Regina Noctis

English Genius
You scored 100% Beginner, 93% Intermediate, 100% Advanced, and 77% Expert! 
You did so extremely well, even I can’t find a word to describe your excellence! You have the uncommon intelligence necessary to understand things that most people don’t. You have an extensive vocabulary, and you’re not afraid to use it properly! Way to go!
Thank you so much for taking my test. I hope you enjoyed it!

Compared to users who took the test and are and in your age group:
100% had lower Beginner scores.
100% had lower Intermediate scores.
100% had lower Advanced scores.
100% had lower Expert scores.

The Commonly Confused Words Test
http://www.okcupid.com/tests/take?testid=14457200288064322170

I will be leaving Wednesday night after my classes. I’ve already arranged a place to crash.

I just got news tonight that a dear friend, the lovely wife of one of my darling “adopted” brothers, committed suicide over the weekend. Services will be on Thursday.

I will probably not be writing anything here for a while as I mourn the loss of someone who I loved a great deal, and going up to be there for my brother.

Please, no calls. I’m not ready to talk about this. Thank you.

I had a meltdown all over MoFi. It’s been building for a month or so, based on some things I’ve seen spread about in the threads. So I hollered a bit, and then said goodbye.

I wonder if I’ll regret it once I’m over feeling sick, exhausted, stressed, and done trying to deal with fallout from dealing with the psychotic cousin. I’m sure that all of that played at least some part in my reaction, but honestly, it’s nearly happened before, the first few times I saw commentary similar to what set me off tonight.

Oh well. I guess I’ll find out whether I regret this move… and if I do, how much… once all these other factors are laid to rest. At least I’ve got here to attempt to figure this out for myself, and see what I feel once other stressors have made their way out of my life.

The whole thing gave Mom a meltdown, too. She was hurt and crying, I was furious and crying. Both of us affected deeply enough that it’d be hard to go back. Besides, if we completely change our minds and get over what triggered this, then we have the joy of being greatly embarrassed by having a very public meltdown to live down.

I’ve been trying to calm down enough to get some sleep ever since this got started. I think writing here might actually have turned the trick. I’m going to go attempt some sleep, at least. Nighty night, LJ land.

Today, my grandmother decided to let John move back in.

Mom’s in terror for her life, and I’m scared too that he will try to kill her as the craziness mounts once again.

She refuses to call the cops. She has gone back to the depression/battered woman syndrome reaction that there’s nothing that can be done about it. She wouldn’t call the cops on the warrant that they said they’d put out on him.

I’d suspected for some time that, despite her conviction otherwise, the warrant would not last long, since the responding officers treated his attempt to drown her as a misdemeanor assault. Statute of limitations on misdemeanors is negligible.

I decided I had enough. I grabbed the car keys. As I was leaving, Mom asked me where I was going. I try to avoid lying, but I didn’t want the grief that would result if I told her what I was really planning. So I told her I was going out to buy some cigarettes and drive around until I calmed down.

What I did was go to the police station and talk with someone there.

Since he hasn’t done anything yet, there’s nothing they can do right now to get rid of him, which is what I was expecting. But the officer I talked with told me that I can get a domestic restraining order. And it won’t cost me a dime. I have to go to the courthouse on Monday and get the paperwork. The judge will review it and decide on the merits either Monday or Tuesday. Based on what I told the officer, she is sure that the judge will grant it without a problem. If I put Mom and Grandma on as other people in danger, they will also be protected. The address will be protected. John won’t even be able to call without violating the restraining order. He can’t write letters, send email, or even ask a third party to come and tell us something for him. He can’t “annoy you in any way, and since even a fly can annoy you, that covers everything.”

If I put on it that I’m in immediate fear for my life and the lives of the others living here, and that I want him to move out immediately, cops will come over here and serve the restraining order and make him move out right then. Otherwise, he has thirty days to move out after he’s served.

