So, we've established that weird things happen when I'm unconscious, to the point where this morning I briefly considered renaming my blog "Ponies and Dreams", since those are the topics that get touched upon most often. But don't worry, you will get more than that, whether you want it or not. A friend told me my blog needs to be more focused, and he's probably right, but my goal here is to give you a fair representation of myself (and take over Antarctica, let's not forget that), not to get a book published and make money. I don't need a blog to write a book. So you'll be getting the Linda Roulette wheel, everytime.
I suspect that wheel looks rather a lot like this.
Anyways, I bet you're wondering about the exploding frogs. And pit vipers. Sorry if there was confusion--there are no exploding pit vipers. The frogs will have to do.
Last night involved a good number of fairly vivid dreams. Thank you, subconscious for working out everything while I'm asleep. I wouldn't mind it as much if I wasn't still a panicky wreck when I'm awake. After the "I have to go back to high school to make up a few credits that I'm missing before I can get into college" dream, I had one this morning wherein I was creating a weapon that involved pit vipers and exploding frogs. I don't remember the entire thing, which either makes this better or worse. Either way, I had this large steel mesh basket full of the pit vipers and I had to boil them one or two at a time. I was doing this in my Dad's garage, for reasons unknown to the universe. I think I may have been boiling them in a water/gunpowder solution. I'm not really sure, but I do know it didn't hurt the vipers at all. And of course, they kept slipping out and I had to keep catching them and throwing them back in the pot until they were done. And somehow a couple of characters from "Rent" were involved.
Specifically, these two, played by these actors. I have no idea what they were doing there.
Anywho, once the pit vipers were boiled, I stuck them into some sort of container with the exploding frogs with a ratio of one viper to one frog. I'm not sure exactly what the container was. I think it might have just been a sack, although the hubby said he was picturing something more high tech. Pretty much the way the thing worked was like this:
1) Throw the bag
2) Frog explodes
3) Angry pit viper escapes from bag
4) ???
5) Profit
Also, there was apparently a flood. Swimming after the the escaped vipers and picking then up with the tongs I found Dad's garage was not fun at all. I'm also not sure why they didn't bite me. And, of course, I have no idea what a drag queen had to do with any of this.
Somehow, this was not a nightmare.
On a side note, since I'm now unemployed, posts might be popping up more often.
COMING SOON: Compare and contrast of old vs. new studio space! Sailor Moon! More tuna! Less penguins! and Plans for the domes in Antarctica!
So, some of you have witnessed the banter that occurs between myself and my husband. Some of you may have fallen victim to it on facebook, which is particularly terrifying because it's usually not planned.
Don't worry, though, sometimes we fall victim to it ourselves, and it winds up sounding like a Sifl and Olly segment.
I debated between this one, Civil War Corpses, and Hooker Monkeys.
And then you wind up with conversations like last night. I don't even know how it got started, I think we were talking about something and then Jay said, "That's the title of a blog post." Whatever it was was good, but not quite right, and I said so. I honestly can't remember what it was, but the follow up statement is really what matters. "But every other blog post is about ponies, isn't it?"
"No it isn't! There's only, like, two."
"But every other post involves ponies."
"Does not!"
"What about the dream sequence one?"
"That was a unicorn, not a pony!"
"It was a ponycorn."
"Spike is not a ponycorn, he's a unicorn. There's a huge difference."
"Spike thinks he's a ponycorn."
"No he doesn't, he's a unicorn."
At this point I feel it pertinent to remind the audience that Spike is a plush pink unicorn. He can't think, he's not alive. We're arguing about what a plush toy thinks it is. This has gone far enough. The subject is changed.
Spike definitely thinks he's a unicorn.
Twenty minutes later:
"Every other post is NOT about ponies."
"Well, you mention them a lot."
"That doesn't count. It's only, like, two."
"Oh, it has to be more than that."
"I bet you it's only two."
"Whatever."
"Oh, we should totally watch Friendship is Magic during movie night this week! You totally owe me a pony now."
A bit later, we've discovered that the dvd that comes with some of the ponies is a mini one that probably won't play in our player. I have decided that I have enough ponies. Although, if I do get any more from the current toy run, I want the Applejack Fashion Pony.
