It's either this or therapy.

Things I Meant to Do Before My 20th College Reunion

2011-06-06T14:55:00.000-04:00

I am going to my twenty year college reunion this weekend.

TWENTY.

As in, TWENTY YEARS AGO I GRADUATED FROM COLLEGE.

Which would mean that I started college TWENTY FOUR years ago.

How did that happen? I don't feel that much older. I'm sure I don't LOOK that much older. My hair is still red*. I have no wrinkles**. I may have gained a little weight***, sure, but hasn't everyone?****
Fine, I probably look every day of my 42 years, but since I am an artist who lives in Granolaville, I don't even think about that most of the time. If I want to feel pretty, I just go to Walmart***** for twenty minutes.

But I honestly don't feel that much different than I did the day I graduated, or even the day my parents dropped me off at the Vassar farm and I realized I was alone in a state where I literally did not know one single person. I was a clueless 18-22 year old with very little idea of what I wanted out of life, and I spent the next five or six years going to school for a degree I finally realized I did not want. So I spent another year in school to get a degree in library science. With my MLS, I partially supported myself for the next decade and a half. Unless you are married, independently wealthy, or enjoy living in a wigwam made of empty packing crates, there is no way to support yourself on a public librarian's salary. But the nice thing about being a public librarian is that the whole time you are thinking about applying for food stamps, you can keep telling yourself "But My Job Is Important. I Am Helping People. I Am Making A Contribution To Society".

I was able to be a librarian Contributing To Society mainly because my parents were contributing to my bank account.

Being a librarian was possibly the only time in my life since I was 17 that I viewed the future without ongoing nameless dread. I hated college at first. I was homesick, I missed my family, my friends, and most of all my boyfriend. Eventually I settled in and by my sophomore year I loved it, had friends, was involved in activities, and was sorry when winter and summer breaks interrupted my life. Junior year was more of the same, but by senior year I realized, "Hey. This ENDS."

I had no idea what to do next. Hence, the misguided grad school years, and falling into my library career mostly by accident.

Now, packing for my 20 year reunion, I still don't know what to do next. I thought I'd have accomplished a lot more by now. I definitely did not think I would be living in my parents' basement without any appreciable income, single, childless, and somewhat crazy. My classmates all seem way more advanced in Life than me, but then, on some level, they always did. The whole time I was at Vassar I kept looking around me thinking "Who are these beautiful, self assured people? Has there been some kind of mistake? Why am I here? Did the admissions committee just need someone from the Midwest for this class?"

You'd think that someone who felt that way then, and still feels a lot like that now, wouldn't even bother to go to a reunion. And believe me, I've agonized about it plenty. Part of me is dreading it. But that's why I feel like I have to go. If I don't do, aren't I just admitting that I never did fit in at Vassar, and it was all a big mistake that ruined my life?

I do not believe "Things happen for a reason", in fact, I think that's one of the most offensive statements ever invented, and mostly amounts to blaming the victim.^* So I don't think that I Went To Vassar For a Reason, because if so, that reason might just as well have been to destroy any thoughts of a musical career and ruin my self confidence almost beyond repair as anything. And when people say that things happen for a reason, they usually don't mean something icky as the end point. They mean that something bad happens to clear the way for something good....well. Maybe it just hasn't happened yet, but I still think this concept is bullshit.

But I do feel the need to reconnect with my alma mater at least one last time, and see if I can figure out exactly how it fits....or doesn't.... into the rest of my life. After I lost my job and realized I'd have to sell my house and move home, I re-evaluated my life as harshly as possible, and I did not like most of what I found. It scared me to realize that most of my failures could possibly be traced back to Vassar. Such as quitting the cello, because of an asshole music professor with an inferiority complex. And quitting acting, because I wasn't pretty enough to be taken seriously. And never taking a studio art class, because the artsy things that interested me were sneered at as crafts. Giving up on singing, when I'd always wanted to be in an acapella group, because I had one bad audition and never tried out again. Never taking a writing class, because I was too scared.

College is supposed to be a time to expand your horizons, but I felt so insecure at Vassar that that the main expanding I experienced was that of my waistline. Which only made everything worse, since I now felt out of place, untalented, AND ugly. And, after years of being one of the top students in the class, suddenly I was near the middle at best. I'd never felt stupid before. I'd never written a paper longer than three or four pages, and had it not been for taking classes at I.U. my last semester of high school, I think the academic work load alone would have sent me home.

What I did do was develop a political consciousness, and I spent most of my time on some form of political activism, which I don't consider a complete waste.....except, I'm not sure if it's done anything except make me an angrier person. I did make wonderful friends who I treasure. But I wasn't much of a friend to myself during college. So I guess I'm going back to see if I can figure out what made me stop liking myself, and if its too late to start again.

*As red as the first time I dyed it...actually, probably redder now. Seeing as I used to put the color over dark brown hair instead of white.
**I highly recommend extremely oily skin and being fat if you want fewer wrinkles with no botox. Works like a fucking charm.
***Hey, at least I don't have wrinkles, haters.
****At least those of us who can't afford lipsuction, personal trainers, or surrogates to bear our three or four sets of twins
*****No, I don't buy anything. Not only do I hate Walmart and think they are the devil, I also don't have any money.
^* Yes, I do have a standard, full blown rant on this topic. Please contact me if you need the full version. Especially if you feel like getting smacked.

Why no, I don't agree to disagree.

2011-02-23T01:18:00.003-05:00

Unless you live under a rock, or in a country that treats humans like humans even if they aren't billionaires*, you might have noticed that political sentiments are running high these days. Personally, I think this is a good thing, but then again, I've lived my entire life like this pretty much since before I understood what politics were.

When I got to college, I realized that all of my opinions weren't just called opinions, they were actually part of larger cloud called Politics. And by Politics, I don't mean, things involving government or at least, not just those things. At Vassar, in the late 80s and early 90s, your politics were much more than democrat or republican. Were you a capitalist or a socialist or maybe a Marxist? What about feminism? Moderate, militant, or separatist? Gay rights? What about bisexuality: just a stage or not? What about animal rights? Environmentalism: were you species-ist? "Politics" wasn't limited to how you voted; your politics were how you viewed the world.

In other words, as we learned over and over again, The Personal Is Political. Your politics and your self are not two separate entities. You are your politics, because they are your personal philosophy and way of connecting to the world.

It amazes me that in this day and age, I still have to explain this concept to people. Although, usually the people who don't understand this have never had to understand it. Politics become personal very quickly when, say, you have to sit at the back of a bus. Or you can't marry the person you love. Or when you need a medical procedure and can't get it because a group of zealots have chained themselves together in front of a clinic.

As most young people do, I assumed my college experience was fairly typical. Of course, it wasn't then, and it certainly isn't now. I think the one thing all Vassar grads agree on, especially as we get farther from it, is how atypical our education was. There are people who graduated from college around the same time I did, who even went to small liberal arts school, who hardly gave politics a thought. And since I graduated in 1991, young people seem to have moved farther and farther from politics as student activity. I've lived in college towns all of my life except for when I was actually in college, and the activism seems to be almost non-existent. Which, if it isn't needed, is great. Although I'm not sure that's the case.

I fell out of my strident political activism sometime after the mid 90s, when I finished grad school. I got a "real" job and played at being a grown up for a decade or so. I thought it was time for the next generation to take up the banners for a while.....but apparently they didn't. I was shocked when I started reading "feminist" magazines again a few years ago and discovered that in the 21st century, the main issues twentysomething feminists talked about had to do with the politics of bikini waxing and knitting in public. No more Take Back the Night marches, apparently.

Maybe part of the reason politics were so important at Vassar at the end of the 20th century was because, after years of being the most liberal of all the Eastern schools except for maybe Brown**, Bennington***, and Sarah Lawrence****, we were inundated with a a new breed of students. These were people who apparently couldn't make it into their first, second, or even fifth choice schools. By which I mean, schools where you could be rich, mean, loud, conservative and fit in seamlessly. At Vassar, you could definitely be mean and rich, and you could even be Republican and mean and rich. But combine all of the above, and you stood out so much that your only hope was to create your own clique so you could have some friends.

You think I'm joking? Do the names Richard Miniter or Marc Thiessen ring a bell? No? What about Liz Murdoch? Her dad's first name is Rupert, by the way.

I cut my political teeth at Vassar, and it should be no surprise that then, as now, I was on the opposite side of the barricades as my wealthier, more infamous classmates. While Rich and Marc wrote for The Vassar Spectator, a newspaper funded by Liz's pop, my friends and I wrote for and published a feminist newspaper called Womanspeak. We didn't have any billionaire dads helping us out, so our little rag wasn't as slick as the Spec. What we lacked in funding and layout programs, we made up for with intelligence, good writing, and sheer obnoxiousness....and for our trouble, got smacked down in many a Spectator editorial. It might have been all in good fun, except, those people have been and still are shaping the political discourse of the far right.

So maybe I've had a little longer to think all this through than everyone else, because I came up against their hateful rhetoric earlier than most. We were college kids back then, and we were all, quite honestly, kind of assholes. The difference is, the members of Womanspeak aren't feeding the right wing monster that's destroying our country.

Which brings me, at long and tortured last, to my point.

So often, I hear liberals/progressives***** say things like "Oh, well, we can agree to disagree!" or "Let's just not talk about politics!" or something like "No matter what you believe, I'll always love you!"

And I honestly want to smack those people.

Not the Teapublicans. No. Their need for smacking should, at this point, no longer even need saying. The Republican party has made it very clear that they hate gays, that they wish to restrict not only access to abortion but to health care for women in general, that no one but the wealthy deserves to have health care anyway and now, with their blatant union-busting, they've made it all too clear that in this America, working for a living means that you should scramble for the few crumbs the corporations are willing to toss your way, and you should be delighted and eternally grateful for the privilege.******

No, the people I'm annoyed with in this instance are the supposed liberals, or should I say, progressives.

Side note:
I've noticed that those of us who still use the word "liberal" tend to be a lot less apologetic about our politics. Maybe that's because we're old or something; I don't know. Maybe it's because we just think "progressive" has too many s's. Maybe it's because "progressive" doesn't always mean "progress" in a good way, it can also just mean going forward in time, without any real benefit. Like a cancer that progresses, because it is growing, but that isn't a positive kind of growth.
End of side note

Whatever word you use, I'm just plain, flat out tired of always being expected to act as though ALL points of view are equally valid. Because, newsflash: THEY ARE NOT.

I know. I have just broken an essential rule of liberalism, which is to always respect other points of view. But, guess what. If you're a bigot, and hateful, and spend most of your time trying to keep other people down, then I reserve the right to tell you to fuck off, no explanation needed, and NO APOLOGY.

I'm done with other liberals making me feel like I'm somehow not liberal enough because I don't want to play nice.

Why the hell SHOULD I play nice with people who would like nothing better than to see me and most of my friends even worse off than we already are?? And in the name of all that is decent and right, why the hell would I want to be FRIENDS with people who believe the things I enumerated above? There are lots of things you can agree to disagree about: Sports teams. White after Labor Day. Spit or swallow. Beatles or Rolling Stones. Toilet paper over or under. Beets as a food.

But why in the world would you want to be friends with people who disagree with you about basic tenets of life? Why would I want to be friends with people who think poor people don't deserve to have health care? Who hate gay people? Who think Glenn Beck has anything worth saying to anyone, anywhere??? What possible redeeming quality could someone like that honestly have that I would want near me by choice?

I understand that you don't get to choose your family. But, you CAN decide how much contact you have with your family. Because, you see, I also know plenty of people disowned by their own families. So, because their families didn't agree with them, in this case usually their sexual orientation, they were unchosen by their families. Because it is more important to please an imaginary man in the sky than, you know, love your own son.

And you don't get to choose who you work around. I am all too aware of working in close quarters with fucking crazy ass republican fundamentalists. Even I tried to keep my mouth shut, but in my case, I would have had to remove my entire head for that to help.

But all of that is different than having friends you choose.

Now, I hear lots of you saying "But...but...but". Let's look at your butts. I mean, your buts.

BUT
".....what about learning from each other?"
"...what about reaching across the aisle?"
"....what about working together?"

Really? Do you see Republicans as being willing to do any of these things?? Ever? This is a party built upon lies. This is a party filled with hate, and which sees nothing wrong with discounting enormous groups of people based on nothing except bigotry. Why would you WANT to learn from them?

And, again, if there are people who still call themselves Republicans when by doing so they throw themselves in with the worst of their kind, yet who don't necessarily agree with some of the most radical views, well, in the words of Martin Luther King Jr:

He who passively accepts evil is as much involved in it as he who helps to perpetrate it. He who accepts evil without protesting against it is really cooperating with it.

So, lets look at those "buts" again, and see where you can agree to disagree:

BUT:

"What about my jogging partner, Susie, who thinks all fat people are stupid and lazy? Can't we agree to disagree, even though my best friend is overweight and I know she's not lazy or stupid?"

"What about my friends I have coffee with on Tuesdays who all talk about how Jews control the media? Can't we agree to disagree about that, even though I think anti-semitism is wrong and horrible?"

"What about my neighbor's friend who is running for office on a union busting platform? Surely we can agree to disagree on this, even though I belong to a union and without it, I'll lose all the money I've paid into my pension?"

"What about my friend Joe, who thinks gay people should be sent to camps? Can't we agree to disagree on this, even though I have a gay son I adore and support?"

"I know WalMart is responsible for the destruction of the mom and pop grocery store, like the one that my family friends ran for 40 years until WalMart came to town. Can't we agree to disagree, and they won't be angry with me for shopping there now that they're homeless and live in a van?"

"What about Aunt FooFoo, who works for Operation Rescue? Can't we agree to disagree, even though I would have died if I hadn't been able to have a mammogram at Planned Parenthood?"

If you are one of those people who can, somehow, agree to disagree, well, good for you. Know that I am not one of you, and I never will be.

And I'm fine with that.

*Hint:not this one.

**lots of drugs,but still an Ivy

***very, very rich; student body mostly expelled from everywhere else because of drugs

****close enough to Manhattan to get really serious drugs; also,too small to matter

*****whatever term we're trying to use to not upset conservatives too much these days

******Oh, and just in case you want to have one of those "discussions" where you tell me that I shouldn't paint all Republicans with the same brush, because it isn't fairrrrrrr because they arrrrennnn'tttt ALLLLLL like that, and how maybe I don't know that because I'm a complete idiot who needs to have things explained to her in words of two or fewer syllables, well, just don't. Because I guarantee you, I've had that conversation with other people AND myself about seventeen million times. Starting about 20 years ago. And I've probably thought about it in way more detail than you have, because I'm totally comfortable with it, and you're still trying to "discuss" it. When a party has become so crazily far to the right, if you stay a part of it, well, you ARE tarred with their brush, and you deserve to be. If you aren't part of the solution, people, you most certainly are part of this problem.

I can go on about this. At great, unwanted, frighteningly mind numbing length. Way, way longer than this, and I can tell you're already annoyed. Believe me. This is nothing. Stop now, while you have a chance to escape.

Back from the dead; also, Social Pointers for Assholes

2010-11-29T11:37:00.000-05:00

In the interest of trying to keep my dollmaking blog a little less profane and bitchy, I'm reviving this blog for its original purpose: venting here so that I do not kill people. I might do some of that at my other blog. And, I will still hate on Republicans openly both places, because that is necessary. Everyone should hate them everywhere, always. But sometimes, like today, I will need to vent about things like why people are such dicks at art shows, and sometimes customers/dealers/etc are all like "Please don't call people dicks" on your business blog. Whatever. Like dicks want to buy my shit anyway.

So, in honor of this Revival (I must need a thesaurus or whatever that thing is with all the words in it this morning since I can't think of another word), let me start things off with a bang with the following list of helpful hints:

How NOT to Behave at an Art Fair, Craft Show, or Mostly, Anywhere in Public

1. Do not assume that artists spend seventeen million hours on their work for the express purpose of giving your sticky, stinky toddler something to manhandle. Really. Most of us call what we do ART specifically as a hint for children to STAY AWAY.

2. Do not assume that your child is cute to anyone but you and possibly other blood relatives of the child. While I usually try not to give outward signs of revulsion and have even been known to coo a bit, I'm really there to sell stuff, not to congratulate you at length on performing biological functions. If doing so made you spend money, that would be one thing, but I have noticed that the more you wish to discuss your biological functions including but not limited to childbirth, lactation, and digestive processes, the more likely you are to think that dolls should be made of recycled sweatsocks, be childsafe to the point of digestability, and also be free to you just because you have achieved reproduction. I don't care. Go to an outsider "art" fair where people do care, and where you can find poorly made items of "upcycled" acrylic felt once used as bird cage lining.*

3. Even if you honestly DO believe than my items are overpriced, I'd much rather you tell me so openly rather than passive aggressively "tell" your friend in a really loud voice, just daring me to say something. Because now you've shown me that not only are you not a customer, and are ignorant, cheap and classless, but you've also tried to manipulate me. What do I gain from responding to you at all?? Nothing, except giving you license to create even more of a scene and alienate customers. What do you gain? Making me feel like crap? Looking like a boor? Go for it. Just get out of the way of the people standing in line to pay.

4. I am sure that you could make something "just like" any one of my items if you wanted to. Go home right now and do just that, because if that was really true, you would understand how rude, defensive, and sad you sound-- and you might have a booth here, too. But, you don't. And I am sure you couldn't make anything "just like" my dolls, since you're not me.

5. Please do not take photographs of my booth without asking. See how my things have pricetags on them?? With numbers?? That means these items are for SALE. I did not spend all my waking hours for months working on them so you could snap some pictures for your own purposes that don't benefit me at all. If you're a reporter, identify yourself as such, and I'd be delighted for you to shoot all day. If you're not, why are you taking photos? So you can try to reproduce something later? So you can own an image of my work without paying for it? This isn't a museum. I don't care what your personal interpretation of copyright is. If you want to look at one of my pieces every day, you can buy it. Please don't try to profit from my work without paying for the privilege.

6. If you have children who are not old enough to understand basic rules of, um, anything, please don't turn them loose to roam around by themselves or in packs. This is a public place. We're not here to watch them. Also, I'm not sure if you know this, but no one thinks they're cute/amazing/delightful but you, and maybe their grandparents. [Maybe not. How far away do they live? You might want to take that personally.] Also, and this might be earth shattering for you: Children Do Not Always Behave In The Way You Might Hope When They Are With Their Friends. I am a former child. I know this. Why don't you?? And frankly, I probably like kids more than most people, because they're honest, interesting, and often very funny. What I don't like is your assumption that your decision to become a parent is somehow anyone else's problem or responsibility. When your kid is walking around in tears because they can't find you, that does become my problem because in spite of evidence to the contrary, I'm not a complete heartless bitch. But,I'm here for a reason, and I can't leave my cashbox and booth unattended, and these are YOUR children! Wait, am I repeating myself here? Oh well. Judging from recent experience, I don't think I can restate this enough.

7. If you haven't been accepted to the show, please do not walk around it selling your art to people out of your backpack or off your arm. This recently happened at a local show. Aside from the fact that the show organizers have purposely selected vendors to appeal to their particular audience, those of us with booths? Have actually PAID to be here. And you didn't. So now, you're not only thumbing your nose at the show organizers, but you're taking away money from them and the vendors....and, you're just rude. And hopefully, now you'll never get in to ANY shows.

8. Please, even if there is no sign expressly saying so, do not eat or drink over my booth. The time to smear greasy kettle corn hands across a doll's face is once it becomes yours, not before. Because now no one else wants it. So you've just cost me the price of that doll. I don't come over to your office and wipe tomato sauce/snot/melted butter on your work. Why do you get to do it to mine?? Also, please don't set any drink, especially those consisting of milky, sugary, staining substances, down next to the art. I know you're very, very careful, but there are other people who might not be.

9. I am sure that your cell phone conversation is vital to your survival. But it is not vital to mine, and when you stand directly in front of my booth yelling at your husband about whether to get McDonald's or Taco Bell on the way home, you drive other customers away. Don't give me a filthy look when, after ten minutes, I ask you to politely move, and then yell "I'M ON THE PHONE HERE!" in my face. Yes. I see that. So does everyone else. That's the problem. Also, which McDonald's will you be patronizing? I want to call them and offer them a percentage of my day's profits if they'll spit in your drink.

10. Finally, most artists really do enjoy talking about our work. The thing is, we're trying to sell it today, and we only get to do that once in a while, not every day unless we're lucky enough to be in a gallery or have a shop--in which case, we'd probably not be here. Also, note the word "sell". So please do not become offended and huffy when I will not spend forty minutes out of the three or four hours I have here explaining my entire artistic process to you in hopes that you might spend $10, because it does say right on my business card that I am available to teach workshops, and because that's my business card, maybe you might realize that as part of my BUSINESS, I might wish to be PAID for my knowledge. I know that we all think everything should be free, especially if its on the interwebs, but actually, it isn't. Also, please don't ask me where I get all of my materials and how much I paid for them. Not only is that rude, but why am I going to tell you that? So you can go buy all the same stuff, use all my ideas, and become a direct competitor??

This list will be added to as needed.

*Might be slightly exaggerated. But not as much as one might hope.

Twelve Steps for Dealing with the Republican Menace

2009-08-25T18:39:00.002-04:00

Note: I originally published this on the "Notes" section of my Facebook profile. Since then, many people have forwarded it around, and since there are still people without FB accounts, I thought I would post it here as well.

My thanks to real twelve step programs for their inspiration. Feel free to forward and repost as needed, just leave my name attached. I wouldn't want anyone else to get in trouble for my smartassery.

TWELVE STEPS FOR DEALING WITH THE REPUBLICAN MENACE
by Wendy Bethel

A friend of mine wished that there was a 12 step program for her to do so she could stop trying to argue with Republicans. I agree that this is a vitally urgent issue, and so I've tried to oblige. These steps are only the beginning.

You must:

1. Admit that you are powerless over using logic on Republicans. You cannot argue with people in a language they do not speak.

2. Come to believe that powers not possessed by Republicans can restore you to sanity, including but not limited to compassion, intelligence, and reason

3. Turn over your energy wasted on speaking to Republicans to a high power, such as to the electoral college, or really, any college.

4. Take a fearless moral inventory of yourself.
For instance, do you believe that gay people are the same as pedophiles, those who practice bestiality, and rapists? Do you think that poor people are poor because they made “bad choices”? Do you believe in less government except when it applies to your enormous tax cuts? Do you care passionately about the rights of the unborn until the cord's cut? Do you believe that access to health care for every citizen is a big socialist plot, since you and everyone you know has really good insurance?

No? Then you don’t have to worry, because you are NOT a Republican and therefore you HAVE morals.

5. Admit to yourself the nature of your wrongs: You CANNOT reason with a Republican. See Step One.

6. Ask your higher power to remove the desire to reason with those who have defective characters, such as Republicans

7. Ask your higher power to remove Republicans from your life.
Trust me. It’s better this way.

8. Make a list of those who have been harmed by Republicans. This will be a long list. It may be quicker to simply make a list of Republicans, and then write at the top of it “Everyone except the following:”

9. Now, instead of wasting time, breath, and energy trying to speak to Republicans, make amends to those who have been harmed by them, including yourself, through volunteer work, community organizing, years of painful psychotherapy, living with compassion and integrity, and obviously, voting for Democrats.

10. Continue to take personal inventory and when you are wrong, admit it. It will not be easy to stop speaking to Republicans all at once. Sometimes, they seem almost normal until you’ve known them for a while. You may have to move, get a new job, find new friends, disown a child or two, and/or obtain a divorce. In the end, it is worth it.

11. Continue to practice empathy, reason, and love in your daily life. You could ask God what he wants you to do, but all too often he claims you should vote Republican, carry concealed weapons, hate the gays, bomb the brown people, and prevent women from entering clinics to get cancer screenings. Therefore, do so at your own risk. If I were you, I'd just make sure I was working on Step 10.

12. Now that you know how to free yourself of the Republican menace, carry your knowledge and support to others seeking to free themselves of the struggle.

And remember to take it one day at a time.

It's My Birthday, Bring On the Bad News!!

2009-01-20T23:00:00.003-05:00

I have not had good luck with birthdays for much of my adult life. The bad luck streak started in 2000, where two days before I turned 31 I received an e-mail telling me to get myself to Chicago ASAP if I wanted to see my friend Jim* again. I got on a plane the next morning, and I was lucky enough to see him while he was still conscious. Against my better judgment, I left the hospital that night, and when I came back in the morning, he'd just died.

Which was SO typical of him. Dying on MY birthday, so that it would always now be all about him. And not waiting for me to get there before he died. He always did things when it was convenient for him, like graduate from college the year before I did, leaving me to face my senior year without him, and moving to Chicago and insisting that I visit him continually there during the winter months.**

I loved Jim fiercely, and even though we'd grown apart somewhat in the three or four years before his death, he was still one of the best friends I've ever had.

A few years later, my grandfather died only a week or so after my birthday. He was also named Jim, and he shared the same birthday with my friend Jim.

A couple of years went by and no one died on or near my birthday, which was considerate of my friends and family. Naturally, they've all been warned that if they're feeling under the weather in the month of January that they can just hang on til February. And then, of course, last year my job went to hell in a handbasket two days before my birthday.

So it should be no surprise that I'm a little edgy this time of year. Either people die, or there's another great loss. And so it really shouldn't have been shocking that I found out yesterday, only 3 days after my birthday, that my yarn shop is probably closing in another month or so. Meaning that now I have to find another job. And since I have no skills and no talents and no training except in librarianship, I'm not sure what this mystical job might be.

My parents keep telling me to go back to school. But I hate school. I have a remarkable amount of education, especially considering how much I hate school, and none of it has ever seemed to help. What could I go to school for, anyway? My father has suggested nursing at least 5 times. Except, I'm not really all that nuturing. Plus, if I can't handle library administrators, I'm not sure I could put up with DOCTORS.
Also nursing seems to involve things that have to do with science. And science and I are not friends. We're not even on speaking terms. The last science class I took was my senior year of high school and involved dissecting a fetal pig for an entire semester. I can still remember the horrible fingernail-y texture of the skull, and the icky smell of fetal pig juice that clung to my hands for hours.

Ugh. I really wish I hadn't remembered that smell.

And worst of all....did I mention that I just turned FORTY?!

*I used to have two gay best friends named Jim. In the past, I used a variety of descriptors to differentiate between them, including Slutty Jim and Not-so Slutty Jim; Filthy Jim and Even Filthier Jim, and Financially Irresponsible Jim and Financial Trainwreck Jim. Now, I just refer to them as Dead Jim and Living Jim. So much easier.

**Chicago is bearable between May and early September. My sister has lived there for the past several years. Because I am a bad sister, I have visited her precisely once. Its not that I'm trying to avoid her, it's just too fucking cold there.

Resolutions redux

2009-01-10T22:46:00.002-05:00

I'm pleased to report that I accomplished one of my new year's resolutions already!!

I cleaned the basement!!

Except, I'm not sure I deserve much praise for this one, seeing as it was actually last year's resolution. Still. DONE.

I hired someone to come and help me cart loads of things upstairs, and then I hired someone else to haul it all away. It's amazing how much better I feel about life in general knowing now that if I die suddenly, my family's main regret will now simply be, Who takes the damn dog? rather than Jesus Fuck, WHO is going to deal with that damn basement?

I wouldn't refer to my basement now as "clean" in any normal sense. Instead, it just looks like the basement of someone who won't throw things away, but who at least understands that they should be stacked neatly along the walls in some kind of order. I found several boxes from my last move, which was in 2001, where I'd clearly just dumped an entire drawer into the box and then moved it, meaning to sort it out later. Apparently, that's where all my makeup went. I thought I used to have a somewhat normal girly amount of face paint that was for humans and not dolls. Well, I did, it was just in a box labeled "BATHROOM DRAWER" underneath about seven other boxes in the far corner of the basement.

I also found a few boxes from when I cleaned out my office at my penultimate library job, where I'd occupied the same office for almost 8 years. Wow. I hope that library managed to replace its stock of paperclips and ballpoint pens with what they saved on my salary.

Aside from getting rid of so much stuff, I remembered just how many books I have that are in boxes and not on shelves. I would venture to say there are at least 20 boxes [and we're talking copier paper sized boxes that hold probably 40-50 books each] down there. Many of them are from my days as a medievalist, and I can't quite bear to part with them, because they're probably out of print and were hard to find in the first place. I've told myself that I'm going to start going through the boxes and sorting out things to take to Half Price Books. The only problem with that is I always trade them in for credit, not cash, which is probably not the best idea as it just means more books.

I've also started my doll blog, which is called, genius-like, Year of Dolls. Located at http://yearofdolls.blogspot.com. So far it has one doll on it, with hopefully many more to come. I intend to use that blog as a space to write about important crafting issues such as what kind of stuffing to use and which fabric is best for needlesculpting. Because I apparently have quite a lot to say about those things, but the seven or eight people who read this blog are most certainly not among them.