It is very likely that my grandmother will want to kick me out for this. The officer said that Grandma has to give me at least thirty days’ notice, just like if I were her tenant. So I know my rights, and if Grandma tells me to get out right then, I will explain to her that she can’t unless she wants to be arrested. That will give me a little time to get packed and get out of here.

has offered me space at her place if I can’t live here anymore. It will mean that I can’t go to college, since I will need to find work as fast as I can and get back on my feet, and that sucks. But I can’t just sit by and wait for John to attack and possibly kill my mom.

I am doing this. I just can’t sit by and not take the option now I know I have it.

Even when I’m gone, the restraining order will remain in effect. It will cover both Grandma and Mom, and the address of the property, even if I no longer live here. They’ll also let me know how long the restraining order will last, so I know when I have to have it renewed. And if I’m no longer living here, I’ll make a special trip to Delano to renew it if I have to.

This shit with my cousin is over.

(Well, okay, I would have done it anyway.)

Genties and ladlemen, I give you the_bone-a Lisa.

I saw your entry about your post on your group blog, and about the woman who wrote in her own blog about it. What she had to say isn’t anything I plan to address. Her issues are her issues, and she’s no one I know. You, on the other hand, are my dear sis, and there are some concerns I have. They may be completely off base, because the only things I know in relation to what I’m going to say are the posts I see in you LJ. If they are off base, at least remember that all of this is out of concern and love for my sister.

Have you ever read any of the books by Robert Fulghum? He’s a minister and author. Everything I Ever Needed to Know, I Learned in Kindergarten was the first of the three specific books I’m thinking of, the next was It Was on Fire when I Lay Down on It. And the third was Uh Oh – Observations from Both Sides of the Refrigerator Door. There was something in the third one, Uh Oh, that came to mind when I read your post. I don’t have my copy of the book handy. I checked my bookshelves and it’s not there, so it must still be in a box somewhere. So I’ll have to paraphrase some of it. Bear with me.

There’s a small park near his office. It’s not difficult to walk around it, and most people do. The park has a number of homeless living in it. Mr. Fulghum usually walks through it and hands out whatever change he has in his pockets to the homeless and winos when they ask. He sort of thinks of it as his pleasant walk tax. But things began slowly to change. Instead of the normal muttered, “Spare some change,” one wino approached and offered to tell the first part of a joke, for free. All but the punch line. If Mr Fulghum didn’t like the joke, he wasn’t out anything other than a minute or two of his time. But if he liked what he heard, then the wino would tell him the rest for a dollar. Mr. Fulghum was game, so he listened to the joke. It was a wild and fascinating joke, and the man told it with such gusto and obvious enjoyment that Mr. Fulghum happily paid him five dollars for the punch line, and spent the rest of the afternoon laughing every time he remembered the joke. Other winos in the park started doing other things – small and simple magic tricks, singing, dancing. One man offered to either laugh with you or at you for 50 cents, just pay him and pick your option. The park, which had often had an air of defeat and depression from the poor who had nowhere to live but there, started to acquire a feel of play, almost like a small, strange, but fascinating circus. Mr. Fulghum wondered where these changes came from, and began to ask around. It turned out that a waitress often came into the park on her break to have a cigarette. She’d begun talking with some of the homeless who slept and begged in the park. Through her suggestions and encouragement, the winos began adopting these ways of entertaining people rather than merely asking for a handout. But even more importantly, she gave some self-respect and small happiness back to a group of people who had long lost sight of these things.

