Friday, December 23, 2011

Write or Wrong

For someone who wants to be a published author, I find myself not writing at all. What's that about? I mean, writing makes me feel good, like I've just eaten a nutritious meal and gone for a long walk (as if my bum bones would allow that). Writing makes me feel strong, clear, sentient of purpose. I am very sure I used that word wrong, but I don't care. It felt good.

Having a goal-driven spirit puts a crimp in things. I want to have my efforts result in a tangible product that I can share with other people and be proud of. And that might, just might, make a stranger stop me on the street and say, "Hey, aren't you that girl from 'Miracle on 34th Street?' What's her name... oh yeah! Mara Wilson!"

Yes, yes I am.

I'm paralyzed by the prospect of failure. I've pushed my memoir pretty hard and found some big-name agents that were receptive. However, either the genre of cancer book scared them off, or they just didn't think they could get a publisher interested. Does it make it worse that no one told me to go back to the drawing board? No one said to keep at it? They said my writing voice was most excellent. They said that my sophisticated style was top-notch.

That makes it devastating.

When you're trying to sell your house, it seems every home is on the market. When you're pregnant (not that I know or physically can know what that's like), suddenly everyone's pregnant. Why does everyone think they're a writer?

I look with complete disdain on the majority of them. "You think you're the next James Patterson, just waiting to be discovered. When an agent reads your query, they'll beg you to let them represent you, right? They'll kiss your feet for blessing the world with your voice."

To be fair to myself, I'm not always wrong about fellow writers. I've attended several conferences across the country and found the experience of being one remarkably talented cow in a sea of painfully average cattle to be somewhat distasteful. (*cough*) Seriously, though.

When you think you've got it and you look around and see all these other people who think they've got it too, who's the one kidding themselves?

I have an acquaintance from high school who has decided she's an author. Not a writer as in "someone who writes," but rather, an Author.

I've kept her on my facebook list because I've been too lazy to remove her. Lately I've been in a fever of keeping people away from myself who annoy me, so I'm going to be one "friend" less as soon as I finish this posting.

"Today has been soooo frustrating. I am so over it! I have to lock myself in my office and write or else my head will explode!" read one post.

I rolled my eyes. I scanned the rest of my "friend"'s boring updates and signed off.

Later, she posted, "All of my writing is coming off sounding like an 18th century novel. I feel like I need to dumb it down so I don't come off sounding like a pompous prig."

Wow. I guess I should give her credit for getting the article "an" correct in front of 18th century, rather than writing "a 18th century novel." But in the spirit of historical accuracy, I think she meant the 1800s, a period known for their overwrought literature, and thus a 19th century novel to which she was referring.

Where to start with "I need to dumb it down so I don't sound pompous"... What an ass.

My dad has mentioned before that I have a tendency to find fault with other people's talents. After high school music concerts, I used analyze fellow trumpeters' performances. Okay, I mercilessly ripped on them. It was never done out of a malicious intent to take others down to build myself up. It was more of a reassurance, if that makes any sense, that I belonged. That I was just as good, if not better, and deserved my spot on stage.

I also wanted to be sure I was heard. I am very good at what I do. I push, I work, I drive.

Don't let me be lost in everyone else.

Some people are happy just to be a part of things. They feel just as much accomplishment with their group's success as they do with their individual acheivements. I would love to say I am one of those people, but I'm not.

My life is a story of isolation with brief periods of belonging. Fact is, I'm alone in the extremes I experience. Spiritually, my writing is all I've got. A little part of me dies whenever someone I see as being a lesser talent is awarded with the fleeting permanence of a published book.

Right or wrong, it is what it is. I guess that makes me a pompous prig.

Thursday, December 22, 2011

A Real Head-Scratcher

Life's been rough the past few months. I've been pretty ill, my body supremely taxed with trying to recover from the shingles.

Is it "shingles" or is it "the shingles"? I prefer to go with the latter. "The" shingles gives it more of the respect it deserves. Granted, my respect for the shingles is the same kind of respect I reserve for Sarah Palin and rattlesnakes.