Happy New Queer!!!

2009-01-01T14:45:00.002-05:00

Yay! Suck it 2008, you're dead!!!

I am so freaking glad that 2008 is DONE. OVER. FINITO. A bug smashed and drying on the windshield of life!!!

I started 2008 with a cloud of gloom swirling about my head, made up of equal parts paranoia, depression, and nameless ongoing dread. Two weeks later, all of that made perfect sense when my library life came crashing down around my ears. I spent several months immobilized with grief, then anger, then fear......really, it just sucked all the way around. Things settled down a bit after I started working full time at the yarn shop, which I'm still doing. I've had some rocky times lately, because I still fall prey to my old habits of 1)making my job my whole life and 2)procrastination. I adore working at the yarn shop, but it is very easy not to look up and separate my life at large from the shop, because so many of my friends are customers or co-workers.
And procrastination.
Hmm.

[pause]

Sorry, I just had to get up, walk around the house, get a diet Pepsi, and flip channels for a moment.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah. Procrastination.

I think procrastination is my main trouble in life. I waste so. much. time.

Here are a list of the things I meant to do over the past year that i didn't do:

1. Quit smoking [ok, in all fairness, I did have a pretty stressful time, which doesn't make purposely putting oneself in a horrible mood the best choice]

2. Get my house under control

3. Exercise more

4. Produce more dolls

5. Write regularly

6. Deal with the shame hole of the basement

I'm sure there were more, but I've forgotten what they are since I put them off for so long.

At any rate, as I examine all my past resolutions/vows/plans, one theme connects them all, and that's procrastination. I am soooooo good at putting things off, and making excuses, and all of that---it all comes down to procrastinating. And now that I'm going to be FORTY in two weeks---well, it seems like maybe I should stop living for the future and live in the NOW. Instead of planning out things and making lists, I need to follow though and DO things, not just think about doing them.

Meaning, if i'm going to write a book---WRITE IT. Stop thinking of ideas, and writing plot sketches, and thinking about it. Sit my ass down for at least 30 minutes a day and WRITE. Stop worrying about having a full finished project.

And as for my dollmaking and other arty things: I need to stop thinking about it, and looking at stuff on the internet, and buying supplies. I need to MAKE THINGS. One of the only things that really keeps my spirits up and fufills me as a human being is making stuff, especially dolls. I do love knitting, but it doesn't hit me in the creative part of my soul like dollmaking. For me knitting is more of a nervous habit to do with my hands; it's not yoga, which heals you body and soul. Its more like a nicotine patch that enables me to sort of get through the day but that doesn't leave me feeling more refreshed and like I've grown when I come out on the other side.

So this year my only New Year's Resolution is this: STOP PUTTING SHIT OFF.

To this end, I've already hired someone to help me clean out my basement, on Saturday.

I'm also setting up a few other rules for myself, because without structure, i'll be back to my old habits in about ten minutes.

1. Write every day for at least 20 minutes. It can be on this blog, or another blog [more about that in a minute], or it can be stream of consciousness crap, or it can be part of a piece or a story. Just fucking WRITE.

2. Make at least one full, finished doll per week. The doll can be a tiny, pancake unembellished form, or it can be a fully costumed 36 inch something or other. And of course, some dolls will take way longer than one week, but I still must have one finished SOMETHING per week. I will include bears and other soft sculpture animals or pieces in this, but I am not allowed to count any other items, like a knitted doll, a mixed media collage, or anything towards this. If I make a paper doll that has elements of other art in it, that's ok. Just have to get my dollmaking focused again, because it is sooooo much a part of how i define myself, yet I don't do it enough because dollmaking takes much more time, energy, and creativity than anything else.
I have some other rules I'd like to put in place, like only using my own patterns and designs, but i'm going to wait on that one for a while. Right now my goal is to just get myself working. I am going to let myself take dolls in process and finish them, those can count towards the total.

2a. As part of the doll goal, I'm going to set up a doll blog where I write about and post photos of the dolls. Unless i feel like I have something/someone to report to, I know I'll let myself fall behind. i'm setting up the blog and working on the first doll TODAY.

3. I am going to quit smoking, once and for all, for good. I've done it before, so I know I can. I'm going to do it the way it works for me: by tapering down, making it inconvenient for myself, and then using the nicotine patch for a couple of weeks. I'm tired of the expense, the smell, the hassle, and the constant feeling of guilt. I have not set the official date, but I may decide on my birthday as the actual no more cigarettes and switch to the patch date. I really don't want to be a forty year old smoker.

4. I'm going to pick up my exercising again, which right now consists of walking the dog and using my mini trampoline*.

Those are my main three rules for right now. I also have plans eating better, and dealing with my weight, but those, esp the last, come after smoking is conquered. I was going to lose weight first, but re-gaining it and then losing it again doesn't make sense.

Sigh.
I'd love to waste a little more time writing some lists, but I have SHIT TO DO.

*Before you laugh, try it. I guarantee that after five minutes your calf muscles will be screaming for mercy. It really works, it's fun, and most importantly, can be accomplished while watching TV.

Holiday Greetings!!!!

2008-12-18T01:29:00.002-05:00

Merry Christmas to You Know Who You Are!!!!

I thought I'd send you all a nice holiday greeting and update you on my life in the past year!!! After all, I'm so thankful to you all for helping make 2008 such a great, great year in my life!

Let's go back a year to December 2007! What a fantastic month that was!! I remember worrying that my depression was spiraling out of control again, because I felt soooooooo paranoid and unhappy. What a bummer!! I was sooooo depressed, and I had the strangest feeling that people were talking about me, but wrote it off to my natural paranoia and the fact that I've got crazy on both sides of my family, ha ha, that is so fun!! Anyway, I didn't have to worry!!! Yay!! Because I wasn't paranoid at all! Because you guys were TOTALLY talking about me, and going to other coworkers and telling them all this funny, crazy stuff that was completely out of your heads!! Sheesh! You guys kill me!!!

So anyway I had a really depressing Christmas in 2007 where I was soooooo down I cried every day, and thought, oh my, that's it, I'm completely nuts, even when things are going great I just worry myself to death. Silly, silly me! Why can't I be more upbeat? Why do I have to be such a poopypants all the time??
After the holidays, though, I went back to my lovely job that I loved soooooooo much, with my employees who I'd spent about 150 hours making gifts for, and who I cared about as people and for whom, as a supervisor, I bent over backwards! And it was so cool because every day you'd all smile at me and chat with me like we were buds!! Just like everything was great and half of you hadn't spent the last month actively trying to come up with a plan to get me fired!!!! You guys are such sneaky little buggers, ha ha!!! And soon my birthday was coming up and I teased everyone about it, pretending like you were planning some kind of party, and everyone was all secretive, like you guys were planning a great big surprise or something!! Gosh! I just LOVE surprises!

Then one day my boss called me in the office for our normal afternoon chat! And the nice thing was, it was only two days before my birthday and the special surprise I knew eveyrone was planning!!

So imagine my delight at getting my surprise two whole days early! I walked into my boss's office and there were HR AND the Director!!!! Wow!!! What a treat!!!! The whole administrative staff at once!!! I figured they were going to tell me something neato, like the time my boss and HR called me in to tell me they were giving someone a great big raise that I had nothing to do with! Oh, wait, you guys thought that was ME?? Sillies!!! I had no control over anyone's salary!
But no!! The cool thing they had to tell me was that "some" of my employees had been complaining about me!! Luckily, I know exactly which employees they meant, because after I left my beloved job sobbing in disgrace never, ever to return, and went home to fall into a near suicidal depression, well, you guys thoughtfully sent me BIRTHDAY cards!!! Thank you thank you!!!! What an unusual moment that was, opening a large brown envelope from the library and expecting to see a dismissal notice but instead seeing BIRTHDAY CARDS!!! It takes a special kind of person to try and get someone fired yet STILL remember to wish her a happy birthday!!! I'm just so lucky to know FIVE people like that!!!

Anyway, then I found out that not only had been employees been complaining about me, they'd been speaking to other department heads, including someone I thought was a good friend!!! I guess he just didn't want to worry me by giving me a heads up or anything crazy like that! He is such a great guy!!! Always thinking of others!!!

And it turns out, apparently the administration went on a witch hunt!! Which was kinda funny cause it wasn't even Halloween! And they managed to make up a whole bunch of stuff that wasn't true, and then, as my special birthday gift, they announced that I'd be on suspension for two days and then--yay!!!--when I came back I would get to be on a special performance plan and if I did anything they didn't like at all, I'd be summarily dismissed!!!

Wow!! What a great surprise!!!! I don't know how to thank you guys enough for making my 39th birthday SO MEMORABLE!!!

Anyway, after about three weeks I stopped crying constantly, and only cried about three times a day. Golly, that sure was a relief!! Of course, I couldn't read a book for another couple of months because for some reason the sight of books reminded me of libraries, and that reminded me of my job, and for some reason, that made me have funny feelings in my tummy and my eyes would start watering. So weird!!!

I was real excited to get back to work until i realized that huh, maybe when people make up lies about you and tell them to everyone that maybe they might not WANT you back. And then I realized, huh, I think if I do go back, that maybe some people might not be NICE to me. I know!!! Isn't that strange?? So, I sent in my resignation! Oopsy-daisy!

The great thing about all of this is that I didn't just quit a job!! No!! You guys helped me see the light about my whole life!! I realized my career was totally unsuited to me!! And that my whole life was wrapped up in the library, and the people there!! And that without my job, not only had I lost my financial stability, my professional standing, my social outlets, and my insurance---I'd actually lost my entire sense of self worth!!! Now THAT is a gift that keeps on giving!!! You guys helped me to realize that I was a piece of shit barely worthy of oxygen!!! That my entire life up to this point was a misdirected waste trying to fit in with people who were never, ever going to like me or respect me because I can't ever be a quiet mousy librarian and use my tongue to clean out administrators' assholes!!! When I think of all you've done for me, I can hardly even speak!!!

Anyway, it's been almost a year and I just wanted to let you know how great things are going for me!! I've got a new job! I really love it, but I work my ass off for about a quarter of what I made before, with no benefits, but what's that compared to being able to stay in one's home and buy groceries??? Wendy Whiner, that's me, ha ha!! It's not like I'm not allowed to get COBRA right now for a mere $450 a month!!! And, even better, when that runs out I'll be able to save sooooooo much money, since I won't even be able to buy my own health insurance!! Those wacky pre-existing conditions!!! I thought about selling my house, but oh, this nutty economy!! whoopsies!!!!

And now its the holidays again!!! That special time of year when we connect with old friends, and look back on the past year, and get together with our families, and remember that Christmas is about love, and giving, and thinking about someone besides yourselves for more than possibly two seconds. It's a time when we should be happy, not so depressed we can hardly move, and it's definitely not a time when you should have to be reminded, every year, of how treacherous and disgusting other humans can be. But thanks to you guys, I get to do just that!!! Yay!! Thanks for filling my holiday season, not to mention my whole year, with such special memories!!!

Merry Christmas!!!!

Crazydog

2008-10-18T11:07:00.004-04:00

Now that I am working full time again, my poor dog spends most of the day alone. which means, when she's out of her crate, she has a lot of energy.

And by "a lot" I mean that she is like a canonball of yellow fluff that has been shot at full force into an atmosphere of low gravity so that it never reaches the ground.
Here's my normal morning these days:

Wake up at crack of 9am. Feed dog.
Let dog out.
Slump on sofa for 45 minutes until dog barks wildly at door

9:58. Let dog in and head back to sofa, where dog has already leapt and stands, quivering with anticipation that I might drop some food, take her for a walk, or simply do something that cues her to bark wildly and leap about like the maniac she is. Head instead back to bedroom, where, instead of gathering possible clothes for day, I collapse on bed.

9:58and a half. 75 pounds of furry insanity does four legged leap directly on my head.

9:59. Decide may as well get dressed. Which cannot be accomplished with dog in room, as she believes that clothes being pulled out are wild animals that she must attack, bite, and shake wildly to break their poor little necks.

10:01. Manage to simultaneously push dog outside of room and close door before she lunges back through it.

10:03 Tear jerkingly intense whining and pawing commences. It sounds as though she's being tortured. I stagger about room trying to assemble pants, shirt, and hopefully underwear while trying to harden my heart again the dog drama going on outside.

10:04 Cannot stand it anymore and so let dog in, who goes from depths of dog-despair to wild exuberance in .3 seconds.

10:04-10:10 Dog engages in burst of "Crazydog". This is when dog leaps on bed, smacks front paws down, and then suddenly begins leaping from bed to floor and back again without actually touching the floor. It's completely insane and makes me laugh so hard I fall over, which excites dog even more and forces her to incorporate wild frenzied barking into crazydogging.

10:11 Realize have exactly 19 minutes to corral beast, finish dressing, and get to work. Start yelling "STOP IT LUNA" which means that the crazydog is ratcheted up at least two notches until I have to leave bedroom and shut door as she might accidentally kill me in her frenzy.

10:11 and a half: Horrible, heartbreaking whines.

10:12 Open door. Explosion of yellow fur heads directly for my head; I step aside so that she can careen into kitchen and scrabble across the linoleum, hoping that she will hit her head and pass out.

10:13 Run back into bedroom, harden heart against whines, and throw clothes on in one minute or less.

10:14 Re-emerge to dog standing on hind legs and pawing at me with utter delight as though she has not seen me in months and not just 45 seconds.

10:15 Tell dog "Time for bed!" which means it's time for her to go in her crate* and which words evoke in her the immediate response of slumping to the floor and turning onto her back and doing that thing with her eyes that Puss in Boots does in Shrek. She also puts her paws under her chin and tilts her head at me so that I am immobilized with sheer love at her complete adorability, which is part of her plan.

10:15-10:20 Coo and cuddle the sweet little puppy baby. Oh how sweet she is.

10:21 Announce that it is time for "Mommy to go to work". Magically, dog enters crate, immediately lies down with nose between paws, and does the Puss in Boots thing with her eyes until I am nearly in tears. I back out of the room offering promises of walks, treats, and bones as soon as I return.

10:22 Run around house gathering purse, keys, shoes, various knitting projects which will never actually leave my knitting bag as I almost never actually knit at work, and check myself to make sure all pieces of clothing made it on to appropriate body part.

10:25 Leave house. Thank goodness shop is less than 5 minutes away.

*To anyone who might be tempted to give unwanted and ignorant advice about crating my dog: Don't. People who don't crate dogs that are not fully trained are like the assholes who let their cats go outside: asking for trouble and not watching out for their animals. There is nothing that pisses me off more than someone who says "Ohhhhh, you put your dog in a CAGE???"as though it's the most inhumane thing possible. Golly, why don't I just let a 75 lb mildly retarded ruminant loose in my house all day, free to ingest various craft supplies, canned goods, and socks? Cause THAT's safe.

The Bigot Next Door

2008-09-29T22:01:00.005-04:00

So on Saturday I came home after a horribly hectic week, and did the one thing I've wanted to do for several months now: I put my Obama sign in my front yard. I finally managed to score one at a local farmer's market in a neighborhood much hipper than mine. While I poked the metal rods into the ground, my republican next door neighbors jeered and made some unpleasant noises from their front porch which seemed, at the time, mostly goodnatured. I said "Oh, come on now, you're not really going to vote for someone running with that idiot Palin, are you?"

To which my neighbor replied "Well I sure as hell ain't voting for no n-word Muslim!"
His wife laughed as though that were funny.

Only he didn't say "n-word".

He said "nigger".

In broad daylight.

To my face.

In Columbus Ohio, 2008.

I honestly stumbled back a step and spluttered "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME?????"

He explained "Oh, I didn't mean it towards YOU". As though, duh, obviously, that's okay. It's okay to SAY that word, as long as it's about someone else????

I just stared at him and said "Um, he's not even a Muslim. Although i'm not sure why that would matter. And I didn't know anyone actually still used that word in this century. Wow".

And I went in my house. I was shaking with fury, and disgust, and, I'm not ashamed to admit, fear. Because someone who can throw off the n-word that easily is someone I don't even want to have to look at, ever, let alone LIVE next to. And did I mention that he spewed this hatred in front of his 2 year old granddaughter??

Of course, I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. After all, this is the same creature who, when I had just bought my house and was driving around looking at it before I took possession, I caught pissing in the alley, pants around his ankles, in front of his ten year old daughter. It's also the same thug who slashed Lazy Homophobe Boy's truck tires once when they got into a disagreement about the fact that LHB was tired of hearing Toby Keith blasting day and night from the redneck's garage. Not to mention the fact that this dickwad has been arrested more than once for beating his wife, and that his "job" is that of housepainter, which means that he drinks in his backyard all day while his painting van rusts in front of my house on its four flat tires. Basically, he's a complete waste of skin. Which I knew, but still, I was, as the Brits say, completely gobsmacked at his little racist outburst. I mean, do I look like someone you can just say "nigger" in front of?? What about me would make you think that was acceptable on any level?? What about ANYONE would make you think that was an acceptable thing to say, anytime, anywhere???

And did I mention that I live in an otherwise nice neighborhood? I bought the cheapest house in the most expensive neighborhood I could afford, and it's a fairly exclusive neighborhood. In spite of the flagrant redneckery of my neighbor, my house has increased in value to the point that I could never afford it now if I didn't already own it. The schools are excellent; we have our own library; gourmet restaurants, and a nice little downtown area. I can see the skyline from the second story of my house. It's mostly a fairly progressive, well educated neighborhood. Except for the house next door, where West Virginia would be too refined for a vacation destination.

My only comfort is this: these repulsive people have a teen daughter who is way beyond tomboy. I mean, she makes Rosie O'Donnell look like a simpering girly girl. She is the butchest kid I have ever seen. And I spent a lot of time at women's music festivals in the 90s.

And someday soon, she's going to bring home a girl to meet Mom and Dad. A girl that probably looks like a linebacker, and hopefully, can kick Dad's alcoholic ass.

I can't wait.

Spoiled Rotten Brats

2008-09-21T21:03:00.003-04:00

I have a question: If you signed up to take a class from someone where you learned a specific thing, like, there was a description of the class and even an actual physical example of the thing you were going to make in the class, would you then think it was ok to show up to the class and then announce to the teacher that you had no intention of making that project, but something else completely different just using those materials???

If you answered "Yes, I would", then please, don't ever take my classes. Really, don't take anyone's class. Maybe don't leave your house at ALL, but order a bunch of etiquette books from Amazon.com, read them, and then, if that doesn't help, just watch some goddamn television. Look how the people on the TV are acting. Note their interactions. Watch and learn how they greet one another, how they don't pick their noses and eat it, how they don't touch their private parts in public, and most of all, how they manage to act in a way where they can come into contact with other people and not make everyone who meets them WANT TO KILL THEM AND KILL THEM UNTIL THEY ARE DEAD.

I taught a beading class today at my local beadstore. I've done this a few times, say, maybe 50 or 60. I've been doing it for a few years, both at the beadstore and other places around town. I'm known as a pretty good teacher. I have students who sign up for my classes just because I'm teaching them, regardless of what the project is, just because they like me. I'm pretty proud of this, because until I figured out how good I was at selling stuff, it was one of my only actual practical skills. Not only am I good at it and get paid for it, I also really like doing it.

Most of the time.

Today was NOT one of those times.

First of all, most of the class was made up of a group of friends. Sometimes this makes the class more fun, but often what happens is that the friends spend so much time chatting that they bother the other students, they don't listen to me, and they generally make the class much harder to teach because they're less concerned with paying attention and more into giggling and talking with each other about other things. I have no problem with socializing, and I love for my classes to be fun, and for people to chat and laugh and have a good time. The difference is, I kind of want them to be able to do it in the context of beading, because that's why they're there. In the event that the whole class is composed of people who came together, it's one thing. After all, they're paying, and if they want to have a social gathering with a little beading, that's up to them and I'm fine with that.
THe hard part is when 75% of the class acts that way and prevents the other people from being able to learn, which is kind of how it went today. So that was a little annoying, but nothing I couldn't work around.

The really amazing thing, however, was when this one woman bustled in, parked her things right next to me, and then told me that she would not be making the bracelet that we were going to learn that day.
"I don't like this style. I'd rather do it like this" she said, pulling out a bracelet that I know for a fact was made in a class at another beadshop in town, where they started teaching that project about 3 years after I first taught it at this beadshop. Although there were some similarities, it was an entirely different project, which used completely different supplies and at least twice as many beads as were in the kit for THIS class.

I just looked at her and I believe I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again, and then just stared at her blankly. I'm not really sure. I thought maybe this was a joke, because this is the kind of thing that people who work with the public will say to each other with a straight face, being as ridiculous as possible, just because we can't quite believe what assholes people are. Except, this woman was for real.

"Excuse me?" I asked, certain that I wasn't hearing this.

She started to explain it all over to me, all happy and smiling and sure that I would be really happy about essentially teaching two classes at the SAME TIME.

I interrupted her, politely, and said "I'm sorry, but that's not the class I'm teaching today. This is the sample" [showing her the bracelet] "for the class you're taking today, and that's what I'm teaching".

"Oh, but I can follow it along and just change parts of it!"

I said "Well, you could, but frankly, I'm not comfortable with that."

She replied, waving her hand as though to dismiss what I was saying "No, really, it's fine! And i'll just sit right next to you here in case I have any questions!! It won't be a problem!!"

Really. She said that. As in, Hey, I'm going to need special attention to make a project that is not even what you're teaching!!!

At this point I was done.
'I said "I'm sorry, I don't think you understand. What you're asking is not just inappropriate, it's incredibly rude. I have nine other people in this class. It will be challenging enough to teach ten people at once how to do the project that we are here to do. I am not teaching you something else, and frankly, i'm really amazed you would even ask."

She was HONESTLY TAKEN ABACK and furthermore, acted as though I WERE BEING RUDE.

"But, but, but, really! I just don't LIKE the way this looks!!! I want to make it but like THIS!!"

I almost snapped "Why would you sign up for a class you didn't want to learn? THere are people on a waiting list for this class who would be more than happy to be in your place!! No, I'm teaching this project, as written here in the instructions, and that's final. You're welcome to stay, but that's all I can do for you".

She gathered up her things and flounced out.

???????????????????????????????????

I am still in awe that a GROWN PERSON, at least in her FIFTIES, would act like such a SPOILED CHILD.

I mean, I've worked with the public enough to realize that some people just never grow up. And that age is no guarantee of really anything but being older. I've dealt with teenagers who are wiser and more mature than some 75 year olds. And I've dealt with a lot of women in their 50s and 60s who I'm surprised are allowed out, let alone allowed to have driver's licenses, children, and matches. But what would possess someone to sign up to do something very, very specific and then show up and inform the teacher that she didn't want to do that, but something else??? What in one's life to date would make one think, Hey, this is ok to do?? Would you go to the doctor's office and ask them to fill a cavity?? Would you stop at the bank and throw a fit when you couldn't mail a letter there???

Wow.

The Vassar Mystique

2008-09-09T23:21:00.003-04:00

So I wore my Vassar ring to work yesterday. I used to wear it every day, but I've stopped. I've had one since I graduated, although not the same one due to my total inability to keep track of decent jewelry for more than a few days at a time. I've had this one for quite a while, though. It's a plain gold signet ring with the "VC" symbol of the C intersecting the V carved into it.

I've worn my Vassar ring pretty consistently since I graduated for a number of reasons. Number one, I like it. It's classic and simple and there are no pesky stones to knock out of settings. Number two, there's always the hope that someone will recognize the ring because they have one of their own. Number three, and this is the real reason, it serves as a tiny gold security blankie. I can look down at my hand and think "ok, ok, so I have no money, I have a crappy job, I still haven't written that book, and I haven't dated in about four years, but at least I went to Vassar". Of course, the other side of that coin is that I can also look down at my hand and think "Damn, this ring is worth one fuck of an expensive education, and what the hell am I doing with it? Nothing".

Naturally, this last reason is part of why I've been leaving the ring in the bathroom drawer lately. As much as I adore selling yarn, it can't be denied that it doesn't exactly require a college education. Especially the kind of college education that has become a sort of cultural icon. I mean, Lisa Simpson didn't have dreams of Ohio State or Bryn Mawr. And even though my Vassar education makes it possible for me to come up with all kinds of statements like "But Vassar made me who I am" and "I went to Vassar to become a better person, not to train for a job", deep down I know that I'm not going to be writing into the Vassar Quarterly anytime soon talking about the joys of selling yarn in the kind of job that not only doesn't have 401k, it doesn't even have sick days. Next to Meryl Streep, Jane Smiley, Lisa Kudrow, Greg Rucka, Stacy London, and even the Mac guy from the Macintosh commercials, well, working in a yarn shop doesn't really stack up.

But, yesterday I was feeling kind of nostalgic, and so I slipped my ring on before I left the house. Work was busy, and in the afternoon some friends of mine who work at another yarn shop in town came in to knit and chat a while. One of them, S., 'I've been wanting to get to know better because she's funny and I like her laugh. She wandered around looking at yarn, and then brought a skein up to the counter for me to put on hold for her. As I was writing down her name, she looked down at my hand, and then up at me. Almost incredulously she asked "Did you go to Vassar?" I said "Yeah...oh, the ring....wait a minute...how did you...."
Laughing, she said in a stage whisper "SO DID I!!!!!"

Therein ensued many moments of hysterical laughter, and comparisons of how ridiculously sublime it was that two Vassar grads should meet up in Columbus Ohio because both of us work at YARN SHOPS!!!!!!

I have not been so glad to meet another Vassar person in years!!!!

I Want My Goddamn Life Back

2008-08-19T01:16:00.003-04:00

Okay so let's get one thing clear here:

I hate sports.

I mean, I hate them.

Growing up in a family obsessed by Indiana basketball and Ohio State football, this was not an easy thing. Most people learn how to swear at school, from their friends. Which is perfectly normal and respectable. You should learn how to swear from your peers. It's a nice thing to share, and then someday you can look back and say "Remember the time we said Motherfucker to Mrs. Savage and she called us nasty little foulmouthed bitches and then realized she couldn't send us to the office because she said bitch?"

Not me. I learned every swear word that exists, and many that don't, by listening to my parents watch football. Specifically the Ohio State-Michigan game. If Ohio State was winning, it would be good swearing like "Goddamit YES! Run, motherfucker!" cheering, whooping, etc.

If they were not, winning, however, well, it was bad. So bad that I remember once when I was in the 5th grade and had my best friend over, a nice Catholic girl whose parents might say "Oh, fudge" at times of life threatening emergency, that I just pretended that my parents had Tourette's syndrome and that they were soon to be institutionalized and that I would have to go live with my grandparents.* Most 5th graders in 1980 did not know about Tourette's, but luckily this friend of mine had a transsexual older brother who spent a lot of time reading Sister Mary Ignatius Explains It All To You out loud to us that year, and so we knew a lot of things that 5th graders weren't supposed to know.

Anyway. I did play sports for a little while as a kid, mostly because my parents kept signing me up and for some reason, I really enjoyed showering with other girls once we all hit puberty. I hated the actual sports part, though. The running. The sweating. The competing. I did enjoy basketball camp, though, because we stayed in the IU dorms and I got to eat fried eggs every day, and also there were a lot of girls in very short shorts.

Ooops. Sorry, memories.......

But the actual sporting part of sports, no, I have never liked. Which is why it makes NO SENSE that I am completely fucking obsessed with the Olympics. I have done nothing but watch the Olympics for the past ten days. I watch in the morning before I go to work. I check the news while at work, and then I come home and fall into the Olympic sized nest of pillows on my couch and watch until my eyes roll back into my head and I fall asleep watching. In the night, I wake up just to make sure that the TV is sTILL ON and then I go back to sleep. I cannot stop watching this shit!!! I am absolutely obsessed and I'm already worried about what I'm going to do with myself once it's all over. What will I think about if not Michael Phelps's abs and how straight they make me feel?? What will I have to look forward to once the balance beam finals are over tomorrow night and gymnastics is done?? What will I talk about if not the differences between beach volleyball and REAL volleyball [Bikinis and facial hair].

If I am this caught up in it and I don't even like sports, how must people who already spend a significant amount of their lives following sports feel?? I've noticed that the roads are empty. No one is out in the evenings anymore. The other night I was outside at about 7pm, before the coverage started, and I realized, all of my neighbors were also outside. Suddenly, everyone went inside at ALMOST EXACTLY THE SAME TIME. And so I ran inside, because I realized that this meant that the coverage was back on.

I don't know how much longer I can do this. I'm exhausted from staying up half the night, and I think i've gained five pounds from nervous eating during the swimming finals. Because that's the cruel irony of the Olympics: not only do you have to sit in front of the TV solidly for two weeks to watch these marvels of physical perfection, but you have to subsist on takeout and pizza because you cannot leave the TV for an instant to COOK anything or you might miss another medal, or a spectacular fall, or another shot of Michael's abs.

