I’ve been so busy lately that I  compeltely forgot about the significance of June 13th in my life.  I come from a long line of 13-aholics. My paternal grandparents life together revolved around the number:

*they met on the 13th

*got engaged on the 13th

*married on the 13th

*my dad was born on the 13th

*my uncle was born on the 31st (which makes total sense if you know him)

The number carried into my life too. I remembered that today is the 10 year anniversary of our first miscarriage. Not a happy anniversary, but a moment I hold deep in my heart that I’m certain doesn’t bother me, until it’s mentioned. Today is also the 6 year anniversary of my father-in-law coming to live with us. So, that’s strike two right there. But, God gives beauty for ashes and 5 years ago today my son was born. God took away, but He gave again and I am blessed.

What is interesting is that, while the human race now had a hope concerning the afterlife, it made little difference in the way they lived. I could only assume that this is how the writer of the screenplay views religion: a list of rules made by a detached deity.  If we have no relationship with God, than what He asks of us is nothing more than a list of rules that seem like nothing more than fickle, non-nonsensical dictates. God intends it to be understood in the complete opposite way. God protects us through His commands once we are brought into a relationship with Him, not to earn heaven, but to refine us along the way.

I wonder what influences the writer has had, spiritually speaking. What ugly message has he heard? Why is His view of God so skewed? I have observed that in the effort to “defend” Christianity, believers have made the Gospel very unappealing and have cloaked it in false righteousness: it’s your works that save you and you must maintain the outwards appearance of godliness by abstaining from everything. Very ugly, very untrue. It’s amazing how completely freeing the truth actually is and how tainted it’s become.

I finally watched a couple of episodes of his new show (The Antonio Treatment) tonight. He is so out there without alienating anyone – he is so creative, uses techniques no one else thinks of without the bourgeois attitude of some designers. He’s an artist. He’s got his own style, that while evolving, it truly his own.

In one of the episodes he designed a living room/art studio for a deaf client who is a cartoonist. He brought in one the guy’s favorite artists to do a piece for the room – his insight was so cool.

It’s just nice to see real art on TV and not copycat prettiness that gets really boring.

Also, I’ve found myself at a personal crossroads. I have always been a melancholy person, but I”m honestly becoming quite a cynic and it stinks. My husband has hinted at it a few times, yet I remain unmoved. I’ve been afraid that my writing would stop or be hampered in some respect, because my moodiness spawns my writing. I think though, enough is enough. I need to find another Muse.

So, in an effort to kill two bird with one stone, I started another blog devoted to a 60-day journey to optimism. I’m actually optimistic about it – I think that’s a good start.

After this first attempt I realized that I put too much detailed work into it;  none of it shows up after the felting process, but neither do my mistakes:)

Here is my third purse – my second had serious shape problems after felting. I’m really happy with this one , including the lining. Also, I got the bird and cage idea from a crochet blog.

1. Age:

I’m turning 36 this month and am thrilled. Not really, I hate getting older and can’t believe when women say they love their 30′s – as far as I’m concerned, they suck. Each month I get moodier and more delusional and wonder if within 10 years I’ll be carted off in handcuffs around the 30th day of some future random July.  I also wonder if I should swallow the $200 and get my blood work done and hormone levels tested and have some super-deluxe hormone cream developed for me – and all of mankind I come in contact with over that 10 day period of instability. Better yet, I could wait for the government to pay for it, as I could be considered a menace to society. Not only am I a wreck, but it lasts longer. What happened to 4 day periods? For the record, I do realize that there are pharmaceuticals  out there to help me, but I refuse to pollute my body with unnatural methods, so I’m on the lookout for organic solutions.

2.  Lifestyle Choices:

I’m a vegetarian/lactose intolerant, yoga loving, non-smoking, beer drinking and a fairly health-minded individual. I am wondering if the infusion of soy products in my diet is increasing my estrogen levels contributing to the madness.  I can’t afford to eat all organics and I live in an urban area surrounded by nature – perhaps not enough nature. So, not sure what else I can change there.