To add insult to shingled injury, I heard from my orthopedist the other day that I need to have my left knee replaced, the same knee that I already underwent a horrible bone graft surgery on to try to prevent the phone call I got last Tuesday. Sure enough, my x-rays were rife with severe osteoarthritis problems and, as the doc put it, "It's not a matter of if, but when."

I've had to come to terms with the probability that my life, as it is, is all there is. Don't get me wrong - I am great with having any kind of life. Even though I might say differently while in the grips of bone pain and the horrid burning, itching of my neck and head thanks to nerve damage from the shingles, I do not actually want to die just yet. As my respected Palin would say, Irregardless, it's a bitter pill at 29.

I've been feeding myself inspirations - "Make your own! Your future is in your own hands! If you dream it, they will come!" - but deep down, I guess I don't really believe all that. Thus, I don't want to try to do anything, as it TRULY, no "woe is me" but TRULY pointless, as it has just blown up in my face every. single. time. for the past 18 months. I desperately want to summon the energy to revive my dream of being a published author, but it's just not there. Perhaps I killed it forever by self-publishing on Amazon, the ultimate admission of defeat. I'm not sure it even matters all that much. Except it does. It still matters to me.

I was lying in bed watching TV last night. I turned to TLC hoping to catch a show so terrible that it would make me feel better about my life. There are certainly enough to choose from. Instead, there was a Christmas concert put on by Justin Bieber.

Justin Bieber. Since I'm not 14, I've not paid too much attention to Bieber Fever. I set down the remote control, intrigued.

Immediately I could tell the boy was lip-singing 90% of his songs, and the other 10% were performed with the heavy-handed assistance of Auto-Tune.

I cocked my head in confusion. Perhaps it was the startling decibels with which the teenaged audience screamed that covered up the reality that the singer has no voice on.

His backup dancers thrashed about on stage with ferocity, intensely believing in what they were doing. Do they know that Justin Bieber is an extremely minimally talented young man? Perhaps their ferver was actually hope that the blindness to Bieber will keep their gravy train a-chuggin.

His show should have been twice as elaborate, twice the spectacular, in order to cover up his shortcoming as a singer. Instead, it was almost a parody of a late-80s concert, complete with Bedazzled jean jacket and Vanilla Ice crew cut.

I scratched my head in bewilderment.

I kept scratching.

Right before I drew blood, I realized it was the shingles I was scratching at.

Oh well. Justin Bieber, nasty skin disease that is completely miserable... at least a handful of calamine lotion shuts up one of them.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

A Piece of Candy and a Little Something Extra

Halloween at my house is always a chaotic affair. Because my neighborhood is flat, self-contained, and has a good number of houses jammed together, we get a lot of trick-or-treaters. Some of them actually live in the neighborhood.

Most, however, are driven in by these soccor moms who drive slowly down the street, alongside their kid as he or she rushes up to the door to exact upon adults the only revenge that kids can.

Now that's just plain lazy. So it's a little chilly. Put on a coat and walk with your kid. I doubt the expended calories would put you behind for the day.

But I digress. At the stroke of 6 p.m., I saw a line of cars stream into the neighborhood. It looked oddly like a funeral procession. At about 6:15, the madness started.

I was ready. I had my 9 bags of candy, large mixing bowl, scissors for fast opening, trashcan so I don't slip on a discarded bag and kill myself in my hurry to provide kids with more cavity-causing material.

Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong...

Two hours later, it stopped almost as quickly as it started. After checking for any strays on the front walk, I flicked off the lights and settled in to survey the spoils I had picked around for myself.

Plenty of Reese's, that's good...some Butterfingers...

As I looked at my hands poking through the few remaining pieces of candy, I noticed something was amiss.

Wasn't I wearing...Nah. Wait...I was wearing one because of the cut on my thumb...

My bandaid was gone.

Saturday, November 5, 2011

The Misplaced Target

I had an interesting comment on my previous post by a gentleman named Doug. He brought up the point that Halloween isn't something children are exposed to day in and day out. While I may have a point that overly realistic decorations are deleterious to a young person's development, perhaps things such as video games and television programming are a bigger priority in need of addressing.

