Silly Posts

What Dreams May Come

In the interests of letting you get to know me, I feel like telling you this; I have oddly elaborate and emotive dreams. I suppose many people do, but I often recall mine, and I’m told that’s more rare. Here’s one I had yesterday afternoon, during a 90-minute nap on the sofa.

If you’ve seen either the BBC’s 1996(?) miniseries version of Pride and Prejudice, or their TV series Rome (2005?) you’ll know the actor who occupied most of the dream as Mr. Collins or Cicero, respectively. Because I was thinking of him as a weird hybrid of both IN the dream, I’m going to refer to him thus: as Mr.Collins/Cicero.

When the dream opened, a prisoner was being escorted into a large room. At one end, there were wooden benches and tables, and behind the tables, sat we, the senators/oligarchs/politicians of ancient Rome/19th-century England/Amandria. Each of us wore a garment not unlike a toga generally, but different in the specifics (for one thing, we were in various colours, and I believe senators of ancient Rome wore white togas–for another, a toga leaves one shoulder bare, and ours were covered). At any rate, we were clad in a manner unlike my present state of dress (rainbow plaid pyjama pants, Nerdasaurus t-shirt). We looked very official, and we were there on official business.

As the prisoner ascended a dais at the far end of the room, Mr. Collins/Cicero invited him to say anything in his own defence, if he had anything to say. That may have been a mistake; the prisoner spoke at length, and with an eloquence born of conviction and a deep, far-seeing intellect. The courthouse, as it was now clear this was, was packed full of avid listeners, and they alternately booed or applauded as he spoke; but it was clear, he was gaining more followers than he was losing.

Mr. Collins/Cicero, as lawyer for the State, answered each of the prisoner’s points, and although he struggled more than once, the State and its laws were on his side. Victory was inevitable. After several weeks of daily debating with the prisoner, the close of the debate drew near, and in the end, Mr. Collins/Cicero forced the prisoner to admit that, whatever his intentions, he *had* acted in a manner detrimental to the State, and utterly illegal besides; and for this treason, the punishment was, as he’d known when he committed the crime, execution.

With that, Mr. Collins/Cicero–a bachelor, well into his 40s, with no secret children or mistress, not even any parents or siblings still alive–showed the prisoner a great courtesy and kindness, in allowing his family to come forward from the courtroom benches, to climb aboard the dais, and to embrace their husband/father/brother before he was led away. As a woman, presumably his wife, clasped him to her breast tightly and tried to hold back her tears, the prisoner was heard to say something like, “Try not to cry, my dear. I know your love for me will survive even my death, and is a comfort.”

“Fool,” says Mr. Collins/Cicero, barely loud enough that we at his table can hear him. “Their love for you will die with you, or shortly thereafter; and you were a fool to risk all you had with them, for your misguided principles.”

Around the table, we are startled–Mr. Collins/Cicero has never spoken this way, and we’ve always known that his own principles are of utmost importance to him, hence he is able to treat others with such respect and compassion for upholding their own–but only one of us speaks. A younger senator, distantly related to the prisoner, in fact, speaks up and says, “Oh, come now. A man who speaks like that is a man who doesn’t believe in love; and I know you to be far too clever to believe love doesn’t exist, merely because you’ve never experienced it yourself.”

And Mr. Collins/Cicero lifts his head, which, now that we think about it, has been bowed for the last half hour, since the prisoner began his final oration; and there are tears streaming down his face.

In spite of his tears, his voice is as ever; calm, mild, factual. His words, though. They are something else.

“Oh, have I not?” he asks. “Have I, indeed, never experienced love?” And Mr. Collins/Cicero turns his hungry, red-rimmed eyes to the prisoner; who walks, head high, with only the barest hint of trembling in his frame, to the gallows.

Bizarre, right?


What I’d Be Without You

So, I said a little something about Naomi–I figure it’s time to say something about Gabriel. I had a lot to think about, because there’s a lot to tell, but I finally went with this: I would be lost without him.

He is incredibly moody, some days, and he has far more energy than any adult in their right mind can keep up with. As I’m occasionally NOT in my right mind, I do okay, chasing him down and tickling him into submission and cajoling him into showing me his happy face again, but it IS work.