No ponies for Linda.
Later that night....
"Every other post is not about ponies."
I think you get the idea. Anyhoo, the official count is two posts about ponies, and two posts that mention ponies in passing, and the unicorn bit doesn't count, because unicorns aren't ponies. So, honey, when you read this, I was right. There are only two posts about ponies, and there's a total of like 27, so there! And this post doesn't count, since it didn't exist at the time of the argument.
But since we're on the topic of ponies, anyway, I finally watched the first couple of episodes of the new My Little Pony show, Friendship is Magic. This show is freaking awesome, and you should totally watch it. Here, let me help you with that.
Behold, twenty-two minutes of awesome!
I totally identify with Twilight Sparkle, although I swear, sometimes I'm channeling Pinkie Pie, which absolutely terrifies me. Still, I find this one much more entertaining than the original and the animation is wonderful. I think its massive internet following is almost justified.
So, I often have adventures in my sleep. Usually, it's just wacky fun dreams, but occasionally, well...things happen. I didn't realize how much until I got married. I mean there was that one dream when I was kid and I was chasing this jerk at the bus stop and I simultaneously slapped him in the dream and my window shade in real life, thus waking myself up, but for the most part, I always thought I was pretty quiet. You know, maybe a bit of snoring here, a brief incomprehensible mumble there, nothing weird.
That is not the case.
Now, I'm not a somnambulist or anything, but things do happen from time to time. I've instructed the hubby to tell me in the morning so I know about my adventures and our conversations. Usually it's a bit of talking--I'll ask a seemingly normal question, he'll answer, I'll follow up with utter nonsense, he'll tell me to go back to sleep, and I will. Whatever I say is completely unrelated to whatever I'm dreaming. I ask about unicorns? I'm dreaming about my teeth falling out. There's no correlation or pattern at all. This is on maybe a monthly basis, and depends in part on my stress level (the more freaked out I am the worse it gets). However, there have been a couple of incidents where things went a bit further. In the interest of entertainment, I shall now relay these to you in semi chronological order.
I had recently started working at a bookstore and things at work were a bit intense. Lots of books. The section I ran had a higher volume coming in than most of the rest of the store, so I'd been busting my butt putting out merchandise. One night, I awoke the husband, picking at his shorts. When he told to me stop it, I then commenced making the same motion in the air. When he asked what I was doing, I responded, "Just one more box. Just one more box."
I was shelving books in my sleep. That's gotta be sign of something.
The next one I often deny and blame on my darling hubby. I was innocently sleeping, having one of "those" dreams, when I was slowly awakened by my husband working to make that dream a reality. When I finally realized I was conscious I was very confused. "What are you doing?" I said groggily. "This is nice but I'm way too tired."
His confusion was even greater than mine. Apparently, I'd started it. In my sleep.
The most recent one, however, cracked me up. You see, when the hubby's out and I have to go to sleep by myself, I often take a stuffed toy to bed, sort of as a stand in to cuddle until he gets back. Childish, I know, but he thinks it's cute, and it makes it easier to fall asleep. Also, I'm a grown up, so I can do whatever I want. Usually he pulls the plush from me and places it on my nightstand or the headboard. The other night, he forgot to do this. Now, the favored toy is a pink unicorn he got for me for Valentine's Day one year, and this was the toy in question on this particular night. I reportedly woke him up, shoving the unicorn (Spike) at him, urging him to take it. When pressed, he couldn't recall my exact words, but apparently I was really convinced that he needed the unicorn for some reason.
I really wish I knew what I was thinking sometimes.
As many of you know, the hubby and I recently acquired a house. We're still in the process of moving in, but I have to say, I love my house.
I really love my my house.
Did I mention I love my house? Anyway, I thought I'd share some of the joy with you guys, post some pics and describe some of our plans, and likes and dislikes. Well, not dislikes. There really aren't any of those. I mean, there's a few minor things, like there's too many plants in the yard (they've not got any room to breathe and could be arranged more aesthetically), and we have a fireplace we'll never really use, but nothing that we actually dislike. Anyway, if there was it wouldn't matter--we own the place, so we can fix stuff like toilets (which were a problem in the previous domicile).