Addressing. That seems to mean "identify and fix." I don't think all entertainment mediums automatically need fixing. I'm not a huge fan of war-like video games, complete with 3D blood splatter flying out of television screens. I am weary as to where entertainment is going to go from here? We've pushed and pushed from "Leave it to Beaver" to "South Park" and "Family Guy." Is Family Guy responsible for schoolyard stabbings and neighborhood drive-bys? Of course not. But what, if any, role does entertainment media play in our development as individuals and as a society?

Books are not immune from this debate. I hesitate to post this for fear of complete misinterpretation, but as nary a soul reads the blog anyway, I figure I'm relatively safe. I read "Huckleberry Finn" for the first time as an undergraduate in college. Yeah, seems a bit late to be reading that, but at least I got to it eventually. There is a certain word beginning with the letter "N" that is sprinkled liberally throughout the book. I was enthralled by the story and did nothing else but read it over a period of about 12 hours. Time after time after time, I encountered the n-word.

At first it jarred me from my reading flow. "Wow. I knew it was coming, but...wow." It's a shock to see it on the printed page.

I resumed my reading, tripping over the word, and then only mildly noticing the word...and then feeling the word become a seamless part of the story.

I closed the book and headed out of my dorm room for dinner. Inside the cafeteria, people bustled about, trays rattled, and silverware clinked against dishes. Ahead of me in line was the football team. I thought to myself, "Gosh, i didn't realize so many members of the team were "n-s".

Upon realizing what thought had come through my brain, I almost passed out. Good God! I was so shocked at myself. I was completely astounded, dumbfounded, that after reading one book, a book considered a classic, I temporarily became less of a person. How did this happen?

I wasn't paying attention to what I was consuming (the book, not my dinner). I got caught up in the entertainment of it, and passively allowed any and all influence of the book into my subconscious mind.

The element of entertainment most in need of addressing is our consumption. It is likely not going to kill our brains to spend many hours watching questionable television programming or shooting at something on the screen. However, continuing to passively engage in entertainment with no thought as to what it means, what role it plays in our lives and the shaping of our worldviews...that could kill more than just our brains.

PS-Thanks for the comment, Dad. You know how much I love having to back up my wingnut ideas and theories.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

The Halloween Conundrum - How Scary is Too Scary?

When I bought my house three years ago, I wasn't too keen on the neighbor's Halloween decorations. They put up orange lights around the doorway (no problem there), some pumpkins on the porch (still no problem), and a plethora of fake headstones in the front yard. Nothing says "Good Morning" like leaving for work and seeing a cemetary in your rearview mirror.

But alas, culture (or is it permissiveness?) has continued its slide toward...something, and the innocent cemetary of my neighborhood has been overtaken by The House on Farr.

At this house, a huge grim reaper hangs from their front porch so low that even the tiniest trick-or-treater's heads will be brushed by the hem of its death cloak. Every inch of landscaping is covered with spider webbing. Iron stakes line the front walk, complete with fake skulls skewered on top. There are headstones...with skeletons digging their way out of the burial plot, expressions grimacing and contorted in pain. In front of the driveway hangs the piece de la resistance - a headless, bloody torso.

For the love of Pete. I'm 29 years old and it freaks me out to drive past the house. What if I were a 9-year-old girl with a group of friends, tasked with not looking like a wimp as the rest of the group fearlessly tromps to the front door?

I know, I know - they're just decorations. It's all make-believe, right?

Yes, to a point. It's all plastic.

What is not make-believe is the insensitivity and poor judgement of the homeowner who purchases said plastic decorations and with them, litters a holiday meant for children. It's not make-believe when the majority of trick-or-treaters are NOT afraid to walk up to a house that looks like that.

Boo hoo, right? Kids like to be scared. No harm, no foul. It's all in fun.

Okay, great. For fun, let's amp it up a notch and instead of "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown," let's give them a real scare and sit them in front of "Saw IV," or "Hostel," perhaps.

