Tales From Clark Street

Cubism Fail

2012-02-03T07:34:00.004-06:00

Last night's painting class was about Cubism. Cubism in general really confuses me, so I was grateful that our teacher gave us a lot of information about the movement, the painters, and a lesson on how to try to think like a Cubist. For example, she had us quickly draw some still-life bottles and cups from four different angles around the classroom. By overlapping the outlines and then coloring them in, we were all able to get a really good idea of what the cubists were up to. It turns out that they weren't really painting "cubes" per se, they were just painting in a new way that showed the "facets" of everyday life. If you look at something from many angles and then try to paint them all on a flat, one-dimensional plane, you get the painting above ("Equation" by Manierre Dawson) or you get something like my still-life experiment:

So I looked at my little print of the painting and got started:

This week, we used these little sheets that you can use as disposable pallets. I might get a pad of these because it will be easier to clean up at home. Oh, and by the way, this is WAY too much paint. I always forget that I don't need this much, so I'm kind of wasteful. Bad Blondie! I'll get better with time:

My classmates and I noticed that the main picture looks like someone is kissing, but other than that, we have no idea why it was called "Equation." One other classmate pointed out there was what looked like a finger in the painting. I thought that the painting had been layered in a way, so I started with some of the main colors, including the random finger:

About halfway into the class, my classmates started saying how hard cubism is. I realized that I, too, was struggling. I actually feel that painting the trees and the boat was easier for me. I discussed this with one classmate while we were rinsing out out water cups, and she said she thought it was because our hearts and emotions weren't connected to it at all. It was so "flat." I totally agreed with her. It's much easier to work on a painting that you feel strongly about -- or that has an interesting subject or scene. This Cubism thing was killing me! Our teacher read us some fun facts about Cubism, including that all of the art critics at the time HATED it. We discussed how the art critics all hated Impressionism, too. And then we discussed how basically, everyone hates anything that is new and different. Such is the human condition. Sad.

Even my painting neighbor, who is AWESOME at everything we paint, didn't like her own version (which was actually really good). I got so sick of my painting and realized I didn't have much time left, so I started throwing in white all over the place and put in a big butterfly:

But then I realized I didn't have time to make the butterfly look nice, so I gave up and painted it into a big CUBE:

Personally, I hate this painting. Some of my classmates hated their own paintings so much that they said they were going to throw them away. I won't go that far. I think I will go back to this painting at some point and try to "fix" it somehow. I might paint something within the cube. For now, the colors drive me bonkers, and I really wish I hadn't added all that white. Whatevs. It's a learning process. But I think, collectively, that my painting partners and I realized that true Cubism would take a very long time and involve rulers, patience, and more of an engineering mind than we have. Pa, for example, would be able to use his engineering powers to make a lovely Cubist painting, I'm sure.

Our teacher, of course, thought our little masterpieces were fantastic. What I love most about my teacher is that every time one of us makes a "mistake," she says, "Oh well! It's fine!" She's so encouraging, cheerful, and informative. Best of all, she is joyful about our art. She wanders around the room and points out something with such enthusiasm. I joked last night that I want her to come move in with me, but I secretly kind of meant it. Having such a warm, inviting, fun person around is SO good for my soul.

I had a really rotten morning and afternoon yesterday. I was grouchy and feeling frustrated on the way to class. In fact, I even thought about skipping the class because I was so growly and had so much work to do that I felt guilty about a.) being so moody and b.) not working. But once again, once I got in there and started painting, all of my day's craziness seemed to melt away. When I walked out, I felt so relaxed and happy. I 100% believe in Art Therapy as a weapon against the evils of the world. It's doing wonders for my spirit. Even if Cubism sucks.

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For those of you keeping tabs on my back, I have my first physical therapy appointment today -- rescheduled from Monday when I got the Puke Flu. It turns out you need an order to get PT (I didn't realize this), so my doctor and the PT person got it all figured out. I'm afraid to go to PT because I don't want it to hurt more and I don't want to find out that something is horribly wrong or that I need an MRI. Please keep my lower back in your thoughts today because it's going to be a rough one. Meep.

A New Miniature Project

2012-02-02T11:16:00.000-06:00

Back in 2009, I entered a miniatures contest. I made a dollhouse observatory so my homemade doll Ginger could look at the stars. Everyone needs to look at the stars, even dolls.

It's been three years now since I've thought about entering a contest. The problem with miniatures contests is that there are some people out there in the world who are total professionals. They are AMAZING. They know how to do things I've never even dreamed of -- and that may involve odd forms of chemistry or degrees in engineering. While I DO admire these people and love their creations, I will admit that it keeps me from wanting to enter the contests. When you know there is NO WAY ON EARTH that you can make something that will earn you the blue ribbon, it can be less motivating. Yes, I do enjoy creating little things just for the fun of it, but sucks to get all into it and get your hopes up and then realize your version looks like a child made it while the winner probably makes dollhouses as a profession. Just sayin'.

So anyway, the idea of entering the contests has passed me by these last few years. It's not only because I can't win -- it's also because I haven't been drawn to the house shells in the way I was to this one:

This house spoke to me when I first saw it. I knew it was my observatory that I'd been thinking about for a while. I also already had all of that furniture and the space minis (they're for the big dollhouse project -- well, I guess not anymore) so it was relatively easy to throw it together.

The other day, I got an email alert about a new contest. (Should I link to where it came from? Does that lesson my odds if someone else sees it and decides THEY want to make the same thing as me and theirs will be like 1,000 times BETTER? Meh, f*ck it. Part of enjoying this particular contest is that I'm going to go ahead and document it here on the blog as I go along. I don't expect to win it, but I DO expect to have a great time.) OK, so the contest is the 19th Annual Creatin' Contest from miniatures.com (they sell awesome minis at great prices AND have way cool contests). Here is the shell I will be working with:

This is the MiniTown Loft Shell Kit. If you want to participate in the contest, too, which I totally encourage you to do for reals because it's exciting and relaxing and a good project, you can also buy one for $29.99 and go mini crazy with it. Make whatever you want from it (even a cattery, if you are so inclined -- I won't get jealous, I promise) and you can win prizes (!) -- the big prize is $1,000 to miniatures.com to mini your little heart out. AWESOME.

But back to me.

So when I saw this shell, I had a ton of different ideas -- a beautiful greenhouse, an old-school one-room home, etc., but then I realized this would be the perfect opportunity to, um, express my love of kittehs. KITTEHS! MINI KITTEHS!

If you go back and look at the observatory above, you will see two miniature kittehs -- a grey one next to Ginger and a black-and-white one sitting on the downstairs wooden chair. I bought these kittehs a long time ago at an amazing miniatures shop in Chicago called Think Small by Rosebud, which is on -- wait for it -- CLARK STREET. If you live in Chicago, go there. It's so fun to look at all of the tiny things, and people build HUGE dollhouses in the basement.

I only have the grey kitteh now. Gretchen, the real-life kitteh, learned how to jump up on the dollhouse bookshelf and now the black-and-white kitteh has mysteriously disappeared. I will find it one of these days under the fridge or shoved in a purse or shoe, or perhaps under my bed covers (seriously, I find a lot of things there that don't belong). Other than those two mini cats, I don't have any other cat-related miniatures, which is a shame. It has to end.

So the shell you see will be turned into Blondie's Cat Sanctuary -- a cat shelter of sorts. I already have a TON of ideas for little, cat-related minis I can make on my own, and I've found a bunch of good ones online that I will save my pennies for.

You know what the really awesome thing is about the Creatin' Contest? The deadline is December 17, 2012, so I have ALL YEAR LONG to find kitteh things and share my progress with you. WHEE! (If you find any good kitteh-related items or come up with a fun kitteh idea, shoot me an email.) I plan on making a lot of the things myself, but I'm looking forward to buying certain things I will have no way of making -- such as mini cats. I'm hoping to find ones that look like Webster and Gretchen, and my beloved Kingie. Maybe he can live on in the Cat Sanctuary?

I'm pretty excited about adding this to my ever-growing list of Things To Do in 2012. And you know what? Filling up my schedule and brain with all of this stuff really has had a positive affect on my mental health. I have less time to think about negative things -- and less time to feel lonely. It's nice.

MEW.

(I think it's about time I added a new label to the blog for "dollhouse miniatures." I'll go back and tag all of those entries soon.)

(Even though it might seem like it, I have NO affiliation with miniatures.com and they did NOT pay me or ask me to write about their contest or anything like that. Seriously. I'm just super excited about making a kitteh haven.)

Fishie Fishie

2012-02-01T13:22:00.002-06:00

I don't really have anything to say today, so here is a pretty fishie for you. I am tired and my back hurts and I feel like complaining endlessly about it and snuggling up in my bed and reading, but I have to workie. Boo.

Presidential Campaign Fundraising: Disgusting

2012-01-31T14:22:00.000-06:00

(WARNING: I'm a little, um, perturbed at the moment. I am feisty and feel like C*SSING a lot. Watch out! ROAR!)

Lately, all anyone can talk about is the upcoming Republican candidate election for president. I am SO sick of the news -- who is being mean, who is falling behind in points, and who is spending the most RIDICULOUS AMOUNTS OF MONEY. Lately, my NPR news updates have been totally ruined because all I get to hear about is Mitt and Newt vs. Barack.

(Just to get this out of the way, I'm totally voting for Barack Obama.)

I've been thinking about the money raised for the campaigns so far. To be clear, this isn't even for the whole hog -- this is only for primaries. Once a Republican candidate is chosen, the floodgates are sure to open. (And yes, I realize The New York Times page I'm quoting does, in fact, show a RIDICULOUS AMOUNT OF MONEY has been raised for President Obama as well -- $99,600,000.) Here are the numbers as of September, 2011. That means a LOT more has probably been raised since then, but this gives us a good idea:

Mitt Romney: $32,600,000
Rick Perry: $17,200,000
Michelle Bachmann: $7,500,000
Newt Gingrich: $2,900,000

As of this morning, The Washington Post claimed Gingrich now has something like $15,000,000 raised, so you can only imagine what the other candidates have been able to come up with -- including front runner Romney.

So I got to thinking about what happened to all of that money that Michelle Bachmann and Rick Perry raised? Since they're no longer in the race, why the f*ck did they need $8 million and $17,000,000? Oh, silly girl, they needed it for pretty outfits and teams of advisers for all of those campaign debates -- just like they all do.

*crickets*

If we add together all of the money from the September, 2011 numbers alone (including Obama's), we come up with... $50,200,000. That's not even the current amount of money they all have, and it's still half a BILLION dollars.

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME??

It's only going to get worse. Aren't we supposed to have some campaign money cap laws?

*not even the crickets chirp*

I am SICK SICK SICK (even at you, President Obama, but I'm still voting for you) that we WASTE this enormous amount of funds in this country. You know what our president makes as a salary each year? Around $400,000, including some additional expense accounts and bonuses (according to information from 2007). That's it. So why do we need to hemorrhage this much money on the campaigns?

Here are the words from the thesaurus that describe how I feel:

nauseated, repulsed, sick, angry, fed up, revolted, infuriated, outraged, mortified, steaming, worked up, MAD

I'm sure there are many more words we can add to that list, no?

I believe that both parties should agree on a set amount of money for each campaign season. Something like $500,000. (Yes, that low. I totally understand the cost of advertising, but as Tim Gunn says: "Make it work.") Each party would get to split this amount of cash, so they would probably be forced to only have a set amount of choices to begin with, but somehow, I don't think that matters. Pick 5. Go for it.

So anyway, split this small amount of cash and see what you can do. Our Founding Fathers had NO problems getting their names all the way out into the wild, wild west without television ads, ridiculous, balloon-filled party halls, and $2,000 suits. I bet if each candidate gave up wearing make-up in public, we could feed a small country for 5 years. For reals.

If we took all of those BILLIONS of dollars from the campaigns (especially for those people who raise a sh*t ton and then bomb so their money was spent on NOTHING), we could work on the following projects:

Providing resources, medical care, and HOMES for all of our veterans.
Helping our own economy get out of the toilet by supporting US-based businesses.
Educating our children, prisoners, and illiterate so they can work at the new, US-based businesses.
CURING CANCER AND AIDS, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!

I am obviously RILED up about this.

*deep breaths*

Something is very wrong with this system, yes? Why do people in government think it's such a good idea to be so shamelessly carefree with money? And WHY are American businesses (scratch that, they have agendas)... WHY are average Americans donating money to these campaigns?

I suggest that we all take any money we would donate to a campaign and give it to our local fundraising opportunities -- places like local food banks, the Red Cross, or hospital organizations. We can do better, people. We SHOULD do better. Because this campaign money stuff? It's waaaay out of control. I'm embarrassed. Why aren't they?

(Steps off soapbox, shakes out body, goes back to work.)

Embracing Future Blondie

2012-01-30T10:28:00.000-06:00

Something fascinating mental-healthwise happened the other day. I was in the car on the way to the plant show with my parents. I was explaining to them the post I'd just written about the strength my promise ring has been giving me. I was trying to explain how I feel like the ring is a gift from a Future Blondie, one that is benevolent and kind -- and who knows my future will be OK. Telling someone you think you've been given a gift by a future self is quite awkward, and of course, Pa threw in a few jokes about how I've been reading too much Asimov. As with the blog post, I had a really hard time explaining in words what I was thinking and feeling. But all jokes aside, my parents got what I was trying to say. (I think.)

I explained to them that Shrinkydink spent a LOT of time working on visualizations with me. Strong emotions are attached to memories that are all balled up in my core like a big ball of clay. Shrinky explained to me numerous times that when I feel really hurt, it's hard for my brain to distinguish what is truly hurting me because of the big ball -- when you tap into the Hurt place, all of the hurts you've ever felt in your life are right there with it. This is why something small can suddenly seem so catastrophic. You're opening up old wounds through memory. Which can lead to catastrophic thinking: A + B = I'm a Loser Forever. Whenever I got in this line of thinking too deeply, Shrinky would basically hypnotize me and take me back in time to when I first remembered/experienced feeling whichever emotion I was fixated on. Then I would eventually have a conversation with Little Blondie, and I would tell her it would be OK because of whatever event happened in the future. Is this all vague? Totally. Hmm.

Let's try an example. Let's say I was feeling insecure about something in my current life. Shrinky would hypnotize me (that part is impossible to put into words) and ask me to go back to the first time I clearly remember feeling insecure. So let's say I remember being in grade school and having some event where girls in my class are making fun of me. (Who didn't have that experience?) We would go through the event, and then she would have Adult Blondie tell Little Blondie a few things. First, I would tell her it's OK to feel insecure, that everyone does from time to time. I would comfort her in some way. Then, I would tell her something about those girls from the future, such as Something Stupid that happened to them -- something that took away their power. (Because that always eventually happened too, right? Sweet justice.) Then, Shrinky would have me use the skills I'd just used on the Little Blondie for the Current Blondie -- reminding myself that things change, eventually you have perspective, and insecurity is just a part of being human. In this way, she would use a childhood event to help me get through an adult event. It was a very powerful and helpful exercise.

When I first started going to see Shrinky, I felt like an a$$hat talking to my little self. I just couldn't get there. So instead, she had me talk to my niece, Little. For about six months, I could only do the visualizations if I pictured Little. It was so much easier to tell her it would be OK instead of myself. But I really needed to be talking to myself. Eventually, I got over my fears and truly embraced my own Little Blondie. I now see her as a completely different entity than myself, so it's easier to comfort her and be nice to her. Doing those things for my adult self? It's much, much harder. It's all a process.

So anyway, when I was talking to my parents about the post I'd written, I realized that that was the first time I'd ever thought about a Future Blondie in a real way. It's always been Little Blondie if not Current Blondie. I usually have an inability to visualize or even think about my future self. If I do, I picture a lonely, sad, old woman rocking in a rocking chair in some nursing home hallway all alone and miserable. (Did I just say that out loud? Whatevs.) So having a moment where I pictured -- and truly felt -- a Future Blondie who was all strong and powerful and awesome and creative? WTF? Seriously? Amazing.

There is something truly magical about the promise ring. While I know that I was the one who thought it up, bought it, and gave it to myself, it really does feel like it was a gift from Future Blondie -- a reminder that my future is going to be just fine. Wonderful, in fact. That I will keep growing, learning, and experiencing fun, incredible things no matter where my path might lead. When I see it on my hand, I get a little twinkly smile on my face. I can feel it. I feel special and loved. In a very real and serious way, I feel like the ring came from someone else -- a person totally separate from me in the same way that Little Blondie is separate from me. Future Blondie rocks, and she wants me to know it. So she sent me a little reminder to keep my chin up.

I know that this all sounds completely bizarre. Even writing it out feels kind of weird. I'm not schizophrenic (although Pa may tell you otherwise). It's not like I hear voices or see invisible versions of myself from other time periods. For reals. But using visualization to talk to myself in alternate times has been one of the most powerful mental health tools I've ever encountered. It totally doesn't work for some people, but it works for me. I'm not ashamed to write about it or share it with other people. I'm truly proud of myself for all of the mental health work I've done. I've said it before and I'll say it again -- it's the best money I've ever spent.

And I find it very interesting that Shrinky had nothing to do with Future Blondie appearing in my life. I went to see Shrinky once a week for about a year in Chicago. During that time, we focused mostly on the horrible break-up that was ruining my world. After I got over the big hurdle with that, we moved onto other life-long issues that needed attention. After I moved to Iowa, I called her every month or so for a few months, and then she decided I had the tools to figure things out on my own. She would always be there for me (I've since called her a few times a year when I need help figuring something out), but she felt I already knew what she was going to say -- I'd been a good student. I have a lot of friends who go to therapy, and they usually resist their therapists in some way. They either don't want to hear what the therapist has to say because they aren't ready, or they have a bad therapist who doesn't know what he/she is doing and therefore isn't helpful at all. I was blessed to find a therapist who really worked for me and was my true advocate. I've been to other therapists who SUCKED. Shrinky changed my mind completely about the possibilities that therapy can offer.

I never once mentioned a Future Blondie in all that time I spent with Shrinky. And in my life in general, I'm a person who tends to live in the past. I miss old times, old friends, and old places. I always want to go back and relive moments or stay in them. I have trouble Letting Go. I romanticize certain times in ways that they never really were. Over the years, my parents have often pointed out that I live in my past and need to work on living in my present or future. So far, I've had no idea how to do that. Since moving to Farmsville, I've gotten much better at living in the here and now, but I still sway backwards a lot. If only I could go back and ___. It's unhealthy.

Ma often suggests that I find a local therapist -- especially when I get sucked into a Debbie Downer moment. She thinks that because I do waffle into depression a few times a year, I need ongoing therapy in my local life. I can't possibly explain to her in words why Shrinky is the only therapist I need. When I'm feeling blue, I often tell Ma I'm not going to call Shrinky because I already know what she will say -- and I don't have the desire or energy to work on myself just then. I can hear Shrinky in my mind even if I don't call her. And I have endless journal entries and blog posts that remind me of her lessons. Sometimes, I need to wallow in the darkness. And eventually, I always get sick of it and pull myself out of it. I think I've done a really good job of maintaining my mental health without weekly therapy. I'm proud of how I've been able to go through Dark Times and find my way back out of them alone. Each time I do this, I'm reinforcing my own strength. I'm building up my skills for future events or hurts. It's kind of like exercising on your own without your personal trainer. Does that make sense?

So I'm extremely proud of myself for encountering Future Blondie all on my own. It only took what? Four or five years from the time I started really working on myself? And she appeared totally out of the blue through a gift to myself that at first I thought was kind of a silly and unnecessary expense. It's true that I had a few moments where I thought: Oh, Blondie. You don't need a ring. You can spend that money in other ways that are much more important. But now I see that this is the best money I've spent in years. Possibly a lifetime. Who knew that such a tiny ring could carry such a powerful message? Not me. I thought I was just getting something purty and making a simple promise to myself. But now that ring makes me twinkle. I haven't twinkled in a long time.

Oh boy, I'm rambling again. But that's OK. I had a lot to say about the journey to finding Future Blondie. And now I feel kind of excited about the future -- the possibilities. This ring is not a fix-all weapon against the Dark Times. I know I will eventually slump into one again. It's just how I roll. My brain and chemistry are prone to taking me there. But it is a very strong tool I can use to remind myself that it will all be OK. The Wheel of Fortune will spin low, but it will also come back around to the top. And either way, Future Blondie will be there to guide me.

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Hmm. I just randomly threw up. There's been a puking flu going around Farmsville. So I had to cancel my beloved physically therapy appointment that was for this morning and reschedule for FRIDAY. Wah.

Also, I forgot to tell you that I wrote a post for BlogHer: Do You Need Renter's Insurance? Yes, You Do. Please read it and think about it if you aren't insured!

Wicked Plants: The Book AND the Plant Show

2012-01-29T11:52:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, I took the Nerds to see the Wicked Plants show at Lauritzen Gardens in Omaha. The show is based around the book Wicked Plants: The Weed That Killed Lincoln's Mother & Other Botanical Atrocities by Amy Stewart. I LOVE Amy Stewart's books. I suggested that Ma read this one so we could enjoy the plant show together. We both got e-book versions -- she got one for her iPad2 and I got one on my Nook. Pa hadn't read the book, but he came with us anyway and we had a Nerdfest.

