)
The Ego, aka the reality principle. In my life, AKA Michelle. The one who has the ability to cut through the bullshit and tell it like it is.
The Super-Ego, aka the perfection principle. In my life--Rebecca by a long shot. Rebecca is the angel who sits on my shoulder; and how someone as fundamentally good as she is got mixed up with the fundamental turd I am is beyond me (actually, it's the Eighth Wonder of the World.) As is most relationships, I suppose that even in friendship--opposites attract. I wonder at it, but try not to question it too much--just realize that God really DOES love me--she is living proof.
Wait a minute........**listening**.......I don't hear the yawns of Hell beneath me anymore. The Exorcist must have arrived......
Monday, August 31, 2009
This is my first time....
.....and I didn't ever think I'd hear myself say THAT again.
Inspired by the blog of an old friend and encouraged by both old friends and new, I decided to start my own blog.....at least it's someplace where, if I see responses, at least I know that someone is interested in what I have to say (in this day and age, 'someone' will probably include Big Brother; and I may find myself blogging y'all from the Gulag Archipelago.)
Monday is my Saturday. Sunday afternoons at about three, I lapse into daydreams of just how I'd like to spend my weekends off; but since this is a family-friendly blog for the most part, I will refrain from posting those daydreams, except to say that they are distantly related to something part Animal House and part Ferris Bueller's Day Off. And I don't know which is sadder: the fact that not only do I not have the energy to partake in my daydreams--or that what gets me really, REALLY excited is the prospect of spending a few extra hours in bed......
Alone. Sleeping.
Not that I won't have ANYTHING warm and masculine in the bed....Oliver is both. Kevin Costner once said he liked warm, soft, wet kisses that last for three days......my puppy could have satisfied him on the soft and wet part; unfortunately, Ollie has canine ADD and does well to keep it up for three seconds, much less three days. Oh, well. In the words of Meatloaf: Two out of three ain't bad.
If I've got daydreams at about three on Sundays, by four I find myself have gone from great golden daydreams to the poet laureate of the Home Depot.....Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I am. I'll have to post the one I wrote yesterday, entitled, "Ode To The Bastard On Aisle Ten." If I should suddenly jump up on the Special Services desk and do a recitation of one of my works--(think Tom Cruise in 'Cocktail', standing on the bar with his bad self) I swear to God I'll tell my boss it's the Tourette's Syndrome talking.
Four thirty--the angst is apparent. I dare not look out the front doors; the sight of the parking lot and Highway 41 will give me a nervous twitch in my neck, and I will just barely resist the urge to press my face up against the glass and lick it.
Four forty-five--(tapping the face of my watch; is this thing still working?)
When five o'clock FINALLY rolls around, those of us who were just standing in a suicidal stupor up front--alot like Jack Nicholson after a few days at The Overlook in The Shining--are suddenly sprinting for the breakroom; if it were the Summer Olympics (the Special Olympics?) we'd win the Gold. And win it again when we reach the break room, if there was such an event as the Olympic shoving match. Smoke is coming out of the time clock, overloaded at the repetitive furious punches of the first shift, and it sounds not unlike the signature 'beeping' that a fighter pilot will hear when he's about to get blown out of the sky by a missile. (Ironically, we just got a new time clock about a month ago--it's been repaired twice already.) Sometimes I can even hear the desperation in (again) Tom Cruise's voice in Top Gun--plane crash scene: "Eject....eject, eject, eject, eject, eject!!".......but instead of 'Watch the canopy!!' I have to watch the break room door: one could very well get their nose broken as it swings inward by late-comers to the bail-out ball--usually the poor schmucks who work all the way down in Lumber.
And here it is only 'Saturday' night--and I think I've had the highlight of my weekend: I drove with my sunroof open. Listening to music that drove my parents crazy (call me a rebel, but I still feel a little like I'm flipping the bird at what Mom wanted me to conform to when I hear Guns N Roses. It's undeniable that I'm the only Hell my Mama ever raised......can't say the same for Daddy. He had a couple of bumper crops long before I was planted.)
So, at least by my mother's standards, I've had me a wild weekend. I drove with the sunroof open. Five miles over the speed limit. Listening to Guns N Roses.......
.......on my way to a PTA meeting.
Inspired by the blog of an old friend and encouraged by both old friends and new, I decided to start my own blog.....at least it's someplace where, if I see responses, at least I know that someone is interested in what I have to say (in this day and age, 'someone' will probably include Big Brother; and I may find myself blogging y'all from the Gulag Archipelago.)
Monday is my Saturday. Sunday afternoons at about three, I lapse into daydreams of just how I'd like to spend my weekends off; but since this is a family-friendly blog for the most part, I will refrain from posting those daydreams, except to say that they are distantly related to something part Animal House and part Ferris Bueller's Day Off. And I don't know which is sadder: the fact that not only do I not have the energy to partake in my daydreams--or that what gets me really, REALLY excited is the prospect of spending a few extra hours in bed......
Alone. Sleeping.
Not that I won't have ANYTHING warm and masculine in the bed....Oliver is both. Kevin Costner once said he liked warm, soft, wet kisses that last for three days......my puppy could have satisfied him on the soft and wet part; unfortunately, Ollie has canine ADD and does well to keep it up for three seconds, much less three days. Oh, well. In the words of Meatloaf: Two out of three ain't bad.
If I've got daydreams at about three on Sundays, by four I find myself have gone from great golden daydreams to the poet laureate of the Home Depot.....Elizabeth Barrett Browning, I am. I'll have to post the one I wrote yesterday, entitled, "Ode To The Bastard On Aisle Ten." If I should suddenly jump up on the Special Services desk and do a recitation of one of my works--(think Tom Cruise in 'Cocktail', standing on the bar with his bad self) I swear to God I'll tell my boss it's the Tourette's Syndrome talking.
Four thirty--the angst is apparent. I dare not look out the front doors; the sight of the parking lot and Highway 41 will give me a nervous twitch in my neck, and I will just barely resist the urge to press my face up against the glass and lick it.
Four forty-five--(tapping the face of my watch; is this thing still working?)
When five o'clock FINALLY rolls around, those of us who were just standing in a suicidal stupor up front--alot like Jack Nicholson after a few days at The Overlook in The Shining--are suddenly sprinting for the breakroom; if it were the Summer Olympics (the Special Olympics?) we'd win the Gold. And win it again when we reach the break room, if there was such an event as the Olympic shoving match. Smoke is coming out of the time clock, overloaded at the repetitive furious punches of the first shift, and it sounds not unlike the signature 'beeping' that a fighter pilot will hear when he's about to get blown out of the sky by a missile. (Ironically, we just got a new time clock about a month ago--it's been repaired twice already.) Sometimes I can even hear the desperation in (again) Tom Cruise's voice in Top Gun--plane crash scene: "Eject....eject, eject, eject, eject, eject!!".......but instead of 'Watch the canopy!!' I have to watch the break room door: one could very well get their nose broken as it swings inward by late-comers to the bail-out ball--usually the poor schmucks who work all the way down in Lumber.
And here it is only 'Saturday' night--and I think I've had the highlight of my weekend: I drove with my sunroof open. Listening to music that drove my parents crazy (call me a rebel, but I still feel a little like I'm flipping the bird at what Mom wanted me to conform to when I hear Guns N Roses. It's undeniable that I'm the only Hell my Mama ever raised......can't say the same for Daddy. He had a couple of bumper crops long before I was planted.)
So, at least by my mother's standards, I've had me a wild weekend. I drove with the sunroof open. Five miles over the speed limit. Listening to Guns N Roses.......
.......on my way to a PTA meeting.
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