"Scary" used to be defined by witches and ghosts and goblins and scarecrows that jumped out at you from the porch. Haunted houses had bowls of "eyeballs" that you'd stick your hand in, later to find out it was only wet grapes. I can't compare that with what haunted houses currently do, because I haven't been in one since peer pressure was a mitigating factor in my life.

The scariest part of Halloween nowdays is that imaginary fantastic has been replaced with realistic. As adults in charge of shaping the next generation of children, what the hell are we thinking?

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

In need of head repair? Call Trumie Weiner.

Two days ago I spent 437.41 to repair my heating system. Yet again.

Upon waking this morning, I checked the system because it seemed to be firing a lot. I stepped into the laundry room where the system is located, and promptly put my foot in a puddle of water.

My water tank is leaking.

The same water tank that was replaced less than 3 years ago for leaking. That tank was replaced under a warranty. Is there a warranty for the warranty?

To be honest, while I'm in an even worse financial situation than I was a couple years ago when dealing with this and can even less afford to just eat the costs of repair and not fighting it, I just don't have it in me to fight for getting the tank replaced under warranty. Hopefully I'll wake up in the morning and magically have the fight in me.

Until then...what better way to cheer up oneself than dress one's dog in a Halloween costume?

Sunday, October 23, 2011

Why I'm not the President.

Every evening around the dinner table, my parents and I solve the world's problems. We second-guess world leaders from our perch within our small worlds, implement policies that would never have a chance at partisan, let alone bipartisan, acceptance, and then we laugh off our outlandish ideas.

Only, our ideas really aren't that outlandish. President Obama was on to something during his campaigning of 2008 when he sat across from regular Americans at their dinner tables. Not only are we the "boots on the ground" who are living the consequences of policymaking, but we're not idiots. We may not have a background in politics, but we Americans are educated through school, through life, and through the good ol' Americana concept of freedom of speech.

People change once elected to office. They do what they can to keep their jobs. No reason to spit at that - we all do what we can to keep our jobs.

So let's make it not a job. What if congress was like jury duty? Two years of your life, very handsomely compensated, and at the end of those two years you go back to the workforce with experiences that make you a valued employee. While some individuals throughout history have been very beneficial career politicians, they're the exception by far. New perspective is what the Occupy Wall Street movement is all about (at least I think that's what it's about. I'm not quite sure).

It might seem scary to entrust the power of legislation to a random sampling of Americans. Who knows what backgrounds they have? What if they have no education? What if they're crazy liberal/tea-partier/republicans? Average Americans are not up to the job of Congress.

Every day, twelve average Americans sit in groups in courtrooms across America, collectively deciding the fates of those charged with crimes. Average people are tasked with deciding whether someone lives, or is killed.

I think average Americans are up to the job of Congress.

Thursday, October 13, 2011

Sarcasm?

Training to be a transcriptionist makes one uber-aware of the basics of grammar that we tend to ignore on a daily basis.

I couldn't sleep last night. I was thinking about "sarcasm," which is a noun, and "sarcastic," which is an adjective. Then I wondered, what is the difference between being sarcastic and being facetious?

I couldn't answer that. So, what about "facetious" in all of its glorious adjectiveness. What form of the word makes it a noun?

"Sarcastic, sarcasm. Facetious, fascism"???

Monday, October 10, 2011

Saving a quarter - but at whose expense?

Like most of America, I am peripherally aware of the concept of "extreme couponing." (In case you live under a rock: This is where people use many, many coupons, 76 or something, per shopping trip to end up with a bill of $39 dollars for a cart with $258 worth of groceries.)

Time magazine this week had an article in their feature "What We Spend" on extreme couponing. Basically, couponers gather several newspapers' worth of coupons and cross-reference them with the in-store sales going on around town.

Example: Local grocery store offers in-store sale of 10 Tony's Pizzas for $10. Awesome deal, right? Not good enough for the couponers. They dig out the manufacturer's coupon good for $1 off of 3 Tony's Pizzas, and they have 3 of them. So now the store is having to give the couponer 10 pizzas, which normally retail for, what, $2.50? A $25 dollar value for $7.