Oh god. I just realized I'm missing the badminton.

*The beautiful irony here is that the true doyenne of the curse word is my grandmother.

The prodigal blogger returns

2008-08-11T23:11:00.002-04:00

So I've been pretty quiet for a while, but I haven't been idle. I've spent the summer so far working part time in a yarn shop, which I love. I've made several discoveries about myself in the process--the first being, there is Life after Library. Which is good to know, because for a while, i wasn't so sure.
I realized after a few weeks that selling yarn is a lot like reader's advisory, which, in library land, is what we call matching up books to people. Because nothing in library land is actually called what it is. Like, the place where you check out books is "Circulation" instead of "Checking Shit Out", and the place where you go to find out stuff is called "Reference" instead of "Find Shit Out Here". Also, instead of doing things like saying "Hey, we're firing your ass", they say things like "Some issues have come to light and we'd like to write them up and spring them on you and make you cry a lot and pretend like we're all interested in working things out and then be really really glad when you quit". Sorry. Sidetracking.

Anyway. What I've realized after a few months, though, is that I am really good at selling stuff. Like, REALLY good. As in, it's rare that someone comes in during my shifts and leaves without buying something. And I'm not one of those people who wants to sell stuff just to make the sale. I make the same whether I sell ten dollars of stuff or two hundred. It's just that I seem to have a knack. A knack that has gone undiscovered for the past 39 years, and which seems to be perhaps more than a knack but a gift. And apparently, being a librarian was really good training for what I'm starting to see as my true calling: Retail.

I am especially amused that I am finding all of this out after a life spent in pursuit of higher learning. I mean, I knew from the time I was in kindergarten that I would be going to college and probably grad school. I went to freaking Vassar, for christ's sake, a college where the closest thing to career training we had was Commencement Committee. I spent so much time in grad school that by the time I left I was of a completely different generation than most of my classmates. And then I knocked around libraries for years, because I thought, for some reason that libraries would be full of cool, smart people who loved books and people and who got really excited about stuff. Which, libraries are. Except after a few years most people realize that they better stop caring and being excited because it makes their co-workers look bad, and that if they know what's good for them they'll shut up and act like a good government employee and do just barely what's required and no more. I mean, we've all heard that those who can't do, teach. Those who can't teach end up in libraries. And those who can't be librarians, well, they usually end up as library directors. Meaning that they are so unfit to do anything that the board finally just gives them a title and a decent office far away from the public and then prays continually for their retirement.
Sorry. Again with the sidetracking.*

Anyway. Truth be told, I love working in a shop. Basically, its all of the most fun parts of library-ing except with yarn and without stupid committees, strategic plans that never come to pass, and useless mission statements that pretend that the board and administration actually care about their communities in any meaningful way except as a source of funding.** Matching people with yarn is just as much fun as matching them with books; maybe even more so because when someone buys yarn, they're not just buying yarn, they're buying an idea. They're thinking of something to do with the yarn, and whether it's for a specific project or just to take home and add to the ever expanding stash, what that skein of yarn represents is possibility. To take some string and some sticks and make something else out of it transforms not just the yarn, but the person who does it. Because that person goes from being a person who uses things that other people produce to someone who Makes Things. And I myself have always been a Maker of Things since I was a very little person. Making Things is something that gives your life a whole direction, because when you make things, you see the world differently. Instead of seeing a flat piece of fabric, maybe you see a shirt, or a window with curtains, or a doll. You stop looking at things as they are, and instead you start to see what could be, not just what is.

Whoah. I totally just went all metaphysical and spiritual and crap. Maybe knitting is the new yoga. Or maybe i've just gotten way behind on my reality TV viewing. I'll try not to let that happen again.

Anyway. I was happily working along two days a week, feeling sort of useful and almost like a human being again. When I started at the shop, I was a complete wreck from the library induced trauma. I couldn't imagine working more than two days a week, and I wasn't sure if I could even handle that. I'm sure the girl who trained me thought I was totally lame, because I kind of was. My sense of self was completely gone. I had lost all faith in my ability to connect to other people, because I'd misjudged the people close to be so poorly at the library. I was sure that if anyone was nice to me, they were secretly hating me, or else just pitying me because I was so pathetic. And I was afraid to talk to people, because I was sure that everything I said was going to be wrong, and construed as mean and hateful because that's what happened at the library.

I was terrified the first few days I worked by myself. I went from being in charge of ten people and a budget of a few hundred thousand to worrying that I'd screw up ringing up a few balls of yarn and sweeping the floor. But as time went on and I started realizing how much I loved it, it occurred to me that this is what I want to do. I want to HAVE a shop and work in it full time. That may not sound like such a big deal, but it is. My whole life has been based on doing what I thought I was supposed to do because that's what was expected. I got good grades in school because I was supposed to go to college. I went to a good college because that's what I was supposed to do. And I went to grad school because that's pretty much all I could think of to do since I hadn't found anything I loved more than anything else, and I was at least good at the school thing.

And when I found myself in library land, well, for a long time it seemed like the natural thing. I love books, and I like helping people. And I was very, very good at pinpointing what was going to be the next "big book"; and I was also really good at recommending books to people and doing collection development [another one of those names...which in this case means Buying A Shitload of Books]. I was also great with patrons.

What I totally sucked at, though, was the whole office politics thing. Because, silly me, I thought we were there to do the jobs described in out job descriptions. Like, purchase books, manage employees, wait on patrons, write monthly reports, etc. I totally missed the parts about Remember to Suck Up Continually and Never Do More Than A Barely Adequate Job So You Don't Make the Other Lazy Ass Government Employees Look Bad.
Also, there's a stereotype of the mousy librarian for a reason: Because Many, Many Librarians ARE That Way. Certainly not all, and I'd be lying if I didn't admit that some of the absolute coolest people in the world work in public libraries. However, see the part about the most incompetent rising to the top and praying for the director to retire.....never, in my many years in libraries have I EVER met a library director with a full and functional set of social skills. And neither has anyone else I know. And that's a lot of fucking librarians.

I had a lot of time to think during the past 7 months, and one of the hardest things for me to admit was that i'd chosen the wrong career. There are parts of it I was great at, sure. But the bottom line was that being really good at the stuff I was good at combined with an absence of guile and a complete lack of understanding of the Pettiness of Woman was actually worse than if I'd just been all around adequate or even mediocre. Unfortunately, i've been blessed with an excess of personality. And personality and success in libraries simply do not mix. But retail and personality, at least my personality, apparently do. I mean, I knew I was selling a lot of beads at the bead shop after my classes. But I thought that was just, you know, beads. I mean, I buy every bead I can afford, so I assumed that everyone else did too. It wasn't until I started being able to sell yarn that it finally hit home that it's the selling that I'm good at.

One thing I'm not good at is not working. Until I lost my job, it never occurred to me that I would be the kind of person who felt lost without a job to go to every day. My life before was spent in pursuit of spare time in which to pursue my art. But then when I had no structure to my life at all, I got very little done, and had no energy or motivation to work on anything. Working part time was good, but working full time is better. The busier I am, the more I get done.

The only one who's not happy about the new job? The dog. She got used to having me around all day, and has spent the past few days making her dissatisfaction known,most recently by leaping into my lap with all four paws. While I was holding a tray of beads. I'll be picking them out of the cracks in the floor for days.....

* I'm sensing that I may have a teensy bit of residual bitterness towards the public library.

**Ooooh. That was definitely a little tart.

There's only so much of the earth I care to save.....

2008-06-27T00:10:00.002-04:00

So my friend J. is deserting me for the summer. Since he lives in Manhattan and I live in the middle of Ohio, one might think that he has already deserted me by refusing to live anywhere that I might possibly ever think of visiting for longer than a week. One would be right about that, but in this case I mean that he's spending his summer out of cell phone reach.

This makes me frantic.

I have known J. since I was 20, which means, frighteningly, that I have essentially known him for half my life. Ever since the first night we bonded he has been one of my top five people on the planet. Others may rotate in and out of the Top Five, but he always manages to hang on to one of the spots. Aside from having all three of the Most Important Qualities in a Man [Funny. Smart. Gay.], he also understands me in a way that almost no one else does, and yet STILL LIKES ME. Plus, he shares most of my deepest, most crippling insecurities, and yet makes me feel like I shouldn't have those insecurities even while still maintaining them himself. That, grasshoppers, is the kind of friend you don't find every day.

J. is one of the only people I will talk to about my weight, because even though he is very tall and lanky, I know that he is at least as insecure about his own appearance as I am about mine. For instance, I admitted to him a few years ago that I was really sick of hearing about people who've had gastric bypasses, because they've become so common that I really believe that people are looking at me and whispering to each other "Why doesn't she just get The Operation and be done with it?"

He laughed insanely for about an hour, and then said "Yeah. Why don't you just get The Operation? What's WRONG with you?" and then went off in another fit of laughter. If anyone else said that to me I would secretly think "See, he HAS been thinking that, and even though he SOUNDS like he's joking, he REALLY MEANS IT". With J., I know that he's laughing because he's impressed that just for a second, I've managed to sound even crazier than usual and he's laughing at my ridiculousness.

A few years ago, he was working for a large company that produces a product that most Americans carry with them at all times. He was doing very well, outselling everyone in his office, and making lots of money. He transferred to another office and suddenly found out why the Gays mostly stay above the Manson-Nixon line. Within a year he was forced out of his job and found himself living in a strange city with no job and a massive case of depression. He pulled himself out of it, though, and turned his life completely around. Now he has a job with summers off and lives in New York. So, after the year I've had, he's pretty much the only person I've been able to talk to who understands what I've been through and who I can trust not to judge me when I whine about how bad daytime TV has become and why going to the bank and the grocery store can fill up an entire day. Even when I've had times when I couldn't bear to speak to anyone, he would always call me and force me to talk, and then make me promise to call him even if I felt so bad that I couldn't speak, because then we could at least watch TV together over the phone.

And now, when i'm just starting to feel like a human again, he has the gall to take off into the wilderness for the summer, to some retreat in upstate New York where they force you to eat vegan food and learn self actualization through silence, meditation, and the gas brought on by raw diets. He will be living in a TENT for two months. Not one of those nice tents like they have at summer camp, which are up on wood floors and have canvas sides that you can roll up. No. A tent, on the ground, big enough for a sleeping bag and a pee bottle. It goes without saying that there aren't phones. No e-mail. And NO CELL PHONE RECEPTION. So I can't even TEXT him obsessively.

I asked him, what the fuck is the point of living in Manhattan if he has to leave it to sleep on the ground and pee into a bottle for two months of the year?? After all, he cannot understand why I persist in living in flyover country, and yet I have NEVER peed into a bottle outside of a doctor's office. And the last time I went camping, which was in 1993, I forced my girlfriend to drive me home during the day so I could take a shower, and then made her drive me back home the next day so I could attend a Mary Kay party*.

He went on about how he would be able to center himself, and reach self actualization or some such nonsense; I wasn't really listening because I was also watching the Denise Richards reality show and besides, as soon as he brings up his new agey spiritual stuff I generally tend to become deaf in that ear. I realize that I am spiritually crippled, as I will never achieve self actualization because it requires introspection and honesty and why bother with that when you can watch reality TV instead? I also don't think that I have an inner child because that would imply that I have an outer adult.

I guess I can't look down on J. for wanting to become a better person, although I admit I don't want him to become too much better, because then he might not need me as much. I just don't understand why people can't find their inner children at home, in central air conditioning, with cable and internet access. My inner child becomes an inner demon if I am forced to come in contact with nature for more than ten minutes at a time. I once made my doll club give up a perfectly lovely meeting space because in order to get to it I had to drive far enough outside of the city that I passed a barbed wire fence. Barbed wire is a reminder that you've left civilization and are now relying on rusty sharp things to demarcate the boundaries that we leave up to socialization in the city.

So, as only a truly co-dependent friend can do, I started listing all of the problems with this scenario. I asked him about the food. Would he be forced to partake in the raw diet cleanse that overflowed the lavatories one year? J. hates anything and everything to do with The Brown Word, so I thought this might work. No, he reminded me, he has a digestive system of cast iron. Nothing sticks to it, but nothing slides through too fast either. Next, I ruminated on the weather. What about the heavy rains the rest of the country has been having? Won't his tent float away? Annoyingly, this didn't work either.

What about the constant insistence on being green and recycling?? Even though we went to a fancy eastern school and both vote Democrat, neither one of us really recycles. It's just too much trouble, and besides, we don't have children. What do we care as long as the earth lasts through our lifetimes? He claimed that he could stand it for the summer, because really, it was easy to do there since everyone was used to it.

Aha. I pounced. "But what about TOILET PAPER?? Aren't you afraid that they'll pull a Sheryl Crow and tell you to use only one square at a time, or worse, make you use rags so you can RECYCLE it???"

There was silence for a moment. Then he replied, "No. There's only so much of the earth that I'm willing to save".

Yes!!! They'll definitely kick him out after a week or two!!!

*Yes. That was my lipstick lesbian phase, as a matter of fact.

Shut Up and Eat Something

2008-06-21T23:52:00.008-04:00

I think I may have mentioned before that I am, shall we say, Rubenesque. Heavy. Larger. Whatever you call it. Just not thin.
I am actually ok with this, because I have never been thin, and don't know what its like. Also, and this makes people mad, I have NO health issues. Perfect blood pressure. No diabetes. Slightly high cholesterol, which is hereditary because both my parents have it. It's not from my diet because I eat almost no red meat, cheese, and only allow myself to have eggs like once a month, if that. And I'm fit enough to take my stupid dog for a walk, which means that she pulls as hard as she can on the leash and I have to run to keep up while having my arms yanked out of their sockets. No joint problems. I am in general ridiculously healthy.

I've been on a healthy eating plan for the past month or so, and have lost 20 pounds, which is good because all my old clothes fit again. And I'll probably lose some more, just because I don't want to hit 40 and suddenly develop all the health problems that the medical profession believes I should already have. But I know that I will never be a size 2, or a 4. Or probably even a 10. I am just not built that way, and even when I was in grad school and lifted weights and worked out to the point that I had
muscular definition on my torso and like, sculpted upper arms, I still wore a size 16. I looked a lot smaller, but contrary to popular belief, women can be shapely, muscular, and not emaciated.

I would be delighted to be back in a size 16 now, and would feel very, very thin if I were. But even if I wore a 16, I would still technically be considered huge in a world where size 2 is now the optimal size for women. I'm sorry, but when I was in high school and had the same measurements as Marilyn Monroe, I wore a 12. I look at size 2 jeans and I think, what would it be like to be so small? To take up SO little space on the planet?? I mean, how do those Hollywood starlets who expand to an enormous size 4 during the 8th month of pregnancy carry those giant fucking purses without just toppling over?? How do women that small pick up their kids, or push a loaded grocery cart?? How can they do normal everyday things like take out the trash, or buy a bag of ice and carry it to the car?

I guess the answer to a lot of those questions is, they simply can't. I think it's really disturbing that the ideal woman's shape today is that of a skeletal, tiny, bird. How did we go from women taking more of an equal place in society to women just wanting to physically disappear?

I'm thinking about all of this today, because this afternoon I was, once again, witness to a conversation that made me want to scream fuck you, smack people, and just generally remove myself from the company of women completely. Or, let's be honest, heterosexual women. I've never heard lesbians have any form of the following conversation.

I was with a group of women who were discussing piercings and tattoos*, and the talk turned to bellybutton piercings. Personally, I think piercing your bellybutton is really, really odd. I mean, basically you're punching a hole in the place that once connected you to your mother. I guess I also don't see navels as particularly sexy, either. To me, they're mostly just kinda weird. Especially outies. They look like some kind of malformed genital that just didn't work out.

Anyway, one of the women present had had her navel pierced. One of the other women present, who is extremely thin, said that she was planning to pierce hers as soon as she got her "6-pack" back. She asked to see the other woman's piercing, and of course, there was a lot of giggling, and then that time honored conversation between women that goes something like this:

"Ooooh nooo, I can't show you cause I'm so fat!!" [slapping of nonexistent stomach fat]
"Oh nooooooo, you're not fat, look at MEEE" [pinching of three millimeters of excess skin on stomach]
"You guys!!! You look great!!! Look at my huge roll!!!" [Exposure of tiny fold of skin caused by sitting.]

"No way, you are all soooooo skinny!!!! Look at this huge muffin of mine!!" [Pulling up shirt to display half a centimetre of skin over tiny waistband.]

giggle giggle giggle giggle.

And I have to sit there, in complete shocked silence, as all of the participants are at least 50 lbs lighter than me, and not one of them could wear anything bigger than a size 10.
These women were thin. And some of them were the kind of thin that would even pass muster in Hollywood. And they're all trying to basically out-FAT each other???

I mean, what the FUCK???

And I remembered all of a sudden why I don't have many straight girl friends.

I mean, what am I supposed to do when this conversation takes place around me??

Laugh, and point at their imaginary fat, and say "Oh gosh, yes, you ARE grotesque, please cover that up before I vomit??"

Make retching noises and run out of the room??

Suggest emergency liposuction???

Cover my face and scream "Stop raping my eyes with your cellulite!!!"???

Point and chant "PIG PIG PIG"???

Shriek and giggle along with everyone else and assume that they can't see me?

Or am I supposed to be the jolly fat girl who says "Come on guys, look at ME!! Now don't you all feel so much better???"

Could that be what they really WANT?? Are they really that cruel??

It wouldn't surprise me. Because that's certainly what it felt like.

I don't know. I mean, what if we were all sitting there and one of us had only one leg, or no legs, and then the others started talking about how ugly their legs were?

Or what if one of us was bald, and everyone started talking about how much they hated their hair?

Or what if one of us had cancer, and everyone else started talking about how sick they felt after having that cold going around?

Or if the person with cancer had had a double mastectomy, and everyone started talking about how their own breasts were too small, too large, or otherwise unsatisfactory???

Would they have understood that they were being horribly insensitive and hateful then??

I'd like to think so. But I'm not sure. Because being party to that conversation felt pretty terrible to me. Just for future reference, no matter what you weigh: if you're with someone who clearly weighs quite a bit more than you do, please don't start complaining about how repulsive you are. Because the message to the heavier person is, "My God, if they all find themselves so disgusting, WHAT DO THEY REALLY THINK ABOUT ME???"

I mean, while watching my tiny, tiny friend pinch at the quarter inch of extra skin on her miniscule stomach and proclaim herself "huge", all I could think was, Is she blind? Is she retarded? Does she call me pig behind my back and snort when I walk out of a room?? Why does she even like me??

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I don't understand women. And at times like this, I'm glad about that.

*Okay I have to be honest. I don't fucking get it. I was trying to talk to a really nice, brilliant, otherwise lovely woman today and I could not hear one fucking thing she said because I could not stop staring at the ring through the middle of her nose. Why the fuck do women want to look like they are livestock?? And i'm sorry, I know you thought that little butterfly on the back of your neck was really cool in college, but what about when you're 75 and it's sagged to the middle of your back???

Processing is not just for lesbian relationships!

2008-05-05T11:56:00.006-04:00

I'd like to take this time to vent a little about some things. As I believe I may have mentioned two or seventeen times, I lost my job a while back. In the time since I lost it, I've vacillated between trying not to think of the place at all, and thinking about it every waking moment spaced out with dreams about it while I'm asleep. And I've finally realized that in order to put it thoroughly behind me, and stop the dreams and get on with my life, I'm going to have to actually process through a lot of crap. I guess that's where the "It's either this or therapy" part comes in. And actually, I am in therapy, so perhaps I should change the blog title to "It's this plus therapy and it still ain't really helping".

Although I still miss certain parts of my job, and believed myself to be entirely happy in it most of the time, I now know that the worst part of losing the job is not actually the loss of the job, but the loss of my own self confidence. I haven't lost confidence in my ability to be a librarian. I've lost confidence in my ability to judge other people. Because I thought I was happy and also thought I was getting along with people, now I have to examine the fact that I was hopelessly misguided about both of those, and a hell of a lot else. In fact, as I go back over the whole thing, I can't believe I actually WAS happy, and so I'm doubting that I'm even capable of knowing what "happy" is.* I mean, I knew already that I am not capable of a healthy romantic relationship, because I always believe myself to be fully in love with a wonderful person until the day I wake up and smell the body odor that has sunk into my couch along with my self respect.

I think my very first mistake was believing that the library administration believed its own hype. From my first interview all the way to my last day on the job, the director claimed she wanted change, and lots of it. I was hired to bring change to a department and a collection that had not appreciably changed at all in 40 years. When I began weeding the collection, I discovered what I'd strongly suspected: that this collection had never been weeded, EVER.

[For those of you, my many tens of readers, who aren't librarians, let me explain the concept of weeding. You know how you have to go through your clothes every now and then and get rid of the stuff with holes and stains; those jeans from high school that honestly are never going to fit even one of your thighs again, and everything from your deluded but mercifully brief miniskirt stage? That's weeding. And, in the case of a library collection, it should be done constantly. Once the best sellers are no longer best sellers, get rid of ten of the twelve copies, so that you have room for the next best sellers. Medical books should never, ever be kept any longer than three years, because all the info could be dangerously out of date--as in the library I came to in 1998, which had precisely one book on STD's recent enough to even mention AIDS, and even then called it a rare disease affecting only homosexuals in big cities. Get rid of things that are no longer relevant, such a biographies of Leif Garrett and Loni Anderson. Throw out the horrible macrame how to books from the 70s and replace them with crafts popular right now, like knitting and (gag) scrapbooking.]

So, I started to weed almost from my first week on the job. I examined all of the procedures in the department, and discovered how the department fit in with other departments in the library. And I found out something. This library was seen as the highest, most sought after place to work in my city. It had more money than anyone. The patrons LOVED the library so much that they passed levy after levy, even though the service they were getting was completely substandard and nowhere near the service of other, less funded libraries only a few minutes away.

What I found out was that every single thing about the place was at LEAST 20, if not 50 years out of date.
-- No self check out. [They still do not have this].
--No self serve reserves. [Still none]
--A computer system so poorly suited to public libraries that it would not even perform a basic boolean keyword search**. [Still have same one]
--Catalogers who had never been to library school, or in fact out of the basement of the library, and who therefore could not understand why I was annoyed that the books about pearls were in the 500s with the fish books***.
--A circulation librarian who refused to make her employees shelve books, because they did not LIKE shelving books. I realized that every time a book was checked in, it took at least 4 days and often SEVEN for that book to actually make it back to the shelves. In a public library, any book checked in at 9am should be back on the shelf by 9pm. Maybe the next morning, if a shelver called in sick and it was the Tuesday after a three day weekend.

When I spoke to the circulation librarian about why books were not being shelved, she told me that she didn't have time to worry about things like that because she had too many other things to do. Of course, a circulation librarian's job is basically to check books in, check them out, and PUT THEM AWAY. So I watched for a month or two. As far as I could tell, that woman did nothing but chat with her staff, bring in cookies and cakes, and get into fights with patrons. I finally had to approach my supervisor, the director, and point out that the library was losing circulations by the boatload since books were in effect in a black hole for a week after they were returned.

The director was shocked. Since she had never worked at any other library in her career, it had never occured to her that books should or even COULD be shelved right away. I pointed out that I had called every other system in the county to check on their check-in to shelf time and that every other library had a 12 hour layover, at most a 24 hour layover. Not a WEEK. I also had the support of several other department heads, who were also appalled.

I also pointed out that no matter how many great items we purchased for patrons, they were of no use sitting on shelves in the backroom, and even once shelved, if they were shelved in bizarre locations like the pearl books, that no one would ever find them. Especially since most patrons could not make heads or tails of the horrible computer system, which was completely unsearchable unless someone had a title or an author. Which most patrons do not. Most patron requests begin something like this "I saw a book on the Today show, or maybe CNN, and it was about dogs, or maybe parrots, no wait, I think it was serial killers, and anyway, it was green and about this big".

That's not made up. Every public library employee for miles around is nodding their heads and smiling at the truth in that statement.

Since I was ostensibly hired to help correct all of these problems, as I was told over and over again, I thought my input was wanted.

I found out VERY quickly that it was actually not wanted at all. What the director wanted was for all of these problems to be solved, magically, instantly, and completely, with no hurt feelings. Since she had created the horrible situations, like choosing the computer system, and hiring the circulation librarian who refused to do her job, and appointing a head cataloger who would have been hard pressed to understand the alphabet, none of this was ever going to resolve itself. Especially since the same person who exhorted me and a few other new hires to clean up old messes also spent a lot of time scolding us for upsetting longtime staff members. On my account alone at least three people marched into the director's office and told her I was mean and horrible because I asked innocent questions like, "Why is this book about the Crocodile Hunter's wife cataloged with the lizard books?" and "Hey, would it be possible to get the ads for library programs before the actual program has taken place?" and "Do you think we could do book displays on topics we actually have more than five books about?"

So, believing the hype was my first mistake. I'll get to the mistakes about trusting coworkers and employees in another post, and after that, to the part about how evil women are.

*Whoah. That almost blew my mind.

** If you Google, you use boolean searches. Like when you're googling a potential love interest and you type "Hugh Laurie + parole violations" to see if he has a record, or you use a minus sign in order to avoid bringing up mention of certain things that you DON'T want to read about, like "Hugh Laurie" -wife -"happily married". Get it?

*** Because pearls are from oysters. And oysters are mollusks. And in some bizarro twist of pseudo Dewey Decimal logic, the catalogers really honestly believed this made sense.

The beauty that is the Dog

2008-05-05T02:15:00.003-04:00

So I've been very, very down lately. I think part of it is that I'm starting to get used to my new, library free lifestyle. And part of it has to do with the fact that I really don't know what to do next, and feel increasingly guilty because I'm not working. But every time I think I should start looking for a job, and peruse the job announcements on various library websites, I end up doing one of two things: have a major attack of crying, sleeping, and sheer anxiety, or I just sink into a deep funk where I can only read books I've read before and knit the simplest of projects.

I looked at job postings about a week ago, and so I've been doing the latter ever since. I've reverted to sleeping until almost noon, because I can't get to sleep at night until I'm so exhausted that I almost pass out, because if I lie down and try to sleep my brain starts whirling. So instead of going to sleep in my bedroom, I end up watching TV on the couch, where I fall asleep until the dog decides it is time for breakfast, usually at about 7am, when I have been asleep for maybe three hours. Then I feed her, put her out, and struggle back to sleep for a few hours. No matter how depressed you are, when you have a dog, you cannot just wallow all day. Sooner or later you have to get up and attend to the dog. For someone like me this is good, because my dog is especially goofy and tends to make me laugh constantly, whether she is stepping in her water dish, sneaking behind my back to lick the butter, or systematically unwinding an entire skein of yarn.

Today, though, I felt better for the first time in a while. This is because it was a gorgeous day outside, and I forced myself to get dressed and take the dog out. Now, normally she loves to go on walks. All I have to do is put on sneakers and she starts having conniptions of joy, dancing on her hind legs and barking, and pawing at me to get her leash. However, since spring has come in, she's been even more maniacal about walks than usual. I cannot EVER say the words "walk", "leash", or even "out" without a demonic gleam appearing in her eye, followed immediately by sharp barks meaning "COME ON!! NOW!! WE'RE GOING NOW!" and then this particularly annoying new thing she does: she stands on her hind legs, props herself up with one paw on my CHEST, and with the other paw she literally PUSHES me.

Since she is so bad that I cannot trim her nails myself, this is even more uncomfortable than it sounds.

I realize that most responsible dog owners are probably shaking their heads right now, at what a bad dog owner I am. The problem is, I do not actually own the dog. You cannot own another person. And she is at least as much of a person as I am. She has enough personality for at least ten dogs, and this is why training her has been nearly impossible. Golden retrievers are bred to be obedient, affectionate, and laid back. Luna got the affectionate part. If it were not for the fact that her coat is pale gold and that she loves every creature she has ever met, I would not even call her a golden retriever, because she does not, in any other way, resemble other specimens of the breed.

She is "on" from the moment she wakes up until she passes out at night. She does not nap. She does not wait, patiently, for me to feed her, play with her, take her for walks, or in fact anything else. What she is is pretty much a large, furry child who is almost always deliriously happy, extremely clumsy, and often remarkably stubborn. If she does not want to do something, she simply will not do it. Such as being brushed. When she was a year old I asked the vet if he had any ideas on how I could get her to like being brushed, because she hates it. As in, she attacks the brush while I am brushing her, growls, barks, and leaps into the air, and runs away from me. when I put the brush away she waits an hour or so, and then sneaks around looking for it until she finds it and then, if I am not fast enough, she detroys it. The vet looked at me and said "She just has to learn that you are the Mommy". I said "But she knows I am the Mommy. She bites the Mommy when the Mommy has the brush". He just shook his head, clearly not believing me. He specializes in Goldens, and had never met one that actively hates being brushed.