We got to the tour a few minutes late, but we caught up with the group in the cactus area. Yes, cacti can poke you, but it turns out that some of them have sap that can really irritate your skin. Here you can see a large agave cactus. Fun fact: tequila is made from agave. I once saw a documentary about agave plants in the southwest -- the huge monsters filled an entire field. They are crazy, weird, enormous plants:

I was very impressed by this huge agave. The thing I love the most about greenhouses is that they have these ridiculously huge, old plants that have been growing forEVER. I've never seen a plant this size in someone's home. But when you go to a greenhouse, the sky is the limit (or the ceiling, I guess). You could make a LOT of tequila from this puppy:

Next, we moved onto smaller displays. Here, you can see monkshood, which is also known as wolfsbane (of Harry Potter fame):

And what poisonous plants display would be complete without hemlock? Poor Socrates. That had to suck:

Here we see a corpse flower, otherwise known as the Voodoo Lily. The tour guide was trying to describe what the flower looks like when it's in bloom. He was lost for words, and ended up describing it as a large hot dog. I wanted to pipe up and say, "Let's be honest -- it looks like a giant penis." But my parents were with me and there were some sweet, little old ladies in the group, so I bit my tongue. (See a flowering version here.) Basically, this plant is called a corpse flower because when it blooms, it smells like rotting flesh. Yum:

And of course, the deadliest of all plants -- tobacco:

Cycad plants are really bad to have inside if you have dogs. They like to eat them = bad news. I noticed they didn't have any Easter Lilies around, which is unfortunate because I think pet owners need education about them. I'm 99.999% sure that an Easter Lily killed my sister's cat, Bella. (Now that I have this information, I will NEVER let an Easter Lily pass my doorstep.) You have to be careful with plants. You never know when they might hurt your fur babies. I have a couple of toxic plants in my home that I keep REALLY high up so the kittehs can't get to them. I will never get a cycad plant because Gretchen? She would tear this thing apart:

The tour guide mentioned that the wild plant woman (I forgot her name) who lives in this little house might make an appearance. When we came around the back, you could see her sitting inside. She's a doll who looks quite hilarious (you can't really see her through the "dirty" window) and creepy:

Now we come to my FAVORITE part of the tour -- the carnivorous plants. These little cases were filled with all kinds of goodies, including wee Venus flytraps. (Note the awesome angel's trumpet tree in the background.) I can't remember all of the names of the plants in the display, but they were way cool:

Then I squealed with delight to see one of my favorite orchids -- the pitcher plant. The main plant isn't in the picture, but the flowers are attached to it and hang below. They also look rather phallic, eh? They excrete a liquid in the bottom of the pitchers that kills and digests insects. The one in the middle had a fly down in there that I could see. Ever since I started growing orchids, it's been my dream to see a really good specimen of this plant. SCORE! Also, I really want to grow one, but they're tropical, so I doubt they would survive cold, dry Farmhouse Villa:

The castor bean will make you puke, yes it will. Oh, and see Audrey II in the background? Look closely through the door -- she's in the room with the crazy plant lady:

Here are some more little plants that can cause big problems:

This cactus? I don't even need to say what it looks like:

Here is another giant agave that we encountered. It was taller than me:

The most well-known poisonous plant, thanks to the book and movie. The white oleander:

Did you know daffodil bulbs are poisonous? Don't worry, you would have to EAT the bulbs to get into trouble. But the group collectively decided this is why deer don't eat daffodils:

This lovely sign greeted us at the end of our tour. It was very appropriate:

Before we left, Ma and I picked up a copy of Wicked Bugs: The Louse That Conquered Napoleon's Army & Other Diabolical Insects. I am sure that this book, much like Wicked Plants, will now totally freak out my mother and make her paranoid about all kinds of bugs. Good times. But it's still good reading, and the original book led to me Doing Something Fun with my parents, so I suppose it isn't all bad. Just kind of creepy.

(If you're in the Omaha area, there are going to be more events and a signing by Amy Stewart in the future. Check out Lauritzen for details. No, they didn't pay me to say that. I just like to share.)

Changing My Perspective with a Promise Ring

2012-01-28T12:27:00.000-06:00

I've always felt special when I wear jewelry that was given to me by someone I love. I have some special rings from Gran, a few beloved necklaces and bracelets from my parents or Dorothy, and a small collections of earrings, bracelets, or necklaces from ex-boyfriends. Whenever I wear something that was given to me by someone else, a little piece of them is with me all day long. I feel a deep connection to whoever was kind enough to give me something pretty.

I purchased other jewelry in my collection for specific reasons. I have some awesome beaded earrings I bought at BlogHer '09 (how I WISH I could remember who made them -- I got them out of the bloggie shop area) that I wore when I rode the Ferris Wheel at Navy Pier. Those earrings (and the matching bracelet) always make me feel powerful. I have a silver cuff that I bought at the first orchid show I took my parents to after I moved home. It reminds me of spending quality time with my wonderful Nerds. And one of my favorite pieces is a Vishnu necklace I bought while visiting Omaha years ago that sadly is tarnished and doesn't have a chain (broke it) right now, so it's been forEVER since I've worn it. Which is fine because it draws a HUGE reaction from whoever sees it. Whatevs, I like it.

Anyway, all this to say that I rarely wear jewelry just because it's pretty and ornamental. Many of my earrings have significant events or memories attached to them. But regarding rings? I don't have many special rings. I've bought a bunch of them at street fairs over the years, but eventually, something always falls out (particularly marcasite stones, which I'm often drawn to). In high school, I often wore my mother's class ring. I'm not sure why I love that ring so much, but up until a few weeks ago, I still had it in a little box in my childhood bathroom. I had to give it back to Ma because she's planning on going to a reunion at some point, and she wants to wear it. I have one gorgeous, aquamarine ring from Gran, but I had to have it reset and the setting is SUPER TALL, so I feel self-conscious when I wear it. It lives in the jewelry box. (Reminder to self -- wear that ring once in a while.)

I've always been jealous of my friends engagement or wedding rings because they are proof that someone loves them. Someone adored them so much that he or she went out and chose a special, expensive ring to give to their beloved. Or perhaps they took an old family ring and gave that -- or took it to a jeweler and created a new setting. Heirloom rings are my favorite. I love the old stories that go with them. And I feel it's honorable to take someone's old jewelry and pass it down the line. My friends who have been married for a long time often poo poo their own rings. Oh, I barely even notice it's there. Oh, it's so dirty -- I need to have it cleaned! Oh, it's so bulky/small. I wish it was smaller/bigger. I don't know what it's like to wear a wedding ring. I suppose after 20 years I might think of it as no big deal, too. But because I've never been proposed to with a beautiful ring, I find it hard to listen to negative or no-big-deal stories about them. And I would be SO HAPPY if someone thought I was special enough to put any kind of engagement ring on my finger.

Since I received my personal promise ring in the mail, I haven't worn it that often. I forget to put it on if I'm just going to be moaning on the couch with back pain. And I don't want to wear it to my painting class because I don't want to get paint all over it. But last night, I remembered to wear it over to dinner at my parents' house. We ate, and then Ma and I watched a movie while Pa slept in his chair. (Poor Pa is very sick.) I worked on some cross stitch while Ma and I watched the movie.

With each stitch in and out, I could see the flicker of my new ring. I found myself staring at it, mesmerized. And each time I looked at it, I was reminded of the promise to myself: I will be good to you. With every little x I made, I reinforced the message by gazing at the ring. In a strange way, it almost seemed like the ring had been a gift from someone else. Someone cares about you. Someone loves you. Someone has promised to give you the best life possible. Isn't that wonderful?

It's interesting to me that I was able to play this little trick in my mind. I know the ring is from me, but it almost felt like it was a gift from a future, stronger, wiser Blondie. It's hard for me to put the sensation into words. I guess the best way to say it is that this new ring gives me power. It's a little secret I'm wearing on my hand in a room filled with strangers. Know what I mean? Like how your wedding ring reminds you that you are not alone when you are feeling lonely? Somehow, my new ring is giving me this same feeling. Who knew that a tiny purchase could make me feel so good?

I still need to have the ring sized up by about a half a size, but I'm wearing it anyway. There's no rush to get it to the perfect fit. For now, it's giving me strength that I need and didn't know I had. It's reminding me that I'm important, even if just to myself. I am worthy of nice things and good treatment. Perhaps this tiny ring will be my greatest weapon against the self-criticism that I'm so familiar with. And, hopefully, it will sustain me though the many years to come, even if I never receive that engagement ring I've always dreamed of.

Painting Like Monet: A How-To

2012-01-27T16:06:00.000-06:00

Step 1: Go to your painting class at Joslyn. Get there early this time, and wander into the gift shop. Purchase the little postcard box set deal -- 20 postcards for $13. Remember that you are studying Claude Monet tonight, so choose "The Meadow" as one of your postcards.

Step 2: Meet up with your class and stroll through the museum until you find the Impressionists. Listen as your teacher explains the movement. Get up close and personal on all of the paintings with a magnifying glass. Be tempted to touch them but don't.

Step 3: Find the real "The Meadow" and marvel at all of those tiny brushstrokes:

Step 4: Also admire "Small Country Farm at Bordighera" by Monet. Be told by your teacher that the class is going to copy this painting for tonight's project:

Step 5: Go downstairs to your classroom. Listen to a lesson about the color wheel and its importance in paintings. Stare at the copy of the small country farm and realize that you don't like it -- in fact, you kind of hate it. Decide it must be the palm trees, as you really, really don't like palm trees. Also be put off by the pastel colors. Know deep in your soul that pastels bother you for some reason. Be less put off by the pastels in the first painting:

Step 6: Decide to copy "The Meadow" instead. Pull out your camera and study the photos you took of it since you don't have a print-out. Feel embarrassed as you beep loudly through the pictures numerous times while your teacher is talking. Realize that everyone else in the class is working on the palm tree painting. Decide you don't care. You're not hanging a palm tree painting in your home. So begin with the sky -- blues and whites:

Step 7: Keep scrolling through your photos for reference until the camera battery alert starts flashing. Curse at yourself because you KNEW the battery would run out and you SHOULD have charged it BEFORE you went to class. Get all annoyed. Give in and realize you won't be able to take "progress" photos of the Monet. Struggle to remember what the real painting looks like.

Step 8: Suddenly remember that you have a postcard of the painting in your bag. DUH. Whip out the tiny image and do your best to copy the style. Realize that you're failing miserably at matching the scale and are not doing so well with this whole "mixing any color in the world from the primaries" experiment. Your colors look nothing like Monet's colors. Decide it totally doesn't matter.

Step 9: Remember that you want to put Something Blondie into the painting. Decide that this week, Little and Auntie Bon Bon will replace the children in the field -- as garden fairies. Smudge in two redheaded fairies with wings standing in the lower left of the painting:

Step 10: Say goodbye to your classmates, and drive back home with your little painting on the seat next to you. Feel very relaxed and happy you are in the painting class. Wake up in the morning and realize that even though it just looks like a bunch of blobs when you're super close up, it kind of does look like a field with trees, mountains, and a couple of garden fairies if you stand far enough away:

Step 11: As you write out the how-to on your blog, realize that all of your posts lately have been about painting or cross stitching or your back. Realize you might need to mix things up. But then recognize that you really are enjoying sharing your painting class with your bloggie readers. And know that soon, without any doubt, Something Stupid will happen and you'll be able to change topics.

Embracing Imperfection

2012-01-25T15:21:00.000-06:00

I've been working non-stop for the last few days to finish up a deadline that got pushed off because MY BACK IS KILLING ME. (Tired of hearing about my back yet? So am I! I just made an appointment for a physical therapist on Monday. Let's hope we get this nightmare figured out soon.)

Last night, I finally made it over to my parents' house to catch up with them. I was greeted with a lovely surprise. My mother had drug all of her old needlepoint, cross stitching, and crewel embroidery works out from the depths of Nerdtopia. A few of the pieces gave me instant flashbacks to my childhood. I remember these decorations hanging up around the house at different points in time. Ah, memories.

Off to the side, I found an old drawing I had made that Ma had framed and displayed in the house for a long time. In the drawing, I could see eraser marks from where I'd started over a few times. It was a far cry from something that should be framed. It was a silly, random kid drawing. But there is was, still in the frame and ready to be hung again, 25 years after I made it. I was quite surprised and touched.

When I was a little girl, Ma had a needlepoint group that she met with sometimes. I remember going to the group. The ladies all sat around with their bags of materials and intricate, stitched creations. As a grown woman, I can only IMAGINE how annoying it must have been for all involved to have a kiddo running around--in my memory, I'm the only kid there for some reason. But now I hold these memories dear because I was spending time with Ma, and she was teaching me a trade that I would eventually come back to decades later.

Isn't it interesting how we think we will NEVER be like our mothers, but we do end up with so many of their quirks? I know I have a lot of my mother's characteristics -- some good, some bad. And as Dorothy gets older, I see many of my mother's characteristics popping up in her, too. We are both Ma Blonderson in our own ways.

One thing I really like about Ma is that her own art doesn't have to be done perfectly. When she's painting with Little or making some creation, there is a moment for her when it's good enough. She's a perfectionist in many ways, but she also knows when to throw in the towel. OK, that's fine. Let's move on to something else. In direct contrast to this is my father. He's an engineer, so whatever it is, it has to be perfect. Measure twice, cut once. Make a spreadsheet. Draw up the plans for months. Use a ruler and graph paper and make it EXACTLY like the drawing. So as a product of both of these people, I find myself longing for the engineering perfection while also wanting to just finish whatever it is and move on to the next thing. It's an internal battle.

As I looked at Ma's little needlework items last night, I realized that they aren't perfect, but they sure are pretty. And look at how much enjoyment we can still get out of them all these years later! They are filled with memories of Ma's friends, my goofy 70s–80s childhood, Ma's mother Gran, and the joy of imperfect art.

Ma's works were a fun thing to look at, but they're also a good lesson for me at this point in my life. As I work on my creativity (and mental health), I will also work to embrace my flaws and imperfections. I will push down the Exact Measurements part of me and pull up the carefree, seat-of-my-pants side. Ma was always ready and willing to do projects with me when I was young, and she encouraged me to be proud of my work. She framed those funny masterpieces and hung them on her walls -- even when they were ridiculous. I love that. What a good Ma.

Thank you, Ma, for reminding me to cherish my creative side -- and for continuing to nurture it even now. XXOO, Daughter #2

Moving Beyond the Hand

2012-01-23T10:50:00.001-06:00

Remember this hand sculpture? It's my grandfather's hand, and it was his first real project as a metalworking artist. I wrote about the hand about a year ago and wondered where it was. My wonderful cousin Eagle surprised me with it a little bit later and told me I could borrow it to take photographs. AND THEN A YEAR PASSED.

Eagle recently inquired about the hand through a text message. He simply wondered if I was finished with my project yet? No big deal. But I felt HORRIBLE. Here he'd loaned me something that is incredibly important to him, and I'd placed it on the top of my shelf and left it there for an entire year. Fuuuudddddgggeee. I instantly filled with shame. I have not been hoarding the hand or purposely drawing out my time with it. I simply haven't been able to figure out what to do with it. But suddenly, I felt I'd been quite disrespectful of my cousin. I basically swiped his possession and have never mentioned it again. I'm an a$$hat.

The initial idea was to take some photographs of the hand to replace the ones I had lost in my house fire. I had all kinds of ideas about how to incorporate the hand into nature. But each time I came up with an idea, the creepy factor came into play. For example, I thought about waiting until spring and putting the hand in the garden. But then it would look like it was coming up out of the ground like some crazy, metal zombie's hand. I wanted to find a way to put it in the cornfields this past summer, but then it got all horror movie in my mind. I thought about taking it over to Auntie's pond shop and placing it near the lotus flowers, but then it would be the swamp zombie hand. Each time I came up with an idea for how to present this hand in an artistic way in a photograph, I shelved the idea when I visualized the final product. And so time went on.

The hand is in a prominent location in my home, so I walk past it every day. I can see it from my perch on the couch in the evenings. It's such a treasure, and each time I look at it, I'm reminded that I am supposed to hurry up already and give it back to Eagle. Thankfully, he's a patient man.

I called Ma after Eagle texted me about the hand and started crying. I felt really bad about how long I'd had it (and I was filled up with pain drugs for the back, which didn't help matters). But as with all things that make me weepy, the longer I spoke with Ma, the more I realized that I wasn't crying about Eagle. I know deep down inside that Eagle isn't mad at me. He just wants to know that I still have the hand and when I might be finished with it. Who knows? Maybe someone asked him about it or he misses it or something. Eagle is not the issue. The issue is that I miss Grandpa, and I can't bring him back. The issue is that I want so desperately to hold my grandfather's real hand, and I can't.

We all think our own grandparents are the best ones out there, but I think I can truthfully say that there was something incredibly magical and unique about Grandpa Blonderson. He was a special member of our community, and when he was killed in a car accident, our family was not the only group who mourned. I love seeing his metalwork creations around town -- in the homes of friends and in local businesses and churches. Grandpa's art is everywhere in Farmsville, and so his memory lives strong even though he's been gone for 15 years. Even people who didn't know him recognize his work. I always beam with pride when I share that my grandpa made that.

So the hand. It's been weighing on me. I've had good intentions, but they have been overshadowed with a kind of denial. Surely, I'll find the perfect way to capture this hand one of these days. I will find a way to take the Perfect Picture. But you know what? There is no perfect picture. And the pressure of finding a way to express all that Grandpa was in a simple photograph was the best way possible to set myself up for failure. Since I've been reading about Asimov's robots, I'm relating it to a positronic brain malfunction right now. I became "inactivated." I didn't know what to do, so I did nothing.

This fall, as Eagle and his father harvested the fields beyond my parents' home, I reminded Pa about the hand. I told him my dilemma about finding the right place for a photo. He suggested that we go down to Grandpa's shop, put it on the workbench, and take the photo there. Pa felt his idea might not be interesting enough because Pa is an engineer and claims to have no creativity at all (he does, he just doesn't know). I could tell he thought I might not like his idea.

But you know what? It was perfect. That is exactly where the hand should be. And the photograph I took originally of the hand just after Grandpa passed away? I took that photo in the workshop to begin with. All of that questioning and planning and wondering and worrying all led back to the exact same place I started from -- mourning my loss in an empty shop that used to be so filled with life. I've avoided returning there for so long because I ache when I walk in and smell the old grease and see the old tools. But Grandpa's energy is still there, and I can feel his spirit when I walk in the door. It's time to go back, take my picture, and return the hand to Eagle. It's going on the list of Things To Do This Week. And then maybe, with time, I'll find a way to paint the hand in acrylics in a way that will push more life back into the scene. It will be an art collaboration between me and Grandpa -- a way of working with him after all this time.

I suppose one thing I can be grateful for is that I shamelessly adored my grandfather while he was alive. I spent quality time with him -- much more time than I ever spent with other family members. And so I am blessed to have cherished, personal memories of the moments we had together. With this one person I've lost, I have no regrets. He knew I loved him, and I know he loved me.

Grandpa would not want me to get in a twisted mental mess about taking a photo of his hand. He would want me to set up the scene, take a quick picture, and then turn around to look at my living, breathing father -- another precious, magical Blonderson -- and go spend some quality time with him. It's a date, Pa. I love you.

Random Sunday Babble

2012-01-22T12:52:00.002-06:00

I was supposed to work all day yesterday, but I didn't. My back hurt a lot, and I had called to get some more pain medicine until I figure out whether I should go to a chiropractor or physical therapy. I can see the benefits of both. I've been to a chiro before and I feel the process works for me. This back pain started out as a tweak and then turned into a full-blown injury. I'm not getting out of this one easily, and it's p*ssing me off. People who don't have back pain? They have NO IDEA how good their lives are. Just sayin.'

So instead of working, I drugged myself and sat on the couch all day. I figured out that one of the cross stitch projects I purchased wasn't actually cross stitch -- it was needlepoint. With needlepoint, you just go in and out and in and out and it's very repetitive and really GOOD work to be doing when you're all drugged up and can't concentrate on anything and can barely move. But it can also be hella boring, so after a few hours, I was eager to Do Something a little more creative.

A few years ago, I bought an art box at Hobby Lobby when there was a big clearance sale going on. Webster is standing next to it in the photo above -- the kittehs LURVE it. Anyway, I knew I wanted to try acrylics at the time, and the box came with oils, acrylics, and watercolors, and it turns into its own little easel, so it seemed like a good purchase:

I ended up using it exactly once and putting it away. I made my mother a painting of a Wood Nymph (which has led to all kinds of questions since then -- What is that? What is a Wood Nymph? What is she doing? Why did you make me that again?). Listen, people, I don't really know what a Wood Nymph is, OK? It just seemed like a good idea at the time. I envisioned her floating through the forest near my parents' house checking on seedlings and baby animals and sh*t. Whatevs. I don't have a picture of the finished painting, but here's the version from my sketchbook:

So yeah, this painting box has sat in the corner collecting dust since May 2008, which is the date written on the Wood Nymph sketch. In my bored, drugged, feeble state last night, I decided that since I made a painting for Ma, I should totally make one for Pa, too.

My father is night owl, or at least he used to be before he got old and started falling asleep in his chair at 7pm like all good old men. I looked up some barn owls online to see what they look like and decided to make him one that is holding its wing over itself a bit. I have HORRIBLE LIGHTING in my living room, so I couldn't really tell what the colors looked like when I was making this last night. Today, I'm rather impressed in the natural sunlight. Especially because I didn't close the acrylics properly the last time I used them, so they were all dried out and goopy and gross and there was NO yellow to speak of because it had dried into a rock. So even though I can see all of the flaws and know this looks kind of like a kindergartner made it, I am still going to give it to Pa for his office because we all have to start somewhere. My artistic talents are working with baby steps:

While I was taking these photos of the art box, I looked over and saw Webbie gnawing on his belly:

Doesn't he look remarkably like Kingie when he does that?

OH NO! Now I've looked at a bunch of pictures of Kingie and it's making me miss him and be all lovey for him. Pain meds. They make you all squishy.

QUICK. HURRY! NO CRYING! Look at the beautiful girl!!!

Ah yes, the stunned look Gretchen gets when I call her name to stop her from knocking that whole pile of stuff off of the table she's sitting on. WHO ME?

I'm not sure blogging on pain meds is good for me. This is all over the place, eh?

I feel really guilty about the fact that I didn't work yesterday. And now, I'm annoyed with myself because I'm going to have to do ALL of the work today instead of having it spaced out like I had planned. This means I'll have to skip Sunday Night dinner and Nip/Tuck with the folks, which makes me sad.

