Get Up Lazy Mary ~

We need the sheets for the table!

Me mum used to sing that song to me, while waking me on Saturday mornings. She was always so cute about that. I never had a single rude awakening in my life... until I got married.

So, today, Lazy Mary will be posting an entry from another place, from days gone by. Enjoy.

All I Need is the Air that I Breathe
Funny how you just go along in the drudgery of your life, thinking that something new could never come across your path. Well it’s true. There isn’t much that is really new. In fact it has been well said that there is "nothing new under the sun." And that was said a long, long time ago. But sometimes there is a breath of fresh air. It can manifest itself in a million ways and if you’re not paying attention, I’ve no doubt you will not even discern its difference among the rest of the air around you.

Last week, while I was working… sending faxes, making copies, giving directions, answering phones, weighing and shipping boxes… a woman came into the store, entirely unnoticed. She sat down at our little table and was going through some things. I didn’t really notice exactly what she was doing, as many people come in and sit at that table and do things. I did notice, however, that she was toting a large tapestry case. Or, what I thought was a case. On closer observation, I realized it was a pet carrier. It was somewhat elegant and of course I could only see the face of the creature inside. It was the frightened face of a cat. Some kind of a long-haired, gray-striped tabby. Soon, the woman got up and came to the counter. Her face was serious and drawn. I half expected her to be a bit of a snob. She dressed meticulously and she was very well kept. She was beautiful and yet not made up in any superficial way. She had long auburn hair, which was pulled back into a loose ponytail. She was tall and thin and carried herself with a great deal of dignity and grace. She wore a long, straight skirt… burgundy in color, with subtle flowers on it. She had on a short sleeved mauve sweater, with a delicate belt over it. When she spoke, her speech was deliberate and confident. She asked me about a notary form, to give her son the ability to sell her car, as she was leaving the country for awhile. I said, "You mean a power of attorney?" She said, "Oh yes, that’s it. I don’t know what I was thinking." Her humility was unfeigned and I began to like her immediately. I showed her the different types of documents she could use, explaining that she could give him full power of attorney to act in her stead or just a limited one, which would allow him to only function as her representative in the instance she specified, for the specified amount of time. She decided to purchase the form for the full power of attorney, declaring she had full confidence that her son was trustworthy. But she added, "I did notice that it does not give him the authority to put me in a mental hospital, though. Which is good." She sort of laughed then. She talked about having worked in such a hospital, with people who seemed perfectly sane who said that their children put them there because "it was the best thing for them." Then she shrugged and said, "But I’m just teasing. My son would never do that to me." I asked her where she was going and she said, "Back to Prague." Now I can safely say that I have never heard that response before. I said, "Is that where you’re from?" She didn’t have an accent at all, so I would have been surprised if she’d said yes. She sighed and said, "I don’t really know where I’m from." Her sudden melancholy touched me and I told her, "I don’t really know where I’m from either." She eyed me with brief interest and said she didn’t have a home since her husband died. They had lived in Temecula for nine years. And recently she had lost her job (due to budget cuts) and then lost her apartment and now has no home. She’d been living in a tent in the mountains and was now staying with her son. She can’t think now of anything to do but go to Prague, which is where her husband is from, I discovered. I told her that I don’t have a home either. She gave me a kindred look and said, "You don’t??" I said, "Well I rent a room from a friend, but I’m really just sort of a gypsy." She said, "My son calls me a gypsy." When she quoted the way he says it, it didn’t seem to be a positive thing. I told her that I could tell she’s a gypsy like me. She said, "I think maybe you are right. I’ve been wondering if this is just the real me and it’s just coming out because it’s been hidden away." I said, "I think so." We talked a little about what she’d be doing in Prague. She wasn't altogether sure, but she did mention a plan to stay at least a year. She introduced me to her cat, which is a champion show Persian. She had shown him in Prague, but never here in the US, so she was going to show him in another country so that he could have international status. This was all Greek to me, but her relaxed, conversational abilities made it interesting. Alas, in the end, our business transaction was done. She thanked me for my help and my time and then she said, "Well good luck." I laughed and said, "Oh I don’t need any luck! My life is this way on purpose!" She smiled and said, "Good for you!" It was a strange lingering goodbye and as she left I felt a little bit of my spirit drift away with her and turn to tell me that I should have known her better.

Oh Dear... What Can The Matter Be?

Yes, this is she. The baby who says, "fuckin." She's probably thinking, "How am I going to get that fuckin shoe?" This picture has nothing to do with this post, I was just in the mood to see this cuteness every time I visit my blog page tomorrow.

Seems a fascination abounds regarding my nombre of choice... whore. I have to say that I get a negative response much of the time when I refer to myself thus. I suppose in the days of Shakespeare, if you said you were a player in the theater... the arts, if you will... you were also thought of in a negative light. It was just not done among the rightly minded people.

And why is it so shocking for a woman who calls herself "Cathouse Teri" to say she's a whore?

I don't much like explaining myself. I prefer to let others figure out what they can about something and then settle on whatever makes them comfortable about it. But, since I'm in a sassy mood, I'll endeavor to shed some small amount of light.