I am well acquainted with at least three other goldens, and have met many more over the years, and not one of them is as energetic* as she is. My dog-sister, Molly, is almost seven and spends the vast majority of her time sleeping, or barking at my parents to feed her. She does like to go outside in the rain and turn her face so that it gets evenly wet on both sides. When going on walks, she has a predetermined spot to which she will go, and then no farther. It is approximately one block long. Molly loves everyone human, but is jealous of other dogs when her mommy and daddy and sister pay attention to them. The first time I brought Luna to meet her, I could see the betrayal in Molly's eyes. She has never quite forgiven me.

My dog-cousin, Murphy, is only a few months younger than Luna. And he has calmed down into a lovely, affectionate, laid back animal. When he was about a year old, he was still fairly onery, and so I didn't feel so bad. But suddenly he has become a normal Golden, while my dog is still a whirling hairy id.

Luna's best friend is a golden named Chase who lives in our neighborhood. We first met Chase when Luna was still a puppy, and back then Chase seemed just enormous to me. I thought he was as big as a pony. He's like Murphy and Molly; affectionate, laid back, and he probably would let little kids ride him like a pony without blinking. Today Chase's mom and I took the dogs to a park, and I realized that Luna is almost as big as Chase is now. But while Chase was content to play with Luna, and fetch his frisbee and his ball, Luna could not be bothered to play with any of the toys I brought. First she had to go interrupt a couple having a picnic on a blanket. They were very nice about it, but their tiny Yorkie snapped at Luna's nose, almost breaking her heart. She had no idea that the Yorkie was only as big as her head, and she fell on the ground and showed the teeny littly bully her tummy.

Then her attention was diverted by her very favorite thing of all: a little boy. This particular little boy was only a little over a year old, towheaded, and was with his mom and their dog, a big lab mix. Luna went gallumphing right over and I ran to head her off before she knocked the toddler down in a fit of joy. I envisioned lawsuits and animal control coming to take her away as I struggled to keep up with her. She loves nothing more than children, the littler the better. I have to be careful on walks when we come upon babies in strollers, because she seems to think that they are in strollers precisely so that their little faces are at the perfect height for her to lick. Some parents are not as appreciative of this as they could be.
However, instead of knocking this particular baby over, she dropped to her belly about three feet in front of him and then scooted up to him so that he could start smacking her head with glee, shouting "OG!! OG!!!" which I am sure meant "Dog! Dog!"
By this time the little guy's mom was just about to pick him up and I started apologizing, but then I realized she was laughing, and I started to laugh too. She said she was sorry that the baby hit Luna's head, but I told her that her that Luna's skull is pretty thick, as anyone could see by her idiotic behavior. I love my dog.

*Cruel people refer to her as "hyper", "manic", and in the case of my father "completely fucking crazy".

More stuff that is pissing me off, especially god-related

2008-04-19T08:40:00.003-04:00

I don't know if its me, the weather, some bizarre alignment of the planets, or what, but I've been extremely cranky this week. First of all. I am fucking sick of hearing about the fucking POPE. Suddenly American news broadcasts have become All Pope, All The Time!!!

I do not fucking care where he is.

I do not fucking care what he is doing.

I ESPECIALLY do not fucking care what his "MESSAGE" is for Americans.

I am an atheist American, and I haven't seen anyone on TV giving out my message, ever.
Which, in case you are a reporter and would like to run it along the bottom of assorted CNN broadcasts, is as follows:

"Can't you motherfuckers be NICE just for the sake of being NICE rather than doing it because you're big fucking cowards afraid of the imaginary fiery pits of hell?"

I once had a very close friend, raised Catholic, and now dabbling in a variety of new age faiths in hopes of finding one that doesn't require him to actually change in any way, ask me "If you're an atheist, then how do you know how to behave?"

I said "What the fuck are you talking about?"*

He said "You know, like what keeps you from doing bad things if you're not afraid of not going to heaven?"

I said "You mean like being fair, and doing the right thing? You only do that stuff because religion tells you you HAVE to???", my mind reeling as though it had been hit with an enormous concrete miter.

He said "Well, yeah."

I said "I try to do what's right because it's what's right. End of story. And if you and most people are only doing it because some imaginary friend** TELLS you to, well, WOW. I guess that explains a LOT about why most fervent Christians have a real undercurrent of cruelty."

It still blows my mind when I think about it, because he was DEAD. FUCKING. SERIOUS.

As far as I can see, the Pope's message is: "Catholics rule; I'm the head one, sorry we diddle kids sometimes, here's some cash, please shut up now; abortion is bad, and gays are Satan. Oh yeah, and poverty sucks, but I'm not willing to stop wearing my Prada shoes, and I don't particularly like the war in Iraq but those people aren't even Christian so whatevs, and hey, just being a Hitler Youth doesn't mean I was like, a NAZI or anything".

I'm not really impressed.

I fail to see how someone who regularly condemns pretty much everyone I know, can have a message "For America". What America is THAT, pray tell?

Oh wait, it's the one where people are really shocked and not quite willing to believe that four hundred kids in Texas are being sired by child molesters and raised by 14 year old girls who don't know who the president is!!!!!

Honestly, does no one else see a problem here? In the fact that for the past week, the only news in America has either concerned a former Nazi who is now POPE, sprinkled with juicy tidbits about 50 year old men forcing 7th grade girls into "marriage" [read: sexual, emotional, and financial slavery] and how the government of Texas might be really MEAN because they removed all of the children from a CULT where they're being bred in order to simply get old enough to breed themselves??

But that's their RELIGION, pundits declare, as if that makes it ok. Is that kind of like why we let Catholic priests abuse children for generations with no real repercussions except simply moving them to another parish, to a fresh crop of potential victims?

Honestly. I am so SICK of hearing about religion and why it's okay to be anything from mean-spirited to absolutely physically and mentally abusive and CRUEL it its name. What if a group of atheists corralled a bunch of women and made them dress like Little House on the Prairie and told them that they were going to hell unless they married their 75 year old cousins? And backed it up by beatings, and isolation, and brainwashing that makes other cults look almost nice by comparison? Would that be okay THEN?

Hmmmm. I don't think so.

*Contrary to my own example, most atheists do not have to say "fuck" at least once in every sentence. Its just that I was raised by the son of a Baptist preacher, and so I didn't have a positive language example in the home.

**You know, Jesus.

Mostly Crafty/Arty with a Helping of Snark

2008-03-21T22:31:00.006-04:00

So I realized today while I was thinking about possible blog topics that I almost never write about most of the things that are most important to me: making dolls, beading, knitting, and reading. I probably spend more time on those activities than anything else except maybe sleeping, especially now that I am an unemployed wastrel. Even when I was employed, I still probably spent almost as much time doing my crafts and reading as I did working; especially if you count surfing knitting blogs and reading up on all the new craft books coming out.

There are tons of people who seem to spend at least as much time blogging about their crafts as they do actually crafting. Especially knitters. It seems like that having a knitblog is almost more important than actually picking up the sticks and string these days. And they write a LOT, and I've gotta be honest here: most of it is mind numbingly dull. Frankly, I don't really care to read about knitting for the same reason I don't write about it: I'd rather be actually DOING it. When the fuck do these people actually knit, for Christ's* sake??

I do like seeing pictures of people's finished projects, and finding out how they've adapted a particular pattern. That's why I'm so relieved that Ravelry exists now. No longer do I have to slog through a bunch of chatter about making sweaters for Aunt Sally and my boyyyyyfriennnnd and turn off the goddamn sound to drown out the stupid ass music**in order to see if I can substitute Cascade 200 for some ridiculously expensive yarn that costs ten bucks for an 84 yard skein. I also love the pattern browser feature.

I've always spent a lot of time looking up crafty things on the internet. I taught myself to bead mostly from free internet patterns, because I learned to bead right before it really "hit", and back then there were only a few decent seed beading books and most of them were ten years old and hard to find. Now it seems as though beading has peaked; new books only come out now and then, and seed beading is no longer that cool, probably because it doesn't involve instant gratification. Now the craze is wireworking, which I personally can't do because of tendonitis issues left over from my long ago days as a cellist, and stringing.

[If you thought the snark part was a couple paragraphs ago, you were wrong. It's coming up NOW].

Okay. Will someone PLEASE. EXPLAIN. THIS. TO. ME---

Why in the fuck are there entire magazines and many books dedicated to what order in which to STRING BEADS ON A PIECE OF WIRE OR THREAD?????

I can understand learning the basics, i.e., how to get the beads to stay on the wire or thread, how to attach a clasp, how to make a wrapped wire loop, etc. But these magazines and books are literally just pictures of jewelry with exact lists of the beads used, and people get them and then just copy the damn thing!!! Look! Its telling me to put the yellow bead next to the big pink bead!!! Damn!! I never would have THOUGHT of THAT!!!!

I really, really, don't get it.

I used to spend a lot of time perusing the beading forums at various sites. But I got so freaking tired of people who bought some beads at Walmart and then strung them up calling themselves "DESIGNERS" and worrying about people "STEALING [their] DESIGNS" and then talking about how they knew they were going to start a great business based on their amazing, original designs, that I stopped. That's really honestly not even exaggerated. You can learn to string beads in about five minutes. I've taught 4 year olds to do it. So I don't think it's really all that fascinating to discuss new ways to crimp jewelry wire. And also, beading is probably the only craft that people learn in five minutes and then start thinking in terms of their own business.

Okay. Isn't the fact that this is so incredibly EASY that anyone can do it maybe just a little clue to why it's actually NOT a very good business? I love to visit my local bead store and go up to my friends behind the counter with really wide eyes and say "Hey! I love your necklace! Can you show me where all the beads are in it and then show me how to make it??" Since its me, we all laugh, and then, they tell me how many people that day have actually said such things to them.

Beaders don't seem to have blogs as much as knitters, or at least I haven't found many of them yet. I don't know if this is because beaders are less self absorbed, or because it's harder to write beading instructions, or if it is simply because beadwork is a lot harder to photograph than knitting.

I've taught beadwork for many years, and I now work in a yarn shop part time. And I have to say that both beaders and knitters can be very perfectionist, and that color is often an issue for them. A lot of people just don't know how to put colors together, and I'm not even talking about using the color wheel, which I didn't learn about until I was maybe 30. I'm talking about just knowing what colors you LIKE. Most adults do not really know this. I once had a student who was a really good beader, who took several of my classes, had an important professional job, and who was bright, funny--just a lovely, smart, talented person. But when it came to choosing colors she was paralyzed. After I teach a beading class, I like to walk my students around the bead shop and show them where all the beads I put in their kits are located, in case they want to make more of whatever the project was. Sometimes this is the most fun part, because I know that I've done a good job when everyone in the class goes home with supplies to make one, two, or ten more projects. Anyway, this woman kept coming up to me with different color combinations asking my opinion, and I finally turned to her, put my hand on her arm and said "This is your bracelet you're making. It doesn't matter what I think. Choose exactly what you really, really like". And it was like a lightbulb went off over her head. What she needed was for someone to just give her the permission to choose what she wanted.

She came back to another class several months later with about ten bracelets she'd made from that other class, and I was so proud I made her show them to everyone in the damn store.

Beaders and knitters both also have a similar problem in that they often expect their very first project to be perfect. I haven't taught nearly as many people to knit as I have to bead, but other knitting friends have noticed this as well. Sometimes I wonder if it is because knitters and beaders have more logical minds***; they work with pattern and repetition, and they like things to make sense more often than they like freeform work. And, in both crafts, its a hell of a lot easier to teach kids than adults. I think this is because kids are used to learning new things. I think it also is because kids are way more conscious of what they like, which to me is a fascinating topic I intend to explore further in a separate post. Kids are not concerned with what their project is "supposed" to look like, but much more with how THEY want it to look. Which makes all the difference.

Even though I probably spend more time beading and knitting these days than making dolls, I still consider myself first and foremost a dollmaker. And I have to say, dollmakers are our own special breed. Of all of the crafters in the world, dollmakers are my favorite. I know tons of cool knitters, and there is no group of women cooler than the ones who work at my bead store. But dollmakers have all of the good qualities of other crafters plus their own special breed of insanity. I think its because most dollmakers didn't make dolls first. Most of them come to it from some other craft. In my own doll club, we have a lot of recovered quilters, we've got a couple of painters, we have several altered art aficiandos****, a former scrapbooker or two, a dyer of silk, some crocheters, several knitters, a couple of hardcore needlefelters, a hotshot beader [not me], and several people who do a combination of those crafts. Most of our members make cloth dolls, but several make polymer clay ones, and some of us make them out of anything we find lying around.

In fact, now that I think about it, I think I might be the only dollmaker I know who started making dolls before anything else. I learned to sew on a sewing machine just so I could make my dolls faster. Until I was 30, I sewed them all completely by hand.
Even though I'd taken sewing in 7th grade and made a couple of hideous articles of clothing, I had never sewn on the machine again after hearing tales of people sewing right through their fingers.

The great thing about dollmaking is that you can combine all your other crafts into one doll. Like, you can bead on a doll, felt on it, knit things for it, glue things to it...if you can think of it, you can probably do it.

Okay I was going to end this post with a random selection of pictures of some of my stuff, but this is too long already. Maybe tomorrow.

*I am trying, in my own heathen way, to observe Good Friday.

**Bloggers: Please. Enough with the soundtracks already. No one CARES. Put in a link or something. No one is impressed that you figured out how to make your page play a song. Second graders can do it. It's annoying, and it is the number one way to make me never, ever visit your page again.

***Except, obviously, for me.

****JEsus CHRIST [see footnote 1] I am clever!!

When in doubt, go to Florida

2008-03-17T23:31:00.005-04:00

Well, I'm back. I realize that no one knew I was gone; that's because before I left, I was way too depressed to bathe properly, let alone write anything. I just returned from Florida, where I once again honed in on one of my parents' vacations. The nice thing about being unemployed, unmarried, and generally pathetic is that people are willing to do things like take me to Florida for free.

I love Florida. I was there once as a little kid, but only at Disneyworld. I rediscovered it about four years ago, when I invited myself along with my parents to their yearly pilgrimage to Sanibel Island. We've gone to the Outer Banks of North Carolina every summer since I was 8, and after an hour in Sanibel I turned to the Olds* and said "So, were you ever going to let on how much nicer Florida is than North Carolina??" And they replied, "Well, no, we weren't. We didn't want to have to bring you every year."

Too bad.

I think Florida is all of the best, most tacky things about America all rolled up in one. Everything is painted pink and aqua, for starters. How can you not feel glad when you look out your window and see a yellow and pink house surrounded by palm trees? There are parts of Florida where you feel like you've gotten lost in a prehistoric rain forest, surrounded by strange creatures like pelicans and manatees that look like they've missed a few million years of evolution, and the best part is that most of those places are only a few minutes away from a Target and some bar named after some kind of fish promising early bird margarita specials. I adore it. The tackier, the better. The more prehistoric, the better. Just being there makes me happy, because I always feel like I've entered a totally different world. The crazy people there are even crazier than everywhere else, and when you say something about it, people just wave their hands and say "Oh, you know, it's just Florida!"

In fact, i've thought about moving there more than once, but the problem is that I've been there in July, and it's just not habitable. I say that as someone who grew up in southern Indiana, where summers start in early April, end in October, and range from 95 to 100 degrees with 110 percent humidity. I know from hot.

Anyway. The weekend before I went to Florida, central Ohio experienced what one of my friends referred to as The Snowpocalypse. It started snowing Friday morning and didn't stop until late Saturday night, dumping over 20 inches of the horrid stuff on my fair city. I used to love snow, until I grew up and had to drive in it. I was supposed to go on a weekend trip with my doll club, leaving on Friday afternoon and returning Sunday afternoon in time to catch an early morning flight to FL the next morning. At the last minute I realized that if I got stranded at the cabin we'd rented in the woods, I could possibly miss my flight to the Land of Sunshine.

The choice was an easy one.

And so I spent the great Blizzard of 2008 [i still prefer snowpocalypse] alone, at home, literally snowed in because I COULD NOT OPEN MY FRONT DOOR due to the amount of snow piled against it. I used to like being snowed in, because it meant that I got to stay home from work. When you stay home every day, being snowed in is no longer fun but completely crazy-making. I had taken the dog to the kennel on Friday morning, and so I really was alone. I spent all day Saturday going from window to window looking at the amount of snow that had fallen and seeing if I could see the houses across the street through the blizzard. It was crazy.

The snow stopped by Sunday, and my neighbors were all out in the sunshine shoveling, building snowmen, and probably just escaping from their families. I was starting to think about going outside when I heard a crash. A really, really loud one that seemed to come from my kitchen.

When the dog is home, I mostly ignore such noises. I figure that I know she can get to things on the counters, and she knows that I know, but as long as she has the decency to do it when I am out of the room, I'll overlook it. Kind of like how I used to tell my employees that I didn't really care if they were working as long as they had the sense to look busy when I walked by.

Well, the dog wasn't home, and so I got kind of nervous. I decided I had to investigate. I peered around the corner into the kitchen. Nothing.

I went and looked out my side door.

Ooops.

The gutter along that side of the house had apparently become clogged with ice and fell halfway off the damn house.

This is what I hate about owning a home. Or, as J. calls it, having the "burden of property", a phrase lifted from an old episode of AbFab. If I rented, I could just call someone and go about my business. Since I own my house, I had to deal with it. And dealing with a broken house less than 15 hours before my flight to Florida, on a Sunday, still under a snow emergency, was, quite frankly, not something I felt I could handle.

So I did what anyone hovering on the brink of a breakdown would do: I obsessed about it continually the rest of the day, called everyone I know to ask their advice, and had just about made up my mind NOT to go to Florida. I slept for about 2 hours in between worrying and obsessing and generally working myself up into a total frenzy. I knew that if I went on my trip and left the gutter unfixed that somehow I would come home and the entire roof would be off, and that my house would be completely ruined.
In all my craziness, though, I forgot to call the car service and cancel my car to the airport. I remembered this at about 7am and thought well, shit. What can I do? I had some idea of at least going out to meet the driver and pay him for his trouble.

I was just putting on my shoes and getting ready when I heard ANOTHER crash.

This time, the other half of the gutter fell off. Meaning that the entire side of the house was now completely without a gutter. I went outside and tried to drag the thing off my fence. This didn't really work, because the entire thing was so filled with ice that it must have weighed a good two hundred pounds. And then someone said "Um, ma'am, can I help you with that?"

It was my limo driver. I said "Nope, to hell with this. I've got to catch a flight to Florida". And I left, without a backward glance. My house is fine. And I'm really, really glad I went.

*This is the respectful way in which my siblings and I refer to the parental units.

Take that library and shove it

2008-03-02T01:14:00.008-05:00

I am now officially unemployed, and as such, am now free to stop being so annoyingly obtuse about my "situation".

So. I had this job that I adored. I mean, I loved it. During the first year that I had it, I would drive back and forth to work thinking to myself "My god! I'm going to work! I love going to work! How crazy is that? I hope I don't get hit by a truck so I can't get to work! I love my coworkers! I love the patrons! I love my desk! I love what I do!! I'm so lucky I could scream!!"

Really. That is hardly exaggerated at all. Especially the hoping I didn't get hit by a truck or otherwise die. I believe I've explained before that as a Midwesterner, it is physically impossible for me to thoroughly enjoy anything without wondering when the other shoe is going to drop. Here in the heartland, we believe that if you're completely happy, you're either insane, really stupid, or just about to be run over by a school bus. We can't help it. This is what happens when you grow up in a place where tornadoes are as much a part of the landscape as terrifyingly huge baskets.

Anyway. I adored my job. And even after the honeymoon phase ended, and I stopped my internal monologue of joy every time I drove to work, I was still pretty happy. I was doing a job I thought was important, that I was good at, and my coworkers, I thought, liked and respected me. Of course, the pay was bad and I worked a lot of extra hours, but that was okay. I was happy.

I got less happy as time went on and I started to realize that the administration, which had crowed about their desire for Change and their wish to become a State of the Art Facility, really had no such intention. Every time I or one of my colleagues came up with an idea to streamline operations, make the library more user-friendly, and improve access to information, someone would end up crying. Literally. During my first couple of weeks on the job, I asked why the book displays weren't done by the department that, you know, housed and was responsible for the books--mine. A woman who worked about 12 hours a week, early mornings on weekday--the least busy times--and who had no actual knowledge of literature, patrons, reader's advisory, or, um, well, ANYTHING--did the book displays. She filled them about once every three days, if she was there and felt like it. She based her displays on nothing to do with current events, or what patrons were actually reading, or, well, as far as I could tell, anything except what she felt like making a pretty sign about. I pointed out that the displays sat half empty most of the time, and were never filled on weekends, a library's busiest hours, and that, well, the book displays should be done by the people who actually interacted with patrons. The director listened to me with a furrowed brow, thought it over for a while, and then said "Huh. I guess you're right". About two hours later the display woman was seen leaving the library in a sobbing fit. She did not speak to me for weeks.

Then there was the cataloging. Those of you who went to elementary school may remember something called the Dewey Decimal System. This is how we in the public library world organize our books. It's not perfect, and there are a lot of librarians including me who think we'd probably be better off being organized like a Barnes and Noble: lots of sections, clear signage, etc. There are all kinds of statistics which I am way too lazy to look up right now about how more Americans visit bookstores than libraries. And libraries are free! But part of that is because bookstores are EASIER TO NAVIGATE. You can walk into a B&N or a Borders and actually find stuff yourself, without having to ask someone who is sitting at a desk looking unfriendly and who then probably makes you feel kind of stupid for having asked. Well. Not only did this library not believe in making things easy to find, but every suggestion that I made about how to organize the collection, which was my responsibility [I purchased it. I maintained it. I guided patrons to it] was met with crying baby fits by the cataloger, who worked in a windowless room, never helped patrons, and never, ever checked out a book. I mean she would cry and march into the director's office and talk about how MEAN I was. Right after she'd just smiled and me and agreed with everything I said. This was a woman who believed that books about pearl jewelry belonged in the section with fish books instead of the jewelry books. You know....oysters......No, I'm not even making that shit up.

Besides all of that, there was the pay. This library has more money than God. Really. They pass huge levies. It's in a very, very wealthy community. And yet the pay was worse than my previous job, in a much lower income community, with no levy. At that job, our raises were "frozen" for five years. However, the board of trustees still managed to give us a small cost of living increase most years of about 1.5 to 2.5 percent. This fancy library? The raise every year was 2.5 percent. Not in addition to cost of living or anything else. That was it. It was after the second year of a raise so small that my paycheck, after paying increased health insurance costs, went up about 20 bucks, that I started to feel like I was in yet another emotionally abusive relationship where I still loved the person but knew they weren't good for me.

My main problem in that job, as in life, is that I don't know how to play mean, and I also trust people. And, I can't lie. I know those don't necessarily sound like problems, but when you work with a bunch of wealthy republicans, believe me, it's a problem. Eventually what happened is that some of my staff, who I adored in spite of their many, many flaws, turned on me. Half of them went to the administration with complaints about me which were either gross exaggerations or outright lies, and, guess who admin believed? The troublemaker who was always making people cry? Nope. The nicest part about all of this? I was called in and admonished/yelled at/reduced to a sobbing heap of jelly two days before my birthday. Fine. I'm a grownup, mostly.

I spent my birthday at home, with my mom who had come over to make sure I was doing things like eating and sleeping, sobbing.....when the mail came, there was a huge manila envelope with the return address of the library....I just knew it was going to be a letter officially firing me....I opened it with shaking hands, tears falling onto the paper....and out fell five envelopes. What?????

Are you ready for this??

The employees who complained about me? Who in effect lost me my job???

THEY SENT ME FUCKING BIRTHDAY CARDS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

YES!!!! THEY DID!!!!!

The employees who were not involved, sent no cards.

Rarely in my life have I ever had such a bizarre, mindbending moment as I did opening that envelope. I kept the cards, only because I knew that if I didn't, no one would ever believe me when I told them about this.

So. I've resigned, because it was clear to me that my days there were numbered, and everyone keeps telling me that one day I'll look back on all of this and laugh, and not care, and that it will all turn out for the best. I've just spent six weeks of hell, so I'm ready for all of that to start any time now.

The little agoraphobic who lives down the lane

2008-02-17T22:04:00.003-05:00

So the main problem with becoming unemployed, after the whole money thing, is the sudden solitude. Since I am single and have no [human] offspring, I live alone. Usually, I've considered this a good thing. I've spent approximately eight years of my life cohabitating with significant others; closer to ten if you count the relationship where I simply abandoned my home for another's and just came home once a week to gather clothing and beads. Add that to the 18 years I spent living with my parents before college and [ahem] the two I lived with them AFTER college, and then there was one year I had a non-sexual type roommate in grad school, and that adds up to, um
wait a minute
can't do that in my head......
and that's around 30 years of living with people. I had a single my last two and a half years of college*.
I lived alone for one year in grad school, and for two and a half years when I first moved to Ohio. And then i've lived alone for the past four years or so, although two of those years were the coming home for clothes bit.

I actually really like living alone. Which is not to say that some day, if I ever become a bit more of a catch, and not just a quivering ball of need, I wouldn't want to live with someone again. Someone who would hopefully cook and clean not have any possessions except maybe books would probably be most convenient. You know, like a wife.**

But living alone mostly suits me fine. I can be as much of a slob as I like. I can acquire cats at will. I can bring home ridiculous combinations of food from the grocery store with no commentary. [Fruity Pebbles, jam, three lipglosses and rice noodles last time] I am free to treat open wall space as a book-stacking support. I control the remote. And I am allowed to use however much floor space I deem fit as my art studio [entire second floor]. Also, I require huge amounts of alone time in which to read, make up stupid songs about the dog, write self obsessed blog entries, actually sing the stupid songs to the dog, and work on my many art projects. In fact, up until the past month, one of my main priorities in life has been to find as many large chunks of uninterrupted time as possible in which to do these things. I would happily work all week and then not leave the house from Friday night until Monday morning for maximum crafting/dog/reading/alone time.

However, now that I am no longer working and I actually have all the time in the world, I've been almost completely unproductive. I have read approximately seven thousand [well, maybe only 15] horribly trashy thrillers, of the supermarket best seller genre. I have knitted about forty seven [okay, ten] really fairly ugly hats. I have done a lot of singing to the dog, and have been trying to teach her some basic things, like NOT jumping in my bed with great gobbets of MUD hanging from her feet [not really working]. But as for doing any real work on my art projects, or writing anything that doesn't qualify as an extended whine about my life, well, no.

I realize that i've been through a fairly traumatic time, and that my usual depression has been amped up to a new level. But I still feel like i should be DOING something. I have never been good at relaxing. My idea of relaxing is usually to watch TV while knitting/beading/sewing and skimming about three magazines and a book at the same time. Definitely a bit type A. But right now, if I unload the dishwasher, take a walk, and watch a movie on TV, I feel like I've had a full day. I sleep for hours. I have no energy, and I have actually found myself just lying on the couch watching TV as though that's perfectly acceptable.

And besides the wanting to do something and not being able to part, I'm lonely. Really, really lonely. When you're at home alone all the time, alone time is no longer such a precious commodity. It's something to be endured. Probably what I miss the most about my job is the constant interaction with people, both fellow staff members and patrons. I miss having people to chat with about work, about books, about current events. I miss having somewhere to GO. I've gone from someone who was surrounded by people all day long, who came home at night to rush through chores so that I could work on my stuff for an hour or two while talking on the phone and then e-mailed people the rest of the evening, and got up and did it all over again, to someone who spends all her time alone and finds herself going to the store just to make sure there are other people still out there. It's really, really strange for me. Even when I lived in Chillicothe and hated my job and had no friends, I still had family there that I saw all the time. And that was when I first got really serious about my dolls and spent every spare second in my sewing room.

I guess this is all a good lesson in why I shouldn't make my job the center of my life. Because now that its gone, it feels like everything else is, too. And I really have to start from square one, not just with what I'm going to do next for work, but also in building a real life with friends that aren't just contingent on what I do for a living. I do have friends that I hope to keep from this job; two of them I am sure about; one or two others I like very much but am not so sure about. And I do have other friends, like my doll club, but I've always put my job first, before everything. That's something I don't want to do anymore, assuming I ever get another job.

So. Maybe that's why I'm so incredibly immobilized. Not only have I realized that my career has gone kaput, but I'm also realizing that I haven't done a very good job building other parts of my life either. Yay. Nothing like feeling like a complete failure to brighten your day!! I'm going to the store and run my cart into people so I can hear another human voice.

*stop trying to figure out the whole college roommate thing. Yes, I did have one for a year and a half. A woman. And yes. It is exactly what you're thinking. At Vassar, we believe that the entire college experience should be as, um, filled with new experiences as possible. Heh heh.

**Not that i believe wives necessarily need be female. After all, my brother is the best wife I know. Excellent cook, very thoughtful, and he owns only television sets.