But you know what? I didn't plan to have really bad back pain on Friday night, which led to calling the doctor and getting more meds on Saturday morning. And I didn't plan on feeling all spaced out and in pain all day yesterday. So I supposed I need to just Get Over It and tell myself: Whatevs. Who cares? The Nerds can sit in their chairs and watch their programs alone for one Sunday. And you can sit here and work all day and into the wee hours and you'll get it all done because you always get it done. And Pa really needed that owl. I mean, come on, he needs it. Everyone needs a creepy barn owl that looks like it's getting ready to attack you. So there.

Still with me? Bwahahahahahahahhaa. OK, time to call on the Extreme Focus. I hope I can find it somewhere.

And Then the Painting Class Became AWESOME

2012-01-20T12:55:00.000-06:00

Last night, I was about 10 minutes late to my painting class, so I couldn't find them. The goodie about my class is that you get to wander around Joslyn while it's closed and get up close and personal with the paintings. The kind security guards pointed me in the right direction, but by the time I got to the right gallery, my peeps were no where in sight. I couldn't even hear them in the quiet, peaceful museum. So I asked a security guard to help me find the painting we were going to be copying. I looked at my sheet and found the information. The painting is called The Trappers, Lake Tahoe, and it's by someone named Albert Bierstadt, who is apparently a really awesome painter even though I've never heard of him. Part of learning to paint is being honest enough to say: I don't know who that dude is, but whatevs. His painting is gorgeous.

I found the painting and noted that it's actually done in oil instead of acrylics:

Look at the "little tree friends." Aren't they so pretty? They are so intricate and delicate -- I'm truly amazed at what artists can do. This picture captures more of the glossy sheen that seemed to be covering the painting:

So after I got some photographs of the master work we were going to be studying, I went back downstairs to my classroom and found this little canvas waiting for me, along with a black-and-white version of the painting and a color version. I was sitting there thinking how much it sucked that I was late when I took this photo. I was also BENT out of shape about my back and worried about work. And then I was all: "There is no WAY I'm going to be able to figure out how to make this painting." Basically, I was crabby:

But then my teacher showed up, and I gotta tell ya, this woman is the biggest ray of sunshine I've ever met. There is something so JOYFUL about her. When she messes something up on a painting or drops something, she laughs and moves on. She is exactly what I need in my life right now.

After a mini-lesson about composition, she told us to start with a black-and-white version of our paintings. Just black, white, and gray. No color. I wasn't sure what we were really doing because I had missed the first part of the class, but my neighbor at the table caught me up. The point of the lesson was layering, layering, and more layering. And gloss. SHEEN. Shiny!

So I took my black-and-white version of the painting and stared at the canvas for a while:

I forgot to take the black-and white picture, but you can just imagine the one below without any color. You can still see the gray in the clouds here and in the middle area and bottom. Oh, and see the mermaid tail sticking out of the ocean? I added that as a way to make the painting "mine" instead of being an exact copy (I could hear Featherplume in my mind encouraging me to add it!). I plan on adding little details like this to all of my paintings from here on out. It will depend on the scene, but I want to make sure there is a Blondie Touch as I copy the masters:

See that little cup on the upper left that looks like it's full of semen? That's this gloss varnish stuff that she gave us to mix with the paint. We were supposed to be heavy on the gloss and light on the paint. I think I used a little more paint than I was supposed to, but I LOVE COLOR. The process of making this painting involved layering over the existing colors over and over again. I got into a groove. I zoned out completely. My back still hurt, but work and the lateness and the worrying all went away. I was calm, collected, and giggling with my fellow painters. I felt FANTASTIC. (This painting class idea was the best thing ever.)

I also realized I'm not the only nervous one in my class. Everyone was watching each other, wondering if they were using enough or too little yellow? Enough or too little gloss? And, at some point, someone mentioned my mermaid and then everyone wondered where the mermaid was in the original painting? Where's the mermaid? WHAT MERMAID? It was a little embarrassing to explain that I threw a mermaid into my painting Just Because, but it was also really funny.

You can't tell from the painting, but by this point, I'd been layering in oranges, reds, and yellows for at least an hour:

And even though this one probably doesn't look different from the one above, it now has purple in it. It's a shame the camera doesn't pick up the glossiness. It is really shiny, even when dry:

Here is my finished product sitting next to the original. Not bad, if I do say so myself:

So I left the class and came home feeling all dreamy and full of painting ideas. I've decided that I know enough about the paints now that I'm ready to go to the store and buy my very first acrylics supplies. I brought home some of the gloss to put on my fresco from the last class, and I had to use one of my favorite watercolor brushes -- boo on that. I have four watercolor brushes that are all for specific purposes, and I don't need to be using them with acrylics. No, the acrylics will be a Brand New Adventure. They get their own brushes, energy, and time.

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And even though I didn't wear it to the class because I didn't want to get paint all over it, I DID get my beautiful promise ring in the mail yesterday afternoon. It was in the mailbox all by itself -- no junk mail or anything. I hobbled down the driveway and froze my a$$ off to get it. It's about a half size too small, so I'm going to size it up (I'll wear it too-tight in the meantime because I want to). I thought about sizing it to fit my right hand because it does kinda look like a wedding ring, but you know what? I'm a leftie, and it feels good on my left hand, and men don't look at my ring finger anyway. So screw it -- I'm going to wear it where I want to wear it. And every time I look at it, I'll be reminded of my promise: I'll be good to you.

When Depression Interrupts Your Fun Night

2012-01-19T13:42:00.000-06:00

Last night, Spice and I met at Hobby Lobby to buy cross stitch materials. It turns out that my Newf is also a 90-year-old woman trapped in a much younger body (her body is almost 10 years younger than mine, so discovering her Old Lady Interests has been even that much more exciting to this Nerd). She has done cross stitch in the past and assured me that it's just counting. She said, "No math, just counting." Uh huh. Whatevs. I've done cross stitch, too, so I know it can be a bit tricky. But once you get the hang of it, it's super fun and relaxing. It's something fun To Do. And doing it with a friend? Even more fun. Whee!

Last night, my goal was to find two different projects. I've learned through trial and error that if I'm buying one small thing to work on, I should probably buy two. I have a few reasons for this behavior:

If it turns out that I'm magically good at something, I'll be annoyed if I finish it quickly and will want another one right away.
If I am horribly bad at something, I will want an alternative immediately.

I made a wise choice in picking up two cross stitch projects last night. The one I ended up truly embracing was the one I had wanted the most. It will eventually look ~~nothing~~ something like this:

The butterflies do not have a pattern stamped on to the material, which means I have to read the wackadoo directions Very Carefully. Spice said there was no math, but she failed to mention the giant math-like symbol-filled grid that comes with cross stitch. Ahem.

The other project I chose looks easier, but it's actually a little more confusing methinks. There is a stamped pattern, but the colors bleed from one box to another, so I'm not entirely sure which box I am supposed to be in. Also? The holes in the material are ENORMOUS. I started putting a few stitches in the lower left area of the flower. Can you tell? No. I can't even tell and I'm looking right at it. Maybe in this case, I should have used the whole piece of floss. I don't know:

So Spice and I bought our projects, went to eat dinner, and then went to the watering hole to meet up with her boyfriend. We unloaded our projects and were met with raised eyebrows and a slew of comments intended to mock us and point out how UnCool we were. Seriously? Aren't we a little old for hazing? I guess not. The people at the watering hole should NOT be confused by my behavior by now. One night, I brought in my sketch pad and drew little posters for everyone I came in contact with -- including two strangers who were on a first date sitting next to me. I've also crocheted at least two scarfs while sitting at one of those bar stools. But last night, it was game on.

In a matter of five minutes, one guy walked up to me and said something like: "This is why you need to get laid."

I tried my very best to brush off all of the zings by explaining that this was a hobby, a form of creativity, and something To Do besides sit there and get wasted on a Wednesday night. A few people were actually interested, including a guy friend of mine who told me he thought it was neat. Very nice. But mostly, the overall feeling I got was disappointment. I had been having a great night with Spice. The cross stitch had been fun and interesting and challenging. But after a couple of more zings, my internal happy bubble collapsed.

Spice has a thicker skin than I do -- or at least it appears that way. I could be wrong. For the most part, she got started and focused in on her cross stitch and appeared to not give two sh*ts what anyone thought about it, and she most likely didn't. I probably would have been right there with her without a care in the world, but sometime during our evening, I moved the wrong way and my back went into a wicked spasm that was very knifelike. I'd been having such a good time with Spice, so I told her I'd hurt my back, but I didn't want to tell her how much it hurt. I tried to keep my Happy Face on.

My back has been doing SO much better, but suddenly, I felt I was right back at -- quite literally -- square one. All of the Happy Thoughts I've been shuttling around in my brain started to ebb out. I felt sad, in a lot of pain, and frustrated that people are so nosy and judgy and can't just let people Be Different without being a$$hats about it. Even though the people were joking (no one was seriously trying to hurt my feelings, I'm sure), I couldn't help but get the feeling that they were Hope Destroyers.

I think I was so affected by the looks -- the looks were what happened the most -- and the comments because I got an email yesterday that was in direct contrast to what was happening at the watering hole. My dear old friend Isis and I have been emailing back and forth about life. I had expressed to her that I've been in a very Dark Place this last year, and I'm fighting to get out of it. I didn't ask her for permission to print these words, but I think she would be OK with it (hope this is OK, Isis). We were talking about Being Present and working hard to appreciate what we have. She wrote:

"I'm with you in savoring our life. Because it's so wonderfully wonderful and shitty and funny and stupid and everything else. But it's happening. Now. I'll help you savor your time at farmhouse villa working your fabulous freelance career, living near your family and being close to friends and a beautiful countryside in a beautiful state that you call home. I know the demons you fight but I will help you see how fabulous your life is today and help you see that your future is going to be fabulous too."

I felt SO uplifted when I read her words. She told me I'm too special and amazing to be lying around in my bed feeling sad. It's so odd when you hear things like that about yourself from other people. Really? I am? It's the daily battle to tell ourselves: Yes, you are.

On any other day, I could have walked into the watering hole and heard all of these exact same silly comments about needing a man or doing old lady activities or whatever else someone wanted to say and it would not have affected me at all. And, I will admit that I, too, have shamelessly mocked people about their own interests in that "it's all good fun, I love you" kind of way -- many times. So in all honesty, I'm not mad at anyone and there will be no long-term affects from the jokes. For reals. I don't need to be treated with kid gloves. I'm not usually so delicate.

But last night, when my back went back to hell so quickly, it did open up a pathway to the Dark Place. I struggled to keep my sh*t together. I wanted to "give in." Crawl into my bed and cry and let myself be swallowed with the fear that something is really, really wrong with my back -- and me as a person. It's such a Siren, depression. It's so easy to walk down that path. And people have no idea how quickly or easily they can set it off over something so small and stupid and harmless at any other time of the day or week or year.

I woke up this morning feeling sad. I'm in pain again. AGAIN. And tonight I have my painting class, so I'm going to be walking around and bending and carrying things and OH IT WILL BE AWFUL. I would much rather crawl back into my bed and lie immobile for a few days. But I can't. I won't. I will pop this pain pill and this steroid, focus on my work, and go to my class.

And in a few days when I pick up my cross stitch again, I will become so fascinated by the tiny squares that I will completely forget about whatever happened at the watering hole. Slowly, my back IS going to heal. Slowly, I AM going to feel better about myself and my life. I've been doing a pretty good job so far this year, but it's important to remind myself that you CAN'T be happy all the time. It's unrealistic. It's setting a goal you are sure to fail at. It's OK to have a bad day, or a bad moment. It's OK, Blondie. It doesn't mean you're not getting better. It simply means you're having a bad day. The sky will not fall.

And, because I found this awesome site called Subversive Cross Stitch, the next time I bring a cross stitch project to the watering hole, I know exactly what it will be:

Life Laws via Robots

2012-01-18T13:15:00.000-06:00

Guess who FINALLY found her freakin' camera battery charger?? WHOOT!!

I've been slowly making my way through Asimov's robot series. To be honest, I'm not that impressed. I see what he was trying to do, but he got MUCH better at it when he launched into the Foundation series. These robot books were written before that, and there is something lacking in them. They're not as "Asimov" as other Asimov books I've read. That's OK though. They still contain information and passages that make me think about things in new ways. That's really what I'm after when I read an Asimov novel. I want my brain to be stretched.

The robot series is often thought of as a trilogy, but I discovered a little-known and hard-to-find fourth book: Robots and Empire. Just as I was growing weary of reading yet another robot book, I decided to give it a shot and get the whole thing over with. But what is this? Oooh, it's quite good! There are some twists and turns going on that are tickling my brain in that lovely way. Think, Blondie, think!

So in the book right now, one of the robots (Daneel, for those of you who are familiar with Asimov -- don't you just LOVE Daneel?) is talking about the Three Laws. He's talking with a human woman about how the Laws affect his decisions. Robots are constrained by these Laws and basically have no true choices about how they respond to things. Well, a few "smart" robots do, but that's a different story.

Anyway, here is the passage I have been thinking about:

"What then, I thought to myself, madam, if I were utterly without Laws as humans are? What if I could make no clear decision on what response to make to some given set of conditions? It would be unbearable, and I do not willingly think of it."

Gladia said, "Yet you do, Daneel. You are thinking of it, now."

"Only because of my association with Partner Elijah, madam. I observed him under conditions when he was unable, for a time, to decide on an action, because of the puzzling nature of the problems that had been set him. He was clearly in a state of ill-being as a result, and I felt ill-being on his behalf because there was nothing I could do that would ease the situation for him. It is possible that I only grasped a very small part of what he felt then. If I had grasped a larger part and better understood the consequences of his inability to decide on action I might have --" He hesitated.

"Ceased functioning? Been inactivated?" said Gladia...

See how Asimov gets at one of the most fundamental human problems here? It's true that because we lack "Laws," we are forced to deal with situations that have impossible choices. It's up to us and us alone to figure out what the hell we are supposed to do. I can't tell you how many TIMES in my life I've been faced with crazy, confusing choices. And it's true that I've sometimes become "inactivated" because of them. Thankfully, it's never happened permanently.

*yet*

Last year, I wrote many times about the "moral compass" -- what is is, why some people's are so different than others, how they are formed or broken. I still think about it a lot, and now this book has made me think about it again.

Where do the rules or laws that we live by truly come from? I know many of mine are straight-up from the Lutheranism I was raised with. I've slowly adopted other "rules" from other religions, but where do my own values come from beyond religions? I live by social, state, and federal laws. Is it because I have to? If I were thrown into an entirely new, unknown society, would my current moral compass spin out of control?

Over the years, I've been in certain environments where totally unhealthy things seemed Normal because of the environment I was in. Only when plucked out of one environment and placed in another did I see the difference -- or feel a certain weight being lifted off of me. And decisions during those times? They were so bewildering. If only I'd had a certain set of Laws that would have told me what to do. Life would have been so much easier, eh?

Maybe I will work on coming up with my own set of Three Laws. Just as an experiment. It will take some time to work them out. You can't just magically come up with Three Laws for life overnight. Unless you are an infomercial maker. BUT WAIT! THERE'S ONE MORE LAW! FOR FREE (plus extra shipping and handling)!

Hmm. This should be interesting. I love having a gnarly brain-teaser to think on for a while. What kind of Laws should I live by? And why?

The Return of the Dollhouse

2012-01-17T13:26:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, bloggie reader Brooke asked me about my dollhouse.

*record screeches*

Oh, the horror. Can you believe how long it's been since I've worked on that puppy? Back in 2007, when I decided to move home from Chicago, I asked my parents to pack up the dollhouse and take it home while they were visiting me. So my last few months in Chicago were dollhouse-less. The dollhouse moved into my childhood bedroom over at my parents' house for storage. The box filled with the rest of its pieces went under the bed. And there it sits to this day.

The process of getting my dollhouse over to Farmhouse Villa has been complicated because I simply have no idea where to put it. I considered putting it in the art room/guest bedroom, but that room is dreary and I don't like it one bit. It's the Room I Never Use, and now it stores the cat litter. The other parts of my home are awkwardly arranged -- there are windows and heating vents in usual places. This makes furniture arrangement hit-or-miss. Also, ever since Miss Gretchen moved in, I've been reluctant to bring something into my home that she could... somehow destroy. Kittehs, by nature, love dollhouses. Here is King inspecting the Princess House I made for Little back in the day:

Webster was also in love with Little's Princess House, though he preferred the box:

Basically, both kittehs were smitten with my first dollhouse from the minute it arrived:

But you know what? Excuses are stupid. Once Gretchen gets used the dollhousing materials, and Webster reacquaints himself, it will become just another piece of furniture to them. And who cares if I have a huge partially-constructed dollhouse sitting in my home at all times? Spice is the only one who comes over here and she's said to me more than once when I complain about it being messy, "I'm coming to see you, not your house," so I need to Get Over It.

But I think there is one more thing about the dollhouse that I should address before I let it come into my home. It is attached to a very sad time in my life. I bought that dollhouse as a project in Chicago because I was achingly lonely, incredibly sad, and mourning the loss of love. I bought the dollhouse as a long project I could work on after the Break-Up Heard Around the World.

I spent hours online looking for things to put in it, days wandering through stores looking for the perfect carpet, and many lonely days feeling sorry for myself while I sanded endless sheets of wood. Given, I also made some really good friends online on a dollhousing forum who encouraged me, helped me, and made me feel special. So I do have some really good memories with the house. But overall, it has a kind of "stain" on it -- you know what I mean? It's a reminder of being so horribly alone. I think that is the real reason I've never let it come to Farmhouse Villa. I don't want to be the lonely dollhouser again.

Because of my unusually strong attachment to inanimate objects, I often find myself in a stunted place like this. Well, I tried, but I failed, so I should just stop. I have this same feeling right now about the scroll saw I begged my parents for for Christmas a few years ago so I could make my own homemade jigsaw puzzles. You know where that scroll saw is? It's in my father's workshop, unopened, where it's been for TWO YEARS. I am so ashamed that I've never used it, and because of that very shame, I never bring it up or ask my father to set it up for me. I'm embarrassed that I asked for a large, expensive present that I've never used. In fact, I recently thought about selling the scroll saw to get some money. That idea? Super dumb.

In the spirit of stopping being so hard on myself, I'm going to clean-slate it. Who cares what happened in the past? The dollhouse is NOT you. The scroll saw is NOT a failure. Sh*t happens. You got busy and distracted. It's not too late.

As I sit here thinking about it, I realize how many amazing things I could be creating right now if I had the dollhouse and the scroll saw in my house. I decided to leave the scroll saw in my father's workshop so we could spend time together -- and because it's kind of "dirty" work. But you know what? It's cold in his shop in the winter, so I never go. It's hot in his shop in the summer, so I never go. I thought I should leave the dollhouse at my parents' house so I could work on it there without kittehs. But you know what? When I go there, I want to see them and spend time with them, so I never even think about it. The only time I remember it is when my mother gently suggests I should do something with it or when Little goes to their house and asks me about it. And NOTHING sucks more than having Little look at me and ask me about my grand dollhouse and realizing I've not worked on it for years.

(Oh, dear reader Brooke, you had no idea what a can of worms you were opening. Hahahaha. But I'm grateful, I really am. These things need to be addressed. Sometimes, I need a nudge from the Universe, and you just happened to be it this time. Thank you.)

I'm going to bring my hobbies into my home. I think I will get a tablecloth for my dining room table and put the dollhouse there -- front and center. Right now, my dining room table is a catch-all for mail, books, and crap. No one eats at it, not even me. So it will become the dollhouse area. In my home office, there is a stack of crap that has been in the same place since it all moved into Farmhouse Villa in 2007. I'm not entirely sure what is in the boxes, but they can move. So the scroll saw will move into the home office. There, done. Decision made.

(I can literally hear a sigh of relief coming from my mother as she realizes she will no longer have to be Blondie's Personal Storage Shed. Congrats, Ma!)

As I sit here now, I have a little sad tug on my heart. I am remembering how lonely I felt when I worked on my dollhouse before. But I'm also a little proud of myself. At one of my lowest times in life, I found something To Do. I gave myself a project to distract myself and keep myself from falling into a dark pit of nothingness. The house I own is called the Beacon Hill from Greenleaf Dollhouses. I bought it because I love the tower. But right now, I'm more interested in the meaning of the word beacon:

a source of light or inspiration

May it be so.

Treat Yourself to a Jenny

2012-01-16T13:09:00.000-06:00

People, I got my promise ring. The store accepted my offer, and I should get it by the end of the week. I feel FANTASTIC. This is the best news EVER on a Monday morning. I think it's a very "Blondie" ring. A little dinged up but still going strong.

Part of my promise to Do Better in 2012 is to take more inspiration from Jenny Lawson, or The Bloggess. If you don't read her regularly, you should. She's the one who inspired me to make my dollhouse. Over the years, she's made me laugh and cry many times (in good ways). Overall, she's just an interesting person, and I like interesting people.

In the world of blogginess, there are a few categories. I learned about them early on. Unfortunately, these categories have a way of creating jealousy and some downright ugliness in the blogosphere. I have witnessed more than one public train wreck in my time online. And usually, the "bigger" people get, the less friendly they become. They start to wield their powers in awkward and sneaky ways. Not so with Jenny. She's straight-up good people.

This weekend, I was telling my friend Spice about The Traveling Red Dress, which is a project Jenny started to make women feel beautiful. In an odd twist of fate, I just checked in on Jenny and it turns out that Forbes wrote an article about it. This made me beam with pride, yes it did. No, I've never met Jenny in person. But I've been "near" her at BlogHer conferences and we've commented on each other's blogs from time to time. In that unique, bloggy way, I feel like I know her. You know what I'm talking about. So I feel proud of my friend. Yes, my friend.

What I appreciate the most about Jenny, along with her fantastic sense of humor, is that she's quite honest about her problems with anxiety. I relate to these problems all too well. Been there, done that. And because she is funny and interesting, people pay attention to her stories about mental health. She's doing something completely new and important -- giving a voice to the dark underbelly of life. It's OK to be a little "off." We all are.