Fine, whatever, good for couponer. They put forth the effort to do all the research and gathering, why not let them benefit? But then they have a buy-one-get-one for toothpaste. And that toothpaste happens to be half-off at drugstore. So they target store and for $2 tube, they walk out with 2 tubes for $1. I think. My math skills are way below extreme couponing.

However, the Time article left a sour taste in my mouth, which was not the gluten-free burrito I was eating at the time. Coupons are voluntarily given by stores and manufacturers to boost sales of select items. I get that. Also, discounts bring shoppers into the store in hopes that they'll purchase something else at full price while there. Again, I get that.

What I can't put my finger on is why I feel it is wrong to "work the system," a system that admittedly puts itself out there. Perhaps it is because many extreme couponers purchase things they do not need in quantities that NO one needs, just for the sake of having scored a huge deal.

Sometimes these excess goods are donated to charity. That tempers my feelings somewhat. But often, these goods are stockpiled in a room in the couponer's house specifically dedicated to stockpiled goods! That is ridiculous! (It's also hoarding. I can see it now on TLC: "Extreme Couponers - Hoarding Edition.") Seriously. You just took money out of a store for the sake of it, money that is going to trickle down to lower employee wages, eventually increase overall consumer cost, for what? The thrill of the deal chase?

I pay a shitload of money in medical expenses. Anyone who knows my history should be well aware of this. I hit my max out-of-pocket every year, without fail. I think that is the only thing keeping me from getting audited from the IRS in my deductions. If, for some reason, I don't hit my MOOP some year, that's going to send up a flag for sure : )

The point of this aside is that I USE MEDICAL CARE. I have a great need for it. I am not getting superfluous colonoscopies just because they're fun, mammograms because my volumptuousness should be counterbalanced or something. I am not stockpiling medical needs, as it were. I use them as I need them. And I need a lot of them.

Thus, I pay for them. Dearly. I am careful about costs. I use only generics. I recently switched from a generic tab to a generic capsule just because that was cheaper for my insurance company, even though it changed nothing in my prescription cost. And the capsule tastes like donkey dung. We all have our burdens.

So, extreme couponers of the world, let's graciously bear our burdens. Let's pay the generous-to-begin-with price of $10 for 10 entire pizzas rather than forcing the store's hand in cutting that price even further. Because, secretely? Does your family even LIKE those pizzas?

Tuesday, October 4, 2011

Cat-and-Mouse

A few nights ago, Mom was driving back home after having been at my house. With winter approaching, it was already pitch black outside despite the relatively early hour.

As she rounded the corner from my street onto her street, she saw movement dart in front of her car. She braked, peering over the steering wheel.

A black-and-white cat froze in a pointer position. Mom waved to the cat. "It's okay, I'll wait."

The cat seemed to understand. It turned its attention back to something in the roadway and crouched real low. It shook its heinie, then made a leap to the center of the street. A small reflection in the high beams, and Mom watched as the cat bopped a tiny mouse on the head. Having stunned its prey, it picked up the mouse in its jaws and trotted the rest of the way across the street. At the curb, the cat turned to Mom.

"Thanks."

Mom drove the rest of the way home questioning her sanity.

"How many times is your grandfather going to turn 90?"

My grandpa is turning 90 this weekend. My parents are in California to celebrate with him.

I am in my living room.

For the entireity of the months that Grandpa's party has been in the planning stages, I've known that traveling is just too much for my body, and my brain, right now. I sincerely hope that this isn't a permanent thing, but all I can do is make choices based on previous outcomes.

I went to my cousin's wedding in Arizona this past June. I wouldn't say I was miserable - my family is full of great, wonderful people. However, like with any family, more than one person is usually talking at a time, and not quietly, either. Music is usually playing, or a television has been left on. You're in mid-conversation with someone, only to be asked a quick question by someone else.

These used to not be issues for me. Now, the mere thought of these situations makes it almost impossible to concentrate enough to keep typing. I've been seeing several specialists lately, all of whom are of the mindset that I need to adapt to fit my new capabilities (lack thereof...), as the amount of improvement in cognition required to get me back to where I was is just not going to happen.

