I'm a very fortunate person, for the most part. So why is it that when I'm, circumstantially, really doing quite well, all these other things seem to come up and take over? Is it time for me to deal with them when I'm in a decent frame of mind?
Was the flu really flu? Or was it my body shutting down so I could slow down and deal?
I never underestimate the power locked in the human body. I can talk myself into panic attacks, and I can talk myself out of them.
The Book of the Dead is open in my psyche. I've dreamed of the characters therein all this week. I've been nearly grateful for the "flu" so I can go back to bed and see them. They're in character, too, me talking to my father about things on my heart as he walks away; me sitting next to my grandfather, hand in hand, saying nothing at all, because we never had to; grandma laughing at everything I say because, "You're so bad, but keep talking;" and my other grandmother looping her purse-du-jour on the crook of her arm and taking me out shopping at shops selling pillows, potpourri, and candlesticks in the shapes of Chihuahuas.
Sometimes, Dad looked back at me like something I said almost made sense, then he opened his bible and kept walking the other direction. Yeah, please don't miss the symbolism there. I'm still looking for his approval!
My grandpa and grandma: Everyone should have an unconditional source of love, and I was blessed with two. Be warned, though, when you lose that precious source, it yanks your soul in two.
My grandmother was the obligatory source of love. She loved me and I loved her, but if we wanted reared, we needed the other grandmother. She waited until we knew how to sit still in the car before taking us places, which was her right, and then spoiled us with money and gifts...and food. She was a tremendous cook. She was so right and proper, someone to emulate.
It just kills me that I'm still looking for Dad's approval while I sleep. I picked up an ashtray that always sat on my grandmother's coffee table. I use it constantly and keep it clean. It feels a little scandalous. I thought it would make me want to quit more, because it's like smoking in my grandmother's home, kinda. Some nights it works and some nights it doesn't. It's actually working a bit more tonight. Maybe putting a picture of her looking down on me would do the trick. I tried it with a picture of Dad and it just creeped me out way too much.
*****
Like everyone else in the ball python industry, we've got baby balls pipping. Nothing too exciting yet, except for hub's landed an outlet for the babies we don't want to keep for their genetics. It's a mom-and-pop pet shop, and it's good for him to get in the door that way with the local community. The guy's giving him a space in his store if we ever get anything good to keep them there for building community interests in specialty snakes. I want a banner over the top that says, "Hey. We've got balls!"
I get tired of listening to the hub lately, so I tell him to go play with his balls. I love the double entendre but I really need to be more discriminate, because somehow the kids now think it's hilarious, too.
It doesn't help when your boys are sports nuts and their mother is beyond warped. I told my oldest that I was tired of his balls going everywhere and he needed to keep track of his balls. It would have gone right over his head, and kept on going, until I realize what I said and laughed for an inappropriately long time.
Lord, those little pitchers have the ears of elephants and a mother who gives blatant context clues.
I know saying "ball python" over and again is pain in the tongue, but there are only so many ways to condense it without tons of double entendre possibilities. "We raise balls. We've got lots of balls in the incubator. I found two balls in my bedroom in the middle of the night. Oh, he's back, playing with his balls." Hub didn't appreciate that last one. It was a call from work. I didn't think about it until he yelled at me. Then I asked him to bring his balls to the bedroom. I really wanted a pair of snakes to keep me and the rodents company, but I got his instead.
It's an exciting time, where new morphs are unveiled, so I'm checking message boards, and there are taglines like "I got your balls right here!" or, the redneck version, "Baby ball's or large ball's, your choice."
Meh. If you're old enough to breed your balls, you should know proper apostrophe usage, right?
See? There are just way too may opportunities. Of course, you could call them royal ball pythons, which is even more of a tongue twister. Or, if you're talking with others who know the problem, then you can say, "I have 20 normals, four pastels, a couple of spiders, one genetic stripe, a 100% het-pied, and one 66% possible albino het," and skip the entire "balls" part.
If I've lost you, I'm sorry. I've just got balls on my mind.
Holy shit. I just realized my grandma held a snake for me in my dream. Grandpa nudged her shoulder like he couldn't believe what she was doing, but she held it at arm's length while I took it back from her, laughing, not believing she'd just done such a thing.
I think, if she was here, she might have tried it, too. I miss you all, but I have to get back to work now, so I'm shutting the Book of the Dead. I'll see you soon, I'm sure.
I am about to post this, but I must mention now that hub has gone that sometimes reading from the Book of the Dead is easier than reading from the Book of the Living. See, I'm supposed to know where HIS clothes are, and it's my fault they're not where he left them. I'm supposed to make valid excuses for HIM to get out of HIS work and KNOW why the excuse has to be concrete...
I asked him for a ballpark size on the pants and shirts that DO fit so I could go through and sort his stuff and make room to know where the appropriately fitting clothes are, and "Don't go through my stuff."
If I found a little black book in there, buddy, trust me, at this point, I'd be calling to see who'd take you! I know where the Green Lantern shirt is, I know where five pair of yellow and white bikini briefs are, 15 pairs of socks for four people, a pac-man shirt, school uniforms, and MY CLOTHES. WTF? I have to deal with his, too???
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