This is a message that I also try to share here on Clark Street, although I'm not nearly as good at it as Jenny is. But you know what? I don't need to be Jenny. I need Jenny to be Jenny. I've spent the majority of my life looking for wise women -- mentors that are "more than me" that I can learn from. Instead of taking the road down blogosphere jealously that is very common and kind of hard to battle when you're feeling blue, I choose instead to shamelessly adore Jenny and look up to her for inspiration. I think in a way, the promise ring to myself is a Traveling Red Dress I can wear all the time. It's a tad more subtle than a red dress, but the message is the same:

"I want, just once, to wear a bright red, strapless ball gown with no apologies. I want to be shocking, and vivid and wear a dress as intensely amazing as the person I so want to be. And the more I thought about it the more I realized how often we deny ourselves that red dress and all the other capricious, ridiculous, overindulgent and silly things that we desperately want but never let ourselves have because they are simply “not sensible”. Things like flying lessons, and ballet shoes, and breaking into spontaneous song, and building a train set, and crawling onto the roof just to see the stars better. Things like cartwheels and learning how to box and painting encouraging words on your body to remind yourself that you’re worth it."

Take that in for a moment. Isn't it a beautiful message?

In the last few years, Jenny has raised a ridiculous amount of money for complete strangers. She's also written a book (which I can't wait to read). But what she's done for me personally is bigger than all that.

I have some difficulty explaining to my parents why I go through highs and lows. Because neither of them experiences depression the way I do, they often become very concerned when I'm in a Dark Place. Being parents, they want to Fix It. Now. And even though I am a grown woman, they still consider me their little girl, so they want to help in any way they can. Sometimes forcefully. (rolls eyes, realizes it all comes from a place of love, moves on)

The message I've been trying (and somewhat failing) to share with my parents is that my depression/anxiety is not something that has a cure. I can take medicine and go to therapy, but there will never be a permanent fix. Just as something like cancer can go into remission for a while, it can come back -- just when you least expect it. The goal is to fight through the tough times and enjoy the good times. It's not a death sentence to have depression or anxiety. You can still have a wonderful, fascinating life. Jenny is showing me how to do this. And so, whenever I find a post of hers that really speaks to me, I send it to my parents. See? This is my friend Jenny. She's successful and famous -- and she's twittery sometimes. Look. I'm not the only one! (It also helps that Pa is a huge fan of Wil Wheaton. That's how I get him to remember who she is because he can only remember one name of one person I know at a time.)

So this year, as I continue to create the New and Improved Blondie, I'm going to keep taking inspiration from Jenny. She's been through a lot, and she continues to shine. And here is the most beautiful thing about her -- I don't expect her to shine all the time. I know she will also have lows and highs. I haven't put her on a some unrealistic, pedestal of perfection in my mind. Instead, she is a healthy reminder to me that life shoots us 1,000 obstacles each day, and we can choose to compassionately take care of ourselves during the bad times and then shamelessly, ridiculously enjoy ourselves at others.

I encourage to you find Your Jenny, whoever that person may be. I have a lot of Jennys, but today I felt the need to say loud and clear: Jenny Lawson, thank you for everything you do.

New and Improved Blondie Makes a Promise to Herself

2012-01-15T15:13:00.000-06:00

Due to my wackadoo back problems, this year has started out a little wonky. I am still in a lot of pain each day, and I've had difficulty keeping up with housework, etc. HOWEVER, I have a mission for 2012, and nothing is going to stop me. This year, I'm going to rock.

The New and Improved Blondie is going to take better care of herself. It's all a mental health game, really. When I get into a depressive slump, it's usually because I've been listening to the nonsense in my head that is deeply ingrained within myself. I know that science has proven we can literally change the way we think by creating new neuron pathways in our brains. The problem? It takes hard work and practice.

Shrinkydink always told me that the first step is recognizing the bad thoughts. Oh, there you are. Isn't that interesting. Simply pausing to notice that you're having the self-destructive thoughts is very important. It temporarily halts them. Then, if you have the strength or oomph to do it, you can force a new thought through your mind. I am special and beautiful. Something like that. Zap poof ZING! You're on your way to creating a new way of thinking.

(I have simplified. It takes a lot longer to create the new pathways. Also, I'm not a medical doctor or a psychologist. But I read a lot. That counts, right? Whatevs.)

Anyway, my goal for this year is to make myself feel good and special in as many ways as possible. I'm already on my way by letting myself take my new painting class, which has opened up my mind to a lot of creative thoughts about the world around me. I've been spending time daydreaming about different works of art instead of my upcoming appointment with the Tax Man. Giving myself the simple opportunity to daydream about painting and New York City has done wonders for what my brain is doing in its spare time. It will take much more work to truly get me out of my most recent funk (and the back pain going away would really help), but I think I have made a good start. Good job, Blondie! (See, I'm already rewarding myself. Baby steps.)

I will be turning 35 in May. I already know that this is setting off some kind of alarm bells in my mind about various failed dreams. I don't want to beat myself up all year long about my own perceived failures in life. Not cool. Not productive. So a while back, I started thinking about something I could do to symbolically remind myself that I am worthy and deserving of all good things in life.

One of the things that seems to affect me in a negative way is all of the beautiful jewelry my friends have from their husbands, lovers, or boyfriends. There is no "good" reason to have an extensive jewelry collection when you're single. There are much better things to spend your money on. I have a few really nice pieces of jewelry from my grandmother and parents. I also have a stunning necklace/bracelet set from Marshall. But other than that, I have no nice jewelry. Most of it is sterling silver, which tarnishes and then I am too lazy to clean it. I also have broken a lot of chains, so I have a bunch of pendants with no necklaces to hold them on. Last year, I bought myself a nice ring, but it was rather cheap and it's a little too big and I realized that I bought it because it was in my price range -- not because I was in love with it.

So I started getting this idea in my mind that I should buy myself a promise ring. It sounds cheesy, but it's going to work like this: I promise to take care of myself and give myself the best life possible. Wedding rings are a symbol of a bond -- vows that two people make to each other for a lifetime. I don't need the ring I want to come from someone else. I need a ring that is just for me -- something that will be on my hand each day to remind myself that I am worthy. A reminder that someone is looking out for me, even if it's just myself. It will almost serve as a personal challenge. Are you going to let yourself down or pick yourself up today?

I listen to about .05% of what Dr. Phil has to say, but one of the mantras he often says about relationships that is that each day you choose to "contribute to or contaminate" your relationship. It's a good philosophy. Are you going to make your partner's life good or bad each day? Serve as inspiration or be an a$$hat? I'm going to try to use this philosophy on myself in 2012. I want to contribute good things to my life. Good thoughts, healthy relationships, and stop being so freaking hard on myself all the time.

(In a few months when I'm having a bad day and start the inevitable swoop back downwards, can you remind me that I said all of this now? K, thanks.)

Sometimes, when I get bored, I've gone and looked for the "perfect ring" that I want. Not an engagement ring, just any old ring. I feel like jewelry, houses, and kitties are all "found" in the same way. You just know. You see it and BAM, you're done. So for about six months now, I've been searching for my ring. I can't tell you how many rings I've scrolled through on various web sites. It's been a LOT. Yesterday, I found it. My ring. It's simple, small, and perfect. I want it. I need it.

I found the ring on a Web site called Ruby Lane, which is a portal for a bunch of different shops. You have the option to make an "offer" on something you want for less than the price it's listed at. After hovering over my ring for a while, I decided to try out the offer option. Why not? It's there for a reason, right? So instead of paying $225 for the ring, I offered $200. The problem with doing this is that the offer gets forwarded to the owner of the shop and then you have to wait.

*waits*

At this moment in time, I'm thinking I should have just bought the damn ring so I wouldn't have to worry about it. What if someone else offers a better offer? That's my ring! It's one of a kind! ACK! Because it's the weekend, I now have to wait until the owner sees the offer and makes a choice. I'm hoping this will all be resolved soon because I might freak out a little bit if I don't get my ring. I really want it. Bad.

I don't want to put a picture up of it because I don't want to jinx myself. It's entirely possible that I will have to begin a new ring search if I lose this option. But I can tell you that it's an estate ring -- old, vintage, and Not Perfect. It has some flaws. That doesn't bother me at all. I like the idea that this ring has been around for a while. I wonder what woman wore it, what her story was, and what it meant to her? Was it from a lover or a gift to herself? Was it a family heirloom? Did she love it or hate it? So many thoughts. Ideas for stories or paintings...

(Wow, this post is getting long. I clearly have a lot to say today.)

Either way, if I get this ring that I want or have to look for another, the point is that I'm getting myself a promise ring. And then I'm going to promise to take care of myself and give myself the the most rewarding, exiting life possible even if I end up alone, renting, and childless forever. The fears that I've been living with for the last few years have been overpowering. They have stunted my growth and halted me in an unhealthy, unproductive way. I'm going to stop punishing myself for some bad things that have happened to me in the last few years. It was all just a part of life. It's time to move on for reals.

When I do get my ring, I will slip it on my finger, close my eyes, and promise myself that I will Do Better. I will treat myself with the same respect, compassion, and love that I give to my friends and family. I forgive my friends and loved ones for their flaws and mistakes, so I will also forgive myself. I try to find small ways to make my friends happy, so I will also do this for me. I've been looking for so long for someone I can shower with love and affection. I think I finally found her.

My Own Little Masterpiece

2012-01-13T12:52:00.001-06:00

Last night, I went to my first painting class. It was really fun. For our first assignment, we learned how to make a fresco painting. We had to mix up Plaster of Paris, goop it onto a piece of fabric (you can see the edges of the fabric -- it was a thick black-and-white checkerboard type), etch the image into the plaster, and then paint over it. We were copying the hands of God and Adam from the Sistine Chapel:

I am no Michelangelo, no I am not. But I tried. My classmates are much more artistically talented than I am. As I looked around the room, I realized that my hands looked like Simpsons characters while everyone else's captured the shading, outlines, and finger placement from the original perfectly. But you know what? WHATEVS. I DON'T CARE.

I also learned as the night went on that many of the people in my class had taken multiple classes from the teacher before, so they had those handy things called Prior Knowledge and Personal Experience. (ahem, cheaters)

But I reminded myself that it's not a competition. I don't need to win a gold star for having the best hands. The fact that I drug my back-pained, depressed, freezing cold (it was like 9 degrees last night) a$$ to Omaha and attended the class was what was most important to me. Sitting in a classroom with 13 strangers and doodling in my kindergarten-ish way brought out a childlike joy inside of me. I really needed it. The people in my class looked to be early 30s through probably mid-50s (with the exception of one teenage boy), so it was nice to be surrounded by my peers. I fit right in. Sweet.

So the idea of the class is that we'll be able to inspect (very close-up) some of the famous paintings that are in Joslyn. Then, we'll go back to our classroom and try to copy the paintings. We'll learn history, style, and the process that was used for the originals. I usually don't like the idea of copying existing paintings. I prefer to make my own. But the teacher said we can also use the originals as inspiration for our own ideas, so I might veer off the original path from time to time. We'll see. I'm going to play it by ear.

After the class, I went to meet Spice at the watering hole. She had a laptop with her, so we started searching online for different classes we might take together or events we could go see. We came up with a ton of ideas for new adventures. I loved it.

I suppose it really is a snowball effect. You decide to Do One Thing and then another and another and another and suddenly you Have a Life. The key is to find that first thing to do, and then do it. I'm on my way.

The promises of this world are, for the most part, vain phantoms; and to confide in one's self, and become something of worth and value is the best and safest course.

-- Michelangelo

Letter to My Niece

2012-01-12T11:30:00.000-06:00

Recently, I discovered an incredible blog called Letters of Note. This morning, I read a letter from John Steinbeck to his son about love. Read it here. I'll wait.

*waits*

Reading this letter inspired me to write my own letter of note. It's not historically important or literary genius or anything, but I feel compelled to share some thoughts with my sweet niece.

Dearest Little,

Someday, you will be old enough to read and fully understand this blog, and I might quickly go from being your cool, fun auntie to that strange, crazy-cat-lady aunt. It's understandable. There are things on this blog that are quite personal, dark, and serious. You are 7 years old right now, so I don't share my intimate thoughts with you. It's much more fun to make crafts, sing silly songs, and snuggle on couches. I can only imagine that one day you'll be 15 and sitting on your bed listening to rock music and stumble upon my blog and read all the archives. Oh my. That will be interesting.

Your mother and I come from a long line of creative women. Grandma used to write poetry and make all kinds of art. Grandpa's mother wrote poetry, too. So your mom and I have come by our oddness through genetics, and we really can't help it. But I truly feel that being "creative" is better than the alternative. We may see phantoms that aren't really there, but we also see a kaleidoscope of colors where others may only see shades of gray.

Humans are interesting in that they share more information about the bad times than the good. The saying "misery loves company" exists for a reason. We form bonds with people when we share our soft underbellies. Sharing too many good times can come across as bragging and, most of the time, it just p*sses other people off. I know I want to smack people over the head if they only tell me how fabulous their lives are. You might feel, when you read some of my posts, that I am a sad, depressed, lonely, old fart. And it's true that I often write about personal feelings that are kind of "ugly." I do this to get the thoughts OUT of my mind, but I also find comfort in the emails and comments I get from readers -- friends.

The truth of life -- the things that make us unique and powerful and interesting to others -- is not often revealed in conversations about happiness. It is usually learned over the course of many years and is the result of how people respond to hardship. Grandpa taught me long ago that you really only know a person when either you or that person goes through a S.E.E. moment -- a Significant Emotional Event. The person's actions and words during the S.E.E. moment show you what that person is truly made of. It takes time, maturity, and many S.E.E. moments to figure out who you really are. At this age of 34, I am still learning.

One of the things that I appreciate about you is that you see my single/childfree life as an exciting adventure. You've often said that you want to be like me when you grow up so you can do "whatever you want whenever you want." It's true, dear heart, I am able to come and go as I please. My decisions in life do not hinge directly on others. And while I do often write on this blog about being lonely and wanting a life partner, I do believe deep inside that my own path has been the right one for me. I wanted to explore my dreams before I settled down.

It's taking me longer than I thought it would to find a partner, but you know what? That just means that when I find the right man, he will really be the right man. Chicago Cousin recently got engaged and, over Christmas, I watched her and her hubbie-to-be interacting with each other. It was magical. The way they looked at each other made me so happy. When you get married at our (older) age, you are truly choosing to add a person into your life for different reasons than you would have right out of high school. I've been thinking about relationships in a whole new way since I saw Chicago Cousin last. See? Still learning and growing every day.

I have so many things I want to share with you as you get older -- lessons I've learned, adventures I've had, and moments that only you and I will share. And I want you to share so many things with me! I look forward to the future when you might call me to tell about something happening in your life. Will you ask me for advice? Will you independently engineer a creative solution? Will you go through a time when Auntie Bon Bon is the LAST person you want to spend an afternoon with? All things are possible. And I will love you through every trial, phase, or S.E.E. moment in your life.

You have my heart,

Auntie Bon Bon

(Have any thoughts for the future, older Little? Leave them in the comments. I think she would enjoy that.)

When Your Vacation Is Overdue by Two Decades

2012-01-11T12:38:00.000-06:00

It really helps me to know that I am not the only one who has financial difficulties (or mental health woes). While I do know these things deep down inside, it's easy to forget. Getting comments or emails from my bloggie peeps always makes me feel better -- and they remind me to get my head out of my own a$$.

Yesterday was a bad day. I was in so much pain that I couldn't sit at my desk to do my work. I went from my bed to the couch trying to find relief. At some point, I looked up the blog on my Nook and saw words of encouragement to stay in the class. So I am going to do it. I will be arty farty and nothing can stop me.

I also briefly considered not going to BlogHer '12 in New York City. It's an expensive trip, to be sure, and I want to Do Things while I'm there that will inevitably cost money (and money for snow globes). But then I thought about New York. Really thought about it.

You would think that New York City would terrify me because of my previous rants about concrete jungles, but it's actually been a lifelong dream of mine to see the Big Apple. While I don't buy into the typical American hype that New York is the "greatest city in the world," I do respect its size, history, and unique culture. At one point, I thought about moving there, but that was when I was young and dreamy and didn't understand how much rent costs.

Even though I was relieved to move away from Chicago, I still miss it. I think of it as "my city" more than I do Iowa City or Portland or even Farmsville. When I used to fly back home from visiting my parents or being on a business trip, I was comforted when the skyline and Lake Shore Drive came into view. I "grew up" in Chicago, so I hold it dear to my heart. Getting me to admit that on a regular basis? Good luck. But if I could have found a way to financially survive in Chicago, I most likely would have stayed there forever. Whether or not I would have been mentally healthy there is a whole different post.

Regarding New York, I think I feel a bit differently about it than most tourists would. I have no desire to see Times Square. If I do, great. If I don't, whatevs. I feel the same way about Central Park. I'm sure it's pretty, but I live in the country. I see beautiful nature all the time. What I really want to see in New York is Ellis Island.

I looked up Ellis Island information and discovered that the Statue of Liberty will be CLOSED while I am in New York for repairs. Of course. Hrumph. But at least I'll still be able to visit her island and spend time on Ellis, which is what I really want to see. Because I write English as a Second Language materials, I've read many stories about what it was like when immigrants first saw the State of Liberty or passed through Ellis Island. These stories have been sad, scary, exciting, and inspiring.

Today, it's easy to forget that the United States once represented so many opportunities for people all over the world. It still does, but in a much different way. And now, it's hard as hell to get in here -- especially if you are from certain countries. But way back when? All you needed was a boat ticket and a dream. Anything was possible. I enjoy reading about that time and learning how people created amazing, fulfilling lives by simply coming to New York with a few dollars in their pockets. And then like 1,000 people crammed into the same tiny apartment and lived on top of each other forever -- but they made it. They went on to bigger and better things. They moved west and created or bettered the cities I eventually lived in. In a way, I owe them a lot.

So I don't want to explore the modern, cultural aspects of New York City as much as I do the incredible history. I am not as excited about the height of the Empire State Building as I am the men who built it. I enjoy the crazy stories, like the one I read about Typhoid Mary, who was basically imprisoned on a New York island until she died because she carried typhoid (but never had it herself). I'd like to see where the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory was and visit the 9/11 museum. I want to soak up all of the history that New York City has to offer. Oh yeah, and party like a rock star with my sister and all of the other awesome bloggers.

When my Chicago Ex and I were together, we took exactly one "vacation." It wasn't really a vacation at all. We went to Wisconsin for two nights. We stayed in a nice hotel, ate food, and walked around. That was it. That was in 2005. That is the only "vacation" I've taken as an adult, and I don't really count it because it was a last-minute idea and it wasn't really that fun. The rest of my travels have been business trips, weddings, or trips to stay with family or friends. The last time I was in a hotel room (besides the weekend with my ex) strictly for FUN and relaxation was when I was a freshman in high school and went to Florida with my parents. I was 14 years old. It was 20 years ago. That realization hit me like giant boulder on the head yesterday.

So no, I will not be cancelling my New York vacation, despite its cost. I finally have a vacation I am looking forward to, and nothing is going to rain on that parade. So even though my chest feels kind of tight right at this moment because my brain is telling me it's unnecessary to go, I'm fighting back to tell myself it is.

Internal Arguments

2012-01-10T11:36:00.000-06:00

I have started and deleted this post 6 times. This time, no matter what I type, I'm leaving it up on the screen. I'm having a rotten morning because even though I went to the doctor yesterday and got some meds, I woke up in horrifying pain due to tweaking and re-injuring my back roughly 10 times over the holidays.

You know what sucks when you're already in a huge amount of physical pain? Bills. Unexpected, giant bills.

So then you start thinking maybe you should cancel your upcoming art class. Even though you've been looking forward to it and have gotten all excited, it suddenly seems like an unnecessary expense. Frivolous in a way. A waste of funds.

But then you remind yourself that you never do anything fun, and this is probably why your back hurts so much -- your body is rejecting your boring life. And you're trying SO VERY HARD to pull yourself out of the winter depression that has darkened every good thing in your life. Pretty colors would make it better. Gazing at great paintings during the class would stimulate your mind and show you there is life in the world.

But then you think about how much money it costs to take the art class and the brushes and paints that you will surely need to start this new hobby. Surely, you don't need to spend any more money right now (especially after buying Shirley, this brand new computer you are typing on).

And the very last thing you need right now is the giant, snarling, drooling, Shame Monster that is sitting on your shoulder asking you why you need to go to a museum and pay money to learn how to paint when surely, you could learn acrylics on your own.

I hate the Shame Monster. It has so much power right now. F*cker.

I have a few choices here:

Cancel the art class and then secretly cry about it for a few months.
Work all day long while running a hamster-wheel recording in my mind about money, bills, my parents' disappointment in me, freelancing payments that take forEVER to come, and getting a job at the grocery store so someone else pays my health insurance.
Choose right here right now to stay in the class and not feel guilty about it. Then work, eat, sleep, and repeat.

Shrinkydink would say to choose #3. #3 is the key to getting myself out of this cycle. Thinking about money doesn't make it go away or change anything. It only makes me even more crazy than I already am.

I actually opened the window to where I'd made my payment for the class a few times and hovered over the cancel button.

But I think instead, I'll go to the class, learn how to paint, and eventually paint an image of myself conquering the Shame Monster. I wonder what that will look like?

Blondie's Unexplained Bump, Part 263

2012-01-08T10:56:00.005-06:00

Sometime in November, I found a lump in the shin area of my left leg. It was a small knot, and it hurt when I pushed on it. There was no bruise, so I was confused. What did I do? When did I do it? I decided to ignore it for a while in the hopes that it would go away. But during that time, I had a secret fear growing bigger and bigger inside of me: I have my mother's cancer.