That's fine. I'm really okay with that. I'm used to having to adapt my activities to fit what my body cannot do. Being in California for the next week while family bustles and scurries and laughs and talks and is a big mish-mash in one place would leave my marbles pretty rattled. It took me a few weeks before I was feeling on an even keel after my cousin's wedding.

What I can't say is that I'm completely fine with missing this milestone in my grandpa's life. I went to Grandma's 90th birthday, and it was a kick seeing her surrounded by everyone who loved her.

I hope the party is great fun, that he gets to visit with everyone who comes, and that in all the memories he makes of the day, he doesn't remember that I wasn't there.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Impending DOOM - Age 30.

I don't think I really believe that. But it's kind of hard not to, seeing as how everywhere you turn, society is telling humanity (yes, they are two different entitites) that to be over a certain age is to be, well, defunct.

My 30th birthday is in several months. It's a bit of an understatement to say that my life doesn't look how I thought it would at 30. I'm coming around to where it actually looks quite a bit better, but...there will always be that "but." We grow up thinking we control our destinies. Call it a Supreme Being, call it fate, call it whatever - we don't control jack crap. I think that's what turning 30 is all about - finally realizing that to some extent, life is not so much about driving the car but about being along for the ride.

That's a tough pill to swallow, pardon the overused cliche. It's especially hard for the "me" generation, of which I am arguably a member (depends on who is doing the birth year lumping. I'm either generation Y or generation "me." Either works. Generation "Y Me.")

With so much internal reckoning going on, it's hard to be on the precipice of not really mattering any more. Nielson ratings are primarily measured for the benefit of advertisers. When we hear about a #1 new show, it's not necessarily that it's the best show - it's that the highest number of 18-34 year olds tuned in. Since when did we pass of the torch of taste-making to 18-34 year olds? This age group is responsible for popularizing miniskirts (which look good on almost no one), the Beatles (purely a statistical accident), flappers (lampshade, anyone?), piercings (WHY?!), and gangsta rap (it's just weird when white suburban males blast that from their parents' cars).

I had "The X-Factor" on the other night. In all fairness, I was watching it onDemand and they x-ed out the fast-forward-through-commercials option, so the show lasted all of 15 minutes on my television. I watched it long enough to see that the acts were divided into 4 categories - Boys, Girls, Group acts, and Over 30.

OVER 30?!?! What is with this? Soon we'll be so stuck in our desperate attempt to stave off aging that we'll be assigning our likes and dislikes to those who haven't even hit puberty yet.

There's a part of me that really, REALLY wants someone over 30 to win "The X-Factor" and stick it to a society that is ready to write people off before their lives have even really begun. But I won't be tuning in to see, because even though I'm still in the coveted age bracket of 18-34, I don't really like the show. It's not about growth - it's about rewarding what's already there. And if there has to be a separate category for those over 30, then it's obvious what the judges are looking for is "Not much."

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

Scrapbooking - The Red Baron

H2H contest this week was 3 different colors of cardstock.
I've got a black cardstock base, cranberry red, with a new england ivy strip on the side. The card is pretty basic in order to let the hand painted Red Baron stay center stage. (Snoopy is painted in coordinating cranberry and ivy watercolor.) There are little Woodstocks watermarked on the green strip in New England Ivy. I played with a shimmer spray that's not CTMH (Shhh!). I like the effect, once I figured out how to aim the nozzle. At least the floor of my craft room now has a pretty sparkle to it. Yaaaaay glitter!

Even nuns need canned goods, I suppose.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Two-and-a-half times better.

My social sphere is incredibly small. I count my television amongst my closest confidants. So, when something happens on a television show that makes me proud, I must blog about it as if it were my best friend having a baby. Even though my best buds are definitely past baby-having age. And even though I secretly think babies are kind of stupid.

I watched the premier of "Two and a Half Men" last night. Being interested in writing, I was _(sorry, blank word attack)_ in how the writers would deal with the monstrous issue of Charlie Sheen's departure. How do you write the main character out of a show and still maintain the elements of the concept that make viewers tune in each week?