It’s a kind of Cindarella story. Not as told by Disney, or as it is best known here in the US. Here in the US, Cinderella winds up with a step-family that treats her horribly, and she just accepts it as her lot and does as they say. She waits, and she hopes, and she does nothing for herself. She just hopes that something will come and rescue her from her misery. And then a fairy godmother shows up, and magics everything up, and off she goes to the ball. She almost doesn’t make it back home before the magic ends, and she leaves one slipper behind. She goes back to waiting and hoping and dreaming and doing nothing to improve her lot in life. She is passively awaiting rescue again. And the Prince that she dreams about, so concerned about the size of a girl’s feet, decides he doesn’t care who the girl is. As long as a girl’s foot fits into that slipper, he’s going to marry her. He goes house to house, having everyone – young, old, married, single – try on that slipper. When our Prince with a foot fetish finally gets to Cinderella’s house, her step-family tells her to hide, and she does that, too. She goes and hides and just waits and watches as her step-sisters and step-mother try on the shoe. The step-sisters cut off bits of their feet so the slipper will fit, and each time the prince if fooled. The shoe fits, right? She’s got small enough feet, she must be the One! And Cinderella does nothing even though she knows very well it’s her slipper and she’s the one who’s supposed to be riding away with that Prince. It’s only because the birds point out that the ugly step-sisters aren’t the right ones and that they cut off parts of their feet that the Prince realizes he’s been tricked. Twice. And then the birds point him toward Cinderella. It might seem like all that passive waiting paid off, but just think of how much misery she went through, waiting and hoping but seeing the Prince ride off with the very girls who’d made her so miserable. Her passive stance just prolonged her misery, it didn’t really solve it. This is all very different in the European version. That Cinderella is active. There at the end, she steps out of the hiding place her step-family forced her into, grabs for the slipper, and says, “Hey! That’s MINE!” She achieves her goal, and she helps make it happen.

The rest I don’t have to paraphrase. It’s a fairly popular story that fills the rest of the chapter. I found a copy online. It’s about Norman the Barking Pig.

In elementary school, the teacher announced that there would be a play.  The class would perform Cinderella, she said, and chaos ensued as a sea of arms waved wildly, each student trying to get the teacher’s attention.  “I want to be Cinderella!” said the girls.  “I want to be the handsome prince!” shouted the boys.  Then realizing that not everyone could have the same part, there were soon urgent requests for other parts.  “I want to be the evil stepmother!”  “I want to be the ugly stepsister!”  Somehow the teacher was able to wade through all the requests, and everyone was assigned a part.

Everyone, that is, except for Norman.  Norman was a quiet young man who didn’t talk too much in class.  He wasn’t shy or bashful; he just didn’t feel like talking a lot of the time.  Norman spoke when he had something to say.  He had a mind of his own and was perfectly comfortable being himself.

Concerned because there weren’t any characters left, even though she had made up many extra parts, the teacher said, “Norman, I’m afraid all the main parts have been taken for Cinderella.  I’m sure we can find an extra part for you.  What character would you like to be?”

Norman did not hesitate.  “I would like to be the pig,” he said.  “Pig?” the teacher asked, bewildered.  “But there is no pig in Cinderella.”  Norman smiled and said, “There is now.”

Norman designed his own costume with a paper cup for a nose and pink long underwear with a pipe cleaner tail.  Norman’s pig followed Cinderella wherever she went and mirrored her emotions.  If Cinderella was happy, the pig was happy.  If Cinderella was sad, the pig was sad.  One look at Norman and you knew the emotion of the moment.  At the end of the play, when the prince put the glass slipper on Cinderella’s foot, the couple ran off happily together and Norman went wild with joy, dancing around on his hind legs and breaking his silence by barking.  Yes, barking.  Now in rehearsal, the teacher tried to explain to Norman that even if there was a pig in Cinderella, pigs do not bark.  But as she expected, Norman explained that this was a barking pig, and she had to admit that the barking was very well done.  The presentation at the teacher’s conference was a smash hit, and at the curtain call, do you want to guess who received the standing ovation?  Sure enough, it was Norman the barking pig, who was after all the real Cinderella story.

To look this way is to see.
To see is to have vision.
To have vision is to understand.
To understand is to know.
To know is to become.
To become is to live fully.
To live fully is to matter.
And to matter is to become light.
And to become light is to be loved.
And to be loved is to burn.
And to burn is to exist.