Ma survived two bouts with cancer and has been cancer-free for something like 25 years. (Don't ask me to do the math or tell you what it was called because I never remember.) Here are the facts I know about Ma's cancer:

She had two different tumors. One was in her lower right shin; one was in her upper right thigh.
She noticed the lumps because they were there, but they didn't hurt OR have bruises.
She had surgery to remove both, then chemo and radiation.
It was scary and awful.

So after fingering this bump on my shin for a few weeks, I decided maybe I should go see the doctor. It's better to be safe than sorry. Over Thanksgiving, I made Ma and Chicago Cousin feel the lump to make sure I wasn't imagining it. Then I thought about going to the doctor and waited. And waited and waited. The fear -- it was all-consuming.

I actually did this to myself:

Maybe the reason you aren't married and don't have children is because you are going to die young from this horrible cancer.

Who does that to themselves? People like me, I guess.

So the holidays came along in full force and work was busy and I was procrastinating, but I finally made the appointment and went to see my doc. By the time I went to see him, the lump had significantly shrunk. I wasn't as afraid of it as I had been before, but I was still concerned. Especially when he started pushing on it and insisted we take X-rays.

So he took some X-rays, and I sat there waiting for diagnosis.

Tick, tick, tick...

When I first arrived at the doctor, I weighed in. Oddly, and I seriously have no idea how this happened, I've lost 11 lbs since I went to see this doctor at this same time last year. So then I decided my random weight loss must have something to do with the cancer growing inside of me.

Tick, tick, tick...

My mother has been to see this doctor, so I asked him to check her records to see what kind she had had. He left the room and went to look up her history.

Tick, tick, tick...

Then he came back and put my X-ray up on the screen. The tech had drawn a giant arrow pointing to the bump. There it was. The bump. It was real. It was obvious on the X-ray. It was NOT my imagination.

Because of my mother's history, my doctor recommended that I get an MRI.

In a flash, I was snapped out of my fear and fully into my present -- the life I currently have that comes with a history of enormous, life-altering medical bills and nothing to show for it on the other end of them. Suddenly, I was no longer a scared child. I was a full-on grown-up with a shrinking lump who did NOT want to go down another road of hospital visits, hopes and dreams dashed, and an inability to do anything fun ever because all I do is Pay Big Bills.

I took a moment to explain to my doctor how I'm still paying off all of the testing I had done because of my whoosh, so there is no way in hell I'm getting another giant test without a REALLY good reason. I reminded him that the bump is smaller now -- much smaller than it was back in November. Surely, if it was cancer, it would grow bigger, right?

He looked at me with concern (he's a truly loving, caring doctor), and said I could have like six months. We agreed that I could wait and watch for a bit. If it gets bigger, I have to get the MRI. And I totally will. Because I know what happens when you let cancer grow too long because of fear. I know it all too well.

In this case, I honestly don't think a cancer ball is growing. The doctor said I may have bumped my leg at one time and now it's formed a calcium deposit or some such thing. Most likely, and I truly believe this with all of my heart now, it's nothing.

But for a while there, I was terrified. I had nightmares and daydreams that I really didn't need to be having. I should have gone to the doctor earlier. Next time, I will.

This is a friendly reminder to go to the doctor if you have any strange things going on that concern you. Trust me, you'll feel a lot better afterward.

On Forced Outings

2012-01-06T10:30:00.000-06:00

Last week, I was telling my aunties about a gardening exhibit I am planning on taking Ma to when Auntie 1 piped up and asked, "How do you find all of these fun things to go to?" I answered her in the most honest way I knew how: "I have no life." Then I explained how every month or so, I go to a bunch of Web sites of places around Omaha to find upcoming events I might like or my parents might like or one of my friends might like. Things like that. I also use the tourist sites for Iowa and Nebraska to find events. It's a process. For every 1 fun thing I find, there are 30 that look totally snoreboring.

I make myself find things to do because if I don't, I will sit here and be bored and get all sad and lonely. I realized there was a direct correlation between not having done anything fun this fall and my spiral into depression. (All work and no play makes Blondie a dull girl. DULL GIRL. DULL GIRL!)

I'm still kind of in that depression, but I'm pulling out of it. Slowly. The other night, I decided that I needed to take myself out to dinner. I really didn't want to go. I moaned and complained to myself. Oh, just eat something in the house. Don't spend money. It's dark out there! You have terrible night vision! (True story -- I have a VERY hard time seeing at night while I'm driving.) But then I thought about Little.

When I get into the true Doom and Gloom, I make myself think about Little. You want Little to have a good life even if she ends up alone, right? You need to set a good example for your niece. Put on your big girl panties and go out to eat. NOW!

So I got in the car and drove to a bar I've been meaning to eat at for quite some time. I sat down at the bar by myself (it was long and extremely well-lit with little spot lights shining down on my solo self). The area behind me was filled with tables full of friends and families that were eating and laughing and drinking and having a jolly good time. I ordered my meal and a Coke (I could sense the inner eyeball roll from the bartender). Then I pulled out my book and sat there and read.

I started thinking: Why am I here? I could be reading this book at home in my comfy pants on my couch. This is ridiculous. But then I realized that I did enjoy the atmosphere. It was nice to feel a buzz of life around me. Then there was a shift change with the employees and I looked up and saw THE HAWTEST BARTENDER I've seen in years. For reals.

Brief tangent:

I've dated a lot of bartenders. It's always a bad idea. I no longer have any desire whatsoever to date bartenders. They scream: DANGER DANGER RUN! So no, I will not be stalking/throwing myself at the bartender. Whatevs.

Anyway, the bartender and I made a little small talk and then I went back to my book. The food was awesome. The Coke was bubbly fresh. My book was hella interesting. And every so often, I got to sneak a peek at the hottie who took over my tab.

When I was finished eating, I packed up, paid my bill, said goodbye, and came right back home. I was glad I went. It's a pain in the a$$ to have to force myself to Go Do Things, but it pays off. I was reminded that:

Restaurant food is delicious.
There is life outside of Farmhouse Villa.
I can still find men in the world who are attractive.

These things give me a bit of hope. I think Little would be proud.

Star Light, Star Bright

2012-01-04T09:55:00.000-06:00

Saturn's moons c/o the amazing folks at NASA.

In a different life, I would have been an astronaut. I love space. It's so beautiful and mysterious. I wonder how far we will go? I wonder if we will ever achieve faster-than-light travel so we can visit other worlds? Will we ever figure out how to keep our bodies from turning to goo or stop ourselves from going batsh*t crazy on the long journey to Mars?

The way this world is going, I'm starting to think that we are going backwards. In every possible way. People are losing their life savings, homes, and jobs. Borders closed. Other giant companies are failing. Instead of making progress, we are going back in time and in accomplishments.

Regarding space travel, it's been all but forgotten. The space shuttle program ended with little fanfare. And now there is nothing. POOF. Weren't we pioneers of space travel once? Didn't the whole world gasp in awe when we sent our first rockets into space? What happened to that spirit of adventure? Oh yeah. IT COSTS TOO MUCH.

Well, guess who is going to go? China.

And you know what's going to happen when China gets to the moon? The United States is going to FREAK OUT. Oh sh*t, we were there FORTY years ago! Why didn't we stay? Are they building lasers? Are they going to take over and shoot things at us? HURRY UP, NASA! GET ON IT! Oh wait a second. TOO LATE. Too bad, so sad.

I have to hand it to China. They make a bunch of useless plastic toys AND they are going to the moon. I'm pretty sure EVERYTHING in my home office is from China. Probably even my cats are from China and I just don't know.

But anyway, my father just gone done reading The Moon Is a Harsh Mistress at my request. We both agree that this book is phenomenal for many, many reasons -- including the fact that it was published in 1966 -- 3 full years before we ever landed on the moon. Despite not knowing anything about the lunar surface, Robert A. Heinlein had the imagination to figure it out and tell a fantastic tale. Even though the moon is a penal colony in the book, I found myself jealous that people were living up there. I know I will never see this in my lifetime, and it makes me sad.

One of the interests my father and I share is space. We both are intrigued by the universe -- how it was created, how it works, what it looks like, the physics of it all. He understands far more than I do regarding the math equations, but I can see the beauty of it even though I don't fully understand. And I love it that whenever I'm reading a science fiction novel that involves space travel or exploration, I can ask Pa any question and he'll have the answer. (Note to self: Date a guy who can answer all of your space travel queries.)

When the new Mars rover, Curiosity, was getting ready to launch, I learned about a program where you could have your name included on a microchip that would ride on Curiosity's back. I entered my name and both of my parents' names. I have little certificates that I keep forgetting to give them that say: Pa Blonderson, You are a part of history! Your name will be carried to Mars on a microchip carried by NASA's Mars Science Laboratory rover.

NASA didn't have to do that. I think it's awesome. They are letting us participate in a way. But you know what's sad? Not very many people signed up to have their names to go Mars. Check out this world participation map. Only about 500,000 people from the US sent in their names despite the fact that 300,000,000 people live here. Even CHINA sent more names than my home state of Iowa. Sigh.

I used to feel sad because I worried that we would go back to the moon or to Mars or somewhere fascinating after my father had passed away, and I wouldn't be able to share the glorious moment with him. But now, I feel like that's never going to happen in my lifetime. Perhaps Little will see it?

After years of living in large cities, I appreciate my view of the heavens from the country. The stars are SO bright here. I can see planets that weren't visible on the darkest of nights in Chicago. I've been relearning the constellations and watching for the space station. (I challenge you to find the space station in your sky one night -- look for your times here.)

I wish I lived in a time when people were more interested in seeing what is out there. Really trying to explore. What happened to our pioneering spirit? And will we ever get it back?

Getting Rid of the Ick

2012-01-03T09:28:00.001-06:00

For the last week or so, I've been very gloomy. Last night, I realized what was happening. I'm officially having a mid-life crisis. There. I said it.

As a little treat, I recently bought my cousin Kira a 5-year diary. She interviewed me for a grad school paper last year about the art of journaling. When she said she didn't think she'd ever find the time or energy, I reminded her that our grandfather kept a diary 5 years at a time. My father also does this. You just have to write one line a day -- it's very handy. While I do blog here about many things, there are a TON of other personal thoughts I have that I do NOT feel comfortable sharing with the world. So I do write in a diary from time to time. When I bought the small, easy diary for Kira, I also bought one for myself.

I think I got a little weebed out when I sat down to write in the diary because I wrote 2012 in as the date. That means I will end the diary in 2017, when I am 40. 40?? Yes, 40. Because this year, I will be 35. This notion of being 35? It hit me like a ton of bricks. Fuuuuuudge.

When I turned 25, I also had a meltdown of sorts. Back then, I was super dreamy about what my life was supposed to be like. I was working at the Giant Publishing House, living in Chicago, and my brain self-terminated for a few days. I actually called in sick to work. Over turning 25. We can laugh now, but I was super freaked out at the time. See, I always thought I would die young. I grew up thinking I only HAD until 25 to accomplish all of my goals. When I realized I wasn't fabulous at 25, I broke down. Eventually, I picked myself up, brushed myself off, and kept going with my life. And then 10 years passed and here we are again.

Has it been 10 years? Where does the time go?

Part of the freaking out is from waking up from this Gloom and Doom phase I was in during 2011. I now have a sudden desire to Do Things and Be Productive in ways I never have before. But I also get scared that maybe I've missed out on my chance for certain life events -- love, children, a true home. Maybe it's not depression -- maybe it's just the truth. Maybe, just maybe, I really AM destined to stumble through life without really knowing what my direction is. How can this be possible? I was raised in a great home, I got a good education, and I've put myself out there in 1,000 different ways. Is this really it?

*crickets*

Yes, I know, I know. I'm still YOUNG. Randomly, my California Cousin called me yesterday out of the blue. I don't remember her ever calling me in my entire life. Perhaps she has, but I don't remember it. She called to catch up, and we had a wonderful conversation. She was funny and interesting and had some good life stories to share. She's 43 now, so I have much to learn from my older, wiser cousin. I know this is true with all of them. Chicago Cousin and I recently had a very enlightening conversation about love and life. I know mysterious and magical things can happen at any time, but I do still feel that I always miss the mark.

For example, I want SO badly to buy a home, but even though I've been successfully freelancing for almost 5 years, I feel like there is NO way I can buy a home without a "real" job. But there is no way to get a "real" job in this area. But this is where I want to live. Catch-22. Catch-34?

I think everyone goes through some kind of mid-life crisis. We do it at different ages. Lord knows I know enough men who are REALLY obvious about it. Divorces, flashy cars, hair plugs, new gym memberships. Women are less physically obvious about it, but I think we take it harder because we can get so stuck in our minds. Our crisis moments are hidden in the thick jungles of our psyches. It can get quite ugly in there. It does for me, anyway.

So I know I'm not alone in thinking that I've reached the middle of my life without a whole hell of a lot to show for it. And I know the grass is ALWAYS greener on the other side. Somewhere out there, a reader is thinking he/she wishes he/she would have gone to college and lived in Oregon and Chicago and come to live in a wee farmhouse near his/her folks instead of getting married and having 4 kids before age 25. It goes both ways, the longing.

I think I've been single for too long. I could go without the kids and the house and the fabulous job if I had a companion in this life. My girlfriends are awesome, but it's not the same. I had a wonderful love once, so it hurts even more to be alone because now I know what I am missing. Perhaps life would be less painful if I had never known it? Is it really better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? I don't know. This week, as the new year rolled in, I felt it deep inside -- that maybe my Great Love had come and gone for good.

I don't want to have this attitude. I want to be sparkly and vibrant and all Yeah, I'm single, whatevs about it, but I'm lonely right now. I want a best friend, a partner in crime, someone to sit next to. This holiday season was hard. There was a lot of love around me. I was happy for those I saw in love, but it awakened my crusty, black heart and stirred it to life. What about me? I can love, too. I'm good at it. Just give me a chance.

Ugh, how depressing. I thought I was going to be chipper and happy this year, wasn't I? Ah, but I know myself too well. In order to get through these moments, I have to type or write them down and get them OUT of my system. Take all of the power and fear out of the secret stories that lurk in my mind. It's the only way I can keep myself from turning ever more inward and disappearing into the abyss. I must remind myself: There is nothing wrong with being lonely. Look at all of the great literature, art, and music in the world. It was created by broken hearts. This is part of the human experience.

In the last few weeks, I've written 4 or 5 of these posts and deleted them because I felt they were "too much." It's somewhat embarrassing to lay it all out on the line and show my soft underbelly. But I want to get unstuck. I need these thoughts to leave me. By writing them on the Internet, I'm banishing them out of my mind. Go, sad thoughts. Fly around the world, zip through the wires of this computer, and leave me alone.

A New Look at Property

2012-01-02T07:35:00.000-06:00

After I wrote about how sad it makes me that I don't own property, I got some personal emails from some of you encouraging me to go for it. This actually surprised me. I know a lot of home owners who like to belittle my goal -- I hear ad naseam how hard it is to own property. Oh, there are taxes! What if the furnace goes out! Ack, you have to fix everything by YOURSELF! Oh, the HORROR! Seriously, what is up with the homeowners? They are all such Debbie Downers.

I think the majority of people I know who do NOT want me to buy a house poo poo the idea for the following reasons:

They are stuck in a house/mortgage/marriage/relationship/job they hate and are secretly jealous that I can move wherever I want whenever I want -- and they want me to take advantage of that and hightail it out of here to go live out their fabulous dreams.
They are afraid I will drown under the expenses. (That one is specific to my parents.)

There are some people out there, however, who realize it's the American Dream to own your own property. It's one of those things that makes you a Real Adult. My sister and I have spoken about how I feel like I'm stuck in some way, and I think part of that comes from renting various apartments and houses since I was 17 years old. I've been seeking my anchor all this time -- marriage, children, a home. Without it, I'm left in state of limbo. I'm not a child, but I'm not a real grown-up. (Dear Other People, I'm talking about myself. I'm totally not talking about you. I promise. Love, Blondie)

I got a lovely email from my sister after last week's post. I would usually ask her for permission to print her words, but I know she's just waking up and getting Little ready for school, so I'll spare her the phone call. I think she'll be OK with me sharing this excerpt from the email:

"If you want to buy property, you totally should. You are gainfully employed and there's really no reason why you couldn't buy a house. Maybe that should be part of Operation Get What You Want. You're an adult. Most of my friends who were single in their mid-thirties bought houses on their own, and no one ever died from it. [Friend 1] bought one. [Friend 2] bought one. [Friend 3] bought one. [Friend 4] bought a duplex when she turned 30... I guess my point is that there's no reason why you couldn't buy property if you want to. It's scary, but it's not so scary you couldn't do it as long as you could get a decent loan... I believe in you. If you want to buy a house, you can."

I read this email at a time when I was unable to write back properly, so Dorothy ended up calling me because she was worried she'd somehow upset me. (She didn't.) I told her that on the contrary, she'd inspired me. She had pointed out in the email that I've had to have so many things fixed in Farmhouse Villa because this house is OLD and it's a RENTAL and it hasn't, well, been maintained in the best way. Good points! She also pointed out that many of my friends purchased houses with 0% down with no credit because back then, it was OK. It's harder to buy a home right now. But you know what? It's also hella cheaper. This market is a buyer's dream.

So like any good dreamer, I spent a few hours looking at houses within a 1-hour radius. I still want to be close to my parents and family, and I'd prefer a house in the country like the one I have RIGHT NOW. Sadly, the really nice, old, beautiful farmhouses are attached to vast acreages that I would NEVER be able to afford. Sometimes, I think I'm going to have to buy the house I want and physically move it to a plot of land. I have my eye on the unused horse pasture next to my parents' house. They'll never notice that I put a house there and hooked up to their well system, right?

*snickers*

Lest my mother read this and FREAK OUT, I'm NOT going to buy a house right away. I know better. It takes time and research -- and money. But my sister and many awesome readers reminded me that I don't have to throw away my dream. And I did find a few houses that actually were cheaper than my rent -- with taxes included. So it's a thought.

Thank you to all of you who encourage me to keep striving to reach my goals, no matter how small or large they are. It means the world to me.

New Year, New Cards

2012-01-01T11:58:00.000-06:00

I am starting to think I might never find my camera battery charger again. Sigh. Camera phone pictures are so ugly.

Last night, I went to bed at roughly 11:30pm. I didn't feel good. I had plans to go out to celebrate the new year, but I cancelled them. Even though I still feel sick, I'm glad it's not hangover-sick. It's nice to start 2012 with a somewhat clear head.

Usually, on New Year's Eve, I draw Native American Medicine cards. Last year, I neglected to do this fun tradition, and I missed it throughout the year. Today, I decided it would be the first thing I would do. For those of you who have a book or keep up on medicine cards, here is what I drew:

East -- Porcupine
South -- Turtle
West -- Eagle
North -- Weasel
Above -- Turkey
Below -- Alligator
Within -- Jaguar

I like to read about the Within animal first because I think of it as my true totem animal throughout the year. Here are some highlights from the book:

"Do not falter in your resolve to be your personal best at all times. Maintain your dignity, devotion, and compassion, holding to forthrightness and honesty, no matter what the contrary influences... Jaguar medicine teaches you that personal integrity allows for mistakes, embraces forgiveness, and humbly makes self-directed corrections, allowing a rebalanced spirit to triumph once again."

What a beautiful way to start off the new year, eh?

Story on My Mind

2011-12-31T10:38:00.001-06:00

Image of Saturn in a snow globe c/o the awesome NASA Cassini folks. If ONLY this were a real snow globe. I would TOTALLY buy it for my collection.

Lately, I've had the beginning of a short story in my head. It's odd. I haven't written a short story in YEARS. Well, I have, but they were all for work and are written for somewhere from PreK-12 -- not exactly the kind of "creative writing" that I can focus on and call my own. In fact, much of my professional writing has been written under fake names. I have a whole host of fake names out there in the world, in classrooms across the nation. Good times.

I did write a very, very short flash-fiction story a few years ago for one of the NPR Three-Minute Fiction competitions. I heard a story starter that I liked and I'd been tossing around a sci-fi-ish storyline in my mind for a few years, so I put them together and submitted the story. I didn't win or anything, but I enjoyed writing the tale. Flash-fiction is my favorite kind to write. You have to find a way to edit out all of the extra words, unnecessary details, and come up with a short, tight, meaningful story. It's a very fun exercise.

I find it rather odd that I've had this new story floating around in my mind for so long. What is the story trying to tell me? What is the character worried about? Well, I know what she's worried about. I have the main plot line all figured out. But still -- what are the fuzzy details I haven't figured out yet? What are her hopes and dreams -- the things that make her tick? I have to let her marinate in my mind for a bit longer before I will be able to sit down and write it out. She's a tricky one.

The other day, I found a collection of some of my old writing that I'd forgotten about. There were copies of a few published works and a whole slew of unpublished, old stories. I giggled as I looked through some of them. Many revolve around early-20s angst. But some of them were good. I remembered how WONDERFUL it felt to finish a story -- to wrap it up and print it out. I used to call my parents and read them my stories over the phone, the poor dears. Now, whenever I start reading them anything, they fall asleep. I have a dreamy, go-to-sleep reading voice, I guess.

Perhaps I will think about this story a while longer, write it all out, give them some caffeine, prop them up in uncomfortable chairs, and tell them a tale once again. It's been far too long.

My Life Is Going to Change This Year Because I Say So

2011-12-29T12:07:00.000-06:00

Yes, that is a peeing sheep. I'm just checking to see if you are paying attention. And that goat next to it? Totally doesn't care. "Whavevs. I don't care if you pee on me."

Right about this time of year, I start to get a wild hair up my a$$ to buy a house. It never fails. As New Year's Eve creeps toward me, I start reflecting on the goals I had when I moved back to Farmsville in November, 2007. At that point, I was 99.99% sure that I would own my own home before 2008 was finished.