Who the hell is Wendy?

2008-02-16T12:08:00.007-05:00

So some of you may have noticed that I'm no longer posting under the name "Zoe". That's because that's not my real name. When I started this blog, I was worried that someone I worked with might find it and report me to my bosses, and then they would tell me I couldn't have a blog. One might think that someone in a field like librarianship that upholds intellectual freedom as a professional standard might not need to have such a worry. Sorry, One. And since I adored my job and hoped to keep it for a good ten to twenty years, I was willing to compromise my own life [in many, many ways] in order to keep it. Of course, as usual, that didn't necessarily extend to not doing the things I wanted to do. It just meant that I tried to do them in ways where I wouldn't get in trouble. Hence, the pseudonym, which is actually my favorite cat's name.*

About a year or so ago a co-worker of mine was told to take her blog, which dealt solely with her 2 year old child, offline. She used only her first name and never even mentioned where she lived or anything that might identify her. Needing the job, she complied. At the time, I thought it was kind of extreme, but couldn't really say anything for fear of being tarred by the same brush, since this co-worker wasn't too popular. Yeah. What a fine job I did of upholding my personal and professional standards. I'm not sure what the rationale behind making her take it down was, other than just control.

Well, very soon, my professional standards will not matter as I am quickly to be unemployed. Which is terrifying on lots of levels, and since it has happened in a completely unfair and horrid way, it's been pretty traumatic. I will share the nauseating details later, but basically I've been run out of Dodge on a rail, and the tarring and feathering got pretty ugly. I've had a lot of ups and downs over the past month or so since it all happened; well, not so much "ups" as much as "times when I wasn't completely paralyzed with sorrow/rage/despondency". Basically, I think I got tripped up for being honest. Several people decided they didn't like me, and the reasons they didn't like me all pretty much had to do with my personality, not the quality of my work. When asked my opinion, I gave it. When asked to "bring change", I tried to bring it. When told "You have great ideas and we all want to know what they are, " I believed it. Here's a little hint for everyone that I still haven't learned: when someone in the workplace wants to know what you think, DON'T TELL THEM UNLESS IT IS EXACTLY THE SAME THING THAT THEY THINK. Got that? I still haven't.

So. I'm pretty sure that I'm ready to not just leave this particular job, but my career. So far I've worked for three public libraries and found the atmosphere in all of them to be rigid, stifling, and much more about cronyism, blatant favoritism and even nepotism than anything that has to do with books or customer service. And I'm saying all of this on a good day, where I'm not wallowing in self pity and trying to find as much fault as possible. I know that all jobs are more about people rather than the actual work that's done. But I don't think I'm cut out for office politics. I fail every time, and this last time, the failure was shocking because not only did I love my job and adore most of the people I worked with, I thought I was doing really well. It was different at the job before this one, where I knew no one liked me because they made that clear from about the 3rd month. Actually, they probably made it clear the 3rd day but it took me a while to notice it, being so hopelessly bad at these things.

I'm not quite sure what to do next. Being independently wealthy seems a good choice, but for that, you need, uh, wealth. Which I don't have. If I had self esteem I might try to marry well, but since I haven't been interested in anyone with a full time job for a good five to seven years now, well, that doesn't seem likely. I've had what MIGHT have been one date in the last two years, and I'm not even sure that's what it was. Seeing as I spent a lot of the time talking about my [lack of a] job situation, I'm sure that even if it was meant as a date that by the time it was over the other participant was just glad to get out of there. And I haven't heard anything since, not that I've made any moves myself. Mostly because I'm pretty sure that I'm not much of a catch these days. I used to think "Well, at least I have a good job, even if I'm physically repulsive, needy, and have too many cats". Now my ace in the hole is gone. Now all I have to offer is me, and I'm not selling well anywhere these days.

So anyway. I decided that I need to do at least one positive thing per day. And today, I decided to claim this blog as my own and stop hiding behind a fake name. My four or five readers deserve that much.

*Yes, I do have other pets besides the dog. It's just that the cats aren't nearly as annoying, and therefore, blogworthy.

Is Valentine's Day over yet???

2008-02-14T21:41:00.007-05:00

Jesus Christ I hate Valentine's Day.

Pretty much the only good Valentine's Day I ever had was in college, when I was part of a bunch of political activist types who took over the school's administrative offices to protest something or other. Known as the St Valentine's Day Vassacre, if you want to look it up, cause I don't wanna explain the whole thing. It was really fun. I honestly don't remember much about the controversy but I do remember the excellent pancakes that the kids who lived in the hippie co-op dorm made. Those were awesome. I bet they had pot in them. We slept on the floor and we made signs out of bedsheets and waved them out of windows, the whole deal. It even got written up in the New York Times and I was in the background of the photo, woo-hoo!

Being single on Valentine's Day really sucks, because you are reminded that even though most of the relationships around you are completely dysfunctional and unhealthy, at least those people get a whole day devoted to their lameosity. Not that my coupled-off Valentine's Days were much to write home about, since to a person I have only ever dated those who "don't believe in setting aside one day to tell [you] how I feel!" Um. Yeah. I might add that most of you never actually used the other 364 days of the year to do that either.

Here are the Valentines I've received from significant others over the years, in no particular order:

1. A card that said "I don't believe in Valentine's Day but I know you do, so, here" and then simply signed. No "love," or "i love you" or anything.

2. A chocolate rose from the 7-11. Yeah. Apparently there are people who do buy those, and I lived with one for about 4 years.

3. Nothing.

4. Wilted flowers bought for half off right before midnight.

5. One year, when I had the flu so badly that I was stuck in my house for almost 3 weeks, my then-girlfriend brought me a bottle of sprite and a potted plant* which she left on the porch and then ran away like I was a leper and waved to me from her car as she drove off. This was to date the only person I ever thought about having some kind of wedding ceremony with, but that "in sickness and in health" bit would obviously have been a real stretch.

6. A card that had a pig on the front**and a catchy little verse about "Makin' Bacon" on the inside. Yes. It was even worse than it sounds.

7. A dead mouse, although that was from my cat, not a significant other. I was sitting on the sofa feeling sorry for myself one Valentine's Day when the cat came right up to me, meowed, and dropped the mouse on my foot while purring like a little demented motor. In retrospect, that may have been the most sincere Valentine I ever got.

Hmmm. I guess being single maybe isn't so bad. Because I just went out and bought myself a really nice beading book that I've wanted for quite a while, and I suppose if I really wanted to I could run over to the grocery store and purchase myself some wilted cut flowers that I wouldn't have to feel bad about killing. I don't know, I suppose part of the reason VD sucks so much this year is because I'm 39 years old, single, and have absolutely no prospects for the future. That's what my aunt said a few years when someone asked her about her oldest daughter. "Is S---- seeing anyone right now?" My aunt answered "No, and she has absolutely no prospects for the future, either". It was a lot funnier then, when I was in a long term relationship. Now I'm the one with no prospects and my cousin is married to one of the nicest men I've ever met. Sigh.

* I. Kill. Plants. Anyone who has known me for twenty minutes knows this, let alone someone professing to be the love of my life for well over a year. Plants cringe when I so much as walk past them. I am not able to keep anything alive that does not actively ask to be fed and watered. This is why I am afraid of having a child. What if it was born without vocal cords? What if it had the kind of autism where it didn't speak??

**We do NOT give people who are self conscious about their weight things with pigs on them. EVER. NO EXCEPTIONS.

My Pet Crazy

2008-02-13T02:40:00.007-05:00

My sister says that when I refer to my mental state as "my crazy" which I do quite often, that it sounds like I'm talking about a pet. I like that idea, especially since at some times my pet and my crazy really do not seem that different. Let us explore the similarities further.

THE DOG AND THE CRAZY

--They both live with me and must be near me at all times

--They both have cages; the dog's being made of metal and crazy's being made of magical serotonin producing chemicals

--They both hate to be clean*

--They both like to eat anything they can get their hands on**

--Both are addicted to potato chips

--Neither one of them can sleep past seven am***

--They are both obsessed with yarn--crazy has knit almost 9 hats in 3 weeks; dog eats about one skein per day

--They both have absolutely one track minds--in crazy's case, see previous post about internet self diagnosis, in dog's case, see, my kitchen counters and whatever foodstuffs lie upon them

--They are both scared of the basement--dog because mean, mean cats are usually down there; crazy because on some level believes serial killer lives in unused darkroom

--They both seem to be somewhat psychic: for instance, my crazy has been dreading the thing that just happened to me for years, and it happened.
And the dog, well, the other night I was actually cooking, and the dog was "helping" by shadowing me about the kitchen, and then she just stopped. Which for her was odd. I looked down at her and noticed that she was staring intently at my feet.
That's odd, I thought. And just then, I dropped a bit of food, and all became clear. THe damn dog KNEW that I was going to drop something. And yes, I prefer to think of her as psychic, rather than simply knowing what a klutz her mama is.

Okay I'm starting to get a little disturbed. Maybe I don't really even HAVE a dog. Maybe my crazy is simply manifesting as a golden retriever and no one can see her but me.

Although that would mean that someone else keeps shitting in my yard.

*Anyone who has been depressed knows that taking a shower becomes a monumental undertaking some days

**Although I've given up sweets for Lent. Never mind that I am an atheist. And that my definition of "sweets" has narrowed to mean specifically baked goods, candy, and Nutella and therefore does not include strawberry jam, cocoa pebbles and honey on toast, and since they are not actually sweet I have suddenly decided I can eat all the potato chips I want.

***I used to sleep til 10 or 11 on my days off; oh okay, NOON. Suddenly I can't sleep past 7:30, and that's on a good day.

In which I return

2008-02-09T01:30:00.000-05:00

Well, i'm back. Perhaps that comes as a surprise to those of you who didn't know I was gone, but, here I am. I haven't actually been anywhere except in my house, but it's been a really shitty few weeks. I'll explain more about that when I'm at liberty to do so. Suffice it to say that i've suffered a major upset in my life which has caused me to re-evaluate pretty much everything. No, I'm not sick, at least not physically. Also, let me state that many people suck. A lot.

So. About four weeks ago my life as I've known it for the past two years, well actually, more like the past TEN years, changed. Yeah. I'm not trying to be all mysterious like, even though it sounds that way. I learned that a bunch of people that I liked and trusted and some of who I even really respected, didn't feel the same way about me. In the least, apparently. And those people set about destroying something that was pretty much my entire life. That's all I can really say about it for now. I'm sure at some point in the future I'll be able to describe everything in a lot more detail than probably anyone really cares to hear, but not yet. It's taken me four weeks to even start to admit how fucked up it all is to myself, let alone try to explain it to anyone else. I loved what was destroyed beyond all reason or sense. And now, well, I don't.

Anyway. I've spent the past few weeks knitting furiously and reading myself nearly blind. I'm fine as long as I don't actually give myself any quiet time in which to like, think, or anything. But now I've knit myself into a flare up of tendonitis, and I've read enough murder mysteries to ensure that I will be sleeping with the lights on until at least June, at which point I will simply try to fall asleep while it is still light outside. So I decided maybe it was time to resurrect the blog, because even though I've started seeing my real therapist again, I can't see him every day. Something about "other patients" and "not everything is about [me]". Whatever. And I'm sure that going through a major life trauma means that I should like, be introspective and shit, and figure out where I went wrong and why, and how I can not do it again, and where to go from here, and all that crap. Plus, I just plain need more to do because without anything else to obsess about, I've suddenly developed the symptoms of every fatal disease I can find on the internet, and that's not really helping my general craziness.

Also, I've spent way too much time alone with the dog and I need a place to vent about how poorly she's behaving.
Her latest thing is catching hold of my clothes with her teeth and biting large holes in them. Usually in the back, where I don't actually notice the holes until I either put my foot through them or until well meaning people in the grocery store ask if I, um, need any HELP. Which clearly, I do, but way more help than one can reasonably expect from a good hearted passerby or really, anyone.

Crazy for feeling so blue

2008-01-10T23:45:00.000-05:00

So I don't have a fever anymore but am still feeling pretty off. This time, though, it's just good old fashioned brain chemistry. I'm so anxious that I can barely function. I've actually written about five posts that never got posted due to the fact that they were either

1)crazy
2)not finished due to my lack of attention span
3)depressing beyond words
4)completely crazy
5) just plain weird

Anyway, that's why my entries have been sparse of late. I I really hate having brain chemistry issues, because they are at least as crippling as physical problems, but it's hard to call in crazy to work. I did finally see my doctor today, and she decided that I have had, in addition to my cool, fun, laugh-a-minute depression, an equally fun and delightful anxiety disorder that's gone undiagnosed for lo these many years, b'c whatever antidepressant[s] I've been on have usually made it bearable, until now. Yay.
So now I get to go through the absolutely fascinating and lovely process of trying to add yet another entry to my cabinet of psychotropic medications in order to cure my NEW crazy. Yippeee.
At least I don't have to withdraw off the thing I'm already on. There's nothing worse than antidepressant withdrawal.

Well, there probably ARE worse things, like heroin withdrawal and having to see Dick Cheney naked, but those are not things I have ever [thankfully] had to experience. The last time I had to withdraw from a drug, I ended up taking a week off work and crying for no reason about fifteen times a day. I do not recommend.

And now, added to the joy of normal crazy and new crazy, I have just realized that it is, yes, PMS time. Which means that for the next three or four days I should be housed in a little-ease, poked with slightly sharpened sticks, and fed only chocolate and pie. Luckily, it is almost the weekend and while I do not have a little-ease on hand I can at least confine myself to the house for a couple of days.

Ugh. Me no likey crazy.

Ringing in the new year with a fever

2008-01-03T21:09:00.000-05:00

Well I haven't really had a chance to work on any of my resolutions yet as have been sick as a sick thing for the past couple of days. I went to work yesterday where I covered myself in a bizarre collage of sweaters and scarves and simply shivered everytime anyone spoke to me. I stayed home today and slept for about a million hours, and have vacillated between wearing three bathrobes and four pairs of socks at once and being hot and wearing only a summer nightgown.

I have taken my temp but it's not alarmingly high; although to me "alarmingly high" means "high enough to cook brain tissue".

To add to the fun, I've also been majorly depressed and obsessive all day. So. The day has gone something like this:

7:40 Alarm goes off. I turn it off as in my mind it is a car alarm due to anxiety dream am in middle of
9:41 Wake up to dog whimpering with hunger
9:43 stumble into kitchen, scoop dogfood into dish, and wonder why dog isn't eating it with usual gusto
9:44 Let her out of cage
9:46 Put her outdoors after has finished eating and draft of icy air sends me shivering back to bed where it takes fully ten minutes to feel warm again
9:55 Realize may be somewhat ill
9:56-10:35 Obsess about all reasons should not call in sick to work while shivering and sweating alternately and wiping unbidden tears off face
10:36 Try to take shower and get dressed, which leaves me totally drained and believing that I have a serious, fatal disease that will kill me within hours
10:37-11:05 Look up symptoms on internet and discover that have cancer, kidney failure, and possibly leprosy due to strange numb feeling in foot
11:06 Realize have been sitting on foot and is only asleep and therefore not leprotic and feel relieved that at least will not die noseless
11:10 Call into work and tell them of my fate which does not seem to be a surprise to any of them after crazy bag lady outfit yesterday
11:20 Wonder why dog is being so good
11:22 Remember is still outdoors and probably now frozen into place and is dead, meaning have killed her and feel slightly relieved that no one will have to care for her after my no doubt imminent demise
11:23 Hear her scratch at door and let her in
11:30-2:30 sleep restlessly on sofa, and dream among other things that lose job, house repossessed, and must go live with parents in house that is not one they currently occupy but one that is much smaller that means must all share bedroom [note to self: stop reading holocaust memoirs before bed once and for ALL]
2:35 Wander about wondering why stomach hurts. Realize that has had no food in it for about 20 hours. Put some in.
3:00 Drink hot tea which causes me to be hot, and so remove outer five layers of clothing.
3:15 Cold. Re-robe and arrange self on couch with dog as top layer of blanket. Golden retrievers excellent source of warmth, although rather heavy
4:00 start thinking of all things should have done today. Nearly have panic attack. In effort to stop thinking, try to knit. Realize cannot actually count right now, making self more panicky. Resist urge to check symptoms for brain tumor on internet.
4:04 Read "best of 2007" issue of Entertainment Weekly, which feels like major accomplishment, although cannot say whether I really read all of that or imagined it as drop off to sleep again somewhere in middle of best movies article, none of which have seen anyway
5:32 wake up and wonder why dog is licking face so thoroughly and realize eyes still watering. Hope today was not big poop eating day on her part.

i've now been awake for almost 5 hours, which is good. I feel a tiny bit better, because at least now I can write and speak in something approaching sentences. Am still extremely tired but my body seems able to maintain a temperature for more than 15 minutes. I am not coughing or stuffed up and not sick to my stomach. But am definitely still ill, as every so often realize have just been staring aimlessly into space for a few minutes and then come back to myself. Great. Maybe i'm having out of body hallucinations. I wonder what WebMD has to say about that.......

New Year's Resolutions Part the Secondeth

2008-01-02T01:27:00.001-05:00

Came up with a few more resolutions as realized that most of previous list had to do with cleaning things. As my grandmother once said, I am "no kind of damn housekeeper". Amen to that.

1. Will stop purchasing new packs of underwear to put off doing laundry for three more days

2. Ditto socks

3. Will stop cursing so much, at least at work and around children. Will still feel free to curse, loudly, at home but will make effort to close windows FIRST.

4. Will stop calling people and leaving messages on their voicemail from the dog. Realize that joke may have been played, although reserve right to do it on special occasions such as birthdays and holidays.

5. Will attempt to stop joining in conversations with people who are talking about their kids with comparisons about the dog. Although she is clearly more attractive and often more intelligent than most people's offspring, must remember that to the unenlightened she is lower on food chain. Which is ridiculous seeing as would much rather eat humans than golden retrievers as most humans do not view poop as a food group.

New Year's Resolutions for 2008 [part 1; to be added to as needed]

2008-01-01T00:41:00.000-05:00

In 2008 I resolve to:

1. Stop smoking

2. Only fall in love with people who might actually return my affections who are also not unemployed, completely self centered, stupid, and mean. Therefore:

2a. Stop falling in love

3. Learn to accept my physical appearance, or else get a better job so can afford extensive plastic surgery, live in stylists, and full body liposuction

3a. Or, simply continue healthy eating plan and workouts of walking dog which uses both lower body and upper body
strength in order to yank her away from passersby and bits of dung

4. Train dog not to jump on people, eat poop, or sleep with butt in my face

5. Attempt to go to bed before 2am on a regular basis, and once there, actually sleep rather than read until 4am, which might be more appealing if will

5a. Change sheets more than once per month and treat bedroom as place to sleep rather than backup book and yarn
storage area

6. Be on time to work at least once per week or at least figure out way to avoid entering near security cameras

7. Purchase only one tabloid per week rather than three, four, and sometimes five

8. Build up alcoholic tolerance so can actually have drinks with friends without passing out after second round

9. Find friends with whom to have drinks who are within ten years of my own age

10. Clean catboxes more than biweekly unless can find way to prevent cats from pooping more than twice a week

11. Stop being afraid of basement. Is part of house, and not simply dark shame hole in which to hide outgrown clothes, old books on sexually active nuns from years as failed academic, cats, and selection of power tools left behind by Lazy homophobe boy

12. Use refrigerator as place to cool and store food that I will eat, rather than cupboard in which to store 3 year old empty bottles of mustard and large shelf on top of which to put things that dog cannot reach

13. Shower at least every other day, WITH SOAP

14. Keep house cleaner, at least living room, so neighborhood children do not continue to gather on sidewalk hoping for glimpse into "crazy lady's chamber of horrors" and muttering about Boo Radley every time I enter and exit

15. Get rid of some books; "some" in this case meaning enough to provide enough space to actually walk through bedroom and study

Sunday, bloody Sunday

2007-12-30T11:45:00.000-05:00

Okay so here's the thing. New Year's Eve is tomorrow night. And I still have no plans. I keep telling myself how grown up and cool it will be to just spend it at home, like any other night, maybe even going to bed before midnight just to prove how beyond all the silliness I am. I have had one invitation to go over to a cousin's house and hang out, which I might do. And I'm pretty sure that I could finagle another invite or two from some of my dollmaking friends, if I called them and sounded really, really pathetic. But, they are all a good 15-50 years older than me and most of them will be at home and probably asleep before midnight.

I've even thought of calling my most recent ex to see what she's doing, because I'm pretty sure she'd say nothing, and then we could hang out. I still see her every couple of months or so, as we both belong to the same doll club. And every three or four months, I will actually socialize with her alone, which reminds me why we broke up and why I don't see her more than a few times a year now. However, I think that might end badly, esp. if any alcohol is involved. THe last time I talked to her, a couple of days before Christmas, I was in my hometown and complaining of how depressed I felt. I said part of it was probably due to being single at holiday time again, and she said, pointedly, "Well, that's YOUR choice".

I dropped that subject like a hot lesbian potato. Whether she meant, my choice because I somehow seriously believe that I will find the true love of my life by staying at home and dealing with the world at large through a pseudonymous blog, or, my choice because I was the one who ended our romantic involvement, I am not quite sure. Probably both. In any case, I did not feel like discussing the topic with someone who has been dating someone named Raven or Phoenix or Clitoria, I can't remember which. *

So I will NOT call her, and if she calls me I will not pick up the phone. I do think that staying at home and going to bed at 9:30 would be better than any drama such an evening might stir up.

This is the problem with being single. Every one of my friends in this town, besides the ex, is at least nominally involved with someone or at most married for 50 years. And New Year's Eve is a coupled off holiday. It's perfectly acceptable to stay at home and watch the ball drop on TV if you're doing it with someone else. Hell, Boy J. and I almost did that one night while we were actually IN Manhattan, and then said that we would swear to everyone who asked that yes, we were THERE to see it drop, because we were after all in the same borough. Then we realized that, since he lives in a first floor apartment with thin shades, we would be sharing the TV with a lot of old dominican men huddled around a brazier on the sidewalk outside his window. And while that in itself wasn't so bad, the fact that the organ meat truck would eventually park itself out there as well was. **

Anyway. I have gone through my list of friends and realized that yes, it really IS true: I may be the only single person over 15 in Columbus, Ohio.

Doll club: all married. Well, my one friend is divorced. She's 77. I could call her, I suppose. Thing is, she'll drink me under the table and that's embarrassing.

Bead store friends: all married, dating people, or cool enough that they have been invited to parties where they will probably at the very least find someone to make out with at midnight.

Work friends: all married or dating people, even if only barely. One of my best friends from work is dating a guy that she sees only one or twice a week and fights with at least one of those times, but when I asked her what she was doing tomorrow night, naturally it involved the [sort of] boyfriend. Another work friend has recently gotten involved with another co-worker, and I like them both, but of course, they are spending the evening together and are still at that annoying point where, even if they did want anyone else around, it would only be so that they would have someone to talk while their lips are otherwise occupied. My other two best work friends are married [not to each other!]; that's them out. My fifteen year old best friend probably even has plans. And, I am sure that his plans are probably more fun than those of most everyone else I know.

Other assorted friends, acquaintainces, family: All coupled off or, horrors, they are PARENTS. The only excuse better than a significant other for staying home? Kids.

Really, what is a single almost 39 year old person to do??????? Why does everyone else have so much more of a life than I do???

Oh well. At least I have the dog. Perhaps I can figure out a way to get her to have a major barking fit right at midnight. Or better yet, this may be the time to really teach her the finer points of howling.

* One of my least favorite aspects of the lesbian community is the names. First of all, are there really that many parents who thought it would be good to name their daughters after animals, vegetation or the weather?? And assuming the answer is no, then could we show a little originality, ladies?? If you want to name yourself after a bird or a tree, well, fine. Just don't pick one that eats out of trashcans or grows in vacant lots. And hey, if you really, really need to pick a womyn identified name, stop already with the genitalia references. We get it. You like 'em. You are what you eat, not what you're called.

** Those readers who have not spent any time in Washington Heights may not know about the organ meats truck. [Nothing to do with the organ meats mentioned in the previous footnote] Basically, it's a big food service truck that serves offal in all of its most disgusting forms. Thankfully, the menu boards are all in Spanish which I cannot read and now, never wish to learn. Most disturbing: sometimes the smells issuing forth are really delicious, until you remember that they are produced by roasting intestines and brains.

Goodbye, 2007

2007-12-28T20:03:00.000-05:00

I am really glad this year is almost fucking over. It really hasn't been the greatest year. I mean, it didn't completely suck, but compared to 2006, it was nothing to write home about. 2006 was for me a major turning point in many ways. I found out what it was like to not get up on Monday morning with a stomachache for the first time since college, and before that, since before starting preschool. I ended the last relationship I'll ever have with a selfish ass who doesn't love me for me. And, I did something I've wanted to do since I left my parents house and my childhood pets behind: i got a dog.

New Year's Eve, 2005 I spent in Manhattan with Boy J.* For many years I have referred to him as my holiday friend, since in college I spent more time with him at holidays than anyone else, because my other friends weren't around then. I had a lot of friends in college. I referred to them as my own personal Group [Vassar reference. Look it up.], and of course, I was Lakey. Heh heh. In more ways than one. Heh heh. [Really. Look it up.]

I chose the Group. And then, for my own convenience, I forced them all to be friends, whether they wanted to or not. I think I've mentioned that although I'm relationshiply retarded, I'm pretty good at the friend thing. And I'm especially good at making friends for other people, as long, of course, as they don't forget who the MAIN friend is. [Me.] We were such a tight circle that it wasn't until most of them graduated the year before I did that I realized how much I'd cut myself off from other people my first three years of school.
Boy J was always so jealous of my other friends, because he wasn't really part of the Group. I tried to force him, but he was too busy having a real life with a boyfriend and a full time job outside of school. He was especially annoyed by my other male friend J. in the Group. Although they shared the same name and orientation, they were pretty much as different as two Gay J's could be. Luckily, Boy J. has outlived that J by several years** and so now we don't have to be just holiday friends but can be full-time friends.

So anyway. New Year's Eve, 2005. We found ourselves in a little bar in the village called Rose's Turn, where we arrived so early that the place was empty but for the bartender and settled in for the evening with a pitcher of Cosmos. Strangely enough, the fabulous bartender/owner turned out to be happily married to a man who was from my hometown. We bonded, as I do so well with the gays, and soon one pitcher turned into another, and another, and I'm pretty sure we only paid for about half of them. Over the course of the evening we made many new friends, as always happens in New York. I will never forget the lovely straight couple who sat next to us; they were from one of the boroughs, and seemed very much in love. They loved the bar, and thought of it as their second home. It wasn't until we all wrote down our New Year's resolutions that I realized that the woman had terminal cancer. Before we left the bar that night, I went up to the bartender and insisted that he let me pay for their tab, but not to tell them who did it and just say it was from all their friends at Rose's. I hope that my friend beat her disease and is still living with her lovely husband, but I'll probably never know if she did or not, because Rose's closed this past summer.

My list of resolutions that year was short and to the point. I will try to re-create it here, but the original, written on half a used paper plate in what may have been lip liner, is sadly lost to posterity.

Resolutions for 2005:

1. Get new job
2. Get out of dead end relationship
3. Be a better friend
4. Get dog
5. Actually LIVE in house, as opposed to simply staying in it

By my birthday, January 16, I'd done the first two, making number three much easier to accomplish. By Easter, I'd done number four and acquired the infamous dog. And since I was living alone in my house for the first time, having spent the first two years there with lazy homophobe boy and the second two years mostly living at my girlfriend's house, I finally settled in.

I think that's the only time so far in my life that I made honest to god resolutions. And, I kept them.

As 2006 went by, and I realized how much my life had changed for the better, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. I'm from the Midwest. We look at happy times suspiciously, because surely they're happening by mistake, and if we enjoy them too much, we will then go back to the bad times which as sinners we deserve, which will then seem even worse because we've had the happiness to compare them to. Yeah. That's really how we think. During the summer of 2006 I would drive home from my beloved job to see my adorable puppy and think to myself that I couldn't believe how good my life was, and how happy I was, and of course, then I'd think, "Well, it can't possibly last! This is MY life! I'm not supposed to be this happy!"

At this point, Rose's Turn had achieved a mystical importance in my life. It was there that I had such a good time that the night seemed to last ten nights worth of nights, because of all the fun shoved into the one evening, and it was there that I set the course for what turned out to be one of the best years of my life so far; the year i left the job i'd hated for 7 years for the job that I loved [and love] more than I ever thought possible, the year I got my dog, and the year I started to finally feel like a real grown up. So, for New Year's Eve 2006, what else but to go back??