Anyway, let's go on a tour. We'll skip some of the more boring parts, like hallways. Also, I just realized I forgot to take a picture of the part of my studio that's in the garage. Ah well, maybe I'll do a comparison between old and new later.
Behold! Awesome house is awesome!
And to your left is the first floor master bedroom with massive closet and comfortably large bathroom.
You'll pass a half bath, Narnia, and the stairs and enter the living room...
...and kitchen! There's a nice laundry closet in the kitchen. Convenient and surprisingly quiet.
As we head up the aforementioned stairs, you'll notice the half bath and a closet. Inside this closet, you will find...
...a portal to Narnia! Well, actually it just goes under the stairs. But Narnia is more fun.
The stairs wrap around nicely to make a great landing for the cat the hang out on.
At the top of the steps there's the loom room. The morning light is awesome. Too bad I hate mornings.
You also have a lovely view of the living room from upstairs. The floorplan is delightfully open. Upstairs we have two bedrooms, similar to the master, minus the bathroom and with slightly smaller closets.
I'll spare you the rest of the upstairs, but I would like to point out this closet in the upstairs bath that I didn't even know existed until we'd been sleeping in the house for two weeks.
So, heading back downstairs and through the kitchen, we can step out into our fenced backyard (the one with too many plants).
Most of the plants have flowers, though, so at least it's pretty.
And the highlight of the yard for me is the lily hiding in the corner. I love lilies.
Things will be a bit neater and more comfy once we're in all the way, obviously, but the house itself has a very cheerful and calming air about it. Just walking in is like a breath of fresh air. We have lots of space to run around in and there's plenty of windows, so it's not all dark like the apartment was. And, of course, we're free of the tyrannical landlord at the house, and we also don't have the trash issues we had at the apartment. The neighbors I've met so far are all very nice, and half the neighborhood has kids. I like living in a neighborhood where it's safe for the kids to play outside, even at night.
So, after a recent trip to North Carolina for a dear friend's wedding, I've realized that some of you may not have even realized how much I hate the place, while others have only gotten the impression that I would rather perform recreational dentistry on myself than go there. That, combined with the small flashbacks I'm having after my trip has prompted me to go ahead and get it all out, in the hopes that 1) It will make me feel better and 2) if nothing else when people ask I can point them here and keep the rest buried so I don't have to think about it.
In 2008, the hubby and I moved to Greenville, NC so I could attend graduate school. I was very excited. Their metals area was huge (four faculty members!) and two of the professors were veritable legends in the field--indeed, I was quite the fan of one of them. It was a small town and I knew there would be some adjusting, since it was my first time away from home, but I was confident I could deal with anything they could throw at me.
I was wrong.
Now, I know one of my mistakes was not visiting the area first, but, in my defense, the crap that was wrong with the place is not stuff I'd've noticed in the couple of days I could've spent there. No one expects the Spanish Inquisition, you know. If I had visited, my conclusion would've been, "Well, it's not great, but I can live here for a couple of years."
There were two major cultural issues--the first was with the university, the second was dealing with people outside of the school. Unlike many of my classmates, my husband was NOT an artist or a student, so he was stuck trying to find work and make friends with the townies. Not an enviable task. That, combined with my well rounded nature and interest in more than just art meant that I got to experience both the University and Greenville in all their glory.
My undergraduate experience had been, I was to find out, quite atypical for art school. My professors were kind, enthusiastic and really cared about their students. They encouraged everyone to do their best and it was an incredibly positive experience. I left there with a wide variety of skills, competence, and confidence in my work. I look back at that time in my life very fondly.
Graduate school, on the other hand, looked more like this:
Well, minus the serial killer, although there was a fatal shooting about a block away from the art building my first summer there.