*giggles*

If you're a long-time reader, you'll know that I go back and forth about things like owning property/not owning property; having kids/not having kids; dating/not dating; getting married/staying a single spinster forever. I can't help it. It's my Gemini personality. And because I'm single, there's no one who has enough "weight" in my life to help me make these decisions. At one time, I had a significant other who I could bounce ideas off of and make large decisions with. Now, it's just me, so I waffle. But here I am, 4 years later, still renting Farmhouse Villa, single, and lacking a full-time/benefits job. So you can see that I err on the side of caution. I was raised to be frugal, thoughtful, and weigh pros and cons. These are good traits and all, but they can also leave me feeling... stuck. Especially when New Year's Eve is only a few days away, and I start to realize I did nothing remotely interesting in 2010.

(Why am I so hard on myself? Well, that's another trait I have. I like to shove myself in the corner and drip water on my own forehead once an hour for sh*ts and giggles. I am quite mean to myself for no reason. At least I'm aware of it.)

A year ago (just after NEW YEAR'S EVER, take note), I decided I was going to give myself my first adult vacation. I bought books about where I was going to go, figured it all out, and then realized how much money I was going to be spending. I was really excited about having a vacation, but then I shut myself down. You can't afford such things. You don't deserve a vacation because vacations are for families. Single people don't go on vacation, silly girl. Stay put and work. You owe the Tax Man a lot of money.

I conned myself out of my wonderful, literary-dream vacation rather quickly. And then I felt all sad that I wasn't going. And then I moaned with envy when my sister went to BlogHer '10 and took a side vacation to Disney with my extended family members. Somehow, a whole sh*tload of Dorothy's photographs got uploaded to my computer once, so I have endless photographs of Little, Beloved, and Dorothy at zoos, on beaches, and visiting random fun places together. And now, I also have pictures of my aunt, uncle, cousins, and their kiddos all at Disney together. It's quite the buzzkill when I'm feeling blue. Oh yeah, that's what families do. Too bad I can never do that. (But, of course, I won't delete the pictures because everyone is so happy and cute as hell.)

But then I remember that my superfly friend Terry took her single self to Hawaii for a hula vacation this past year. And I recall that my single-mom friend Pinkie went to the Virgin Islands a few years ago by herself for a week long vacation. I know there are people out there who vacation alone. I'm not naive enough to think that single people really do just sit at home by themselves year after year and only use vacation days for spring cleaning. I think it's me. I think I'm literally afraid of going on vacation with myself. What if I get bored and lonely? Hotels make me lonely because they remind me of business trips. I do not have any fun, vacation-ish hotel memories. Only work, weddings, and being exhausted. I have one memory of a fun hotel room at BlogHer '09 with Dorothy, Cagey, and Average Jane, but that was almost 3 years ago.

*crickets*

Where am I going with this... ?

Oh yeah, so this morning, I spent a bunch of time looking at real estate listings to torture myself. No house for you! Then I thought about plans I want to make and things I want to do. This isn't a New Year's resolution thing per se, it's just a moment to give myself a reminder to DO THINGS in 2012. Interesting things. Fun things. Oh for the love of GAWD Blondie, don't be such a Debbie Downer in 2012. Let's shake it up!

So here is my list for 2012 so far (it helps that I'm truly convinced something wackadoo is going to happen on December 21, 2012 -- maybe not the world ending, but "resetting" in a way):

Take an acrylic painting class, which I'm already signed up for.
Investigate/learn how to play a violin. (I recently spoke to a local woman who is taking lessons and she told me I could and should DO IT, so I got information about where to take classes, etc.)
Go to BlogHer '12 in New York City, which I'm already registered for. (HOLLA!) (Also, since I've never been to NY, I'll do the following while there, time permitting in this order: Meet whooshER (that one will happen FOR SURE); go to Ellis Island; drag my deathly-afraid-of-heights a$$ to the top of the Empire State Building; walk across the Brooklyn Bridge.)
Sign up to win every single free trip known to man in the hopes that I will win one. OR give in and actually pay for my own weekend vacation somewhere I've always wanted to go. (I've always wanted to go to: anywhere in North Carolina; Savannah, Georgia. I think Savannah will win. I want to see the cemeteries.)
Convince Chicago Cousin, Kira, and Dorothy to have an Iowa girls' weekend at Lake Okoboji -- we will rent a cabin, sun ourselves, and giggle like when we were little girls.
Find some way to go on a cheap/free hot air balloon ride. (The Oz festival sadly didn't have them.)

And this last one? This last one pops out of the list and gets its own space. When I was living in Oregon, I went to visit Dorothy and complained to her that I'd lost my sexual mojo. Not that I was a whore in my past or anything, but I had once at least been aware that I was a female. By the time I went to see my sister, I didn't feel sexy at ALL. You know what I mean? I had lost my ability to be remotely attractive or flirty. I felt a-sexual, if you will. We went out and did some fun things around Kansas City, and she took some pictures of me at local sights. When we looked at the photos, she found one particular one and said, "There it is! You still have it! Look at you!" And you know what? I did look kind of sexy in the photo.

I want to be "sexy" again. Not physically, per se. I want to be attractive and interesting to MYSELF. When I am, I attract interesting people. I'm having a hard time explaining this in words, but I think you understand. I want to find the WOMAN inside of me that has gone dormant. She's been gone far too long. My sexuality/woman-ness has been overshadowed by the worker, the bill payer, the cat owner, the adult child of my parents, the practical side of myself. The boring, blobby side. NO MORE!

A few weeks ago, I bought my first pair of "sexy" shoes in at least 10 years. I gave up sexy shoes when I lived in Chicago because they weren't practical. Here on the farm, I wear the ugliest shoes known to man because they are practical. SCREW BEING PRACTICAL. I am going to wear these new kicky shoes, find my inner Woman, and bring her out in all her glory. I want to feel ALIVE again. And if that helps me get a mind-blowing, knee-quivering, moonlight kiss at some point, that would be AWESOME. But if not, at least I'll have a little swagger in my step.

There. Now I've written it all out. Those are the things I plan on doing this year to better my life and myself. What are YOU gonna do?

Little Girls and Their Dolls

2011-12-28T09:19:00.000-06:00

Just after Little opened her beautiful Erin doll, my sister disappeared into the back room of my parents' house and brought me a present that had previously been hidden from view. The minute she placed it in my lap, I knew what it was. I could feel the edge of the box. I tore the paper. Yes, it was true. My sister bought me Erin, too.

Before I could think about how weird it was for a 34-year-old woman to be receiving a doll for Christmas and loving every minute of it, my crusty black heart melted into a pile of goo. It's true that for my entire childhood I wanted a doll that looked just like me. It took a long time, but I finally got one.

Little is an interesting kid. You can't always tell if she likes something right away. She opened Erin and was then on to other things. I understand. Christmas presents are exciting and you want to get everything opened before you play or even breathe. So I wasn't sure that Erin was a home run with her. She didn't quite have the reaction that say I had when I opened the box. But after everything had died down, Little put on Erin's new dress and shoes and petted her hair and snuggled her up next to Erin 2 (my version), and I saw the magic. Little girls really do adore their dollies.

But back to me.

Despite absolutely adoring Erin 2 and being very excited that my sister fulfilled a childhood dream for me, I am a little embarrassed to say out loud that I got a doll for Christmas. There. I said it. I don't want people to think I'm one of those creepy Reborn Doll lovers who will push Erin 2 in a baby cart through Farmsville to get groceries. I also don't want to be known as that crazy lady who has a doll that looks just like her displayed prominently in her home. I already have enough rumors about me floating around Farmsville -- I don't need help in that department.

But then again, I did buy Pink Kitteh for Little AND me when she was little-er. And we love our Pink Kittehs, yes we do:

Auntie Bon Bon and Little rock out at the Build-a-Bear store, 2008

(Then again, my poor Pink Kitteh is currently holding the curtains away from the vent next to my bedroom window on the floor. Reminder -- get a plastic vent directional thing and rescue Pink Kitteh soon.)

So I will own it that the idea of playing with the dolls WITH LITTLE is one of the most exciting things ever. On Christmas afternoon, we changed their clothes, had them sleep in Little's new doll bed, made up stories, and had a jolly good time. I put Erin 2's hair in a braid so we could tell them apart, and Little gave me one of her doll outfits for Erin 2 to wear because she comes in a nightie only. (Back story: Erin and her BFF doll are clothing designers, so they come without clothes so you can make them or she can make them or something like that.)

But let's get away from Little and my fear of being an outcast for a moment.

I think it's freakin' awesome that my sister was so thoughtful and generous this Christmas. I mean, come on, she totally didn't have to get me an Erin 2. My childhood ship sailed long ago. But she could hear it in my voice when I talked about the one I got for Little -- I was wooed. And even my parents could see it in my eyes as I wrapped up the original Erin for Little -- I kind of wanted to keep her and play with her. Even though I'm a grown-up. Yes, it's true. Deep down inside, I was still pining for a doll that looks just like me. And my sissy made that dream come true. Thank you, Sis Big.

To bring Erin 2 home, I gently wrapped her up in her little doll coffin and brought her to Farmhouse Villa. She is currently sitting on the table with the other things I need to put away. But because she was there and I kept walking past her all day yesterday, I realized that she needs some clothes. I mean, come on, she's cold. She has no shoes. She's in a nightie. What will Little think if I never clothe her??

So I was forced -- and I mean FORCED (someone was here holding a gun to my head) -- to go on the Carpatina Web site and buy her an outfit. OK, two outfits. If she's going to properly play with Little and Erin 1, she's going to need a day outfit and a night outfit because Erin 1 has a sleeping bag AND a brand new bed that fits two. The twins need to be able to sleep together.

I begged the person holding me hostage to be patient as I picked out the following outfits. First, the pretty daytime dress with shoes:

And then the slumber party outfit:

There! Fine! Now she will be clothed. The mysterious person with the gun left, and I went back to work.

I guess there is a little part of me that is still little, too. Don't tell anyone, OK?

And Then She Caved and Bought a Nook Tablet

2011-12-27T10:16:00.000-06:00

All images c/o Barnes & Noble

When my laptop died and went to Electronics Heaven, I realized I had a major problem. I have a clam-shell phone. No smart phone. This means a few things:

My friends -- and strangers -- make fun of me endlessly for having "ancient technology."
I have NO access to email, the Internet, or any work-related files on my phone. I can call and text message -- that's it.

So while I was hyperventilating about my Macbook, Pa and I had a discussion about how I might need to move into the modern world by purchasing some kind of tablet. Of course, I wanted (so badly I could taste it) the iPad2. Up until now, I've had no reason to even think about it because I had a laptop. But when I purchased the iMac, which will now stay in one location and never move again (and would be extremely hard to take on an airplane for a business trip), I realized that even though I've been claiming on this very blog that I would never buy an e-reader, it might be time to do just that.

Over the holidays, I was able to tinker around with Ma's new iPad2, and my sister's Nook Color and Kindle. (We had a few moments that were straight out of WALL-E where none of us were talking to each other yet we were three inches away from each other.) Then I spent roughly three hours researching the Kindle Fire, Nook Tablet, and iPad2 to see which one would suit me best.

Of course, the iPad2 would suit me best because I'm an Apple junkie. HOWEVER, after having an emergency computer purchase, I canNOT justify buying one. The very thought of it is making my chest tight, and it's already tight because of this damn iMac. Also, it turns out the Nook Tablet and Kindle Fire have everything I could possibly need. So it became a battle between the Nook Tablet and the Kindle Fire. And the Nook Tablet won.

I was most concerned with being able to check email, the Internet, and look at Word, Excel, and other various documents remotely. Both machines are able to do this, but beyond that, the Nook Tablet kept winning over and over -- even in the professional tech reviews.

Here's the interesting thing about me -- I will probably NOT use the Nook Tablet to read. I'm sure I will once in a while, but it will most likely end up as being the Least-Used e-Reader for Actual Reading. I'm considering it more of a giant smart phone... that you can't call from. I'm not going to pretend that I will NEVER read on it. Sure I will. There are a ton of free books out there in the public domain. And I know I'll eventually read books on it because THE ONLY BARNES & NOBLE IN COUNCIL BLUFFS IS CLOSING TOMORROW.

Dear Barnes & Noble,

We all knew that mall sucked. But for reals, you need to build a stand-alone store in Council Bluffs, Iowa to replace it. You have NO idea how the closing of that bookstore is affecting this community. We need books.

Love,

Blondie

Anyway, if I was going to invest in the Nook Tablet, I was going to have to have one hell of a cover. I wanted one that closed all the way. Not the kind that is just like a book cover. I didn't want the change in my purse or crumbs or whatever to sneak into the case. Also, I read that many people prefer to hold the Nooks withOUT covers because they are comfortable and easy to manage.

So I looked around for a while and found the perfect cover for me -- the Earhart cover:

I find this very handy because it closes all the way AND it can hold the power cord:

Because the BARNES & NOBLE IN COUNCIL BLUFFS IS CLOSING TOMORROW (DO YOU HEAR ME B&N?? THAT IS INSANE!!), I figured they probably were out of stock of the cover I wanted. And because I know myself so well, I know better than to go INTO a closing bookstore when I've already hemorrhaged money for the last two weeks because I will buy EVERY SINGLE THING on clearance, so I ordered the Nook Tablet and my fancy case online. Now I just have to wait 1-3 business days.

*twitches*

But seriously, I'm happy that I will now have access to the "world" if anything should ever happen to my beloved iMac, Shirley. I'm also excited to look up endless public domain short stories, novels, and documents any time I please. And fine -- purchase new releases once in a while and read them on the tablet designed for reading.

BUT SERIOUSLY, BARNES & NOBLE, IF I HAVE TO HAUL MYSELF ALL THE WAY OUT TO WEST OMAHA FROM IOWA IN ORDER TO SPEND MY PRECIOUS TIME DROOLING AT ALL OF THE REAL BOOKS AND SPENDING TONS OF MONEY I SHOULDN'T SPEND, I MIGHT HAVE TO ORDER EVERYTHING REAL-BOOKWISE FROM AMAZON. PLEASE DON'T DO THIS TO ME WHEN I JUST BOUGHT THIS NEW, LOVELY NOOK.

The End

The Christmas of Failed Electronics

2011-12-26T13:36:00.000-06:00

NUMBER FIVE IS ALIVE!

I'm back. I am writing to you from my brand new iMac -- one that I didn't expect to need or pay for the week of Christmas 2011. But there you have it.

The night before Christmas Eve at roughly 8:55pm, the Apple Store called to tell me that my new computer was ready. The hard drive had been almost all the way transferred. A few applications bit the dust, and I'm sure some old love letters from like 4 computers ago were deleted, but whatevs.

On Christmas Eve morning, Pa, Beloved, and I drove all the way over to west Omaha (for myself, this was the third time in one week -- a new world record) to pick up Shirley. (I am serious. And don't call me Shirley. If you get that joke, we are officially besties.) She has a 21-inch screen, a wireless keyboard, and a magic mouse. We are still getting to know each other. I gave the dead Macbook Pro to Pa so he can tinker with it and see if he can bring it back to life. It would be AWESOME if he could, but I'm not counting on it. It's best to consider that engine dead. (Bonus points if you caught that reference, too.)

We brought Shirley home and left her sitting on the floor for a few days still in her box. I had to, you know, celebrate Christmas with my family and all. I hemmed and hawed that maybe just maybe things weren't working like they should. I needed to know that my WORK was still on my hard drive. Meanwhile, I couldn't find the charger for my camera, so I was unable to take a single photograph this whole holiday season. Basically, this was the Christmas of Failed Electronics. Blondie? Well, she was rather b*tchy.

But Little DID love her new doll and Ma DID love the iPad2 Pa bought for her (I love it, too.) Dorothy and Beloved knocked Little's socks off with all of her gifts, and we all ate a LOT of food. Overall, a good time was had by all.

This morning, I turned on the new iMac and realized that even though it worked just fine last night when Pa and I set it up, it no longer played iTunes or YouTube videos. Sigh. Grumble. And? AND?! The wireless Internet went out.

*deep breaths*

So I plugged in an actual CORD to get the Internet, installed Flash, called the Apple people, restarted the computer and BAM everything worked again. I truly do believe that the Universe is just f*cking with me now. How much can she handle before 2011 is over? How far can we push her? Will she crack?

I did. I finally leaked out my first tears of the holiday season this morning, and I almost yelled at my sweet Pa, who was only trying to help. I think what I really need is some down time alone. But wait. I have to work to make up for missing all of that work while the computer was gone. Lovely.

But then again, at least I have my hard drive. Which I will back up right away, yes I will.

I hope you all had wonderful holidays, and I promise to be less Grinchy tomorrow. For reals.

Computer Fail

2011-12-22T13:19:00.000-06:00

Picture of awesome Colorado train c/o Pa Blonderson

I'm currently writing from my parents' house because MY MACBOOK PRO DIED. For reals. My sweet darling is gone. No less than two weeks ago, Pa said, "Your Mac isn't going to last forever, you know." I scoffed. But then he pointed out that I use my Mac like 12 hours a day hardcore because work from home. I use the "home computer" waaay more than normal people do. I also edit or write giant files and run huge programs on a regular basis. All electronics only last so long. For some reason, I thought the Macbook Pro would last longer.

I went out for errands after I wrote my last blog post. When I came back, it was dead. It wouldn't make the electronic song thing that Macs make when you turn them on. It made a weak, pathetic sound when I turned it off. The apple on the back refused to light up. And then the panic set in.

I called my sister and my father, and both of them said surely it was just a dead battery. Surely, the Mac was fine. Surely, I was just overreacting because MY WHOLE LIFE WAS ON THAT THING AND OF COURSE, JUST LIKE CARRIE BRADSHAW ALL THOSE YEARS AGO, I DIDN'T BACK IT UP. Ahem.

So they told me to plug it in (I switched outlets because it was already plugged in) and go to sleep and let it charge all night long and surely, it would all be fine in the morning.

Nope.

At the Apple Store, the Very Attractive Genius at the Genius Bar did some tests and gave me the bad news--dead. I could send it in for tests (for a cost, of course) and then if something was broken inside (most likely even though I've never dropped it), blah blah blah blah worst case scenario it could cost $1200 to fix the original-generation Macbook Pro. You know what else you can buy for $1200? A brand new iMac. With a 21-inch screen and a wireless keyboard. Because you know what? I really don't go anywhere with my laptop anyway. And I constantly have multiple files open on my screen that I have to toggle back and forth between because my Macbook Pro only had a 17-inch screen. So even though I was DYING INSIDE AND ALMOST OUTSIDE BUT NOT REALLY BECAUSE THE GENIUS WAS SO HAWT, I gave in and told them to go ahead and give up on the laptop. Goodbye, my love. We had a good run together.

So the new computer is still at the Apple Store where the techs are going to try as hard as possible to retrieve my hard drive. PLEASE LET THE HARD DRIVE BE THERE OR I WILL MELT INTO THE FLOOR AND NOT HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS OR A HAPPY NEW YEAR AT ALL. I am yelling inside my head, can you tell?

It's been awkward being in Farmhouse Villa "off the grid." Since I don't have a smart phone, I wasn't even able to make my own appointment at the Genius Bar. I had to call my father and have him set it up for me. And now I'm typing on his really super annoying Linux-system laptop that is SUPER slow and kind of glitchy and is making some of these letters disappear even as I type. Hrumph.

Yes, it's always fun to get a new computer, but not under these circumstances. And certainly not if the hard drive is, indeed, gone. But I can't let myself go there right now or I might cry.

Oh, and guess what is sitting on one of the side tables over at Farmhouse Villa that I've had for months? A brand new, empty USB drive that I purchased specifically to back up all of my work.

NOTE: Don't be a Blondie this year. Back up your computer today!

Dreaming of Violins

2011-12-20T11:01:00.002-06:00

Image c/o wikipedia

I have always wanted to learn how to play the violin. It's not something I talk about often because, let's be honest, it seems kind of wonk. Surely, one should learn how to play a string instrument in youth, yes? I played the clarinet and the oboe in middle and high school, but there were no options for string instruments at my school. That was a bit fancy for Farmsville.

When I lived in Chicago, I briefly considered taking violin lessons at a local music place. But every time I drove by, I saw classrooms filled with young children through the glass windows. I knew I would feel rather awkward surrounded by 6-year-old geniuses, so I gave up on the dream. But recently, it's been coming back to me.

At night, I have visualizations of kind of odd things. Right before I fall asleep, I often imagine myself as a ballerina. I took dance lessons for almost a decade, and at one time I was in pointe classes with my friend Potato. We were the only two from our "class" that made it into pointe, so I was rather proud. But then life got busy and dance classes were replaced by cheerleading and blah blah blah. Basically, I quit dancing. But I still think about it all the time. When I'm reading, I often point and flex my feet just to be doing it.

Lately, my Dream Time visualizations have changed over to playing the violin. Wouldn't it be lovely to magically know how to do it? I have a good ear for music, but I've completely forgotten how to read it. I could still play a clarinet or oboe by ear -- I still have at least one song memorized from my oboe days and I can work out all of the finger movements perfectly. Alas, my instruments were sold long ago. I don't even have a plastic recorder anymore.

But here is the thing about violins -- they are made for right-handed people. Whenever my Chicago Ex would try to teach me songs on one of his guitars, it was so awkward for me to strum right-handed. I lack coordination with that hand. I can use my right hand for scissors out of necessity. I can use a computer mouse on the right side out of necessity. But playing a violin? How would I accomplish that? And from what I've researched, left-handed violins are few and far between -- and they are difficult for instructors because everything is backwards, including the placement of all the strings. I ran into this same problem when I wanted someone to teach me to crochet in a circle. Right-handers get baffled by leftie instructions. And don't even get me STARTED about the desks I grew up with in school. We left-handers -- we always get the shaft.

So let's say that FINE I will learn how to play a violin right-handed. How do I go about doing this? Professional lessons are hella expensive (trust me, I looked them up). I'm not going to join an orchestra or anything. I just want to chase a dream. I found a used violin on craigslist and got all excited about it until my mother pointed out that I have no idea what I'm doing and I should probably at least go HOLD a violin at least one time to see how it feels. Point made. No violin for me.