The passive, helpless, waiting version of Cinderella is poison.

Even God is more likely to help those who help themselves.

Norman, the barking pig, is my idea of Cinderella.

The teacher who recognized him is my idea of royalty.

And those who help winos help themselves are my idea of fairy godmothers.

To insist on one’s place in the scheme of things and to live up to that place.

To empower others in their reaching for some place in the scheme of things.

To do these things is to make fairy tales come true!

And where I’m going with all of that is this: I worry, when I see your posts, that you are the passive, helpless, waiting version of Cinderella. Perhaps it’s because I’m not of the Christian faith, but it worries me because it sounds to me like you are putting everything, all of your hopes and dreams, into expecting someone else to provide for you, and you are just sitting and waiting for it to happen. I’m not saying that God can’t or won’t. But I do think that the old saying about God helping those who help themselves is true. And maybe you are out there, actively reaching toward a goal and knowing that God will be there waiting with your dreams held out as a gift when he sees you helping yourself, and all of that just never finds its way into your journal. What does find its way into your journal is always something that sounds, from here, very passive. Passive and waiting for hopes and dreams to be magically fulfilled without working toward them is a toxic place to be in. Believe me, I’ve done it. I know how it poisoned me before I wised up, and I so do not want my darling sis to be in that boat.

Obviously, relationships, marriage, these are things you can’t force. I guess what I’m really talking about is a change in attitude. Instead of, “When will God fulfill my heart’s desire? How long do I have to wait? Will He even do so, or am I going to be single for the rest of my life because that’s what His plan for me actually is, and He already knows that’s what’s best for me?” Try, “God knows me, and He knows my deepest desire. I know that He loves me and desires my happiness, as He does all of His children. I will show Him that I trust in His love and His desire for his children to be happy by doing what is within my reach toward that desire, knowing that in His infinite wisdom and love, He will provide. And if what He provides isn’t exactly what I want right now, because He loves me I know that it will be something even better than what I thought of myself.”

Does that make sense? I really don’t know if I got too convoluted there or not. It makes sense to me, but it’d be really sad if it didn’t, since I’m the one that thought it. lol

Also, you need to know that any guy to whom your weight matters more than who you are, the beauty of your spirit, the kindness and generosity you show, the way you strive to better yourself, the way you don’t just complacently sit back convinced that you are one of the chosen saved (most of the Christians I knew before I met you and Sarah were like that, smugly sure that they were pretty much perfect in their faith as they were and no matter what they did, they were saved and going to Heaven) but instead constantly work to improve your faith and grow in Christ, your beautiful smile, your sense of humor… well, I could go on for a very long time, but you get the idea… I say that any guy who thinks that you might be carrying a few extra pounds is more important than these things is not worth even your friendship, much less your heart. You are beautiful, both on the outside (cause I may not have met you, but I’ve seen pictures) and, more importantly, on the inside.

You also need to know that one of the biggest factors in attracting someone is not looks, but attitude. It’s all about self-confidence, baby. If you learn to be comfortable in your skin, with who you are and how you look, and even enjoy those things, it shows and it draws people. It took me a long time to get there, so I do know how hard it is to achieve. This is a part of why I belong to several communities that celebrate the beauty of larger women. , , and . There are some incredibly beautiful women there, and they support each other a lot. Some are a little exhibitionist – they’ll post nude pictures of themselves – but those are always behind a cut tag and clearly labelled, so you don’t have to see them.

