Call to Battle

I stayed home yesterday (preparing myself, right?). After watching a bunch of movie previews (Paprika! Yes, please. Must I wait until June? Michele?), I took a long nap in the sunshine with my cats, read, cleaned the kitchen, made dinner, and watched the first two episodes of Trinity: Blood (sadly, it was not worth it).
On Tuesday we had our final birthing class and with all the techniques and advice she gave us I find myself rather looking forward to giving birth. Weird or what? If you know me, then you know that is just an amazing thing for me to say. I have been terrified for so long. Think about it though – who really wants to try pushing a watermelon through a hole in their body? But, strangely, we are designed for it. And if we let go of all inhibitions – perhaps the toughest part – women get to do what most men in the western world can’t… transition. John and I were talking about this the other day. Modern men don’t get a right of passage.
I’m not necessarily talking about transitioning from child to adult. The line is certainly blurrier than in the past (Is it graduating from school? Getting the first job? The loss of virginity?), but we basically know when we are adults. The right of passage was a test of capability. It acted as a gauge of self-worth, of the ability to survive, and as a bond to others who underwent the same test (Yes, I know what you went through. Let’s drink.). Men, perhaps, need this most of all. I don’t know why.
Thus the appeal of military training, of the solitary trek across the Rockies, the obsession with extreme sports?

In the picture with the gold ceiling, do you see all the heads? The masses at the Vatican? It was like that, or worse!, in every room. If you know me, you know I'm mildly claustrophobic, particularly when my space is confined by people. I hate malls. Is there a special name for that? Is there a name for a normally mild, quiet person wanting to rampage through a room screaming at the top of her lungs? There was no way out - for over an hour. Thinking about it even now makes me want to crawl into a corner and weep. Either that or pull all my hair out.
The last stop was the Sistine chapel and you know what? I didn't care. I spent about 30 seconds being irritated with everyone yelling "shush" and then I was out of there. Anyway, the ceiling was really high up. And there was a throne and a big fence and guards and so many many people.

rough week

I'm only posting because I have one half hour to kill before I need to drink some foul sugar liquid and go to a doctor's appointment where I will have my blood drawn to check for diabetes and then it's off to work for me for another ten hour day, if I'm lucky, under halogen lights while the rest of you (okay, probably only Michele because she's lame enough to quit her job (I say lame because I have no idea why she quit her job and therefore it's fair for me to assume some unreasonable reason)) get to enjoy the sun and the kitties and the only way for me to stay awake is to write this completely nonsensical run-on sentence like I used to do in college for my short story classes in the hopes that something brilliant would emerge and guide the way to a glorious, deep and meaningful story about some girl with a child, going to the hospital to get checked for cancer because her mother died of cancer and all she remembers are the fairy tales about her mother's childhood in Mexico and she's terrified.

In the next episode, see fabulous post on existentialism (bobby falls in the well) with picture!