And then I learned an unpleasant lesson, which as a Midwesterner I should have known: nothing gold can stay. I did go back to Rose's Turn in 2006, but this time Boy J. and I went with his roommate, a dear boy given way too much to the kind of thoughtful introspection that is best left on the college campus. Since Boy J. had been in love with the [straight] roommate for a long time, there was no question of it just being us girls, like the year before. And i admit, i was a little pissy about this, although of course I didn't SAY anything--that would have been rude, and plus, shouldn't Boy J read my mind?? So, rather than be a big girl and just have fun, I decided to do something I almost never do, which was get really, really drunk.***

Which I did. And as a result, I really don't remember much of New Year's Eve, 2006. I do remember that the bar was full, but that our friends from '05 weren't there. I know that we actually paid for our drinks, because I remember waving my credit card around a lot. God knows whose drinks I paid for that night. I remember trying to think of resolutions, but since the Earnest Roommate had a fucking blank BOOK with him and kept writing really earnest and thoughtful things in it, I never got around to my own because I was too busy being annoyed with his earnestosity and wishing that he would grow UP. He had just turned or was just about to turn 30, I think, and I was also annoyed at how momentous he felt this was. 30?? What the fuck? I can't even remember how I spent MY thirtieth--oh wait. Oh, I do remember.

Wow. That was pretty awesome actually.

It involved a lot of candles, ice cubes, and, uh, well, my brother and sister have asked me if I can please refrain from writing about things like THAT here because it makes them feel, I believe the word they used was, "oogy".

Anyway. I know that I made several drunken calls from my cell phone that night, judging from the annoyed messages people left me the next day. And I am pretty sure I fell asleep on the subway like a homeless person on the way back to Boy J's apartment. The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning to Boy J. watching a documentary on Jeffrey Dahmer. Yeah. Not really the kind of thing you EVER want to wake up to, esp. on New Year's Day, and ESPECIALLY not while still drunk.

As I've said, 2007 really couldn't possibly live up to 2006. This year I got past the honeymoon period with my job, where I stopped loving it so much I made people want to vomit every time I talked about it, and started realizing that even though it's pretty damn good, it's still not exactly perfect since I can't actually live on my salary. My dog grew from being a tiny adorable ball of yellow fluff into a big clumsy galoot, a bull for whom the world is her china shop. Of course, I still love her just as much, even though i can no longer wear black and have resigned myself to permanent pawprints on the sheets and couch. And even though I'm still glad I'm not in a completely dysfunctional relationship, I have realized over the past few months that I'm a little lonely, and while I won't be moving in with anyone anytime in the next millenium, it might be nice to like, have someone to go to a movie with once in a while.

I was going to go back to New York for New Year's again this year, and then I realized: Rose's Turn is gone. Not that the old magic was there for me last year anyway, but still, maybe the third time would have been a charm. And, I didn't want to leave the dog. And Boy J's annoyingly earnest but very sweet roommate is no longer his roommate*****, instead he lives with Slappy and Crazy*******, neither of whom I wish to meet.

So this year, I'm going to try something I've never done: i'm going to spend New Year's Eve at home. With the dog. And make some more resolutions that I can actually keep.

Well, that's what I'll do unless my hopeless, lame, unrequited crush asks me out.

Yeah. I'll be home.

* Since my two closest friends both have names that start with J, I've chosen to delegate them Boy J and Girl J. This seems less wrong than calling them Gay J. and Married to a Gay J, although admittedly nowhere near as amusing.

** Also a Gay J, and yes, it was the Big A. So really, we could call him A-J., which is appropriate as he was very much an A Gay. [Gay in Joke. If you don't get it, don't look it up. Just try to watch more Logo and read a little more Armistead Maupin]

***Most of the times I have been really, really drunk in my life? Have involved Boy J., as have known him since age of 19 or 20, and in fact the first night I met him and pronounced him my new best friend****, was also v.v. drunk. He brings out the addict in me. Still haven't forgiven him for quitting smoking over a year ago.

****Accurately, as it turns out almost 20 years later; after all, Boy J. is still with us, unlike A -J.

***** Although they remain unnaturally close for a straight boy and a Gay J, and I fully expect Earnest Boy to be coming out any day now, as his last suggestion to Boy J. was "Hey, why don't we BUY an apartment together?" Buying property IN NYC is crazier and more binding than one of those mormon temple weddings.

****** Slappy because he had to ask her to keep the slapping sounds down when she and her boyfriend were having SEX, Crazy, because she IS.

Home to the circle of filth

2007-12-26T17:29:00.001-05:00

Well, the big day is over and I am already back in my dear little circle of filth. As I think i've said before, I love visiting mes parents, but I am equally glad to come home. I think this may have something to do with being crazy, old, or perhaps both. Whatever it is, I'm home and I'm glad. I had a lovely holiday except for the fact that my depression is back with a vengeance. Because I am on meds, i am able to function and probably seem fairly normal, especially if you don't know me well. But to those who know me and to myself, I'm sort of on a downward swing. I could sleep all day, I can't concentrate on anything, and I'm just generally not myself, well, not my sane self.

This is the kind of thing that only the Kinship of Krazy can truly understand, I think. I have heard many people say things like "Oh, I would never go on anti depressants, because then I wouldn't be able to FEEL anything". Well, first of all: if you truly HAVE depression, then you'd know that it is possible to get to a point where feeling nothing is a better alternative than feeling as bad as you do. Second of all, unless you're on the wrong meds, you still feel everything. What the medication does is enable you to step back and realize that 1. This is temporary, and 2. It is brain chemistry rather than the entire world hating you and plotting your demise and that if you can manage not to treat everyone as though they hate you, they will still like you tomorrow when your brain chemicals have rearranged themselves into something approaching normal. Thirdly, you still do feel depressed, but you can actually function and do things like wash and eat and go to work, albeit not as eagerly as usual.

I wish my brain chemistry had not picked the holiday season to assert its right to do whatever it likes, but that's life with depression. You don't get to choose when it comes on. I'm glad I took the dog with me, because she's the best anti-depression amulet I've found so far. It is hard to feel hopeless and down when you have an animal as relentlessly joyful as a two year old golden retriever with you all day. And she had a really good time. She managed to beg ten times as many treats as usual and got to run in the countryside around my parents house, which she loved.

Also, she fell oddly in love with my sister's boyfriend, who I believe to have strange psychic powers over dogs. The dog actually sat STILL and let him PET HER like a normal animal for almost 20 minutes!!!! She has never done this before in her LIFE!!! My sister claims that he has this power over many animals. It is kind of like the reverse of that scene in The Omen, where Damian and his mama are driving through an animal park and all of the baboons attack the car. Henceforth he shall be known to me only as "The Dog Charmer" unless he and my sister get married, at which point I will cleverly only refer to him as "Mister Sister".

It's so hard to be crazy

2007-12-20T16:50:00.001-05:00

Okay so I don't know if you've gleaned this from reading this blog, but I am just a wee bit crazy with the arts and crafts thing. As in, I have about nineteen projects going at any given time in at least 3 media, and I do not purchase things like clothes or food so as to have money for things like fabric and beads, and my entire house looks like a library [run by the insane] that has been vomited on by a bead, yarn and fabric store. I love being at home. Nothing pleases me more than to be surrounded by my book-bead-yarn-fabric chaos, and so when I have days off from work i am most generally to be found at home either reading, working on a project, or thinking about how to read while working on a project. [No. I can't do the recorded books thing. I've tried.] I have often been accused of being anti social [in spite of always having had more friends than is responsible or safe] because when I don't have to be somewhere, I want to be at home, in what I grandly call My Studio.

Actually, I only refer to it as My Studio in my own mind. To other people I usually say "my sewing room" or "my attic" or "the room that would cause my permanent institutionalization were it ever to be viewed by a mental health professional".

This need to spend lots of time alone is something that i've only noticed in other artists. It makes it difficult to have normal friends unless you do what I do and live in different states from most of them. Then, you can blame not seeing them on distance rather than selfishness. I am lucky enough to be a member of a club consisting of other dollmakers, who are NOT normal friends, and they are the only people I've ever known who really "get me" because they are all at least as crazy as me, and many of them are [comfortingly] MUCH crazier. Most of them have rooms just like mine; some of them have entire floors of their homes which are like my attic, and one of them actually bought a whole HOUSE for her studio. She makes me feel REALLY sane. Being a member of this club has been a huge part of my life for the last ten years and has made me grow as an artist and a person. Not to mention how much it's helped my mental health. These people do the same crazy stuff I do, like travel with three suitcases when they're going away for the weekend. We have a yearly retreat where we go to the woods with our dollmaking stuff, food for two days, and a LOT of wine, and most of us fill our entire cars with things we MIGHT need.

My dollmaking friends are the only people who can understand that when I go somewhere, even if it's just for a night or two, I must take piles and piles of things with me because I might need them for whatever I'm working on. and I can't just take one thing to work on, because you have to have several things depending on what mood you're in, or what the lighting is like where you are, or if there's a table or not.

In this respect they are totally unlike my family, who right now are sitting in Indiana talking about how crazy I am and waiting for me to finish packing and then drive over there for the holiday, which I am not doing because every time I go up into my studio to pack I cannot possibly decide which craft supplies to take. First I pack one project, which makes me think of another, which requires a totally different set of materials, and then that leads to another, and then I think, but, what about BEADS? and then there are ten MORE things that have to be packed, and oops, there's that gift that's not quite finished, and then I need stuffing, and should I take my sewing machine, and oh, well, it's been going on for about 6 hours now. Usually what I end up doing is taking everything I can fit into the car, but when you are also packing a golden retriever this seriously cuts down on the amount of space for craft supplies. And then I have to take the Christmas gifts for my family, and the dog's Christmas presents, because of course she has to have something to open, and oh yes my CLOTHES, and shoes, and my camera which will be used mainly to take pictures of the dog which no one will care about but me, and then the dog's suitcase must be packed because naturally she has one and I must remember her everyday leash and her special dress-up leash.

Sigh. I wish I drank more. Because I definitely cannot do all this without some kind of chemical help.

Perchance NOT to dream

2007-12-19T16:30:00.000-05:00

Hooray!!!! I am off work for a WEEK!!! And it is almost Christmas!!! Sing tirraloo, sing tirralay!!!!

I have been a bad blogger for the past few days. This is because I have been in the depths of despair. Not because of the writer's strike and my subsequent lack of Colbertosity, or because I live in a circle of filth, or even because of the ongoing ravages of unrequited love. No. Mostly I have been in the depths of despair because it's fucking cold outside and it's that time of the month, and oh, just BECAUSE. However, today the clouds have lifted a bit, whether because my Christmas vacation has officially started or just because of the randomness of brain chemistry. Either way, I'll take it.

I have spent most of the last week and a half sleeping, thinking about being asleep, or sitting on the couch in a lump thinking, I can't go to sleep yet because it's only 7pm. Then, when I AM asleep, I have such bizarre stressful anxiety dreams that waking up is a relief. Most of my dreams involve the following scenarios:

--I am almost always running from something, such as Nazis, the thought police, or a serial killer
--Often, I am in or am about to enter a haunted house
--There is usually a lot of packing things, because I have to run away from somewhere
--Often there is a small baby/child/animal that I am responsible for
--I often have to hide, whether from Nazis, the thought police, or a serial killer
--I am usually running by myself, or else am with a group of people that I know instinctively that I shouldn't trust too much
--Quite often, I am stuck on a airplane going somewhere I shouldn't be going

Doesn't that sound restful???

I am sure a psychic/therapist/medical professional would have years of fun with my dreams. I realize that the baby/child/animal thing means I feel like I have too much responsibility. The packing thing is because I have too much stuff and feel burdened by it. The running thing I am sure is extremely telling but I don't like to think about what it means. And I think the Nazis are in there because I've read Anne Frank just too many damn times.

Anyway. Today I feel a bit better, and have not had to prevent myself from taking any naps yet. Once I gird my loins and change the catboxes, I think I might actually start feeling like a human being.

Hetero Heebie Jeebies

2007-12-14T10:28:00.000-05:00

So that annoyingly insightful sister of mine keeps pointing out to me that for someone who says she's interested in a man, I'm doing everything possible to scare men away. Apparently writing about past lesbi-capades and the boringosity of the heterosexual is somewhat off-putting. So she says. But, I argued, I believe I have shown that ALL relationships can be equally dysfunctional, not just straight ones. Plus, I've said some really NICE things about men, like how willing they are to have sex and how they don't stay friends with their exes!!

Again, she disagreed.

I myself would think that my brutal honesty and caustic wit would be refreshing and different, but apparently these are not qualities that most men are looking for in a female partner.

Sigh. Let's be honest. These are probably not qualities that ANYONE is looking for in a romantic partner. Caustic wit tends to shrivel declarations of affection, not to mention erections.

I suppose this could be why I'm single now, have been so for two years, and am sadly destined to remain so. Which really, is probably for the best. In fact, I could, right now, explain exactly how my next relationship will go based on my past ones. I have been trying to cure myself of my crush--perhaps this is just the thing.

How I Get Myself Into This Crap--the early stages:

1. Fall in love with someone completely inappropriate and unnattainable for at least one, hopefully two or three reasons [Check. Check.]
2. Ignore it as best I can and pretend am only in love with Hugh Laurie, as usual, as he or other blue eyed british actors have been safe fallback since first saw Hugh Grant in Maurice. *
3. Realize is not going away. Obssess about it for a few months to myself
4. Tell someone, probably J. or my sister so that can have someone else to help me obsess. J. much better at this, as is at least as crazy as me, and is currently doing exactly same thing.
5. Ignore all signs that person could like me for quite a while, as, who WOULD like me?

[so far, this is where we are]

Imaginary but probably accurate outcome number one:

6. Tell person how I feel, probably in completely awkward manner causing great embarassment to self and uncomfortability to person
7. Person politely pretends to be flattered, rebuffs my lame advances, and we avoid each other for a while until air has cleared.
8. Am cured. Not a bad outcome.

Imaginary but probably accurate outcome number two:

6. Tell person how I feel, probably in completely awkward manner causing great embarassment to self and uncomfortability to person
7. Run away for several days amd live in cave
8. Re-surface to find that person likes me too and was just about to tell me but, ran away to cave
9. Several weeks, months, possibly a year or two of blissful coupledom.
10. Awaken one day to find friends neglected, yarn unknitted, beads not beaded, dolls unmade, library books overdue, bills unpaid, and animals starving
11. Wonder where my life has gone
12. Realize entire relationship is based on doing whatever it is I think other person wants so that they will love me and never leave while totally ignoring my own needs because am not worthy of having needs due to less self esteem than, well, you know
13. Go on like everything is fine for several months, maybe a year or so while becoming more and more disgruntled, resulting in passive agressive behavior on my part
14. One day suddenly announce that everything must change since am miserable, which comes as total surprise to person, who of course has had no idea of this since have never actually SAID anything but have waited for person to read my mind, which of course humans cannot do unless they have special powers found only in Discovery channel documentaries or New Orleans.
15. Hang on until it is humiliating for both of us
16. Break up

As we have seen, most of the people I've gone out with have been total jerks who were pretty thoughtless and never noticed that I was no longer doing any of the things I normally do, because they were mostly incredibly self centered and just assumed that everything should be done to their liking. But, to be fair to them, I was the one who became Zelig and stopped being myself. No one actually forced me to lose my own personality; I did that all on my own.

Then again, why would you purposely move in with someone who lives in a fortress built of books and then get mad that she's reading all the time? Why would you embark on a relationship with someone who lives, breathes, and sleeps dolls and then decree that she can't have any in any of the common areas of the house?

Then again, why would that dollmaker STAY with that asshole?

Anyway.

So, really, what would be my motivation here to pursue this, or any other romantic involvement??

Clearly, none.

I did have a really blinding revelation last night, though.

You know, the kind of thing where you hear someone say something and all of a sudden showers of colored lights pour down and angels sing from on high, and it's like everything snaps into focus and you can hear the Voice of God saying "So It Shall Be"---which, when you're a heathen like me, is even scarier than it is for other people--and suddenly you are catapulted onto the next range of consciousness???

That kind of thing.

Where/how did I receive this shot of brilliance???

From a television commercial, of course. And if it was on TV, well, then it has to be true.

It was for that new movie, Juno, which I haven't even seen yet. In the scene, someone who I assume is the protagonist's father, is telling her that the only thing you should look for in love is someone who loves you exactly as you are, right at that moment.

Whoa. That totally blew my mind. I mean, someone love me just as I am???
Is that even possible??? Who would DO that???

Thinking about THAT--- the idea of someone liking me for just exactly who I am right now---ok, now that's a cure for a crush.

Perhaps it's time to acquire a few more cats and pursue my true calling of crazy cat lady.

* Strangely, have never fallen in love with female actors in quite same way--see--very hetero of me. Oops. Forgot about Kate Winslet. Never mind. What is it with the blue eyed Brits?? Come to think of it, have never even dated a blue eyed person.

Random dolls I've made

2007-12-12T20:01:00.000-05:00

So my sister and brother are really tired of reading about anything to do with me and sex.

Which is mean, really, because my brother is married and my sister has had the same boyfriend for like, ever. Just because sex is no longer interesting to THEM doesn't mean I've lost all interest in it. So I thought I would try and post about something else for a change, because I realize that reading back over this blog it seems like all i do is chase after my stupid dog and obsess about relationships past, imaginary, and otherwise.

J. claims that the reason I make dolls, bead, knit, etc, is to use up all my excess energy. Of course, he is a pig who doesn't know what he's talking about, b'c he has no hobbies, and he hates it that I do, because, as he says, they take time away from HIM. I do understand his point. That's why he's such a satisfactory friend for ME, because he doesn't do anything except talk to me on the phone.

So here's a few of my creations.
I totally do not know how to format my photos on blogger yet, so here's a list of what they are:

The one with the black hair and sparkly bra thingy is a mermaid, although you can't see her tail. I made her probably 5 years ago from a Christine Shively online class. Hated the body pattern, so I changed it to be more symmetrical and the tail looks deformed. But her face is one of my favorite faces I've ever done, and she looks strangely like me, but with blue eyes instead of green.

The one with the wildly colored hair is from a Sherry Goshon pattern; she's also probably a good 5-6 years old. I thought her saggy boobs were a LOT funnier 5 years ago and I expect they will get less amusing the older I get.

THe christmas elf is from an Allison Marano class I took this past October, and now belongs to a dollmaking friend.

The lovely blackhaired wench is a goth chick, made for a live goth chick, and has a bat necklace and a gargoyle hanging at her waist, heh heh, to, you know, guard the ENTRANCE. heh heh heh I'm cool.

The Nightmare of a Colbert-Free World

2007-12-11T19:48:00.001-05:00

So i've been really down lately. I mean, obviously, I'm always down. How could someone who lives in a circle of filth with a mentally incompetent dog and less self esteem than a, well, you know, NOT be down?

It's just that lately, I've been really, REALLY down. And it's not my usual depression. I've had chronic depression for most of my life, which wasn't diagnosed into well into my 20s. It was such a relief when I finally was diagnosed, because then I could get medication, and suddenly I wasn't such a bitch anymore. Up until then, I just called it "having a bad temper" or "irritability" or "being a real fucking bitch". Or at least, that's what my friends and family called it.

But i've had it under control for a long time now, and even though I do go through periods when it gets a little worse, or I have to adjust my medication, mostly I'm able to at least step back from myself long enough to say "Calm down, idiot, it's just your depression. You'll feel better tomorrow". And I always do, although sometimes it takes a few days, or the purchase of some yarn, or maybe a little chocolate.

But lately, none of that is working.

At first, I thought it was my crush. The stresses of secret unrequited love are great, especially when you're crazy to begin with. What if he starts dating someone else? What if he secretly hates me and is only nice b'c he HAS to be?? What if he FINDS OUT??

But then I realized that isn't it. I've had much, much stupider crushes on much more inappropriate and stupid people. And hell, most of those actually turned into relationships that were nothing to write home about anyway.

No. My crush is not the man who is responsible for this dark night of the soul.

It's Stephen Colbert.

God, I miss him.

This writers' strike has GOT to end. I can't live much longer without my nightly dose of Colbert and John Stewart. First of all, I have no idea what's going on in the world at all. I am the demographic who gets my news only from the Internet and the Daily Show. I've been trying to keep up with Keith Olbermann, but without the prequel of Stewart and Colbert, I realize that the spark is gone. It's kind of like when you've been part of a couple for a really, really long time and have stopped having regular sex, and you can only get it on after watching a raunchy movie or going out to a club where everyone's making out. First there's John. You laugh a little. You're interested. You start to think, Hmmm. I feel a twinge. He's kind of like the pre-foreplay banter. He's like your first boyfriend, back in junior high. He's cute. He's really funny. You know you'll never go all the way, but it's still nice. Maybe a little kissing. Before you remove any clothes.

Then, the lead in to the Colbert Report. There he is!! It's Stephen!!! Your first REAL boyfriend! This guy is IT! He carries your books, and he's got a driver's license!!! Eagles soar!! Triumphant music! You're in it to win it now. You realize, birth control's on the table. Because this--this could HAPPEN. Serious foreplay--The Word. Or maybe a little Better Know a District. You're getting hot. You can't wait any more. Please, God, give me some Tek Jansen. Or a little On Notice Board. I need it. i can't WAIT any longer. Tip of the Hat, Wag of the Finger?? I can hardly breathe now.
Then, it's the nightly guest. Oh my god, we've got to get home before midnight, because I've got a curfew, and I'm saving it for Jesus!!! Maybe we can go all the way without GOING ALL THE WAY, if you know what I mean!! Singing with Barry Manilow?? JAne Fonda sitting on your lap??? STEPHEN!! YES!!!! YESSSSSSSSS!!!!!! STEEEEPHENNNN!!!!!!!!!!

And then Keith, well, Keith's the one you marry. And you have nice, safe married sex. You love him, but you know, its not a bad idea to keep a vibrator in the lingerie drawer. Because he's earnest and decent, but not always, you know, imaginative. And sometimes, just sometimes, you realize, you're not thinking of Keith. You're thinking of someone else.

I'm sorry, Keith. I thought it was you I loved. But it was Stephen I saw when my eyes were closed.

I saw his sparkling brown eyes. His perfectly lacquered fake Republican hair. His dashingly cut suits. His thick, hearty, all encompassing crimson Wriststrong bracelet.

Please. End the strike. Pay the writers whatever they want. Because I can't live much longer in this sexless Colbert nation.

The life of a heterosexual......

2007-12-08T23:39:00.000-05:00

is, as John Waters once said, a sick and boring life.

I realize that I am currently completely enamored of a certain male. And that I am undoubtedly female. So perhaps I should not be making these wild generalizations*, but but PEOPLE. Come ON.

I just came from a party where I was the only non heterosexual except for the host. I was also one of only three people there without my significant other, but since the other two came together I'm not really counting them. The host, a fabulous gay man, had prepared a lovely spread of party food, decorated to within an inch of his life, and by all accounts should have had a houseful of other fabulous gay men, who would have made it a fabulous party.

Instead, he invited about four or five heterosexual couples, some single unattractive straight girl librarians, and me.

I was so bored that I only enjoyed myself when talking about work with a co worker for over an hour, much to his girlfriend's dismay and boredom.

I was the oldest one there, which is a new experience for me. However, I was also the most interesting one there.

This may sound a little conceited, esp coming from someone who has less self esteem than a small writhing self esteemless thing, but it is true. At least I am entertaining, and I understand the concept of intelligent conversation. I don't know if it was the age thing. I don't know if it was the couples thing. I don't even really know if it was the heterosexual thing, but I really love that John Waters quote. But my GOD. Is this what people at parties today really DO?? Sit around and talk about TV shows and hold hands and giggle and never actually say anything???

I got there late, but was still earlier than over half of the guests. And I knew only my host, so I ended up introducing myself to the two straight girls, because until I did, they just stood together and whispered and giggled uneasily. Really. Once I introduced myself, they said Oh yes, we know you, we met at this or that library conference. Were they going to say hi to me first? Apparently not. Luckily, two of my co workers arrived and then I was able to talk to them. I kept waiting for the party to get, you know, party like. You know, the part where everyone's talking and laughing and eating and drinking, and maybe playing music. The fun part.

Never really happened. The couples sat together and held hands and asked the other couples kind of awkward questions about what they did for a living, and what TV shows they watched. The straight girls kind of hung around the edges laughing self consciously at things that weren't particularly funny, and the coupled off girls kept looking adoringly at their menfolk and marking them by putting their heads on their shoulders while the men spoke to each other or me. After about two and a half hours suddenly I realized that this was it....this was the whole point of the party. I could stay another two hours and get more bored, or I could leave. Luckily, some other people started leaving, so i could go without seeming like I was in a hurry to get out of there.

I was probably ten years older than most of these people, and the parties I held and/or attended in my late 20s?? Well, first of all, they were a LOT louder. And there was a lot more drinking and smoking of various substances. And people talked and laughed, and usually something broke, and if there were couples, at least one of them broke up and maybe new ones formed during the course of the evening. Usually there would be some making out in a corner, and several heated political discussions, and with any luck at least one good fight. The point is, they were FUN. They were exciting. They were a reason to go to someone else's house, not just to admire the furnishings and sit around chatting about generalities. Of course, they were also peopled heavily by homosexuals, addicts, and the insane, but that's precisely what you need for a good party mix. You need some gay men for decorating and drama, you need some lesbians for color and more drama, you need some drunken straight girls who are bi-curious to titillate the straight men who are trying to be cool with the gay guys, and every party needs someone who gets embarassingly drunk to distract from how fucked up everyone else is getting.

I don't know. Maybe it was just this particular group of people. I can't imagine it was just the fact that they were all younger than me. One of my best friends is a 15 year old boy and I have to say, I would have rather been talking to him than any of these people, because he's much more interesting. And smarter. My sister is only 27 and I have never noticed that she is particularly dull because of it; and she's even a heterosexual. She's mostly only dull when she's talking about things like makeup and clothes, but she can't help that. And I work with plenty of people who are younger than me who are interesting and amusing.

And some of my best friends are heterosexuals, and most of them are even in couples, and they still manage to be interesting. I mean, I would very much like to be a practicing heterosexual right now myself, except I don't want to practice the type of heterosexuality that involves mind numblingly dull parties and things like redoing the kitchen. I mostly just want to practice the sex part of it, I think.

I don't know. Here I've been spending a lot of Saturday nights at home with my dog feeling lame and pathetic when actually, I was having a pretty good time. I mean, if I'd taken my dog to the party with me she would not have spent the whole time literally or figuratively peeing on me to show everyone I was hers. She would have been mixing with everyone and making people laugh and probably knocking a few things over. She would have eaten heartily of all of the offerings, instead of picking at a carrot stick and a nacho chip and then exclaiming how full she was. She would have endeared herself to everyone by leaping into their laps, and then rolling over on her back and flopping her ears over her eyes. She would have been the life of the party, as she is every day, everywhere she goes.

Huh. I wonder if that's because she's fixed, and so therefore, she's not technically a heterosexual either.

Maybe I should get fixed. That might solve a lot of things.

* Then again, this is all only in theory, and therefore since I'm not actually having any sex at all, I guess I'm technically a no-sexual

Why can't we eat dogs instead of cows??

2007-12-08T03:05:00.000-05:00

I have been up for almost 20 hours. And even though it is nearly 3am, I cannot yet go to bed.

This is because my dumb ass of a dog will not come in the house. I have been trying to lure her inside for the past hour and finally gave up and decided to completely ignore her.
Every five minutes or so she yips and scratches at the door, which means that I must then go open the door ostensibly to let her stupid ass in--at which point she runs away from the door and starts barking while running sideways with occasional mountain goat leaps into the air. I think this must mean "Hey Mommy!!! Come out and play with me in the disgusting slushy and muddy yard!! Pleeeeeeeeez Mommy play pleeeeeeeze!!!!" Which I am not going to do, because it is fucking cold out there in addition to being slushy and muddy. So I am then forced to walk part way into the yard, while hissing "LUNA! GET IN HERE GODDAMIT!!!" which of course doesn't work, so then I switch to my most dulcet, dogcharming tones and say things like "Come here you little shit, get in the goddamn fucking house before Mommy skins you and makes you into a nice pair of fur lined boots!!"

I hate golden retrievers.

It is now officially 3am and she is still out there. Making the most pathetic little whines possible. Which at one point in my life as a mommy could catalpult me out of an absolutely sound sleep. And which now are making me feel really, really murderous while wondering if perhaps the Koreans have something to teach us about dogs as food.

What makes this even more annoying?? She did the same goddamn thing LAST night.
Last night, I let her out at 1:30, which was already late, and she proceeded to elude capture until 2:54am. And last night, it was not raining but it was also less than 20 degrees out there.

I am so afraid that the only reason my neighbors have not yet called the police on me is because they are too busy filming my pathetic efforts and putting it on youtube where Keith Olbermann will see the ridiculous spectacle of a grown woman in an oversized flannel bathrobe trying and failing to outsmart a golden retriever and decide that it is the perfect thing to highlight on his Oddball segment.