Models, whether supermodels or the women who model larger sized clothes, learn to move with self-confidence, whether they feel it or not (even supermodels can hate themselves and think they’re ugly. I knew one. She thought she was fat. Drove me nuts.) It might not be a bad idea to study how they move. Head up, shoulders back, leading very slightly with the hips so their hips sway when they walk (don’t wanna overdo it, or you’ll look like you’ve got a deformed spine lol). This projects that feeling of self-confidence and being comfortable in your own skin, whether you feel it or not. It pays dividends. It’s subtle, so most people don’t realize why they think you look especially good today, but they will think so and friends will tell you so. Which will actually boost your self-confidence, and the walk will be less of an act. Don’t argue with them about it when they tell you, just accept the compliment, thank them, and try to feel the truth of what they’re saying instead of listening to the little voices that say things like, “But my thighs are so big! They must be just saying that because they’re my friends, they don’t really mean it. They’re just being nice.”

Also, the mind, emotions, and body are intimitely connected. If, for example, you’re depressed and instead of giving in to frowning, crying, etc, you force yourself to smile, your mind and emotions will eventually start to follow along. You might not be excstatically happy, but the sadness will become less and less. This works with pretty much anything. If you hit the pose for long enough, you’ll start feeling at least some of what the pose implies. So that self-confident walk will start to subtley and slowly make you feel better about yourself. The body/brain/emotions are just wired together that way. You won’t be thinking, “Wow, I’m gorgeous!” but you’ll start to forget your self-perceptions that make you think you are less than you are.

Another thing: When we look in the mirror, most of the time we don’t really look in the mirror. What we see most often is the image of ourselves that we have in our minds rather than reality. This is almost always a negative image. I once weighed 400 pounds. When I look in the mirror, my perception is that I still look like a huge blubberball in spite of the fact that I’ve lost 120 pounds. So you need to start practicing to replace those negative images with positive ones. When you look in the mirror, really look. Notice at least one thing about your features that you really like. Remark on it to yourself. Study it. Hold that image in your mind when you walk away. It takes time, but those positive things will start to become your self-image rather than the negatives. Once one positive feature has made its way to your subconscious self-image, you’ll discover something else that you realize is a really attractive feature. Do the same then, too. This will also help build your self-confidence and comfort with who you are and how you look.

Since self-confidence is a strongly attractive thing (as is sense of humor, but you’ve already got that in spades) these are also active steps toward your heart’s desire of being a wife and mother someday. And God helps those who help themselves.

I’ll stop rambling at you now. And again, I apologize if I’m reading into your posts a passivity that doesn’t actually exist. I just worry about my sis.

Love you, sis. Lots.

They’re doing Photoshopping of pictures of MonkeyFilter users over on MoFi. I did a quick-and-dirty (well, quick for ME) image to post over there. I didn’t spend a whole lot of time trying to mesh skin tones and such, though I did do a little shading and toning. And yeah, for those of you who saw the things I used to do to pictures of co-workers, you’ve seen that use of American Gothic before.

But then, as I was posting it, I had the sudden urge to re-use another of the masterpiece paintings I’ve demolished before.

Goddess save me from posting the_bone-a Lisa.

LJ Friends Meme by

.embresponse {font-weight: bolder;}• You must tell 23 people about this game.
• the_bone is the one that you love.
• Richard is one you like but can’t work out.
• You care most about felis_legio.
• medancer is the one who knows you very well.
• Sylvan is your lucky star.
• Let’s Go to Bed is the song that matches with the person in number 3 (the_bone).
• I Wanna See you Bellydance is the song for the person in 7 (Richard).
• Rough Sex is the song that tells you most about YOUR mind.
• and Life is a Lemon (and I Want my Money Back) is the song telling you how you feel about life
Take this quiz

No stacking of answers. Not planned in the least. And all the funnier for that.

But it’s not going to stop me from singing Madonna at until he throttles me.

Oh, and blame for getting me started on this.