My work was repeatedly looked down on, while the work of my contemporaries--much of which was utter and hideous drivel--was highly praised. My careful attention to detail was compared to work which would have been unacceptable in my undergraduate program. For the first semester, I was stuck in the undergraduate studio with one other grad student (who I suspect they only put in there so it wouldn't look like they were singling me out). This room was filthy, poorly lit, and filled with highly annoying artists who would blare their godawful music throughout the shared space. To give you an idea of the filth level, my fellow grad student (who became the dear friend whose wedding I went back for) wound up having to go to the doctor multiple times because the vent over our head was spewing black particulate matter over our heads. By the second semester, it was decided that I needed to "remediate" and I was made to attend undergraduate classes because my skills weren't up to snuff (in spite of the fact that they were better than at least one fellow grad student who would be graduating that year). The grad room was moved so as to accommodate more students after my first semester, and I basically had to sneak in and set up my space over night in order to avoid being stuck in the undergrad room again. While better lit, the new room still had people blaring what I like to refer to as "music to kill yourself to" and the fellow in the space next to me working in wood and perpetually spewed dust and crap over into my space. I actually had to rearrange my stuff so things didn't get ruined (I was also taking textiles classes for my electives). I was seeing campus counseling services and on medication by October 2008. I had had some previous trouble with depression before moving, but things reached critical mass in NC. With few friends, a negative and unhealthy working environment, chronic sleep deprivation (what kind of art school starts classes at eight in the morning?), and almost perpetual emotional abuse, it was really inevitable, I suppose. I haven't even mentioned one of the other professors in the department, who I can sum up with one picture:
Anyway, by February, not only was I halfway off my rocker, my mother in law was also killed in a car accident. By the end of March, my medication abruptly stopped working and the hubby found me rocking on the bathroom floor terrified to move because there were razors under the sink and if I moved I might get one and do something I would regret. This was followed by a five day stay in the psych ward at Pitt Community Hospital (did I mention that Greenville, NC is located in Pitt County? How appropriate) and there were multiple times through my time in NC that the hubby, God bless him, had to confiscate my sharp and pointy things. Pointy things at the studio were passed on to my one friend in the department.
At this point, I was really questioning whether or not I wanted to stay at all, but wanted to make the decision with a clearer head--obviously, I wasn't thinking straight.
By the end of my second semester, I wound up transferring downstairs to the textiles department. It was my choice, but I was strongly encouraged to make the move by the head of the metals department, mostly because she didn't want me in her department and I was too good to flunk out (obviously not the way she put it, but it was easy to tell). The textiles area was very welcoming (one of the girls actually wrote out "welcome!" in yarn in my new workspace) and the other students were much more open and friendly, in spite of my lack of experience in the field. The professors were also much better to work with. Still, the damage had already been done, and by the end of my third semester I had decided to leave. Unfortunately, the lease on our apartment wasn't up until July, so I remained in school so we could get loan money to pay the bills.
I would also like it noted that the entire time I was there, I was continually left out of graduate student activities and events. I wasn't able to get an assistantship my first year because I didn't even know who to ask to get one until after the deadline passed. The only way I found out about meetings or requirements was because one of the few friends I had mentioned it in passing. Periodically, the graduate coordinator would require something from us--the only time I found out was when I received a nasty gram demanding to know why it hadn't been done. I always responded with, "This is the first I've heard of it. Maybe you should put me on your mailing list." This lasted the entire time I was there. I actually got one such message demanding a list of my accomplishments for the year or I wouldn't be able to register for classes in the spring--after I had told the guy in person that I was leaving.
I left graduate school with no confidence in my work, massive emotional scars, and a boiling pit of rage deep inside.
And that's the university, which was better than town.
Greenville, NC is not the place they're talking about when you hear about how great Greenville is. It is a poverty stricken, racist, rude, and unthinkably ignorant ghetto. It is the only place I have ever been where I was looked down on by clerks because of the color of my skin, and the only place I have ever seen a white man motion with his head for a black woman to get out of his way and the woman actually do it, without going off on his ass. If I was out with the husband or he was out alone, panhandlers would ask us for money. The campus McDonald's actually had a regular "bum" who would come up to you and mumble unintelligibly asking for money. I once saw him sitting in his car (which was nicer than mine at the time) talking on his cell phone. There were shootings on a regular basis, there actually was a black part of town and people were just plain creepy. You'd start talking with them, and then realize halfway through the conversation they were talking about something completely different. For example, one night I was buying fabric for class at Walmart and got talking with the clerk about the weirdos they get in there. I was referring to the roving groups of thugs who looked like they were looking for someone to mug or rape (or both). She was talking about the flaming gay couple walking around having fun. Needless to say, I was rather shocked, and got my shit and got out pretty quick. I found the couple comforting, like a taste of home. Because it was a small town, shopping options were very limited. Service was terrible. We once had to wait 45 minutes to get a carry out order at Captain D's, and when my husband was waiting for them to correct it, they told him to get out of the way. One of our very few townie friends told us about one of the barbecue restaurants that had two entrances, leftover from when it was segregated. People still used the entrances as designed.