I do not, I repeat ~ do NOT ~ believe I am in any way demeaning or devaluing myself by calling myself a whore. I do it to indulge those lesser spirited creatures who insist upon labels. I could just as well say, "You think I'm a bitch? Okay, call me a fucking bitch if it makes you feel better. I ain't gonna change."

Very sexually free, I am. And free in many ways. I will not be bound by a name or by a thought, or some societal righteous norm. And if I want to fuck a different man every night, I will. And I certainly have done that. If I want to meet a stranger at a hotel room, never even knowing his name, I will. And I dare anyone to tell me that I'm all screwed up because I might do such a thing. I have a perfectly healthy and intact ego. I am much averse to the idea that just because a woman likes sex, even casual and raunchy sex, she hates herself in some way. This is simply not true. It may be true in some cases, may be true in even most cases. I can only attest to the fact that it is not true in mine.

So if, in order to be free to express myself sexually, I have to be called a whore, so be it. In fact, I shall embrace it, thorns and all. I spent a great many years trying to be a "good woman." I found that this brought only bondage and despair. I shan't live under that dark shadow any longer. I had to redefine the good woman. I believe I'm an honest woman. I can't think of anything gooder than that. ;)

About the word Fuck

It's interesting the response that word gets. I'm a mother. I'm a grandmother. I don't cuss around the children. But I have known people who do. I mean people who have a healthy view of things and who explain to their children that they don't get to say those things, any more than they get to have a glass of wine with dinner. It's all very natural. And those children don't wind up running around inappropriately swearing.

But it can be a bit of a problem around little ones. They cannot comprehend that one word is okay to say and another is not. They see their parents passionately express something and they pick up on that because it is passionate. They learn very easily when those words apply. And the reaction they get.

So, here's a story about my granddaughter. She is two and a half. And around the word fuck a lot. She knows exactly how to use it, too. Her daddy (my son) was changing her diaper one day and he was getting frustrated looking around for the baby wipes, which seemed to have disappeared. He said out loud, "Now where are those wipes?" She said, "Where are the fuckin wipes, daddy?" She KNEW he had left out that word! Another time, she wanted her mommy to participate in her game of naming shapes. She was holding up a triangle and saying over and over, "Look mama, a triangle! Look, a triangle!" Mama was tired of that game, having been playing it all day long, so she was no longer responsive to it. Then darling BrynLeigh said, "Look Mama! A fuckin triangle!" (That's my baby!)

At any rate, I've lost the need for feeling repulsed at a word. Every word depends on the tone and the meaning behind the sayer. A person can be entirely demeaning to you without saying a single cuss word. Yet, a friend could say to you, "Are you out of your fucking mind?" or even call you a "motherfucker" and not mean a bit of offense. (And what's wrong with a mother fucker, I might add?)

I once had a conversation with a man who wanted to live alone, and not have a roommate any longer. I asked why and he said he felt uncomfortable bringing women home. I understood. Or so I thought. He went on to explain that he thought it was an inappropriate thing to do in the awareness of others. What the fuck? I said, "So... you mean you think it's like... a sin or something to bring her home and you don't want him to know that you are a sinner?" He said, "Something like that." Then he added that his children are around a mother who brings men home all the time and they call their mother a whore. He felt oh so much more righteous because he takes his fucking to a hotel where he can do it in secret and in the dark. He prefers the message to his children that he is doing something wrong but at least has the decency to conceal it! Now, true, a woman should NOT bring a bunch of men into her home of children. This is bad on many levels. So I'm not advocating that. I'm speaking of hypocrisy here. The kids know he's a hypocrite. They are grown children. When I asked him what he would do if one of them wanted to bring someone home, he said, "I would advise them to do it in a hotel room, like I do." I said, "I tell you what. I have grown kids and I don't teach them that fucking is wrong. Because it's NOT! I mean, I do it! Am I to teach them that I go about doing wrong things?"

I think the thing that is wrong is that we indulge in the "sinful" things and think we're hiding it from them. We are not hiding it. We are just teaching them that it needs to be hidden.

My children absolutely adore and respect me. They wouldn't say a harsh word to me if their lives depended on it. And they don't care about what I do and say. Because what matters to them is that I'm happy.

It's a Morning in May

And I'm running around looking for pieces of April.

So you know when you're lying there, sort of drifting in and out of consciousness, getting ready to fall asleep ~ and random thoughts just pop into your head? Here's the one I had: Why do people refrigerate onions? That just don't make no sense to me!

Continued randomosity:

I heard a line of dialogue in a movie once. I'll see if I can excerpt it for you. Dammit. That's proving to be more trouble than it's worth. Okay, lemme sum up.

Girl asks guy, "Why do you live out of your car? Why don't you just get an apartment or something?" He says (in effect), "Well, I have a key to my car, and if I get an apartment, I'll have another key. And then I'll have to have a job to pay for the apartment, so I'll get another key for work. Then they might give me different keys for varying responsibilities. And I might have a key for storage, because ultimately you do acquire things that may or may not fit into your apartment. And on and on it goes ... but I really like just having the one key."

I can relate. I want to have just one key.

Another favorite movie line:

"I want to stay here only marginally more than I want to die trying to escape."