But I'm still curious and interested. Do any of you play the violin? Is it as difficult as it looks? Do you know any lefties? What do they do? And if you don't know any of these answers, how about this -- does learning the violin at 34 years old sound odd to you?

On Touch, the Least Used of the Five Senses

2011-12-16T09:59:00.000-06:00

One thing I enjoy about reading science fiction that includes robots is that there are moments when the author can ruminate about human behavior in a way that isn't preachy or overtly obvious. I'm toward the end of The Naked Sun by Isaac Asimov right now, and last night I came upon an interesting passage. The main character is visiting a different world -- one that is inhabited by humans, not aliens or anything. But on this world, people live very far apart from one another, so they're used to "viewing" each other via video-link-type technology. "Seeing" a person face-to-face is quite horrifying to these people because it simply never happens. There is no reason to "see" someone when you can "view" them. (Sound familiar? Yeah, me, too.)

Anyway, the children on this world are grown from eggs to adults in a special location. Though they eventually take to "viewing," at the beginning, they stubbornly insist on playing with each other. This moment in the book gives Asimov the opportunity to point out an interesting human characteristic. I'm too lazy to get up from my blanket nest (my home office is freezing) to go get the book and drop in the quote, but he says something about how humans will play with one another -- touch one another -- with no discrimination up until a certain age. After that, all bets are off. Fascinating.

It's true that babies and toddlers will grab for one another -- plant kisses, give smacks, and drool or snot all over each other without fear of any consequences. It's only as we age that touching someone on the forearm in passing can become somewhat of an invasion of privacy. When does our space bubble begin to form?

My bubble is different depending on who is near it. I can talk to some people when they are an inch away from my face and feel no alerts -- my cousins, parents, and closest friends. But if certain people (or complete strangers) enter my space bubble, I become anxious. If I can physically feel their body heat, the hairs on the back of my neck start to rise. My bubble anxiety was exacerbated when I lived in Chicago and took too much public transportation. But it's still on high alert here in the Iowa countryside. When you're too close, you're too close.

I wonder when the exact moment happens that we realize touch should be a personal thing? I know many young children, and it seems they do go from wrestling with strangers to yelling "cooties" in two seconds flat. Considering the goal of all species is to procreate to ensure the continuation of the species, when did humans become so guarded? If we want to keep our species alive, you'd think we would be touching each other all of the time. Not sexually, per se, but in a communal, nurturing way. (I'm afraid I'm not making sense. Am I making sense? This concept is difficult to put into words. I guess that's why Asimov decided to show, not tell.)

I am a hugger and a toucher by nature. Ma always told me that I was the cuddliest baby at the hospital and all of the nurses fought over me because I was great at snuggling. I still love snuggling. I enjoy holding hands or having some part of my body -- even if it's just my foot -- touching another person. But only those I adore. Touches from strangers now weeb me out in ways they never have before. I attribute this to Chicago El and Metra trains and buses, but it might be something deeper inside of me. A special kind of armor. Stay back. My spirit doesn't welcome you. Or maybe I've just been single for so long that I've forgotten how to give and receive friendly affection. I really don't know. But it's interesting to think about.

A Blank Canvas

2011-12-15T11:32:00.002-06:00

Because I still haven't charged the battery on my fancy camera, you get this nice cell phone pic.

What you see above is my very first adult painting. Sure, I made goofy paintings as a kid, but I never had any kind of formal training. When I lived in Oregon, I decided I wanted to try it out. I found a local community center that offered watercolor classes. For some reason, I thought watercolor would be easy. It turns out that watercolor painting is one of the most difficult mediums. Who knew? You can see my inexperience in the painting above -- the blotches where water gathered in pools and dried, crazy unevenness all around. It's a terrible painting, but I always keep it on my wall because it's a reminder that I at least tried.

The assignment for this particular painting was to do the box and paint an off-center floral arrangement coming out of the box. If there is one thing I'm really bad at, it's realism in drawn art. So I did the only thing I could come up with after numerous failed attempts at copying real-life flowers -- I made a flower girl. When it came time to display our paintings for the class, this flower girl sat up on the chalkboard along with roughly 15 gorgeous, incredibly realistic still-life flowers. It was... awkward. But my teacher did give me some praise for at least completing the assignment instead of giving up. It was embarrassing, but I made it through.

I took the class because I was bored and lonely. I kept painting because I found it to be a wonderful release. Since that first class, I've honed my watercolor skills. I no longer leave huge puddles to dry. I've figured out intricate ways to battle mistakes. I've created and given away dozens of paintings as gifts, and I've been extremely proud of each one of them. But as I sit here, I can honestly tell you I haven't made a painting in at least two years. As with many things, I got busy and it fell to the wayside. Boo on that.

A few years ago, I decided I wanted to learn how to paint with acrylics instead of watercolor. I searched online for videos I could watch and investigated some books. I never did figure out exactly what I would need because there are SO many products out there. I gave in and bought a little boxed set of paints and canvases to give it a whirl. But I never did figure out what I was doing, so the box is now in the art room along with the canvases -- just sitting there.

Yesterday, after thinking about ways to WAKE UP, I realized it was time to take the acrylic painting class. I can easily talk myself out of classes like this:

It's winter. There will be storms and ice, and you won't be able to drive there.
It's expensive. There is the cost of classes and then the inevitable cost of materials. Art supplies cost a pretty penny.
What if the teacher is wackadoo? (The original watercolor painting teacher was TOTALLY wackadoo.)
What if you end up in class with a bunch of "serious" snobby artists and no one accepts the fact that you can't paint "realistically"? (That happened at the watercolor class, too.)
Surely you can teach yourself this stuff, right? Come on, you can read.

But you know what? There are some things that I just can't read to learn. I can own that. Painting is one of them. And there's something to be said for being in a room full of people who are also painting to gather some inspiration from. And let's be honest -- I am sick of my own company.

So I started researching the classes I've thought about taking in the past. You might not believe this, but Omaha has a TON of art studios and creative centers. For reals. There were a LOT of options for me to choose from. One class looked good, but the specific center it was through works mostly with children. The class was listed as 8-adult, so I had visions of ending up with a bunch of children and like one really tired, bossy mom or something. I looked up more classes elsewhere and realized they were ridiculously far away and would start at like 4:30pm on Mondays. Um, no. I have that whole job thing. And nothing extracurricular should ever happen on a Monday -- that's a personal rule.

Despite my raging fear of art snobs, I finally landed on the Joslyn Art Museum Web site. And you know what? I found the perfect class. Perfect amount of time, perfect cost, perfect description. I sat here and hovered over the "register" button forEVER. Should I? Shouldn't I? I went through the bulleted list above a few times. And then I kicked myself in my own a$$. Sign up for the damn class. You want to. And you will have fun and learn and get out of Farmsville. DO IT!

So yes, I signed up for a 6-week acrylic painting class that will (most likely) be filled with adults. After years of hemming and hawing about this, I'm doing it. I want to learn to paint with this new medium. And you know what? I'm really excited. It's been a loooooong time since I've had something to look forward to. It feels really good. I just hope they don't expect realism. That's not how I roll.

Waking Myself Up

2011-12-14T13:20:00.001-06:00

There always comes a point in time when you realize you've been neglecting something. You're going along through life and suddenly you trip over a stack of books in the dining room and look up and go: "Wow, my house is a MESS." I'm not having that specific problem right now. My house is cluttered, but it's not the wreck that it has been in the past. Instead, I've recently tripped over my own stack of emotions and realized I've been neglecting my own spirit. The "house" is a mess, and by "house" I mean "me."

I carry all of my emotions in my lower back. Whenever I throw out my back, it's rarely just a physical thing. I know this, but like any good human, I choose to ignore it. No, I'm fine. Really. Whatevs. What's that shiny thing over there?

But after wonking out my back recently, it's time to do some self-evaluating. Usually, the back pain would be gone by now. I've taken Advil, iced myself, and sat/slept properly. My back should be going back to normal right about now, but it's not. Damn.

Blondie: OK, body, what are you trying to tell me?

Body: I'm hurt.

Blondie: Yes, I realize that. So why are you hurt?

Body: Because I'm hurt.

This year, I was so busy with work that I had very little downtime. While I was busy focusing on assignments, the joy was slowly being sucked out of my life. Months went by without important phone calls, dinner dates, or emails to my support system. I saw my parents often, but we didn't have any fun dates to go do things like we have in years past. And if you haven't noticed, I've been using old photographs on the blog for months because a.) I have a new camera that constantly needs me to charge its battery and I always forget to do it and b.) I haven't had anything interesting enough to photograph in my direct line of vision. I've become quite boring. Lifeless.

When you have a kid who is sad or bored, you try to make the kid feel good. Take the kid to a movie. Make a special meal. Plan a fun activity. The sucky thing about being single is that YOU are responsible for entertaining yourself or cheering yourself up all the time. No one is going to realize you're sitting on the couch in your pajamas at 6pm for the fourth day in a row. They can't see you in your little house feeling bored and wondering how long it will take until bedtime -- oh my, how those hours can stretch.

Yes, it's all on you to create your own plans, find new things to do, and get yourself up and about. And sometimes, you just get so tired of it. F*ck it, I'll just sit here. I don't want to spend any money anyway. And then all of the sudden, it's December, and you're reflecting on the last year of your life -- remembering New Year's Eve 2009 and saying: Where did 2010 go? What was I doing? Oh yeah, nothing. I just lost a year of my life to work, poverty, and boredom.

If the world really is going to end on December 21, 2012, I'd better figure out how to make my last year alive more interesting. I don't want to go out knowing that I wasted time staring at the walls. In my past, I've taken classes, started new hobbies, and have been pretty good at pulling myself up out of these bouts of depression. Here we go... again.

It's my goal to clean up my house. Out with the old and in with the new. I can't expect life to be interesting if I am uninteresting to myself. We attract what we put out into the universe. It's time to attract something amazing. I suppose that means it's time to make myself amazing. Let's hope I can.

All-American Muslim Is a Winner; Lowe's Is an A$$hat

2011-12-13T11:01:00.000-06:00

Shadia, Suehalia, and Samira c/o TLC

This year, I was really excited to see that a show called All-American Muslim was coming to TLC. So far, the show has been really interesting and educating. Even though I know Muslims in real life, I haven't known the intricacies that come with being a part of the community as a whole -- relationships between parents and their children, differing feelings about the hijab (head scarf for women), and how to convert.

I've been to two Muslim naming ceremonies for babies and have been around my fair share of extremely hungry (and somewhat cranky) people during Ramadan, but I didn't realize that a Muslim father will give the call to prayer after a newborn arrives, such as Nader did when Nawal gave birth (which was beautiful). I also have realized that Suehalia (center above) is my secret soul-sister. Her recent discussion with a friend about being torn between two worlds struck a cord with me. I, too, struggle with finding a man who will "get it." (Suehalia, give me a call. XXOO, Your New Bestie) Basically, I love the show, and I hope that more people watch it and become educated about Muslim life.

But then Lowe's had to go and p*ss on my parade.

Grace Hwang Lynch details the problem over at BlogHer with this article: Lowe's Pulls Ads from "All-American Muslim," Faces Media Storm. Go ahead and read it. I'll wait.

*waits*

Lowe's SHOULD face a media storm. (Hey, Lowe's, you're an A$$HAT!) I'm not sure why they feel the need to "defer" to ONE small-minded, ridiculous, racist "media-concerns" group, but they did. And then they say "sorry"? Whatevs. Lowe's can kiss my home-improvement a$$ good-bye because I will NEVER shop there again. And, I encourage all of you other wise readers to head to your nearest Menard's. They're cheaper anyway.

Even though I find some of TLC's programming a bit questionable, I commend them for putting Muslim families front and center right now. The ignorance regarding the Muslim community is ridiculous -- and at epic proportions. There is a HUGE difference between a 9/11 terrorist and a regular Muslim. Why don't people see that? Why don't people know that deep in their hearts with everything they have? What is wrong with the idiots in this country that they've let ONE small group of political extremists speak for an entire culture? Where is the compassion, the respect of other religions, and the knowledge that one doesn't represent all?

When I saw Suehalia getting gawked at as she walked through the airport (on her way to educate people about the Muslim community in Washington, DC), I felt literally sick. I wanted to jump through the television and join her. I wanted to wrap a beautiful hijab around my head and stand with her in solidarity. Do your thing. I'll stand with you. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. Of course, she totally didn't need my help because she's strong and tough and proud of herself -- which she should be.

All I could really do as I watched the scene unfold was shake my head in shame. I want to be proud of my country. Will we never learn? THIS is exactly why I study Holocaust history so closely. In a different time, maybe we would be the ones with concentration camp ovens belching smoke over the purple mountain majesties. You think it could never happen, but I bet it could.

I feel kind of queasy right now. I'm extremely riled up.

So yeah...

Dear Lowe's,

Thank you for proving to me how ignorant you are. I will be sure to spread my own little message loud and clear: Don't shop at Lowe's. Ever. And thank you for embarrassing the good people of this nation by publicly denouncing a religion/culture in such an obvious, racist way. I hope that one day your eyes will be opened to the beauty/normalcy of the Muslim community. Until then, bite me.

Sincerely,

Blondie Blonderson (Iowan, Caucasian, non-Muslim)

On True Connections

2011-12-12T09:36:00.000-06:00

I found out recently that the only big-box Barnes & Noble near me is closing -- because it's in a mall and the mall is closing. I can't even begin to tell you how sad this makes me. I couldn't care less about the rest of the mall (except for the people who are losing their jobs), but losing a chain bookstore that I can wander around for hours makes my heart hurt. Now, I'm going to have to drive forEVER to get to a different Barnes & Noble or one of the indies. My heart has always been with the indies, but my mind is solidly focused on the big-boxes. There are so many OPTIONS.

This weekend, I decided to go to the bookstore to take advantage of their closing sale. Most items were 50% off, plus I could use my folks' discount card to get an extra 10% off. Score. I spent hours there -- looking through stacks of books for hidden gems. One item I found was The Treasured Writings of Kahlil Gibran, which I stood reading for about 10 minutes before giving in and lugging it around for another hour. At nearly 1,000 pages of Gibran's work, the total price of $4.98 was quite the steal.

I used to have a lot of large collections of writing like this -- mixtures of poetry, prose, stories, and letters. I replaced many of them after my house fire, but I gave up on some of them because they are so heavy and bulky. When I finally got the book home, I flipped through the pages searching for some wisdom. I read so much nonfiction now that I forgot how nice it can be to land on some philosophical writings that someone wrote "just because." They can be quite brilliant.

I miss my younger self. I miss being inspired by so many wonderful words. I miss talking about interesting topics with open, eager minds. Learning, exploring, thinking. As I've grown, the way I interact with those around me has changed so much. What happened to those long talks about politics, religion, and philosophy that were NOT heated and ignorant? Ones that simply questioned? When did I stop listening to people, and when did they stop listening to me?

I know I can't go back in time. I've often desired my past, and people around me are always telling me to let it go and live in the present. But sometimes, the present is so very depressing. It's been my experience that hearts and minds grow more closed with time -- personalities and belief systems become solid and unchanging. And we all become so busy that we barely have time to even answer an email or call someone with words of support during a rough time. In my past, it seemed that I was so much more connected. I was surrounded by great thinkers and friends. I miss them.

I know that I'm only imagining the wisdom of my youth. In college, I was a small egg -- confused about life and everything I was learning. I am much more wise now. Perhaps that is why so many of these conversations have stopped? I've learned that most of the time, it's not worth it. It only leads to arguments. There are safe topics and unsafe topics -- most people choose safe. But I still long to dig deep into people's minds. Throw away all the surface conversation and really get to know someone. I haven't gotten to know someone like that in a very long time. I wonder if I ever will again?

Longing for Simplicity

2011-12-09T11:21:00.001-06:00

Winter in Iowa inevitably brings power outages. The other day, the entire town of Farmsville went down. Since I live in the country, I was unscathed, but the lights did flicker for a bit, so I wasn't sure I would make it. Because I live on one side of town and my parents live on the other, we all kept our power. My drive from here to there showed me that no one else did. And, I must admit, I was kind of jealous.

I have vivid memories of power outages from when I was younger. As a child, those nights were the most fun. The TV was gone, I had to use a candle to light up my bedroom, and everything became more magical. My parents and sister looked different in candlelight. Softer. More intimate. Everything was so quiet, unless one of us found batteries and put on some music. It was always so lovely.

One particularly horrible storm knocked out the power at our house for five days when I was a freshman in high school. My friend Uniqua and I sat on the floor of Dorothy's room while she read us Edgar Allan Poe stories. It was a true treat. Dorothy was not nice to me at that point in my life. Our little story time was a rare and needed moment. I remember it well.

When I got into college, power outages were even more magical. I would go to the boys' house and we would sit in the candlelight drinking, talking, sharing our philosophies of life. Oh, how wise we all were. Hee hee. The boys I hung out with didn't watch TV regularly. I don't recall it ever being on except those rare days when there was an important football game on or someone was watching a video for class. So the candlelight nights weren't oddly quiet like they were at my parents' home, but they still created a new atmosphere. When the lights are out, people are forced to sit closer to each other -- look right at faces and pay attention. You can learn a lot about people when the power is gone.

If I thought enough of my friends would participate, I would host a Lights Out Party. No cell phones would be allowed. Everyone would have to get by with candlelight. I would probably even hide all of the flashlights. I would have food, games, and conversation starters. But something tells me this wired world of mine would scoff at such an evening. Even my own mother feels lost when she forgets her cell phone at home now. It's SO hard to disconnect, isn't it? Go off the grid? Even for just one day. It's unnerving, I admit it. I can barely remember what life was like before email, the Internet, and my cell phone. Surely, I made more eye contact back then, right?

What I wouldn't give for a night where my sister reads me stories or a book by candlelight. I would snuggle up under a blanket and look out at the stars while visualizing whatever tale is spinning off the pages. And all the rest of it -- whatever it is -- would simply disappear.

When It's Just a Little Pain

2011-12-08T08:26:00.001-06:00

The interesting thing about having a bad back is that it can wonk out on you at any moment. You can sneeze and be on the floor. I usually can predict when something is going to throw out my back -- except that one time when I was on the phone and placed a can of Diet Dew on the end table and ended up in the hospital. That was weird. But ever since I completely WRECKED my lower back at the bookstore circa 2000, I've known that long stretches of good back health are also a waiting game. My back always comes for me, just when I least expect it.

So it snowed, yes? And there is ice EVERYWHERE. Despite huge amounts of rock salt, the ice on my driveway where I park my car and the front stairs are covered with a few inches of the stuff. Iowa ice is no match salt, apparently. But have I fallen on the ice? NO! I've been extra careful about how I walk up and down the stairs. I've been moving as slow as a tortoise on my way to the Corolla. And getting my garbage can down the entire driveway on trash day was a magical feat of carefulness.

But then I went to the grocery store. The roads are better in town than they are in the country, so I was pleased to see the sidewalks were also cleared. I got my food goodies and chatted with the bagger dude as we walked out to my car. I was just explaining to him that I can never find my ice scraper on the first snow because it always ends up frozen into the trunk -- that is the trunk is always frozen shut that first time and I never expect it -- when in a moment of sheer irony, I popped in the key and yanked UP on the trunk itself, and even though the majority of the trunk looked clear, the right end was frozen solid. My body went up, my back went down.

I knew it the minute I used excessive force while standing in a somewhat unaligned, awkward way -- I had just busted my back. Again. It didn't hurt. I didn't cry. But I knew. Deep down inside, I knew. I came home, unloaded the giant amount of groceries while precariously navigating the frozen stairs, and hit the couch. Fuuuudge. It still didn't hurt, but it was a lie. Just wait, I told myself. It's only a matter of time now.

Two days later = today. It took longer than I thought, but this morning I woke up with horrifying pain in my lower back. Oh sure, take longer than usual and make me think I might have escaped unscathed! So now I'll begin my regimen of ice, anti-inflammatories, and lying flat on the floor for 20 minutes at a time doing stretches to get my bad back to RELEASE the muscles and stop being such a beyotch.

But every time this happens, I'm reminded that at least I do NOT feel like I did that first year after my back injury. That year, I could barely move. I thought it would never end. I cried every day and could hardly lean over to brush my teeth or tie my shoes. Every single thing (even breathing) was a painful ordeal. I'm not there now. This is just a tweak. It will be OK in a few days.

Just as with all pains -- emotional or physical -- I'm glad I've been through some whoppers in my life. Because of those moments, I now recognize that this too shall pass. I've been through far worse before.

The Bedroom Insulating Project Begins

2011-12-06T09:15:00.001-06:00

I share this ridiculously OLD photograph of my bedroom window because it's the best way to show you exactly what the window and its covering look like. (In the corner, you can see the navy blue/creme vertically-striped wallpaper that used to be on my bedroom walls -- dizzying.) Anyway, this window is OLD. My first spring, it gushed water because the roof was all f*cked up right above it. Later that year, I broke into this window when I locked myself out of the house. I ruined the screen when I did that, so now I can never open the window in the spring to let in fresh air. The window barely opens anyway because the weights and pulleys are from the Dark Ages and will hardly move. And now, the window is FREEZING cold and is ruining my sleeping nest due to a certain curious kitteh named Gretchen. Basically, this window sucks.

The window panel you see above used to be the door for my bedroom in Chicago. Yes, I said door. The apartment I shared with Chicago Ex didn't have doors to the bedroom or the home office, so I improvised by purchasing this panel and a tension rod. It kept the air-conditioning IN in the summer and light OUT when he stayed up later than I did. It also kept visitors from staring at my bed. Very useful. When I moved to Farmhouse Villa, I decided it would make the perfect bedroom window panel because it DOES let in light but not too much light. I have sleeping issues, so if light wakes me up at some point, I'll never go back to sleep.

