You can’t bring Pepsi.

I’m so happy to be home.  The cat is ignoring me while keeping me in view.  It’s cracking me up because she acted like a puppy when I first entered.  Then I rolled in my suitcase, and she remembered she’s a cat.  I expect to be forgiven in a few hours, (based on having done this routine before.)  I missed Her Majesty so much, which is why I keep pausing to grin at her between sentences.  I didn’t even wish she was a dog the whole time I was in Denver.  (Sometimes, I just have to conjure an image of all the dog owned in my building in January, and I forget why I ever wanted one.)

My mailbox was stuffed with mail, (and echoes of annoyed murmurs from my postal carrier, no doubt.)  I got a postcard from a friend (squee!), so it wasn’t all magazines and thank-you cards from Democrats from other states.  I’m saving all my snail mail correspondence from Senators and Representatives (assistants).  I plan on being adopted as a grandmother by some delightful young person who needs one someday.  Since I rarely take photos, I figure I’ll need something to back up my stories of how much better or worse things were in the good old days during our visits.  I may even figure out how to bake.

I need to order groceries, do laundry, and clean.  M. restrung all five of my guitars in my absence.  I almost cried when he showed me.  They’re all polished and shit, too.  He gets me more than I realized.  I (over) thought about it in the shower.  I believe he’s my lobster.  I didn’t even realize I needed one.  Bonus.  He has two weeks of vacation beginning tomorrow.  I’ll likely be preoccupied with him over the next few days.  His parents will be visiting soon and taking S. when they leave.  It’s going to be like a scene right out of The Color Purple when she leaves.

Celie:  Write!

Nettie:  Nothing but death could keep me from it!

Except, we’ll Facetime to stay in touch, of course.  She’s not going to be here when Stevie Nicks is performing in St. Paul later this month.  I’m kind of relieved she’s bummed by this because it makes me feel more relaxed with my obsession infatuation enthusiastic appreciation of Stevie Nicks.  I’m not alone.  Her queendom knows no national boundaries.  (Music is more universal than math.)  S. is taking one of the documentaries home, (not In Your Dreams.  Mine.  I’ll send her one for her birthday.)  She also doesn’t know how to feel about Lindsey Buckingham.  (I kinda lean toward forcing maintaining civilized thoughts based solely on his contribution to Fleetwood Mac.)

I’m still pretty anxious about meeting The Parents.  I feel like I should do something to prepare, but have no idea what to do.  Aside from pacing, that is.  Sitting on the edge of my bed will have to suffice.  (Inside joke.)  I watched Dave Chapelle on Netflix earlier.  I think I pulled a muscle from laughing so hard.  Damn, I missed him.  The only thing that’s changed is his audience.  It’s like a casting call for a Benneton ad.  (So diverse now.)  I love it.  (He still got heckled, but it was all positive, and he took it in stride.)

I’d better get busy with my chores.  There’s probably a few cats worth of fur collaborating in the corners since it’s been two weeks without vacuuming.  I’m a vacuuming ninja, so it won’t be there long.  Hi-ho-hi-ho… off to clean I go… 🎶

 

It’s fusilli Jerry.

The rest of my Stevie Nicks music and videos arrived yesterday.  I’m further along with the In Your Dreams documentary.  I had to pause again when Stevie Nicks went to visit military people at Walter Reed Army Medical Center and Bethesda Naval Hospital.  The footage was from 2005, so it was a few years after I was at Walter Reed.  As a disabled veteran, there aren’t words for how much we appreciate such visits.

I’m overwhelmed in a good way.  First I find a unicorn in plain sight (Stevie Nicks,) then I discover she makes rainbows in her spare time.  I don’t know a better way to express it.  I’ve been beating on my drums, trying to match Mick Fleetwood beat for beat on Dreams from the Rumours album.  The first time, I spent most of the song like a deer in headlights.  I didn’t want to mess up the song by playing wrong notes, but I wasn’t ready to play the right ones.

It turns out; I needed to learn how to play the blues first.  I practice the forty drum rudiments, then play along to blues songs in my drum module.  At some point, it clicked.  Now I like the blues.  I didn’t recognize the rock connection before now.  Now I can match him for the first half of the song consistently.  Unfortunately, I get too excited at that point and ruin it.  At least it makes me laugh, and I won’t stop until I can nail it every time.  Good thing I love practicing.