And then factor in the road "system." See, in North Carolina, roads are laid out as inconveniently as possible. For example, it took at least twenty minutes to get anywhere in Greenville. Not unreasonable, you might think. Wikipedia has Greenville's population at around 84,000. My hometown has a population of almost 296,000, and you can get most places in about twenty minutes. Greenville has two railroad lines. So does my hometown. You can't get anywhere in Greenville without crossing at least of of these lines, both of which have a lot of rail traffic. I can think of one street that I use with any frequency that you ever actually have to stop for a train at here at home. Also, the train doesn't stop while crossing the road, back up, and then repeat that four or five times. Greenville is the only place I know of where you can drive a couple miles in the direction the train is going--lots of traffic, btw--and cross the tracks again on another road before the train gets there. Roads there end, and then start back up a block later. There was actually one road that you could get on, expecting it to join up later with another road of the same name, and it dead ended about ten feet from the other one. And this whole road thing is a statewide thing. We'd make day trips to Raleigh, and there were some places that you could only get to by making u-turns. Mapquest, would actually say, make a u-turn. We couldn't go anywhere without getting lost. You'd think you were going north when you were really going south, you'd be driving down one road and suddenly find yourself on another, blocks away from where you were supposed to be--without turning.
On the rare occasion things weren't going wrong and you actually started to think, well, maybe things will be okay, something would always come up and completely blindside you.
Now, I will admit that not everyone has experiences like this in the state, and that not everyone I met was a terrible person, or a really terrible artist. I'll also admit, that some portions of the state are better than others. But when that much shit goes wrong in that short of a time span, it is hard not to be biased. And honestly, most of the experiences I have had in North Carolina have been less than pleasant, even those unrelated to this one. This isn't even everything that happened there, just the high points (or low points, if you will). If you think I'm exaggerating or overreacting, please, talk to my husband. He'll tell you I'm downplaying it because I've blocked most of the experience. I'd also like to point out that I can't go to the state now without having at least one panic attack, usually when I've stopped driving and have actually thought about where I am. I did make a couple a very good friends while I was there, and I learned a lot about myself, but it was, without a doubt, the worst two years of my life, and will probably remain so. I will not return willingly to Greenville (the wedding I went back for was in the western part of the state) and while I would feel sad if the few friends who are still there died or were injured, I would not shed a tear if a hurricane wiped the place off the map.
So yeah, that's why I hate North Carolina, and why I'd like to see half of it drop into the sea.
NEXT TIME: Domestic Bliss! Pictures of the house! Narnia!
Howdy all! Just had it pointed out to me by the Darling Husband that it'd been a while since I last posted and I was all, "Oh crap, now the invisible cats are going to be shredding the drapes and pooping all over the place because I haven't fed them or changed their litter box in forever!"
Unfortunately, life is happening right now, so I have precious little to report. I'm still injured (but improving!), so much of my spare time is spent doing physical therapy exercises or huddling with a heat pad. We're also still in the process of moving (there will be pics!) and we don't have internet at the house yet, so I have to return to our crappy apartment to access the tubes.
There are no chairs at the apartment. I think you can see the problem there.
Still, I do want all four of my loyal, loyal invisible cats to know that there will be more lols, more art, and I haven't forgotten the plan regarding Antarctica.
And on that note, I'm signing off. My knees are getting sore.