The most worthwhile work of my life, raising Gabey and his sister.

Today, he slapped my tummy. Not that hard, and out of high-spiritedness, not spite (he’s nearly 6, he gets excited, he flails, it happens) and I asked for a kiss to make it better. So he leaned up, kissed my tummy, ran over to his stepdad, kissed *his* leg (so he wouldn’t feel left out, presumably–Gabe cares that everyone gets their turn/chance/etc) and then, for good measure, he ran over to me and kissed me again. When I told him he was my good boy, he flashed me a grin that would launch a thousand ships and said, “YES, Mummy!” in his funny little posh Ameri-British accent.

Then I handed him something, a drink maybe, and he said warmly, with great enthusiam, “Oh! Thank you so much.”

I swear by all the gods that ever were, I am raising him right; and he is worth every precious second of my time and energy.


While My Naomi Gently Sleeps

I wrote this nearly a year ago, and never posted it. As it is still relevant, as my girl still prefers non-verbal communication and her own agenda, most of the time, I’ll post it now.

These are the things that make my life worth living. Just sayin’.

Life with Naomi and Gabey has it’s ups and downs, but some of the best ups are the firsts that come later than expected, but are all the sweeter for it. After 7 years and hundreds of songs and 2 toddlers, neither of whom wanted to hear my singing voice at all, I have just sung my daughter to sleep for the first time ever. I sang Brahms’ Lullabye (Guten Ah Bend Gut Nacht) as taught to me in a highschool chorus a thousand miles away (and as many years ago, or so it feels).

There is something beautiful about using a German lullabye–for which neither one of us understands the words–to bridge the chasm of silence and misunderstanding that has so often stretched between my daughter and my own heart.


____ Was Naomi/Gabriel

Maybe I’m a loser–it’s entirely possible–but today, my fella and I had a brilliant discussion at lunch, regarding which skill my kids would inspire, in the Guild Wars universe. If you’re not a fan of MMORPGs, or just not that one (or have moved on to GW2 ahead of us) feel free not to read this. If you’re curious at this point, though, you’re probably my kind of people.

Anyways, the skills.

My daughter was, in a way, easiest. We decided we’d call her skill “Force of Naomi” and it would play out as follows:

Attribute Strength,
Melee Attack,
Causes knockdown to all moving, dazed, or attacking foes adjacent to target.
50% chance of bleeding, dazed, blind, or crippled (duration dependent on Strength level, obviously).

For my son, we had to think a bit harder. The name was simple, obvious even, but the attribute was trickier. In the end, we went with “Defiant Was Gabriel”:

Attribute Spawning,
When summoned, 25% chance of knockdown to all nearby foes.
Blocks all attacks (for a duration dependent, obviously, on Spawning level).
Causes 75% slowdown to foes, 25% slowdown to allies, within earshot.

That last word, in either description, pretty much sums up my kids. The discussion itself was based on our outing today–IKEA has never seen our like, nor ever will again, I’m sure–and all I can say is, I’m glad they’re still small enough to physically pick up and move.

I might start calling them, “Force” and “Defiant” just for kicks.

Silly Posts

What’s In A Name?

Silly post, today.

I was watching American Horror Story (if you’ve seen it, shh, no Season 3 spoilers–I’ve just finished Season 2) and it occurred to me that Evan Peters is possibly one of the prettiest men alive.  Not sexiest, necessarily (although personally, I love that tousled-halo-of-hair-framing-a-just-too-young-looking-face look) but by Jove, is he a pretty one.  I’m sure my heart judders, every time he walks onscreen, and it got me to thinking; is it a coincidence that one of the prettiest men I’ve ever seen on TV or anywhere else, has one of the prettiest names?