Hate dogs. Hate winter. Hate complete lack of dog-parenting skills.

I wonder if anyone will call Dog Protective Services on me if I just leave her the hell out there and go to bed. I'm willing to risk it.

Little Assholes on the Prairie

2007-12-06T21:47:00.000-05:00

The problem with being only one of a family of five total smart asses is that lots of the time, you find that you are actually LESS of an ass than your beloved family members.

As a case in point, I offer up my sister. Were I a christian, I could simply offer her up to Jesus and let him deal with her. But I think she might be too much even for the son of God to handle. After all, this is the person, who, in kindergarten, went running to the teacher because one of her classmates "said a bad word"!!!

What was that word???

JESUS CHRIST.

In her defense, in our family, she had only ever heard the name of Our Lord used as profanity. But why did she have to be such a little tattletale anyway??

She is 11 years younger than me. She lives in a big city and works for a big fancy company where she makes a LOT of money, esp compared to me. She has a wealthy boyfriend whose family lives in one of those Breakfast Club type suburbs. She refuses to carry a purse that costs less than what i make in a week. When it was time for her to go to college, my parents offered her a deal: Go East, to a fancy liberal arts college, like your big brother and sister. Or, stay home and go to the local giant ass university and get a brand new car. She took the latter, and, managed to skim through college in a mere five years by majoring in TELEVISION WATCHING. On the outside, I am sure that she looks like a fairly refined, together sort of person.

But, she is not really.

She belches a LOT. She sings in a really horrible high voice sometimes even though she actually has a beautiful singing voice. She is the inventor and primary user of what she refers to as "Retarded Sister Voice", directed solely and continually at ME. And, she is the WORST SMART ASS THAT I HAVE EVER MET. Including me. Including our brother, whose philosophy of comedy is "Any time you can say something that might be the least bit funny, say it. 90 percent of the time, you'll be an ass. The rest of the time, you'll be funny!".

So I let my sister have the URL of this blog, because I thought it might be amusing for her and also serve as a sort of cautionary tale as how NOT to proceed through her late 20s and 30s.

Unfortunately, I neglected to tell her not to give the URL to everyone else in the world.

Apparently, she gave it to our brother, and today he read it and then supposedly he spent the rest of the afternoon in a fetal position under his desk at work. Since he is an important executive type at a large hospital, I cannot imagine that this was helpful to his career. I asked her WHY she gave him the address when she KNEW it would make him go fetal and she said "Duh!! Because it is FUNNY when he goes into the fetal position!!!!"

She is not nice. Also, she likes to offer me lots of advice about my life, which, even though a lot of it, okay MOST of it, is completely accurate, does not mean that it is actually WANTED. Such as, when I asked her exactly what it was about this blog that made poor Brother go fetal, she said, through waves of giggles "What do YOU think??? It has a LOT of sex on it!!! Most of which is LESBIAN SEX!!!"

I was honestly floored. "There isn't very much sex on my blog!! And really, there's no actual DESCRIPTION!! It's not like it's graphic!!"

She then attempted to explain to me that the mere MENTION of lesbian sex can make a lot of men, esp, apparently, blood relatives, uncomfortable. And THEN she said, "For instance, like, if you have a crush on a STRAIGHT MAN, then you totally would NOT WANT HIM to be reading about YOU having sex with WOMEN all the time!! Like, if you were STUPID ENOUGH to put the URL of your blog on Facebook when you can be found there under your real name!!!!!"

She then collapsed into what can only be described as gales of laughter, and I was forced to hang up on her.

Goddammit!!! I KNEW I should never have told her about my stupid, lame, retarded sister, hopelessly embarassing crush!!! I KNEW she would make fun of it!! And worse, she's probably told my brother!!!

And, fuckety fuck fuck FUCK, she is totally RIGHT about the facebook thing. What kind of ASS AM I????

Of course, there is no way to know if USHLAC* has found me on facebook, or if it would even occur to him to look for me there. And, of course, since my crush is totally one sided**, I'm sure he DIDN'T look, and even if he DID find me somehow, by accident, like through a mutual friend which we do not even have, well, he can't see my profile, can he?? And, even if somehow he COULD, well, that doesn't mean he would read my blog anyway, because, as I said, this is a one sided thing and he wouldn't even care to know my innermost thoughts and stories of horrible sex because, as I keep stressing, he does not CARE. Besides, how was I supposed to know that mentioning girl on girl action was such a no no??

I mean, I know that lesbian sex makes gay men uncomfortable, because the thought of two sets of female genitalia flopping around together is way, way too much for them to take. They get very antsy at just the hint of camel toe through heavy layers of denim, let alone at the sight of one set of actual, naked labia. This is why J. and I have a very one sided friendship when it comes to discussing sexual escapades, because while I am forced to listen to ungodly stories of locker rooms and public bathrooms and "massage" parlors, I am not allowed to mention even taking my shirt off in front of another woman because it gives him dry heaves. This is the price I pay for enjoying all genitalia, and not just half of it, I suppose. ALthough some of his stories are excellently funny, like the large african american man who kept slapping him and asking him how he "like[d] that, dirty little bitch!".

But honestly. I thought that lesbians turned straight men on!!!! Not that I mention my womyn-oriented past to turn anyone, esp. USHLAC,*** on!! It's just that it never occured to me that it would be such a turn off, I guess. I mean, look at all of those lesbian porn sites!!! Those are NOT made by women, for women, because most of those women shave not only their va jay jays, but, much more unbelievably, their armpits and LEGS. So I have heard, anyway, from some of my more adventurous friends. I cannot look at those things, because they make me feel dizzy and kind of sick. No matter how much I might enjoy personal contact with sexual organs, I really don't think they need to be photographed in blazing full color. I would rather watch abdominal surgery on the discovery channel than see a photograph of anything inserted into anyone's you know what.

Plus, men totally like it when women mud wrestle, and make out, and all of that, don't they?? And like, isn't the whole premise behind threesomes the idea that men want to watch the two women get it on before they have their masculine way with both of them??

Whatever. If you're reading this, USHLAC, you have plenty of reasons not to return my crush besides some past episodes of fairly lame lesbian sex. In fact, compared to some of the things I've written about, including but not limited to my family, I would think that lesbian sex is actually very normal. And just for the record, in case you DO care, which we've already established you do NOT, I actually prefer having sex with men for a lot of reasons, and in the event that we were ever to, ahem, engage in something, you know, like that, well, I can assure you that you would have no reason to, you know, worry, or like, whatever. But. It's all irrelevant anyway, because, as I've said a few times already, that's not happening. Ever.

I'm going to go call my bratty sister back and tell her a thing or two.

*unbelieveably stupid hopeless lame ass crush, as in, ME for having it, not the object of it, who is none of those things
**which is totally is. I'm sure of it. How could it not be?
*** OR ,OBVIOUSLY, MY BROTHER

Something I Do Not Recommend

2007-12-01T01:34:00.000-05:00

Have you ever seen what two pounds of pork looks like after it's been inside a golden retriever??

No??

Consider yourself deeply blessed, then.

I have seen, and worse, smelled this.

I was sitting at the computer rambling on in yet another entry about my pathetic lack of a love life, when suddenly I realized that the dog was no longer in the room with me.

I heard one, tiny quiet rustle of plastic. DAMMIT!!

I lurched into the kitchen to find the dog's head buried in the garbage bag I'd been meaning to take out for the past three hours. I yanked her head free, and executed a savvy motion intended to push her away, grab the garbage bag with my other hand, and lift it above my head. Instead I fell face forward onto the kitchen floor and my hand landed in something that looked like jello. Made out of blood. Hmmmm. I then heard a strange choking, gagging sound and twis
ted to see the dog sitting in a hunched over position with her poor head stretched out and drool coming out of her mouth.

Unfortunately, I recognized this pose. It's what she does right before she throws up everything she's ever eaten.

In her entire life.

All at once.

Somehow I got her into the yard, because my vet has told me repeatedly that dogs don't like to throw up in the house.
Well.

I don't like to dwell on the next ten minutes in too much detail, except to say that if you have ever had a golden retriever you are probably familiar with the fact that when they do vomit, they immediately try to eat it, which causes them to vomit again immediately, which makes them eat it, and so on. I believe the reasoning here is, "Hey, I already ate that once, and dammit, I'm going to eat it again [and again, and again] until it's good and eaten!!"

Since at this point I had NO IDEA what was making her so violently ill, I was particularly worried. And so ensued a period of time in which she ran away from me heaving wildly, then vomiting, then energetically chomping at whatever was trying to exit her mouth while I screamed "STOP IT!! STOP IT!!! DON'T EAT THAT AGAIN!!!" and flew around after her like a giant plaid flannel loon in my bathrobe and bare feet.

Once, when the dog was only about four months old, we were out in the yard enjoying a lovely spring day. The sun was shining. The sky was blue. The leaves were that lovely shade of spring green. And a mama bird was teaching her adorable little baby bird to fly, right there in the yard! Mama would make odd little cheeping noises and push Baby away from her, and Baby would flutter her little wings and get a foot or so off the ground, and then Mama would rush to her and preen her feathers as if to say "Good job, Baby Bird!! What a good smart little Birdie you are!!"
Suddenly out of nowhere a blinding yellow flash swooped down on Baby Bird and with one giant bite, scooped her up and took off running. For a minute I couldn't understand what was happening. Then I saw the feathers hanging out of my sweet puppy's fuzzy little muzzle, and heard the horrified squawking of the mama bird. "No!!!! NOOOOOOOO" I screamed, running wildly after the dog, who delightedly took off even faster at this new fun turn of events. What a good game!!! She zigzagged around the yard like a downy yellow demon, and I stumbled wildy along, continuing to scream "NO!" and "DROP IT!" and many, many other things which had absolutely no meaning to the dog except "Wow, Mommy is getting really excited!! I'll run faster!!!"
Finally I thought to yell the one command she did know, SIT!!!.
And she did. And as she sat, and I finally reached her, she GULPED.
And that dear little baby bird was no more.
In horror, I grabbed my puppy and instinctively rammed my fingers down her throat, where, unbelievably, I could feel the bird wings still fluttering. I tried to grab them and pull, but another GULP and down went the birdie.

This was a lot like that time, only this time it was about 20 degrees outside and well after midnight. I bet my neighbors don't even have cable anymore. They can just watch me and my idiot dog instead. And this time, when I managed to get to her and force my hand into her mouth to make her stop chewing, I came away with something brownish with a spot of bright red jello like substance on it. Oh no. What can that BE???

Finally the heaving stopped, and so I brought the dog inside. Where, damn that vet, she began to vomit for England. Since I was in my pajamas, I hopped into a pair of pants and grabbed the leash, thinking, that's it, she's dying, we're going to the emergency vet. Suddenly the poor dog gave a great heave. A flood of foam came out of her. I thought I might faint. "This is it, I am watching my dog die right here, and it's all my fault because I am too damn lazy to take out the trash. I've killed her. I've murdered my dog!!!

And then, before I could move, she gave an even greater heave and deposited the unchewed, undigested remains of the pork roast with cranberry chutney that I made on Monday night. Which had been in the garbage bag. It, in fact, looked exactly as it had when I put it into said bag, except the cranberries [Aha!!! Blood jello!!!] were gone, and it was coated in a rather sticky film of mucus.

With awe, I looked up at the dog, who shook her head as though to clear it, burped, and then began to wag her tail happily and sidle towards the now twice cooked pork.

She's fine now. I am definitely going to become a vegetarian again.

Twenty One Things Best Not Mentioned, Really

2007-11-29T23:17:00.000-05:00

Okay. So, to review:

1. Live in a circle of filth
2. Have less self esteem than a small writhing self-esteemless thing
3. Totally incapable of choosing romantic partners who are literate, nice, or sane, regardless of their gender
4. Own more animals than is normal or non-pathetic
5. Am possessed of more books than most used bookstores and still have nothing to read tonight
6. Have many artistic talents which are greatly underused and probably overestimated
7. Am approaching the physical age of 39 while emotionally not quite 13
8. Am completely incompetent dog owner as 2 year old dog still barely understands rudimentary commands such as "Sit", "Come" and "Stop eating your poop, goddamnit!!!"

In addition, I

9. Am continually on the brink of financial ruin even though have "professional" "managerial" type job due to having chosen

10. World's most wildly underpaid profession which unfortunately I totally love and cannot imagine not doing, esp at current position which is absolute dream job where I float around wondering at my luck in spending my days doing what I'm doing, and loving where am doing it in spite of being paid so little that literally am half supported by parents.

11. May be going completely insane as last night dreamed that I was breastfeeding a baby all night long which on closer inspection turned out to be a pug puppy, which in the dream was a big relief as could not remember actually bearing the child/puppy and YET was producing breastmilk [dream breastmilk, not actual breast milk] which was perfectly normal [????] and somehow woke up at least relieved that it was not as disturbing as other recent dream in which I

13. Actually gave birth to 13 golden retriever puppies and felt the labor pains, which in the morning discovered were actually

14. Menstrual cramps, which also had this morning, leading me to believe that perhaps in spite of all efforts since early childhood to deny such, actually DO have a biological clock, which

15. Is ticking frantically, although, disturbingly, for wrong species as last I checked am still mostly human.

16. Should be doing nothing except sewing, knitting, and beading as Christmas is coming and have finished precisely none of the approximately 507 gifts I am planning to make, on top of the other projects I am obsessed with working on yet am

17. Not doing, because I'd rather be enumerating lists of my own shortcomings to distract myself from the fact that

18. Am still single and

19. Don't particularly want to be because

20. Am in throes of worst crush have had in a good ten years which is extremely embarassing and lame and on someone so inappropriate that must stop writing now for fear that even thinking of said crush will cause someone to guess who it is which will result in horrible things such as being laughed at, rejected, or, worst of all,

21. Liked in return.

The Circle of Filth

2007-11-27T21:26:00.000-05:00

I know that from that last entry it may sound, just a bit, as though I live in a rather chaotic environment. That’s because I do. I am physically incapable of being neat and organized, and no matter what I do, I seem to live in a continual circle of filth. Although it doesn’t actually consist of dirt--its more made up of books, yarn, beads, and okay, a lot of dog hair.

“Circle of filth” is a term coined by my sister in law, who first used it to to describe the mess that my father is capable of creating around himself in five seconds flat. He can enter a lovely room with everything in its place, sit down, and a few minutes later there are empty cups, spoons, floods of newspapers, and bits of paper towel. And, on Wednesdays, nail clippings. He gets very, very angry at the fact that we all noticed years ago that he has a specific day for nail clipping, because he hates for his OCD to be noticed. One might say, he’s almost compulsive about it. You would think someone as OCD as he is would be neater, but sadly that is not the case.

When David Sedaris described growing up with his parents as akin to “being raised by a pair of housecats”, I felt a chord resonate deep within my cluttered and dusty soul. Because that’s what growing up in our house was like. We didn’t do things like eat around the dinner table every night, and we certainly didn’t have stupid rules like other kids about bedtime and keeping our rooms clean. I like cats, and I like my parents. And actually, I guess comparing my parents to cats isn’t quite fair, because cats are very clean animals. Its just that cleaning was never a priority in our house. I don’t mean for it to sound like we lived in squalor, because we really didn’t. It’s just that my family has always had a lot of stuff, and by stuff I mean books. We vacuumed and washed the dishes and all of that, but actually putting things away was not a goal. Although every so often my OCD father would decide that he was tired of the various bookbags and shoes lying in the entryway and simply throw them into the yard.

I once toyed with the idea of putting my house up for sale, and had a realtor walk through it. Since my house is very small, this took only about four minutes, after which the poor woman had to sit down and be brought a glass of water and the smelling salts. Well, not really, but if I’d had any lying around I would have waved them at her. When she regained the ability to speak she said “PODS. We’re going to need at least three PODS just for the books!!!” I said “But why? Can’t I just kind of, you know, organize them or something? Maybe actually put them all on shelves?”
She explained to me that when you sell a house, you want the “lines” or “the bones” of the house to show, and that mine was too full of books to even designate actual rooms except by saying “that’s the room with the craft books” or “that’s the room with all the holocaust memoirs”, and that furthermore, having too many books can confuse and intimidate buyers. ??????????????????? What? Confuse and intimidate them??? But there are mostly democrats in this neighborhood! Republicans wouldn't fit in here!!!

I didn’t sell my house after all, mostly because I was going to sell it to move in with a woman who let slip during the process of making an offer on a place that the downstairs spare room would be a great place for her 75 year old ex husband to “stay in”. !!!!!!
The house hunting and the relationship ended shortly after that. It’s one thing to get involved with someone 20 years older than you are.....quite another when that person has an ex spouse who is 20 years older than HER who she’s not only still in touch with, but whom she’s thinking of caring for in his twilight years!!!! IN YOUR HOUSE!!!! See: Why I Am Still Single.

Anyway. One of the reasons I obsess about my cluttered house so much is because everyone else in the world seems to care so much about having nicely decorated homes with color coordinating throw pillows and I just cannot for the life of me understand it. I choose my homes by the amount of space they have for bookshelves. I don’t care about things like breakfast nooks and closet space and whether or not my hardwood floors are red oak [actually, they might be: don’t know, and don’t care].

I care about how much uninterrupted wall space I have for bookshelves and stacks of books. I also need room for craft supplies, but even those are secondary to the books.

This is how I was raised. I do not trust people who don’t have lots of books in their homes. I don’t think they’re normal, and I know they’re boring. And while I know there are people who read who don’t actually buy or keep books, I find those people rather suspicious as well. Because I suspect that those are people who read for a specific reason, such as spiritual growth or impressing other people, and I don’t trust them either. Reading should be done like anything else that’s truly worth doing, because you love it and because without it, you feel empty. People who read books only for specific reasons, well, they’re usually just performing a chore, like Oh, i have to pick up the dry cleaning, oh, I have to get my pelvic exam, oh, i have to read oprah’s latest pick so I can talk about it at the playground with all of the other soccer moms. Retch.

I read like a fiend as a child. I still do, but I literally always had my nose in a book for the first ten or so years of life. I brought books everywhere. We were always driving somewhere, and at that age I could still read in the car. I would take walks and read while walking, a skill which has proved particularly useful in my choice of career. I hated going out to eat, because that meant I couldn’t read at the table. Since at home we rarely ate around the table, I always read while eating, a habit that I’ve continued, much to the horror of all the weight loss experts. I read before bed, but never had to use a flashlight under the covers because as long as I was in bed, my parents didn’t care. I was the one who had to get up in the morning, and if I stayed up too late and was cranky in the morning, that was my problem.

Every room I had from the first grade on was dominated by bookshelves. The house we lived in when I was in the first and second grade had a white built in waist high bookshelf that ran the whole length of my room. I don’t remember much else about that room, but I remember that bookshelf, which was already overflowing by the time we moved.

By the time we moved to the house we lived in from the time I was 10 until I left for college, [and then returned to after college] my bedroom had two full sized bookshelves stacked sideways and double with books, and endless stacks of books on the floor. My college dorm rooms always consisted of a single mattress on the floor, as many bookshelves as I could squeeze in, and more stacks of books.

This is what my entire house looks like as an adult, except now the bookshelves are in every room except the kitchen and some rooms, like the study, have 5 or more full sized overflowing bookshelves. There’s no bookshelf in the bathroom, but there are books stacked against the wall, and the living room only has one shelf but the opposite wall is simply stacked full of books. I live alone, except for my mentally deficient dog and assorted cats, so there is no one to tell me to stop acquiring books, not that I ever really listened to those who did. And yes, some actually did and more unbelievably, I listened.

In graduate school my girlfriend made a big deal about how annoying it was that I had so many books. She owned a mattress, some clothes, and a TV tray. Our house was furnished with my furniture, my pots and pans, my washer and dryer, my dining room table, chairs, sofa, television, and computer. Since she used all of those things on a daily basis, that was fine; I could have those. But the books meant nothing to her, because she had never actually read a book for pleasure, and, as it turned out, was with me primarily because she could barely read them for school and I in fact wrote almost all of her papers for the two years we were together. Why was I with someone who didn’t read??? Well, she paid attention to me, and so far, that’s been my main requirement for a romantic partner, apparently.

I had a good friend in library school who once came over to our house, and I said something self deprecating about my messy bookshelves. This lovely young man turned to me with wide eyes and said seriously “But Zoe, this is one of the coolest things about you; I mean, your bookshelves are actually sagging under the weight of all these books, and you’ve actually READ most of them!”

I remember very few things that that girlfriend said, but I always have remembered that her reply to this was, “Ugh, I HATE all these books”. Later on, before we broke up, we went to a couples therapist [goddamit. I hate lesbian relationships] and again, she talked at length about how she hated my books. The therapist told her in no uncertain terms that if she didn’t like my books then she shouldn’t be with me, because even the therapist knew what a reader I was. the therapist also made the point that my girlfriend probably hated my books because they made her insecure, because she wasn’t as smart as I was [am]. Then she proceeded to tell my girlfriend that she was emotionally abusive and told me that I should kick her to the curb, in front of the girlfriend.

That therapist was fucking awesome.

Then, there was the crazy homophobic boyfriend. Did i forget to mention that he did not read either? i think, in the 5 years we were together, he read perhaps 5 books. To be fair, he was sort of dyslexic, but that didn’t seem to affect his ability to look at endless discussion lists on the internet during his extended unemployment. He also hated the books, and before he moved in with me he said that I had to get rid of enough books so that all the remaining ones actually fit on my bookshelves.

I am ashamed to say that I did this.

Even after the de-dyking episode which i’ve already mentioned, I still didn’t have enough room on my bookshelves for all of my books. So i did a personal weed and got rid of so many books that I got over a hundred bucks in cash from the half price bookstore. They pay about twenty five to fifty cents a book. Maybe a dollar. The load I took over there filled the back of my Subaru hatchback. [I know, I know. Straight women don’t drive Subarus. I know.]

Then, once he moved in he made a rule that I had to get rid of a book for every book I purchased. Really. Never mind that any book purchased was done so with MY money, and brought into first an apartment that I paid more for, and then into a house that was in MY NAME. Never mind that in a relationship it is not up to one person to decide what the other person can and can’t have when that person isn’t allowed to say shit about how many old cars the other person drags home and parks behind the house.

Of course all this made me do was buy books in secret and then sneak them into the house while he was at work. Never mind that all of my books stacked together in one pile would not have taken up as much room as one of the three vehicles he owned, four if you count the motorcycle. It takes a lot of books to equal a 59 fucking cadillac and a fullsized pickup truck.

His main hobby, other than criticizing me, was watching TV. He was serious about this, and spent a great deal of time honing his craft. It was not uncommon for me to leave for work, with him sprawled on the sofa watching TV, and then return home 9 hours later to find him in the exact same position, the only evidence of any interim movement being the trail of crumbs stuck in his chest hair. He would then pry his eyes away from the screen, ask me what was for dinner, neglect to ask me about my day, and then take a firmer grip on the remote in case I got any ideas. So, i would come in, change, speak to him only during commercials, prepare dinner, and then after dinner I would settle myself in a corner of the sofa and read while he watched more TV.

Anyway. My last significant other told me that she didn't see any future with me because she said that she felt there was "no room" for her in my life. Since I had given up most of my spare time, friends, personal goals, and almost my house for the two years we were together, I found this a little difficult to process. I asked her just how I could go about making more room for her.

Without batting an eye she said "Well, obviously you have to start by getting rid of a lot of your books".

I got rid of her instead. And haven't regretted it for an instant.

A Day [really, an hour and a half] in the Life

2007-11-26T00:23:00.000-05:00

Okay so I really, really like my family. As in, my parents are cool and incredibly supportive and even if they weren't my parents, I'd totally want to know them. And my siblings are awesome and I would completely be friends with them even if I weren't related to them. So. I am way, way luckier than at least 90 percent of people. Also, we are not assholes. There are some families who love each other and who are really happy to be related to each other but whom everyone else hates, because they belong to some weird religious sect, or they are obsessed with some disgusting hobby like hunting, or they're Republicans. My family, thankfully, is not like that. Pretty much every friend i've ever had has tried to figure out a way to become my parents' adopted child, and i've had more than one ex try to stay friends with my siblings. [Sorry. Not gonna happen. I know they're cool, but they're MINE.]

Still, when you live alone, you forget what its like to be part of a family, like, on a day to day basis. So when I go home for the holidays, I'm always totally excited, and I can't wait to get there, and I load up all my books and craft projects and pajamas and dog, and drive like a demon towards southern Indiana. I love my hometown. Love it. I don't think I'll ever live there permanently again, for a variety of reasons [No jobs. No bead store. Roving bands of white supremacists in the countryside, but I digress]--but I adore visiting.

So why then is it that every single time I go home, after three days, I can't WAIT to get back to my "real life"? It's not my parents. I am that rare person who wishes that my parents lived on the same street as me, so that I could see them every day. I would happily give them a key to my house [if they wanted one, which, um, they don't] and let them come and go at will. It's not their house, because it's amazing. I will never be able to afford a house like theirs, which is actually a good thing since I would set about filling it as I do every living space, with a messy hodge podge of craft supplies, books, and cats, and then end up only using maybe three rooms on a daily basis. It's not the town, although I admit, about 6 days is as long as I can stand to be in a place that has nowhere to obtain craft supplies except joann fabrics and [retch] hobby lobby. I just don't feel that creative when I have to purchase needles and thread while listening to muzak hymns.

I think the reason I get stir crazy after about three days is the fact that when you live alone, you never actually have to tell anyone what you are doing, or, more specifically, WHY you're doing it. Because I find that when I am around other people on a continual basis, they are interested in what I'm doing, what I'm going to do next, what I've already done, and then they want to know WHY. It's not that I'm usually doing something that odd. But I guess when I start narrating my normal day, it can seem kind of strange. Let's try a typical day:

7:20 Alarm goes off. Hit "snooze".
7:22 Listen to dog whine gently
7:23 Feel wracked with guilt at not jumping up immediately and feeding dog, letting her out, and playing fetch with her for 10 minutes before work
7:24 Fall back asleep so soundly that do not hear alarm for fifteen minutes
7:45 Realize it is 7:45 and must leave for work in 30 minutes.
7:45 Realize that really, 30 minutes is plenty of time when you consider I already know what am wearing [everything else dirty or ugly or lost in closet], and already took a shower yesterday, or was that the day before?
7:46 Hit snooze again
8:12 Wake up to dog barking wildly while simultaneously realizing that snooze cannot go off if alarm is already turned off. Three minute to feed dog, dress [myself, not dog], do something to hair, find a whole pair of shoes, and leave house
8:13 Trip over shoes and laundry on way to let dog out; curse; stub toe; curse more; let out dog who leaps directly onto throbbing toe, scream in agony; knock over large tub of dog food and then have to restrain wildly excited dog from eating 20 pounds of food rolling into far corners of kitchen while trying not to let her stomp on mutilated foot yet again
8:15 Throw enormous writhing mess of dog into yard. Realize absolutely no time to pick up 20 pounds of scattered dog food, so pour cup of three day old cold coffee and attempt to drink it while trying to find clothes I was going to wear
8:17 Drip large drop of coffee onto only clean shirt
8:17-8:20 More cursing
8:22 Find dress to wear as means only one piece of clothing to decide on; put on while trying to find shoes to wear with it that don't make me look like insane 80 yr old woman
8:23 Give up and put on Doc Martens. Hope they look "funky" rather than "retarded". Remember sister's insistence that the white sock/black clunky shoe thing is OVER and has been since 1997. Hope that it is at least less over than argyle kneesock/black clunky shoe thing as that is only other option besides black tights, which seem to remember have taken on curious mohair woven effect from amount of dog hair sticking to them
8:25 Go in bathroom and recoil at sight of hair. Stick head under faucet, as only way to tame it is to wet it into submission and then apply copious amounts of product marketed for african americans and labeled "FLAMMABLE: DO NOT SMOKE OR GO NEAR A SOURCE OF HEAT UNTIL HAIR HAS FULLY DRIED"
8:27 Try to get dog back in house. Since it is pouring rain, she will not come in as she loves to be wet only slightly less than being completely covered in mud. Is currently both, and only way to get her in is to go outside into the rain, and chase her until she turns and chases me, and then must make clever, weaving maneuver so that dog does not catch me but instead runs into house. This does not always work the first time. Today it takes three tries and while dog does go into house finally, it is not without first leaving two large muddy pawprints on skirt of dress. Which is also soaking wet.
8:29 Curse
8:30 Enter house to find dog nowhere in sight
8:31 Go back to bedroom to find absolute worst backup outfit only worn in cases of extreme emergency such as no clean clothes and dirty pawprints.
8:32 Find dog happily ensconced on bed, dripping rivulets of muddy water onto pillows, expensive down comforter, and [DAMMIT] library book.
8:33 Since dress is already ruined, haul dog physically back to crate, shove her in, and lock it
8:35 Officially should have been at work 5 minutes ago. Still have to find horrible back up outfit.