So, for those of you who don't see me on a regular basis, I have thoroughly jacked up my beloved left shoulder. I have no idea how I did this, although the diagnosis gives me the impression that it was life in general. I have bursitis/tendinitis and scapular dyskinesis. The former is what you get when you do the same thing over and over for months/years on end. The latter, which would make a pretty cool band name, means that instead of moving sideways, my left shoulder blade moves out. This is actually visible to the naked eye, although I've been to lazy to try, and the darling husband has expressed negative interest in seeing it. Still, it is the first time I've been diagnosed with something cool sounding. They took xrays and everything. Of course, there's nothing actually wrong with my shoulder bones. Nope, nothing unusual at all.
Except my humerus, which is the one part of my left arm that I have never had trouble with at all.
Yeah, so there's this weird mass in my humerus. I'm all, okay, huh, should I worry?
Doctor's all, probably nothing but we should take an MRI just in case. Insert horses vs zebras metaphor here. It made perfect sense at the time, but in retrospect is just a bit odd. And we'll wait to start you on physical therapy until afterwards.
Have you ever had an MRI? Those of you who have may skip this portion. You know the terror. As for the rest of you, permit me to detail my experience. Imagine, if you will, having to remove all metal from your body. Jewelry? Has to go. Belt? No good. I mean, seriously, the paperwork they give you for what to expect even says to wear a sports bra if you're a girl. 'Cause the scan's done with magnets, and bad things will happen. This is what you're told, before you even walk through the door. So, I get in there. I don't own a sports bra that will fit over my massive hooters, so I've got an underwire on. I'm going to work after this, so I'm wearing jeans, with a metal zipper and button.
No problem. Thank you, pamphlet of doom, for making me panic. Of course, maybe if they were scanning my midsection this would have been a problem and the magnetic power would have dragged me around in it like a dryer. I don't know.
So, then they put this huge heavy thing on my shoulder (why, yes, that shoulder, the one that is in constant pain). If I had two of those I could play football and destroy the other team just by tapping them with my shoulders. Then they lay me down on this skinny table, put huge fluffy earring protectors on my head, and step out of the room.
Then the fun really starts. The table moves backwards, and you notice that the part of the table that moves is ever so slightly narrower than you thought, so your hands drag along the sides. And then you go into a tiny tube, the top of which is about an inch away from your face.
I am claustrophobic, so I shut my eyes after getting a glimpse of this, so I can't see how closed in I actually am. Also, because I've seen way too many movies, I imagine the machine to be far longer than it actually is.
What I imagine.
What actually is.
So, I'm in this tiny space counting panda bears, waiting for it to be over, and then the noise starts. I cannot accurately describe this sound, so go here, turn the volume on your computer all the way, plug in your headphones and listen to sample one for a realistic simulation. (not responsible fore hearing damage incurred.) Add to this a bizarre whopping sound when the machine is not actively scanning, and you have a pretty shitty morning indeed.
Now, this whole time I'm laying on this horrible shoulder thinggy in just the wrong way, and it really hurts. Knowing that they'll have to pull me out before it's done because the doctor wants one with contrast and one without, I'm thinking, oh, I can sit up and adjust when they finally pull me out of this tiny hell.
Only if I want them to start all over, it turns out. I remain in my agonizing position, the girl gives me an injection, and shoves me back in the tube.
I have a new life goal of never getting an MRI ever again.
Follow up with my doctor (wherein I forget the CD of my MRI they gave and discover they only sent over the radiologist's report and not the actual image):
"Yeah, the radiologist says it's nothing to worry about. I still want to see the MRI, though, so go to PT for four weeks and bring the disc the next time you see me."
Yay.
And of course, I can't get an appointment that isn't during work until next week, which means that from the time I first went to the doctor to the time I start PT will have been a delightful 16 days, a third of which were sick days from work (I now have approximately one hour of sick time left), three of which were spent in or on the way to North Carolina, and the rest of which were spent at work on restricted duty. I can't do over the shoulder work, or lift more than five pounds.
I work in a bookstore.
Fortunately, my employers are kind and patient. Very patient, because I can't take the really good meds and drive (or think, or do anything but sleep for that matter) and so I've been in constant pain for about two weeks now. I'd say it's been running between a three and an eight on the better pain scale, depending on how much I'm moving my left arm. So, there I am at work, with an average pain level around five...dealing with customers.
I am happy to report that no one has died, although I did have to run outside and scream after helping one lady yesterday.