I’m imagining his parents, moments after he was born, looking at his perfect features through the blood and vernix and vaginal mucus and thinking, “Good Lord!  All babies are cute, but this one’s BEAUTIFUL!  Are we sure he’s–yep, there it is, little male member, good to know–uhh, so, what do we call this angelic bundle?  Can’t name him Rick or Butch or Hank, that’d be ridiculous… Sue would be a funny joke, but you do that with your hamster, not your son… Ashley?  Nah, just a touch too girly… Pat, short for Patrick?  But no, it might get shortened to Rick, and we already established the unsuitability of THAT name… I’ve got it.  Honey, why don’t we call him Evan?”

It happens that way, sometimes.  I was bouncing a few names back at forth with my then-husband, when my daughter was born, but it wasn’t a done deal until I looked into her little face.  I looked at her, and even though she’d been SCREAMING her head off for hours at this point, I took one look at her, and thought, “Yep.  Naomi–cheerful, pleasant, opposite of bitter–that’s perfect, for my girl.” And you know what?  It turned out great.  She just looks like a Naomi, and she is really chilled and pleasant, when she’s not still screaming her head off (7+ years later).  Maybe it was like that, for Evan Peters’ folks, as well, and his name just came to them.

Of course, his name’s only a perfect fit if it means, “Strangely androgynous child-man who looks 7 years younger than his chronological age, with flawless skin and eyes like a fallen angel”.  Just sayin’.



Have you ever been called a weirdo? I have.

Mind you, the last time it happened, I can only see it as a compliment. Here’s how it played out:

I began following the blog of someone I “met” on Facebook. She seemed nice enough, if a bit silly. You know what I mean. She’d post about clean living and only eating vegetarian, organic food, and then stick up pics of herself having 3 slabs of bacon, 3 chocolates, and lattés all day (and nothing else, because Calories). I remember one HILARIOUS blog entry where she ate a bowl of cornflakes, and posted that, “They tasted like shame”. Pants-pissingly funny, right?  But I tried to leave supportive comments on her blog, I think I shared a couple of her better entries, y’know, things like that.  I was laughing at her privately, but supporting her publicly… and I couldn’t help the laughing.

But one day, she posts this entry about how she’s not been spending enough time at the gym, she’s eaten 1/12th of a take-out meal like TWICE in the last month (or whatever) and so, she breaks up with her boyfriend via the post. I believe the end went something like, “In the battle of man vs. food, food won”.

Odd ending, not least of all because she was ditching the guy so she could eat LESS. I suppose she just thought it sounded catchy.

But me, I was horrified. At this point, she’d gone from someone I was chatting to a couple of times a week, to someone who literally NEVER responded to my comments on her blog, so I just thought, screw it, I’ll do what I perceive to be the right thing, here. So I sent a FB message to her fella, saying something like, “Jeez that’s harsh, dumped by blog, ouch, if you wanna talk about it, loads of us know the story and would probably be happy to listen”.

Within an hour or 2, I get a message from her, demanding to know what I was doing, why I’d contacted her boyfriend (not ex, mind you) and essentially telling me to mind my own business. In the end, it turned out she hadn’t broken up with him at all–not only was her blog post poorly named, it was actually completely fictional. They were still together, and he had NO IDEA she’d written anything like that… she’d just added this dramatic post to her “totally honest, warts and all” blog because, well, BORED.

This culminated in me being called a weirdo and her blocking me from Facebook. I suppose some might find it weird, to extend sympathy to someone in a “romantic” relationship who’s evidently being used as a social media prop (but who, in fairness, I didn’t actually know)… weird I may be, but I’ll tell you what.

Things I post here will either be clearly fictional, or things that actually happened.


Welcome, Welcome, One and All

That’s not true, strictly speaking.  I actually only want you here if you’re a) interested in some of what I have to say, and b) not going to be a jerk about it.  Or, option b2) if you *must* be a jerk, be a funny one.  I’ll forgive a lot from someone who makes me laugh.

I’m not gonna lie to you, this blog is really just a place for me to build a fanbase.  A friend of mine has a site, a proper, actual, he-showcases-quality-amateur-literature style site, and I have a story there; and he wants me to be more accessible online.  The things I do for you, J.

And for myself.

I’m planning a sister-blog, called SuperDepressed, and I expect a fair few things will go up there, as well.  This, though.  This is going to be my happy blog.

Are you smiling yet?