3. Mental Instability:

In all fairness to the other two category contenders, I have often imagined myself growing old in an asylum someday. I’m not stark raving mad, just melancholy by nature and am prone to fits of depression. As women are not known for violent crimes, it is not unheard of for us to make rash and miscalculated decisions and I do wonder if those who do commit them are PMS-ing at the time. The thoughts that run rampant through my head while under the influence of hormones are outrageous, yet at the time they seem completely justifiable and sane. It’s so bizarre to wake up the morning after the PMS-ing has ended and think,  “Dear God, I almost…”

So while I agree that the excuse is overused, it may be plausible 75% of the time. I have to change something, and fast. I have only 20 days of sanity on the horizon before my other, delusional self makes an entrance.

Today she commented on how crazy my hair is. I told her, “Grandma, I get lots of compliments on it.” She replied, without hesitation, “Mandy, they only compliment you because they don’t know what to say.” And then dropped it as though there was no point hearing any other option. I thought is was hilarious. I have been through enough in life to know when to laugh. So my 88-year-old grandma hates my spiky hair – it would be just plain weird if she didn’t!

I used to bring my friends down to my grandmother’s for visits – they all loved it, she lives in the Beverly Hills of San Diego, except this town has class. Today I brought my kids. We spent time this afternoon looking through my grandmother’s cedar chests, bulging with artifacts that no longer mean much of anything to her: original dresses from the 1920′s, my father’s Boy Scout uniforms and her wedding dress ( a grey velvet suit). I have never been able to fit into that damn dress.   Let me also add that she has a chest full of letter to and from her mother; from the day she married until her mother’s death, she wrote her mom every day – every day.  Mary, my daughter had a ball dressing up in everything from frilly frocks to fur hats. My son dressed in his grandpa’s uniforms. My grandmother even kept the top she wore on the night she met my grandfather: February 13, 1943, San Fransisco.

I’m not a sentimental person – at least not in the right ways. I used to be. I once had a shoebox full of things from my first boyfriend: the straw from the first 7/11 Icee he bought me, down to a picture of the wedding dress I was going to wear to our wedding. One day I threw it out, not because I wanted to, but because I married someone else.  I hold on to memories, but not for the right reasons; they plague me and remind me of what might have been and what could be if everything went according to my delusions.

I don’t keep things anymore. I think it’s because I want a fresh start: new memories. My grandma doesn’t want her things anymore. I asked her today what she wishes me to do with everything when she’s gone, “Oh Mandy. It doesn’t matter, whatever you want.” She has no hold on life now that my grandfather died. She hasn’t given up, she just doesn’t hold on. She has 62 years of memoires that mean more to her that cedar chests full of treasures.

Recently my dad took all our videotapes from the kids’ first couple years and put them on a DVD for us.  I sat at the kitchen table yesterday and watched some. It was amazing to see all those lost moments. If they hadn’t been captured, I would have sworn they had never existed. I watched my husband and 2 years old daughter dancing, my girl running around the backyard naked in the sprinklers, my daughter saying only 10 words a minute instead of 1000.  They were marvelous moments, lost treasures to remind me how sweet life is.  I wonder how may other moment are lost forever;  moments lived without a camera nearby to capture the whole scene, the full pictures, the true memory.

I wish I could lay in bed at night and watch the good moments of my marriage or years of motherhood and recall with perfect accuracy. I want to be reminded of the truth, not to just relive over and over my version, edited, spliced and tampered with.  I need sweet reminders right now.

The other night my son woke me up about 12:30 AM with a bloody nose. I was in a fog, but took him to the bathroom to clean up. I asked him if he wanted me so sleep with him. We squeezed into his single bed, on the bottom bunk and proceeded to spend a very uncomfortable, but wonderful night. I loved being close to him and sharing those quiet moments.

When we woke up in the morning, he lifted his head and his sleepy eyes opened in sheer delight, like Christmas morning in a smile. He was delighted to see me. It melted my to see him, all happiness and little ears and have him nuzzle his head close to mine. To wake up and feel such acceptance and know someone took such sweet pleasure in my company was a treasure.