The writers could have gone in many different directions, and they chose to go in a direction I honestly was not expecting: Niceness.

I can hear you thinking, "Katie, there were 7.25 jokes about large penises. How is it that you find the show to be 'nicer'?"

The main concept of the show was the dichotomy between Alan - broke, means well, always comes out the loser, compared with Charlie - rich, out for himself, always comes out the winner. "Rich", "Out for oneself", and "always comes out the winner" don't lend themselves to an inherently likeable character. Jalepenos. People don't like them by themselves, but mix them with something bland, like Alan Harper's tomato, and you've got a fiesta.

I was incredibly happy the writers of the show were able to maintain that dichotomy, while turning the show in a 90-degree direction. Walden Schmidt (Ok, could've done better on naming him) is a billionaire who buys deceased Charlie's house. He's rich, but the similarities end there. He makes his entrance after a failed suicide attempt due to the ocean being too cold. Charlie would never admit to such a weakness. He'd mock him. Walden hugged Alan several times in the half-hour episode, more than I think Charlie and Alan hugged their entire time together. It is still a dirty show, and there will still be references and story lines about down-and-out Alan versus Walden's ease with everything that Alan doesn't have (money, women) but...Walden is a likeable character.

Seeing many years into the future, I predict viewers catching "Two-and-a-Half Men" in syndication. They turn it on, see Charlie Sheen, and say, "Oh. This is one of the old ones," and change the channel.

Monday, September 12, 2011

My Dog's Abscessed Teeth and Women's Liberation

Lying in bed the other night, I was reading when I smelled it. Wafting tendrils that, once they hit my nose, assaulted with a sharpness I couldn't ignore, kind of like that one time I rolled over and discovered a fork in my bed.

I sat up and looked around. My cat was passed out on the foot of the bed. I know cat toots are potent, but could that have been the source? He did look rather pleased with himself.

Scritch, scritch, scritch. Truman climbed up the carpeted dog slope by the bed and hopped over to me, tongue lolling out in greeting.

"Oh, GOD," I gasped, covering my nose with my T-shirt. It was officially the first time I smelled my dog before I saw him. I knew it wasn't his stomach contents turning from solid to gas.

It was his teeth.

I suffer from an irrational fear that putting my dog under anesthesia to get his teeth clean will result in him never waking up again. I'd rather have a dog with grandpa gums and still have a dog. I know this is irrational - vets wouldn't do it if it wasn't safe. People get their dog's teeth cleaned all the time with no problems. And, come ON! I've been under anesthesia about 30 times and I've woken up each time since (so far...). Clean. His. Teeth.

A teensy part of my reluctance stems not from worry about Trumie's health, but worry about my financial health. I've finally reached Real Life, where money does not grow on trees, and sometimes you have to make choices. Do I pay for this or do I restock that? I'm making ends meet, but that's without a $500 dog dentist bill. Where is that in the list in priorities? The fact that it's not number 1, is that evidence, once and for all, that I am the world's worst dog mom?

If I was a better dog mom, I'd have a job that paid me so much money I could have a live-in robotic dog nanny take care of Mr. T during the day (robotic so that he didn't bond to anyone more than he bonds to me : ). I'd have all the answers, and finally figure out why he refuses to be housebroken. I'd be a good mom and teach him poopie goes outside, rather than just calmly pick it up off my (concrete) floors and dispose of it. I would teach him to come inside NOW, rather than bribe him with half of a Beggin' Strip.

Instead, I make sure his needs are met and then move on to the next bundle of things on my to-do list. A woman's freedom to work, to be independent, and to live life as she sees fit...sometimes it's not all that liberating. Sometimes we have to make decisions for priorities, at the expense of other priorities, always juggling, and always judging ourselves.

I looked up pictures on Google of abscessed dog teeth to reassure myself that Truman's jaw isn't going to fall off before November, when the vet's office does teeth cleaning and extractions for 20% off. This might seem like an odd thing to Google, but my cookie cache is already so ridiculous - "Why do people have fingernails?", "picture of Cobb periosteal elevator," "video of colon anastomosis" - that I'm sure "abscessed dog teeth" is not too strange at all.