After playing on a studio grade acoustic kit for two hours, I figured out why acoustic drums are necessary.  While my electronic drum kit is all kinds of awesome, it’s a different experience.  I  remember the fullness of sound being nearly tangible while playing the acoustic kit.  I still smile when I think about it.  I plan on booking more time on the acoustic kit in the future.  Real cymbals are fucking fabulous compared to electronic versions.  I can’t wait till next time.

 

I’ve been dating a guy I met at the gym for just over a year now.  I adore him, but he’s getting on my nerves.  His sister is visiting from India, and I’m spending more time with her than him.  It’s logical to me because she goes home in August.  I told him I’d rather hang out with her if I have to choose.  He said I don’t have to choose.  I’m glad.  His sister likes Stevie Nicks as much as I do.  He asked if we could watch something else while we were watching the documentary.  🙄

I have a feeling he’s not going to be thrilled by the rest of the videos.  Welp.  His sister and I have a Twilight marathon in the works, to boot.  I think he has to work this weekend, anyway.  I understand he wants me to spend more time with him doing what he wants to do.  We’ll have to talk about it again from this more accurate perspective.  I’m sure we can work something out.  I’m off to firm up plans for a Twilight marathon.  Squee!

I hear everything.

The Depression Monster has me in a Full Nelson.  (I had to use Wikipedia.)  I’m no longer able to ignore him, but I’m flipping him the bird.  I’ve learned studying Stevie Nicks requires a commitment of sorts.  You have to accept the fact it’s going to hurt sometimes, or you have to move on.  I didn’t even need to think about it.  I like earning my passage into her world.  It’s calmer.  I also like how it doesn’t matter that I’m out of sync in time.

I’m on the second documentary now.  It’s called Stevie Nicks:  In Your Dreams.  I’m at the point where Katrina happened.  Fuck.  I wasn’t ready.  You can tell Stevie directed and edited.  It’s raw where it needs to be, and soft where it’s not.  I suppose this is a trigger warning.  Pause when you see the first hint of Katrina coming next.  It will be obvious now.  Make sure you’re in a safe place to ugly cry.  Get tissues and a few bottles of water.  Round up your pets, and your favorite blanket.  Then take a deep breath, and hit play.  You’re welcome.  (I do this because I love you.)

This hasn’t happened since I spent hours listening to Amy Lee (Hartzell) sing, Hello and Like You on repeat, while I wept with her over losing our little sisters.  It’s a good thing I eat intensity for breakfast.  I never thought I’d say that.  I’m so used to people telling me I’m too intense, (and having it sound like, “fuck off.”)  I’m glad it keeps proving valuable where it matters.  I slept on Tuesday night, so I should be good for a while.  I started writing my short horror story last night.  In hindsight, it may have been better to do it in the morning.

I learned some secrets about fear years ago.  It has a ceiling.  There’s nothing beyond scared shitless.  Further, I discovered there’s a limit to how long you can remain terrified.  I’m sure with practice you could extend it, but for most of us, it’s a relatively rare event.  It’s intense until you run out of energy.  Then it’s surreal.  It stays surreal while you recover a bit.  Then it repeats a few times, like a chorus.  But it has diminishing returns.  Your initial level of terror is greater than your fourth course.  Eventually, it just becomes hysterically funny.

Don’t look at me, I didn’t create these rules, I’m just reporting them.  This is how humans process prolonged fear.  At least the ones who don’t pop straight away, that is.  It’s not good news, but I believe it’s better to know up front.  I hate surprises.  So anyway, my point is I’ve learned how to cope with fear.  I don’t flee at the sight of it.  It’s a bitch, but so am I.  And you can refocus your eyes, I’m done giving myself a pep talk.  I plan on writing more tonight.  Last night I wrote two pages, then deleted them and started over.  I thought about an outline, then didn’t create one.  Finally,  I wrote two better pages.

Creative writing clearly had a far greater influence on my writing than English Grammar.  I love rules, except where creativity is involved, at which point it reverses.  Rules are for one type of thinking.  Creativity is for the other.  They don’t mix.  Mixing them should cause profound halitosis.  That’s how serious I am.  Incidentally, when my orchestra instructor tried to tell me how to feel about Beethoven, I noticed he had funky breath.  (I don’t believe in coincidences.  I’m far more impressed by irony.)

This is the closest I’ve ever leaned into my blog.  I’m incredibly impressionable, so it’s likely Stevie Nicks’ influence on me.  I’m becoming a little more open.  I didn’t see any of this coming.  Despite the tears, I’m having a fabulous time.  It’s a little like following a rabbit down a hole if you know what I mean. 😉  I have a long night ahead.  I’m off to get to it.