Sauteed Boneless Pork Loin Chops with Mustard and Grapes

1 1/2 pounds boneless pork loin chops
flour seasoned with salt and pepper for dredging
4 tablespoons vegetable oil
4 tablespoons minced yellow onion
1 cup seedless red or green grapes, halved
1/2 cup dry white wine
4 teaspoons brandy
1 1/2 cups canned chicken broth
1 teaspoon firmly packed dark brown sugar
2 tablespoons Dijon-style mustard

Pat the pork dry and dredge it in the flour, shaking off the excess. In a large skillet heat the oil over moderately high heat until it is hot but not smoking and in it brown the pork. Transfer the pork with tongs to a plate, add the onion and the grapes to the skillet, and cook them over moderately low heat, stirring occasionally, for 3 minutes. Add the wine and the brandy and simmer the mixture until almost all of the liquid is evaporated. Add the broth and the brown sugar, whisking, and boil the mixture until the liquid is reduced by half. Add the pork and any juices that have accumulated on the plate, simmer the mixture for 2 minutes, or until the pork is just heated through, and transfer the pork with tongs back to the plate. Remove the skillet from the heat, whick in the mustard and salt and pepper to taste, whisking until the sauce is combined well, and return to the heat. Put the pork chops and any juices that have accumulated on the plate back into the sauce and simmer for a minute, turning the pork once or twice to coat with the sauce. Serves 4.

For those of you who know Schitzo, what do you think? My theory is that this is Schitzo sometime after he reaches late middle age and loses the rest of what passes for his mind.

I’ve always said that if I reached the point when I no longer enjoyed smoking, I’d make a serious effort to quit. Not do it because someone else wants me to, which was the case the previous couple times. Quit because I want to.

Of course, I’m a contrary sort. When someone tells me not to do something, I’m much more likely to do it than if they just keep quiet. People telling me to quit usually means that I light up right then just to piss them off. Even though I know they say it out of concern, it feels like I’m being pushed, and I do not and never have responded well to feeling like someone’s trying to push me. That’s why comments are disabled on this post. As well-meaning as commentary encouraging me to quit may be, it will just make my contrary nature kick in, and I’ll go buy more smokes. I know myself well enough to know this, at least.

I won’t be quitting quite yet. There is one more pack in my carton. That means that sometime, probably late Thursday or on Friday, I’ll smoke my last cigarette and make a real effort to quit. The desire is there to do so. I’m tired of the smoker’s hack. I’ve begun to notice a shortness of breath in the last month or so that isn’t good. Smoking just isn’t something I enjoy anymore, and that’s what it’s always taken for me to walk away from a habit like this.

Leaving behind my drug addiction was actually relatively easy. I had a dependency on something that did not inspire physical addiction, after all. Since nicotine has that extra bang for the buck, though, I suspect I’m going to be a huge bitch while I’m going through withdrawals. Sounds like a good time to hide in my room a lot, so I don’t drive everyone else crazy here at home.

For the most part, I can go hours without lighting up as it is. It’s certain times and places where I’m accustomed to smoking that the habit kicks in strong. When I’m talking on the phone, say, or sitting at the computer. When I’m driving. When I’m at conventions. To balance that, I’ve learned I can get absorbed in a game I’m playing on the PS2, or be sucked into a movie or show on TV, or read for six hours straight, and never really notice that I haven’t had a smoke. Guess this will be a good time to start reading a lot. (And a lot for me, considering how much I read now, will be a truly amazing amount. I’ve read four books in the last five days, some of them those 5-pound paper bricks produced by folks like Stephen King and Anne Rice. Imagine how much reading I’ll get done if I’m trying to forget that I want a smoke!)

Of course, not having a smoke in my hand will mean that I’ll go into overtime with the habit I’ve never, ever been able to break myself of: twirling my hair around my finger. I’ll probably succeed in unintentionally giving myself dreads. The only thing that ever stops me from twirling my hair seems to be smoking a cigarette. Or maybe attacking a bowl of Cincinnati chili.

So if I have very unprofessional dreadlocks by BayCon, you’ll all know why.

Spotted this on .

I shouldn’t have been drinking that soda while reading. Excuse me while I go find something to clean the monitor with.