I looked through the pictures with a scientific detachment. 'Okay, yeah, we've got that going on...a little bit of that...oh, poor doggie...Holy Crap!' I leaned forward for a better look.

I won't go into any detail except to say, whoever let their dog's teeth get to THAT point, well...THAT's a bad dog mom.

Thursday, September 8, 2011

Scrapbooking - Favorite color combination

I'll start any scrapbooking post with "Scrapbooking - ___" so that if you happen to be reading my blog and happen to find scrapbooking to be about as interesting as watching mold grow, you can skip to a different posting that is more to your liking :)

I've been entering scrap contests lately. Not something I usually do, but it's good motivation. If the contest rules call for "use your favorite 2 colors from the Close to My Heart catalog," I mentally go through the projects I've got backlogged, pick which one would be amenable to __, and then do it, thanks to the added incentive of...I'm not quite sure why an online contest is incentive for me. I guess no one can ever have enough bragging rights. Plus, sometimes there's a small prize package of more stamps or something. Just what I need : )))) Stamps and Jell-o...there's always room.

Anyway, here's my entry to a Close to my Heart H2H contest.

The colors used are Crystal Blue with Grey Wool. (First time I typed that sentence it came out "Crystal Meth with Grey Wool." Yay for crazy word associations.) I painted the rabbit with the coordinating watercolor pencils(I forgot what the stamp set is called. It was March, or April's? stamp of the month). There's some sparkly iridescense on the rabbit, which my less-than-superior photography skills failed to pick up. But I dig the color combo, despite the nontraditional cool-cool pairing.
Contest(s) entered: H2H.
Colors used: Crystal Blue, Grey Wool.
Stamp set: SOTM. Beats the honk out of me : ) and Bohemian alphabet.
Regular blog post to follow! : )

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Well, I'll be go to heck.

I figured I should post more on my blog than just scrap projects because I am slipping quickly down a slope where I trust my creativity more than I do my words. I hadn't even seen that I had a couple of awesome comments from my cards posting! Wow. That made my day. Just when I thought I had gotten used to disappointment - in my health, in my achievements, in myself - all it took was a nice word from my dad, my friend, and a complete stranger to bring me back to the typewriter. This is not a typewriter....KEYBOARD. Regarding writing and other literary pursuits, Mark Twain said, "Use the right word, not its second cousin." I'm stuck in this intellectual state of being my own second cousin.

My phone is ringing. Is it weird that I don't answer my phone? I answer my cell phone, but my landline I use specifically for telemarketers. But that's beside the point. When are individuals in society going to get tired of it being demanded of them that they be available, ready, and willing to interact at all times? Even in the Victorian era, people had set days of the week to go calling. I don't know - I guess it's communication fatigue.

I stopped taking the newspaper. It was a decision made mostly out of financial ruin (mine, not the paper's). After growing up with it being a mainstay on our family's kitchen table, and ordering my own subscription while away at college, later to transfer the subscription to the only thing still going well in my life that I haven't flatout lost - my home - I don't miss the news! I don't. There is much to be said for being an informed participant in society. Likewise, there's much to be said for taking a step back and just Being.

Friday, August 5, 2011

Scrapbooking projects

I haven't updated my blog in almost a year. Most people who read the blog regularly know that is because I had a stroke in October. I still have enough trouble remembering to eat food regularly let alone string together enough coherent thoughts to create a whole blog essay. So why am I posting now: My scrapbook teacher, Tresa Black, is hosting a blog hop in which participants show off their artwork based on an assigned theme. I've alweays wished my art was good enough to post on one of her hops, and with my brain charting new pathways and territories in my noggin, I've found that my artwork has actually gotten a lot better post-stroke. It's still not up to the level of the other blog hop participants, but I had fun creating these cards.




If you're interested in scrapbooking, cardmaking, or other paper crafts, check out Tresa's always-inspiring website, www.fabulouslyartsy.com.