See, that's only one very small part of a perfectly normal day. And writing it down proves to me that not only should anyone never have to hear about it, but no one should ever, EVER have to see it. Because in person it's just that much worse.

Oh well. At least I'm home now, where I can be quietly, completely crazy all I want. Well, quietly except for the cursing.

"Craft" means actually knowing how to make shit

2007-11-18T00:44:00.000-05:00

So remember when I first started this blog and claimed, falsely so far, that I might be writing about some of my artistic endeavors and then I got all wrapped up in a wallow of self pity and decided that I must PROVE to the blogosphere that yes, I AM the most pathetic individual alive by dint of my horrible attempts at relationships?

Well. I'm tired of my wallowing, at least for now, and also it is the holiday season which means I should be working on things full time and not taking the time to blog or go to work or walk the dog or do laundry or pee. Of course, this means that I need reasons to procrastinate, hence, this entry. What I need to be doing right at this second is preparing for the class I'm teaching tomorrow at the bead store while finishing one of the nine felted bags I am making for my employees. Which need to be done two weeks from Wednesday. Along with a male-themed gift of some sort because apparently heterosexual men do not carry felted bags. This is news to me, mostly because I only know about four heterosexual men and three of them carry no sort of bag at all unless it comes from the grocery and has beer and/or ice cream in it. The fourth one does carry what he refers to as a man-purse, which is more properly referred to as a "murse". And he's the one I have to make something for, because it wouldn't be fair, supposedly, to make thoughtful handmade [not to mention expensive] gifts for 9 employees and give the boy one a gift certificate. Which is totally what I was going to do, until one of my other employees said "Oh. Well, I think if you made him something he would really, really like it and I'm sure he would wear it."

Dammit.

Anyway, earlier today, when I should also have been knitting/sewing/beading, I went to an alternative
craft fair. Alternative in this case means that all of the crafts
were very trendy and what I like to refer to as Neo Goth Pseudo Retro Faux Anime Crap.
Meaning, everything was pink and black or aqua and brown and consisted of cheap acrylic felt with horrible embroidery that looked like it was done by a blind four year old with the shakes, upholstery remnants from 1973 sewn sloppily into ugly ass purses with cheap plastic handles, "recycled" clothing with lopsided skulls painted on it and whompyjawed hems, jewelry made from bits of trash, and lots of what are referred to as "stuffies". This, apparently is what you call a doll when you can't actually sew, stuff, embroider, or paint, and so you do crap like sew up some green blobs and stuff them and unevenly hot glue some googly eyes on and Voila it's a broccoli stuffie!!

No I'm not making that shit up. Someone even made a t bone steak stuffie.

????????????????

What the fuck, is all I have to say. I do not get it. I suppose on some bizarre metaphysical plane you could get into a whole stupid ass theory about a steak being cuddly, because it was once a flesh and blood creature, but jesus fucking christ. What do you DO with a steak made of red felt stuffed with polyfil? Hug it?? Give it as a gift??? Put it on the grill with your stoner friends and inhale the fumes???

Also, I would like to go on the record right here and now as saying that I don't care if you have purple hair, a pierced nose, and full sleeves of tattoos: if you live in Columbus, you're just not that freaking alternative. This is Ohio. Stop spending all your money at the tattoo parlor and just move to Seattle already. Cause you are just never going to be THAT cool when you live in a city that has cows grazing two minutes from downtown. I'm sorry. That's just how it is. I like it here, and I fully believe that it is as cool as a city can be that is located in a state that touches Kentucky. But I do not have the need to show every person that I walk past that I am just THAT much cooler than they are because I have electric blue streaks in my hair and set off metal detectors with my piercings, partly because I don't fucking care but also because I know that, in the end, no matter how many 50's pinups are inked on my forearms, I'm still from fucking Ohio.

Anyway. I think what amazed, no, annoyed me most about this "indie" "alternative" craft fair was how similar everything was. Every single booth in there was of a piece with the others, but not necessarily in a way that makes some art fairs [and believe me, most of this was NOT art, and coming from me, that's saying something, because I can be extremely pissy when people start defining craft vs art] have a certain character or a known stylistic reputation. No. What this was, was a bunch of people who spend a lot of time on the internet, reading the same comic books and graphic novels, and who mostly seemed to get their ideas directly off the craft shows in the diy network and out of magazines aimed at twentysomethings with money for glue guns and no talent. Because it was all relentlessly the same, all with the same aesthetic, and all with that definite "anti-craft" sensibility which was really cool about four years ago but at this point is getting really tired and is no longer anti-anything except perhaps originality and good workmanship.

I could even have dealt with the pseudo-alternative-ness of it if any of the stuff was actually well-crafted. But it wasn't. I saw one jewelry maker who had used the absolute cheapest findings available, but who was still charging plenty for her work. A couple of the jewelry makers had better quality stuff, but only one had decent workmanship, and, sadly, her things were so boring I actually felt sleepy just looking at them.

If I see one more pair of slides with a piece of an old hairspray ad stuck between them and sold for 35 bucks as a pendant on ball chain, I'm going to start screaming until I'm restrained, sedated, and made to give up my shoelaces.

Without exception, the handsewing I saw was atrocious. It's one thing to make your work like childLIKE, but childISH is completely different, and an entire booth of it??? Lame.

Hanging threads and seams that don't match up at the ends just look like crap, and what's more, they show that you really don't care about what you're doing and you care even less about producing a nice piece for the buyer.

And just because you can operate a sewing machine doesn't mean you are an artist, or that you should expect people to give you money for weird shit made of old fabric that should have been burned in the 70s. Note: Using "recycled" clothing for fabric is kind of icky, esp. when it was ugly fabric to begin with--just because polyester doesn't decompose is no reason to keep giving it new life. Let it lie, people.

I knew it was time to leave when one vendor had signs advertising the "authentic VINTAGE upholstery" fabric that her ugly purses were made from.....and they all looked like my grandmother's couch. Which is circa 1985.

I was really confused by all of this, because after all, the main supposed attraction of this thing was the fact that it was "indie" and "alternative". What's independent about doing shit that looks exactly like everything else?? Alternative to what?? Good? Artistic?? Again, I could have pointed out at least 8 vendors who were making stuff exactly like items I've seen on TV shows. And ok, the diy network is not HBO, but, I've got to believe that if enough people are interested in something for there to be a TELEVISION show, then it's not all THAT alternative. I mean, there aren't any tv shows dedicated to making cloth dolls or seed beaded jewelry....stuff that takes talent, and time, and workmanship. So really, aren't all of those things more "indie" than sewing together the sides of a bathmat/placemat/pair of boxer shorts, tying a ribbon around it, and calling it a wallet???

I have a feeling that this rant is not yet over, but I really have to go paste some shit together, slap a skull on it, and call it art.

Writing doesn't suck

2007-11-11T22:47:00.001-05:00

Okay so I don’t know what it is about this writing thing, but after I wrote the last few entries I noticed that I went from being depressed and lonely and sure that I would die alone and be found only because a neighbor would complain about the smell and barking dog, to feeling hopeful and upbeat, and, there was this other weird feeling I couldn’t quite define. It was like my head felt kind of light, and I laughed a lot, and called a friend who I don’t talk to nearly enough, and I just kept having this weird feeling that was really unfamiliar. I don’t know what it was.

I think maybe I felt happy.

Hmmm. Have to think about that for a while.

I don’t know why the power of writing is all of a sudden so surprising to me, except that I’m 38 and most of the time I feel like a socially retarded sixteen year old. I think back to when I was a kid, and the older I get, the more impressed I am with my younger self. I knew who I was. I knew what I liked. It seems like I’ve spent most of my young adult and now, adult life, trying to get back to that, rather than moving forward. When I was seven I knew that the main things I wanted to do were read, play with dolls, and make things. I didn’t care what anyone thought, because my family was enough and they thought I was fine the way I was. I have the kind of parents who told us from the earliest memories I have that we were great, beautiful, brilliant people, and really, just a little better than anyone else. But at the same time they taught us to be kind and thoughtful and empathetic. The worst thing we could be called as children was selfish or self centered. Their world revolved around my brother and me, and we felt safe, loved, and like the center of their universe, which I think is how everyone should get to feel when they’re young and hopefully, much longer.

Anyway. I think I started writing in the second grade. Each kid in our class had a notebook, and every day we had quiet time where we were supposed to write about anything we wanted in our books. I was totally wrapped up in writing a story about a little girl named Becky who lived in the country and did things like fish and camp and solve mysteries. At the time I was a big fan of Caddie Woodlawn and Trixie Belden [still am, actually]. I wrote and wrote and thought about it all the time. I don’t remember if i finished it, or if I ever showed it to anyone. What we wrote wasn’t important to the teacher; she just wanted us to write. Which was great. But that was back in the 70s, in a hippie open classroom school. Now, if it won't get you into Harvard, teachers don't bother with it. Which is so stupid. Who the fuck wants to go to Harvard when you could go to a real school, like Vassar???

I started keeping a diary probably around the 3rd or 4th grade. I was obsessed with books written in diary form; I had a little book that contained excerpts of teen girls diaries that was probably , in retrospect, not at all appropriate for a nine year old since it dealt with things like sexual awakening and menstruation at great length.
Diaries were my favorite, and fiction books written in the first person were always to be preferred. Strangely, I hated books written strictly in the present tense. It was ok if it was written like a diary, with very recent events being recounted. I don't know what the fuck tense that is, but I'm sure it does have a name. I only ever learned French grammar. But books that were written in present tense as if the action was only happening because I was at that moment reading it, bothered me. Somehow I felt like it was too much responsibility. What if I stopped reading? Did the book stop? Did the characters just kind of freeze in place, like a sports replay, and only start moving again when I picked up the book again?

I spent many years with a sort of first person narrator in my own head, who seemed to recount everything I did as though it were being written down. When I first realized this, I thought I was going insane, and I think I was about nine. To shut out that calm, ever present recounting of everything I was doing, I read even more, and as soon as I heard it again, I consciously stopped myself.

Sometimes I wonder, what if I hadn’t tried to shut that voice down? Is part of my problem now that I’ve lost that clear, quiet omniscient narration? Do other people have that or not? When I first heard of schizophrenia and people having voices in their heads, I was oddly comforted, although also glad that I only had one voice that just narrated rather than gave direction and asked me to do things like jump off buildings and torture small animals. Maybe my voice really was my true self, and ever since then I’ve been too busy throwing things on top of it to try to hide it and make it less odd, so that I’m more like everyone else. Or, maybe I did just have some kind of mild disorder. I don’t know.

I kept a diary on and off all the way through high school. Sometimes I wouldn’t write for a year or two; other times I wrote for hours a day for weeks on end. At one point my output was so voluminous that I wrote on looseleaf paper that I kept in a huge green binder, with a picture of mickey mouse on the front. i must have written a couple hundred pages in less than a year in that one. Mostly, as I got older, I wrote because I was in love with someone who didn’t love me back, or because I was upset about something. I stopped writing just for the sheer joy of writing, until I went to college and discovered e-mail.

When I was in school in the late 80s and early 90s e-mail was in its infancy. Our school used a system called the Vax. Everyone had a vax account, and when you logged into your account, you were presented with flashing green or orange letters on a dark background that informed you that “This system is developed for official DOD use only!”. Apparently, in this case, DOD meant “department of defense”. Undaunted, my friends and I quickly learned that there were few things as satisfying as sending each other endless amusing messages. Back then no one had a computer in their own room, and so you had to go to a computer cluster or else one of the random standalone terminals dotted around campus to check your mail.

Because then, as now, my friends were an unruly, sarcastic, but creative bunch, our messages almost immediately took on the form of fake news bulletins that we entitled “The Vax Times”. Hey. Maybe the Onion stole the idea from us! These consisted of ridiculous articles written about each other or other people we went to school with; the more embarrassing and far fetched the better. Soon people approaching computer terminals learned to listen for the unbridled hooting and hollering, and would run the other way. Some of the articles were based on actual events, but that wasn’t a requirement. If we had all dropped out of school and simply concentrated our efforts on our fake news updates, we’d probably all be much more successful and writing for the Daily Show, although, unlike those writers, we weren’t, as John Stewart refers to himself et al, Harvard educated Jews but Seven Sisters educated sexual deviants. Again. Way cooler than Harvard.

Although I took 3-4 classes a semester that each required at least 30 pages of writing, I remember almost nothing of those pages. The Vaxtimes is what sticks in my mind, oh yes, and the poetry. I have always been good at writing horrible poetry. Dirty limericks are a particular specialty. Thank god none of that survives. I hope and pray.

And then there was the feminist newspaper. Remember, this was the late 80s and early 90s. Political activism was still cool; hell, at least it was present. My school has been described in many ways, but perhaps one famous alum put it best when she said that the typical student was always protesting something; what it was didn’t matter; what mattered was the raised voice,the flushed cheek, and the clenched fist. Even though it’d been coed for a good 20 years by the time I got there, we still had an all women’s dorm, a women’s center, and a women’s newspaper. The newspaper was run by collective, meaning that it came out very irregularly because getting more than two feminists to agree on anything takes hours and hours of debate, and in our case, quite a bit of Jack Daniels. I became very good friends with most of the women on the paper and was very involved in it for most of my four years. I wrote articles and did the layout, the old fashioned way, with rubber cement and x-acto knives. I also spent a lot of time really pissed off and pissing other people off, which wasn’t as much fun as it sounds.

After college I went home and moved into my parents basement, where my main link to my friends from college was again,e-mail. I spent hours writing to friends with the account I received as a part time student at the university in my hometown. That e-mail account was worth taking classes for. Again, I wrote tons of crap for school, none of which meant much of anything to me. Sometime during that first year at home, I became involved with the local women’s community and somehow, I really don’t remember how, I became the moderator of the local women’s e-mail list. This was a precursor to all the many online groups and lists we all belong to these days.

Basically I had a list of several hundred names, and people would e-mail me announcements of events, ads, meetings, etc, and I would collect all of this into one long e-mail, writing an intro and commentary on stuff, and send it out every few days. Now that i think about it, that was actually a pretty big deal, because almost no one was doing that back then. And I spent a lot of time on it, and made a lot of friends because of it.
At my five year college reunion, i was elected class correspondent. This was great, because basically it meant that I was the official gossip columnist for the class of 1991. My term was for five years and I can honestly say i was the best one we’ve had so far.
About 7 years ago I started reviewing books for a library journal, which I still do. And I do write a quarterly column on books for a local magazine.
Huh. So I guess I have been writing for a fuck of a long time. This looking at my life shit is weird. Apparently some people do this all the time, but just writing all of this has made me so exhausted that I’m going to have to now go do something mindless for a few hours, like call my friend J. and see how he's coming along with his heterosexual boyfriend.

The House That Pee Built

2007-09-09T01:32:00.000-04:00

Okay. So it is about 1:40 in the morning, and I just went up to my sewing room to happily work on some Halloween dolls. I was looking forward to a whole day of craft tomorrow; working on some witches and hopefully a pumpkinhead doll; with a little beading and collage work thrown in for variety. I was happily tromping back and forth gathering up some supplies when it occured to me that the carpet felt slightly damp. Oh well, I thought, the AC up here makes it cooler than the rest of the house; its probably just cold.

Then I thought, No.

That really feels damp.

When I bought this house, my then-boyfriend and I spent weeks refinishing the floors because the previous owner really WAS a crazy catlady who let cats and dogs do horrible things in here. The floors upstairs are wide, hardwood boards and they are, well, WERE beautiful.

I turned back a corner of the ugly carpet remnant I have to protect the floor from my wheely chair that I use to scoot between my three craft stations up there.

First of all, apparently the cheapass weave of the carpet has done its very own sanding job on the floor. Piles of sawdust, and the finish is gone. That can't be good.

Much, much worse??? There are a lot, I mean, a LOT of big, brownish stains on the carpet backing.

Some of which are still damp.

And here I thought my cats had stopped peeing in inappropriate places because they've left the sofa and my bed alone for a long time.

apparently, they've just found a new pee garden.

Now. Let me explain, I have a little hoarding problem when it comes to craft supplies. No, I don't buy clothes that I never wear, and I am always happy to throw away trash. But when it comes to fabric, beads, yarn, etc, I have a stash that I could be locked up with for the next 20 years and be able to create to my heart's content. It is cheaper than drugs and more effective than therapy. And really, my dolls and beads etc are my whole life. It is the most important thing in the world to me, after, of course my family, and maybe my dog.

And my house is very, very small and I was just thinking today that its time to really get rid of some things, esp. books that I'm never going to read again. After all, if I weed the books at work, I should do it at home too.

So now I've got a sewing room where I spend most of my time that is absolutely disgustingly unusable, but my house is so small that I don't know how I can even move things out of there. The floor is going to have to be completely redone, sanded, refinished, etc. And i can't possibly afford to have someone else do it, and it will take me forever to do it myself, even assuming that I can figure out where to PUT everything. Oh my god. I am so upset I really think I might just have a complete nervous breakdown.

If I live til 110 then this isn't a midlife crisis

2007-09-02T17:36:00.000-04:00

I think I've been having a midlife crisis for about 4 months now. Yeah. That's kind of a biggie, I guess. I feel restless, and like I'm way behind everyone else, and I have a sneaking suspicion that my relatives all sigh and shake their heads behind my back and say "Isn't it too bad about Zoe? Living alone in that ugly little house with all those animals? She puts way too much store by that dog. Still, its something for her, since she can't hold a man and doesn't look likely to breed."

I didn't realize that this was was a midlife crisis until my mother pointed it out to me. I said to her "How can I have a midlife crisis? I'm only thirty-eig------OH".

I think it started when I got the invitation to my TWENTIETH high school reunion last spring. It has been twenty years???? How did that happen? Why don't I feel any different than I did then? What the heck have I actually been DOING with my life for 20 years, and why is it that I feel LESS cool now than I did at 18? Aren't you supposed to look back on high school and be GLAD that its over, and think how wise you are now, and how you'd never go back?? I mean, I don't think I'd want to go back, but I did think that twenty years out that I might feel slightly more mature and in touch with who I am. [Lord, child of the seventies rears her ugly long haired head].

In high school I knew that I was straight, [well, it had never occured to me that there were any other options] that I loved acting, music, books, and the arts in general, and that gay men were fabulous. I still know that gay men are fabulous and by accident alone [ok, really my mother nagging me to go to library school] I fell into a career of books. But nothing else is all that straightforward any more, and it seems that for the past 20 years I've intentionally gone in exactly the wrong direction most of the time. Especially where relationships are concerned, which is what is on my mind today seeing as I've just spent the better part of the holiday weekend entirely alone, with cats, which apparently is even more pathetic than without.

This last I learned from one of my employees the other day.

At the time, we were trying to decide whose life was the most pathetic. Competition was fierce; we're both pretty lame. I'm a librarian [with cats] who knits; he's obsessed with comic books.

We live in the same neighborhood; he lives in the nicer part of it but rents; I own a home, but can barely afford it; plus I live "down the hill" which in this case is synonymous with "wrong side of the tracks". Draw.
Both of us live alone and spend inordinate amounts of time devoting ourselves to hobbies that cause other people to say "How interesting!" to our faces whilst shaking their heads and sighing behind our backs. Draw.
Neither of our cars has a working AC unit, although my windows actually roll down, unlike his. I win that round.
I assume he is single, because I am, and we're having this competition, which people with significant others usually don't. Draw.

However, he is thin and several years younger than me. Wins. Wins. [note: this was not anything he actually said, and I'm sure would never say. However. It's not mean if it's true.]

I am a manager, although I don't think that can be classfied as a real win since he works part time by choice. Draw.

Anyway, I pointed out that while he was at home feeling loserly on Saturday night he could be secure in the knowledge that I was at least as pathetic because I, too, would be at home feeling loserly. And THEN he says, "Yes, but don't you have a cat?" And I said "Obviously. I'm a librarian. I have three".

And he said, "Well, then you are more pathetic. It is less pathetic to be at home alone than it is to be alone WITH a cat".

I had suspected this, but it is one thing to suspect and quite another to be told.

To be fair, he then admitted that having a dog nearly cancelled out the cat patheticosity factor. Nearly.

I asked him how he knew all of this, and he said "I just know."

Apparently, everyone knows this. I asked my sister if this was true, and she admitted that yes, it is. She also said it in the soothing, condescending tone she quite often uses with me, the one she calls the "Talking to Retarded Sister Voice". Since she is 11 years younger than me, this is even more offensive that it sounds.

Am 38. Live alone. Absolutely no prospects for the future. Have not one, but multiple cats, which is definitely too many to be cancelled out by one dog, esp. since the one dog is so bad that she makes Marley look like Lassie.

I have a career of sorts; I like my actual job and it is in a field that I think is interesting and important, although it does not quite enable me to learn anything approaching an actual living. I do own a house, except I can never have anyone over because then they will know just how fucking crazy I really am, and how many cats I have. Am artistic and all of that, but due to living alone with horrible dog and working full time, never seem to have any time to actually MAKE stuff. Have many good friends but the best ones persist in living in other states and the ones here persist in spending time with their own families and significant others, which is annoying.

So. Have house, job, dog, nice family, friends. Have talents. Am apparently not completely physically repulsive, because, after all, J. said he would totally do me if he were straight. Ha. If I had a dollar for every time I've heard THAT from a gay man, I'd be on the Fortune 500 list giving Oprah a run for her money.

So why is it that I feel like I am so loserly because the only thing "wrong" with me is that I cannot seem to find a significant other? I didn't have trouble doing this in high school. I had a boyfriend. I had dates. And in high school, when I was single, I didn't feel like such a loser because LOTS of people were single. Now, no one is. In high school you could always find someone to go to the movies with, or have dinner with, without them having to say "Let me ask my husband/boyfriend/lesbian life partner/five year old what we're doing tonight" first.

But how was it that I got to this pathetic alone with cats state? I guess we must go back before we can go forward.

For Future Fucking Reference

2007-08-28T12:00:00.000-04:00

Okay. If you are interested in doing informational programs about health topics, say, like giving a lecture in a library, and you are basically being interviewed for the position, say, by the librarian with the power to hire you, who may or may not be an overweight person who has been fat since childhood and who obsesses about being fat every waking [and almost every sleeping] moment of life, and who hates it and who exercises and eats healthily and who has tried EVERY FUCKING DIET IN THE FREE FUCKING WORLD and who secretly believes that thin people all around her are looking at her and thinking to themselves "MY god why doesn't she just get that fucking fat surgery, what a pig! If Star JONES could get thin then what is HER problem??" every minute of every day, well, anyway, here's a teeny tiny little hint:

DON'T FUCKING TELL THE PERSON YOU WANT TO GIVE YOU A JOB THAT THEY ARE FAT AND THEN SAY MY GOD YOU ARE A LIBRARIAN I WOULD THINK YOU WOULD BE SMARTER THAN THAT!!!!!!!!

OKAY???? CAN YOU FUCKING TRY THAT????

You think I make this shit up?? I could not make it up. And most of the time, I find it funny that I seem to waft through life surrounded by a literal village of idiots. I can laugh at the ridiculosity of the human animal. For about 3 weeks a month. However, then, as evidenced by the URL of this blog, there's ovulation rage time. And then it's not fucking funny anymore. I'm sure it is funny to read, though, which is why I'm providing the service of this fucking blog. Sorry I haven't posted in a month. I think my meds were working too well and I just wasn't feeling the rage. I'm only really funny when I'm completely furious. Today's your lucky day.

So anyway. At work. Person looking for the programmer. Not here, so he gets her boss, who is me. Immediately he shares with me the FASCINATING fact that he taught at the local university for 37 years and that he had a private practice which he had to give up because of the insurance issue and those damn poor people who wouldn't pay their bills and that horrible medicare that those inconsiderate poor and old people were always using.

Now, lucky for US, he is retired and would like to grace the public with his amazing knowledge by giving lectures, WITH SLIDES, about health topics. Because he has this WONDERFUL series of lectures and they are just filled with important information for the public, and he even has the SLIDES which can actually show pictures of things like an inflamed gallbladder!!!! Yum!

Let me explain that in my position it is a required job element that I must spend a lot of time making members of the public feel important, valued, and better than me, whilst trying to get rid of them as fast as I can. This includes things like graciously accepting a box of donations reeking of cat urine and flecked with roach bits, listening with interest and even enjoyment to long, horrible tales of tumors and grandchildren, and dealing with people like Dr. Knowitall who have some FASCINATING skill/experience/unpublished book that they just know that the public is DYING to hear about and which only I can help them to unleash upon the world! About once a week I get someone who has written, is writing, or would write if someone would pay them in advance, the great American novel/memoir/travelogue. Less frequently but at LEAST as annoyingly, I get the "I've got this great program idea!" spiel.

Anyway. I was prepared to listen politely; I said "Yes" "Uh huh" and "How interesting" in all the right places. It transpired that Dr. Knowitall was asking not just to present one or two of his lectures, but a weekly series, for which he was asking to be paid the mere PITTANCE of $200 per program just because he was so anxious to impart this important information.

I explained that actually, we do no not hire people for more than $100, and for that I would be likely to hire you once, for one program, and see how well it was received. And that while I completely agreed with his views about getting health information to the public, I was afraid that lectures with slides were not exactly the most popular type of program, and that in my experience we would be lucky to attract four or five attendees, who would never come back after the first one. I said this all very nicely, and then I asked for his business card so that I could contact him in the future if I needed to.

He pulled out his old university ID and said "You mean my credentials?"

I said, "No, I mean your business cards. With your contact information".

Then he showed me his driver's license and asked if that was what I meant.

I just kind of looked at him, trying to figure out if he was insane, stupid, both, or deaf.

Then he handed me a blank prescription and said "Here, this was my office".
I said, "Well, can I contact you at this phone number?"
And he said "No, it's disconnected", sadly.

At that moment I almost felt sorry for him. We get a lot of retired people in here, and so many of them have had full, interesting careers and now that they're retired, they have to keep bringing up what they used to to so that they can try to prove that they once had a purpose and a place in society. Most of the time it is just mildly obnoxious, but sometimes it is very sad, like the surgeon whose hands shake so badly he can't even carry his own books.

But Dr. Knowitall kept talking while I was scrawling down his cell phone number, and then he said "Well, I'm just really surprised that a library wouldn't want to have progams like these. I mean, you are supposed to give good information to people. I don't mean to say anything personal, but you of all people must understand the dangers of obesity, and it is so surprising that as a librarian you wouldn't---"

At that point I turned and stared at him. I don't use this stare of mine much, for I've done it in the mirror before and I must honestly admit that it scares ME.

He shut up. I said "Well, I'll be in touch", and I walked away.

My head is still reeling.

Final attempt

2007-07-17T10:46:00.000-04:00

I can't remember if I've tried this blog thing three or four times before. I always posted for about a week and a half and then gave up. Maybe this time will be different but don't hold your fucking breath.

I decided to start this because I need a place to vent so that I do not 1)lose my job and 2)alienate the few people who still like me. As I approach middle age I realize that I am becoming even more cynical and sarcastic and am meeting even fewer and fewer people who appreciate this. I could move to New York, I suppose, but the problem with that is you have to then BE there all the time and it gets on my last nerve after about four days.

Also I am v.v. tired of sending e-mails to old friends who never write back because they are busy doing things like getting married and having families and lives which are not directly about me. If they do not appreciate my brilliant intellect and scathing wit then I might as well publish examples for all to see in hopes of possibly finding new, better friends who have not inconveniently built lives that don't revolve around me.

I might write about some other things such as my art but I swear that I will not spend pages and pages discussing what new knitting pattern I am going to knit and then make some unbelievably lame jokes about taking life one stitch at a time; likewise I resolve not to talk seriously about "My Art" and how "My Life Is About Making Art" when said "art" involves a fucking dryer sheet stamped with a picture of a fucking fairy.

Frankly I cannot imagine anything more boring than READING about KNITTING except for WRITING about it. Shopping for yarn: interesting. Pictures of your projects: Fine, although really, no one needs to see one more fucking Booga bag. Just look at a swatch of Kureyon. Imagine it shaped like a box. Go on with your day, for christ's sake.

And while I fully cop to recently being bitten by the altered art thang, I am not yet so insane that I really honestly believe that DIAPERS are a "Great, Exciting New Medium". You think I'm joking? Google "nappy liner art". See what I mean?

Anyway. I also expect to devote considerable bandwith to my dog, but that is part of the "It's either this or therapy" thing. Because I read fucking Marley and Me and I don't know who that man thinks he's kidding. Marley was just a DOG. A normal, dogly acting dog. My dog makes Marley look like a prim and proper Jane fucking Austen heroine. She is about 16 months old and shows no signs of maturity, sanity, or really anything except ADHD and a deep love for poop eating.

More about her, and everything else, later.