But that first winter here, I realized that my house isn't insulated and the windows are most-likely as old as the house (which is over 100 years old). The storm windows DON'T help, and the storm window for this particular window is JAMMED OPEN. So I bought an expensive, insulated window covering for my bedroom. But the damn thing is white. The one winter I used it, I woke up with the sun every morning and couldn't go back to sleep. Precious hours of REM fell to the wayside and I got very "off." Even though it held some of the cold air, it was too much of a sacrifice to lose my darkened bedroom. I decided to not use it this year.

Here are the other annoyingly cold things about my bedroom:

I have a walk-in closet in my bedroom that doesn't have a vent. So no heat or air. There is another old-as-hell window in the closet that leaks in freezing air in the winter. Since my bedroom has hardwood flooring, the air leaks in under the closet door.
I have a walk-up staircase to the attic in my bedroom. Since the attic is not insulated (well, we threw some insulation down on the floor a few winters ago to try and lower my propane bill), Arctic winds flow down the stairs and out under the closet door.

You would think it would be easy to solve the door problems, yes? I should just put those handy door-crack pillowy things on the floor near the doors, right? Wrong. Because of Gretchen. Gretchen, who thinks everything is her plaything. Gretchen tries to get into both of those doors on a regular basis. So does Webster. Any closed door in Farmhouse Villa = Temptation. (We won't even discuss their obsession with the basement door. That's a whole different post.) Gretchen would shove away any wind blocker from the bottom of a door in approximately .00000342 seconds.

The bottom of the attic staircase has a little space between it and the door. There used to be someone else's old mat stuffed in there, but I had Pa remove it when we trapping mice. (I caught 3 total in the attic. They seem to all be dead now. *knocks on wood*) I figured out that the mice were using part of the mat to make some winter bedding, so I tossed it. The other night, I bunched up an old towel and tried to shove it in the space. I had to fight off Gretchen and Webster as if I had dumped a giant bowl of tuna in front of them. Let's go in the attic! Whee! Let's run up there and never come down! WHOOT! I had locked them out of the bedroom before opening the attic door, but since all of the doors in Farmhouse Villa are SO OLD, my bedroom door popped open and there they were. Hrumph. So the door problems? I'm working on them.

So back to the window. There is a heating vent right under that damn window. Before Gretchen came into my life, the kittehs only looked out of the window if the curtain was pushed back. But she's more interested in outdoor life than Webster is or King was, so she likes to push the curtain aside when it's in her way. I carefully align the bottom of the curtain each day so that it won't get shoved over the vent and send my precious propane literally out the window. BUT Gretchen keeps moving it.

Last summer, I found the closest item to the window, which was Pink Kitteh (a stuffed animal that I made for myself while making an exact copy for Little at Build-a-Bear). Poor Pink Kitteh is now a curtain holder. Her body holds the curtain against the wall by the vent. But is she any match for Gretchen? Hells no. Every single freakin' day I have to go adjust Pink Kitteh multiple times when I walk into my bedroom and notice the temperature in there has dropped 10 degrees. And don't even SUGGEST putting plastic on the window. Gretchen would tear it down and eat it in 30 seconds. Damn that Gretchen. She's so feisty.

Wow. This is a long blog post. Clearly, I have a lot to say about how cold my bedroom is. Also, I have the day off work for the first time in ages, so I feel FREE and BLABBERY. Awesomeness.

Anyway, today I'm going to tackle the bedroom problem. I'm going shopping to get supplies:

A tension rod that will allow me to put the insulated curtain BEHIND the dark curtain. Double curtains will mean that I will be insulated but not woken up by light. Because I have such ancient, deep window frames, the tension rod should fit in with no problem. Then I can re-nail the regular curtain holder up because it's always one Gretchen-tug away from falling off.
Vent covers for the bedroom and the living room. I'm not sure why it's taken me so long to realize you can buy a plastic thing that will gently guide your heat away from the window, but there you have it. It remains to be seen how easy it will be to install these things considering the dinosaur quality of my vents, but whatevs. I'll figure it out. (When in doubt, call Pa.)
Speaking of Pa, I just called him to ask him if he has any ball bearings. His response: "Everyone has ball bearings." Really? Do you have ball bearings lying around your house? I researched weights for curtains and I found these flat ones that you can sew into the bottoms. But since I have my father's brain, I immediately thought of ball bearings (though I do not, in fact, have a stash of them in my home). So at some point, I'm going to ~~steal~~ borrow a bunch of ball bearings from Pa and sew them into the bottom of my bedroom curtains. SCORE.
I'm going to look for seals for the bottoms of my attic and closet doors. These will also come in handy because Gretchen likes to shove her toy mousies under both doors and then gets obsessed when she can't pull them back out. So she rattles the doors all the time when she shoves her paws way under there while lying on her back mewing in frustration.

I'm so EXCITED to not be freezing in my bedroom anymore. I can't say the same for the rest of the house, but it's a start. Do you have any handy insulating tips for me? All ideas area welcome.

A New Twist on Holiday Cards

2011-12-05T15:14:00.001-06:00

I never send out Christmas cards. Never have, never will. It's far too late in my adult life to suddenly start gathering people's home addresses. Plus, have you seen the cost of stamps these days? Good LORD. So I attempted to make you a card above. I even spelled it all backwards so you could read it. (Who knew I had this hidden talent?)

But to be serious for a moment, I've decided to pull my head out of my own a$$ this holiday season and do something nice for someone else. Well, three people to be exact. (Wait. More than one person might live in each home. So that's more than three people. OK, let's just say three households. Whatevs.)

There are three households in Farmsville that are my favorites. The people who live there don't know this. They have no idea that I enjoy their homes so much. Not in a creepy, stalker way. Just in the "Oh, isn't that lovely?" kind of way.

House 1
I live on the same road as a man who puts up a sh*tload of light-up yard animals each Christmas season. Deer, moose, etc. Some turn back and forth, some don't. All of them are an amazing sight. It's rumored he adds two each year. I would say he probably adds 10 each year. Also? I really don't want to know what his electricity bill is. Ooof. Anyway, his yard cracks me up. I love driving past it and seeing the lights during these long, dark nights.

House 2
A few years ago, a woman in town started a gorgeous garden after she moved into her house. She redid the siding and the house looked amazing, and then all of the sudden the flowers started appearing. During the spring and summer, I often see her hard at work when I drive by. I've been tempted to stop and talk plants with her, but I never do. Even now, in the nastiness of the first snow, her yard area is so beautiful.

House 3
House 3 grew on me with time. When I first saw their GIANT gargoyles after they moved in, I wasn't so sure. The gargoyles are the kind that you would usually see on TOP of a large building, not on two posts right in front of a house. So the gargoyles are a bit overwhelming. They have pointed wings that are something like 4 or 5 feet tall. They sit on either side of the sidewalk up to the house. You can't possibly miss them. I've always loved gargoyles, but these bothered me at first. They were just so BIG. They were kind of eyesore-ish. But then the owners started DECORATING THEM and I was totally won over. Every holiday, the gargoyles get new headbands. For Easter, it was bunny ears; May Day it was flowers; 4th of July it was flags. Right now they are wearing red bow headbands. I think. I know they are red, but they were pushed back with snow the last time I saw them, so they might be some other kind of Christmas ornament. Either way, I LOVE THEM. I'm always excited to see their new accessories.

So the owners of these three houses? This year, they will be receiving thank you/Happy Holidays cards from yours truly. I will write and tell each one how their home or yard makes me smile.

I imagine it might be a tad odd to get a card from a complete stranger, but I also feel that this is a good way to pay it forward in my community. And it will make me feel more festive to do something nice for the people who bring me smiles year-round. They deserve it.

Ear Whooshing Denial Comes to an End

2011-12-04T08:00:00.001-06:00

It's been a long time since I've written about my ear whoosh. It's still there. It's been 5 long years. It's hard for me to write about it because it's so painful. Not literally painful -- there is no pain associated with my ear whoosh. It's the mental pain that gets to me. I'm reminded with each heart beat that it will never go away, that I'll be whooshing forever -- or until my ticker stops ticking. Some days, I barely notice it. Others, it's SO LOUD that I want to scream. Iowa can become very quiet in the winter, so lately, I've noticed it more and more. WHOOSH WHOOSH WHOOSH.

I feel like a schmuck because in the last year, many people have written to me to ask about the whooshing, and I haven't written them back. At first it was because I had too many overlapping projects and I could barely keep up with work email, let alone personal email. But then I started to get overwhelmed. When I get overwhelmed by things, I let them stack up. Bills, phone messages, whatever it is -- it collects all by itself, and I ignore it. It's an odd coping mechanism that actually just causes more problems in the end. But it's the way I am. It's a part of my hermiting soul.

The other day, I realized I was a total a$$hat to not write back to all of these whooshers. Isn't this what I wanted? To have a community of wonderful whooshers who understood me? Yes, that's true. But it's also so hard to know that other people are suffering the way I am. Yes, I said suffering. This whoosh is a curse that eats away at me on a daily basis. I can't stand it. It pains me to know that so many other people have it, too, and it's entirely possible that we all have it for different reasons. There is no one-stop shop for pulsatile tinnitus. It's a symptom of many, many things.

The other thing that has been bringing me down is when people write to tell me about the doctors they are going to see. In an odd twist of fate, a few of them have been to/are going to see Dr. Whooshsaver. I am blind with jealousy. So hopeful for them, yet eaten alive with envy. I am like a small child whimpering in the corner because someone stole my toy.

I had to give up Dr. Whooshsaver after I received my bill for our testing. It was $12,326.27. For testing. Not the procedure that could fix me. That would have been far, far more. Given, the insurance company adjusted the bill a bit, but I've been making monthly payments on it since May 2010, and it's still there. Every month. An evil reminder that I will never be whooshfree. It's a slap in the face each time it appears in the mail.

Like all people who suffer from a disease, I have been through the 5 stages of grief multiple times about this whoosh. It comes and it goes. Some days I ignore it completely and don't let it affect me that much. Other days, I cry. I long to be unconscious so I won't have to listen to it. I go to bed early in the hopes that I will fall asleep, only to end up lying there listening to it for hours. Those days are the worst days. I've had a lot of those lately.

But I want to turn over a new leaf. Just because I can't be cured doesn't mean I can't be happy for those who are or will be. It's time to stop having my own personal pity party about my whoosh and start being an advocate for my people again.

Dear Whooshers,

If you have written to me sometime in the last year and I haven't responded, please know that it's not you -- it's me. I've been super down about my whoosh. Beaten up by it. Held hostage by it. You of all people understand this. I promise to do better. After the holidays, I hope to go back through my email and find the messages and respond. Thank you so much for reaching out to me. It really does make me feel good to know I'm not alone. I've just been stuck in a bad place with my own whoosh, so I've been off. Don't give up hope. There is still a little part of me that hopes I will be cured one day. I hope that you will be, too. I'll keep fighting if you will.

Yours in the Whoosh,
Blondie

To read all my posts about the whoosh, click here.

Freelancer Meltdown Brings Perspective

2011-12-02T09:25:00.001-06:00

Here's a little secret about freelancing -- every company uses a different software program. People might tell you that a certain product is the new, big thing that EVERYONE will be using soon, but it's all a lie. Every single company I work for uses a different platform. Some use the easiest thing in the world: Word. Others use programs that live online and are built by people half a world away (making queries about said program rather difficult considering the time change). And then there are a whole host of programs that already live on my computer in one way or another but I only use them once in a while. So each time I start a new project, I know it's only a matter of time before the technology catches up with me.

When I left the Giant Publishing House in 2007, I was told by many that I should think about getting InCopy. Since many publishers now want editors to be designers as well (ATTENTION: WE LACK THOSE SKILLS. WE ARE WORDSMITHS.), I was encouraged to "take a class" or something by some of my well-meaning freelancer friends. But I also had an intuition back then that I should probably take things as they come. Things change LIGHTNING FAST in technology. Did the Kindle exist when I left the company? No. iPad? Hells no. So I decided to wait it out. It's worked so far.

I've read InDesign and InCopy files before. Read them. OK, I also made a few bookmaps in InDesign at one time. But truly using the programs? No. So then I start on my most recent project this last week. In InCopy. Which I don't know how to use. It's certainly not rocket science, but it's a very HUGE and COMPLEX program. We also had some hiccups because I bought the brand spanking new version and the client had an older version and suddenly things weren't saving correctly. And then I didn't understand the difference between Galley, Story, and Layout, so I got stuck in Story mode and didn't understand all of the symbols and got freaked out about ruining the tabs and margins and things so I deleted the file I was working on four or five times.

AND THEN I CRIED ABOUT IT. BECAUSE REALLY? MY PART IS SUPPOSED TO BE EDITING THE CONTENT TO MAKE SURE IT MAKES SENSE AND THAT LITTLE LOZENGE WITH THE HEADING ON IT JUST MOVED AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO FIX IT AND I'M SUPER TIRED AND HAVE BEEN WORKING REALLY HARD AND WANT TO DO MY BEST FOR THIS NEW CLIENT BECAUSE I LOVE THEM. SERIOUSLY, I DO.

Something like that.

And then, like a precious gift from the Universe, I figured out Layout mode. For those of you who are unfamiliar with InCopy, Layout mode shows you what the page would look like all perfectly like it would in a real book. The other modes show you characters, margins, and a billion symbols that make NO SENSE. What I was working on morphed from the equivalent of Chinese characters to standard English. Oh yes, I can actually read and comprehend that! THANK GAWD!

So now? Now, I feel much better about this project. I was SO excited when I got the contract, and I want to keep that excitement. And bless Pa's heart, he printed out all 300 pages of the InCopy user guide and brought them to me. So I can pretend to understand them.

Last night when I miserably crawled into bed after a long day of frustration, I reminded myself that each new project ALWAYS has a learning curve. I summoned my old mentor, the Senior Vice President of the Giant Publishing House, into my mind. She taught me long ago that EVERY project is sticky at the beginning. It's a process. It's OK to fail and try again. Given, as a freelancer you really can't fail with a new client or you'll lose them. But during a long projects, it's fine to work together and discuss the kinks. It doesn't mean you're bad at your job, it just means you're learning. And before you know it, working in the file/program/software will seem like the easiest thing in the world. The key is to remember that when you start.

On Not Wasting Time Dating A$$hats

2011-12-01T08:37:00.001-06:00

When Chicago Cousin was in town for Thanksgiving, we went out for a few drinks at the local watering hole together. I confessed that I had blogged about losing her as my woobie -- my last remaining single/childless cousin. She wrapped her arms around me and squeezed me tight. Then she pointed out something very interesting: "I was a year older than you are now when I met [fiance]." (I guess we'll need to come up with a name for him now that he's entered the blog. Stay tuned.)

I thought about Chicago Cousin's statement. Oh yeah, she's two years older than me! It's easy to forget that. As I age, I forget more and more about age. Half the time, I have no idea how old I am. Chicago Cousin has been dating [fiance] for about two years. We talked about how at our age, if you aren't going to get married (and you want to be -- that part is crucial here), dating longer than two years is a bad idea. If you aren't serious and you're in your mid-30s, cut 'em loose. So it's quite natural that Chicago Cousin and [fiance] got engaged now. Any longer, and we might all be giving him the raised eyebrow.

Let's back up for a moment. I dated my very own Chicago ex on and off forEVER without getting engaged. But I was in my 20s. If I met a nice man now and neither of us cared about marriage, it wouldn't bother me to simply date him for the rest of my life. So no, there's nothing wrong with not ever getting married.

But wanting to be married and procreate? Get on it, right? As the old saying goes: Sh*t or get off the pot. I think when you hit your mid-30s it's inappropriate -- even downright mean -- to continue dating someone who wants to get married if you have no interest. Why waste someone's time?

I've been thinking about this a lot lately because people keep telling me to date "for fun." No. I don't wanna. You know why? Because I've been there and done that. Even though I've only had a few "loves" in my life, I've dated plenty of men. More men that I would like to admit to. (Ah, college. Oh, Portland!) I've been casual about smooching, dating, and sex before. I don't want to be anymore. I want something serious, meaningful, and a relationship that has the potential to lead to marriage. I'm done floundering around flirting with cute boys just to be doing it. Snore-boring. Frustrating. Painful. Over. It.

This is not to say that you can tell if someone has marriage potential by going on a few casual dates. But I'd say you can get to know someone pretty quickly in 3-6 months. If they're a douche now, they'll be a douche later. I used to think you had to date someone for years before you could figure them out. I've changed my mind about this. You figure it out pretty quickly once you've matured. (Did I just say I'm mature? *cough*)

Anyway, the point of all this is to remember what Chicago Cousin said. She was older than me when she met [fiance]. Not by much, but still. That gives me hope that I still have time to find my guy. Though not too much time. So I will do my best not to waste it on men who don't deserve it. Hopefully, I will find a good man like [fiance] soon. I have my eye on one right now. I think.

Lisa Ling and Hope

2011-11-30T15:47:00.001-06:00

Little hitches a ride, 2008

I've raved here before about Lisa Ling's "Our America" series. It's fantastic. Lisa has a unique, touching way of discussing hard topics. I recently watched episodes about veterans of war and African American incarcerated males. Even though both topics are quite different, I saw the same pain on the people's faces -- the men and the women who love them. (Watch the show. For reals.)

In "Incarceration Nation," Lisa introduces us to men who have been in and out of prison due to generational cycles. She really got me at the end of the episode. I can't remember her exact words, but she said something about people's hope being taken away -- and children's hope, too. It made me very sad. I have "issues" with hope. I believe false hope can be a deadly thing. But having no hope at all? I think that is far worse.

I've been having trouble communicating with some people in my life recently. They mean no harm, but they tend to be quite judgy. Especially when they don't understand something, such as my job or my tattoo or my singleness. I get so many "you shoulds" each week that I often want to lock myself in Farmhouse Villa and not leave.

While watching Lisa's show, I realized what I'm lacking -- encouragement, support, and hope. I feel like without even realizing it, certain people are taking my hope away. I'm not naive about my own lot in life. I know that I owe the Tax Man money. I know that I have a HUGE whooshing bill at the hospital. I know that I could, should, need to "do better," whatever that means. I don't need to be reminded.

I write this all out today as a means of reminding myself not to be a Hope Destroyer. I put up the picture of Little because I never want to tough-love her into thinking she has no hope regarding her dreams, life, and passions. And I suppose I also write it as a reminder to all readers -- it's OUR job to make sure we don't steal each other's hope. Let's all try to watch what we say or do around those we love. Especially as we enter this holiday (madness) season, let's really try to be inspiring and encouraging to those we love. I'll do my best to keep up my end of the bargain.

Big Ole Stack of Books on the Way

2011-11-29T06:16:00.001-06:00

I keep starting blog posts and deleting them and starting over and deleting them. Let's face it, I have nothing to say. But since I took the holiday off from blogging, I feel the need to come back and tell you how great it was and how rested I feel. In truth, it's going to be a very busy week, so I just feel even more tired than I did before. My momentum is off. The Blondie Busy Train came to a dead halt last week and it was AWESOME. Can I go back there? Have we invented time travel yet?

What random thing can I write about?

OK, so when I'm single (which seems to be forEVER right about now), I like to get myself presents for birthdays and major holidays. This year, I struggled with what to buy myself. Every idea seemed stooopid or unnecessary. But because gifts do make me happy, I decided to suck it up and spoil myself with $100 of something.

After endlessly scouring the Internet one night and feeling quite depressed that I could find nothing shiny and useless that would make me happy, I wandered over to the NPR site and somehow landed on Your Picks: Top 100 Science Fiction, Fantasy Books. I don't like fantasy as a genre. It might be the only genre that I literally can't stand. But sci-fi? Sign me up. I started scanning the list and was happy to find that so many of my favorites are listed (Blondie + Asimov + Clarke = True Love 4Ever). But I also saw many books I haven't read, so that gave me an idea.

Roughly an hour later, I'd ordered 16 science fiction books from Amazon for $98.88. How's that for staying on budget? To be fair, one of them was a 4-books-in-1 kind of book, but the rest were individual titles and one boxed set. After all of these years, I've finally decided I should read the Ender series. We'll see. I'm not a huge space-war fan.

I wouldn't say that sci-fi is my favorite genre, but I do enjoy escaping reality once in a while to jaunt into the future or deep space. I spend the majority of my time reading nonfiction, so throwing a sci-fi title into the mix every few months lets me escape reality. And every time I'm in the mood for sci-fi, I don't have the patience to research one that I think I would really like. The genre is hit or miss. It's either really good or really bad. I like to check to see how many good reviews titles have gotten online before I wander into a bookstore and try to choose on my own. With the amount of Clarke and Asimov books I haven't read dwindling rapidly, this is becoming more and more difficult with time.

I'm currently reading The Naked Sun, which is the second book in Asimov's robot series. So to start off my list, I got the final two books: The Robots of Dawn and Robots and Empire. Then I did some research of the NPR list and came up with these:

Philip K. Dick: 4 Novels of the 60s (The Man in the High Castle; The Three Stigmata of Palmer Edlrich; Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?; Ubik)
The Ender Quartet Box Set by Orson Scott Card
Starship Troopers by Robert A. Heinlein
A Fire Upon the Deep by Vernor Vinge
Lucifer's Hammer by Larry Niven
World War Z by Max Brooks
The Diamond Age by Neil Stephenson
Cryptomicon by Neil Stephenson

I'm too lazy to cite all of those properly or link to them, my bad. But I'm hoping they will all be good on those long, Iowa winter nights when I'm snowed-in and am about ready to climb up the walls. There's nothing quite as lovely as having a MASSIVE stack of books sitting around just in case.

Once again, I encourage anyone who is single to treat yourself to a holiday gift. YOU DESERVE IT.

Dear Pet Owners: A Plea (or Threat)

2011-11-28T08:46:00.001-06:00

I'm trying to figure out who I can call to take care of some dead animals on my road. There are always dead animals somewhere along the vast stretch of concrete. Usually, someone at least moves them. One year, I had a fat, bloated woodchuck at the end of my driveway that I finally begged my neighbor to toss in the ditch. He did, bless his heart. I don't think he'd be so willing to go pick up the other animals though.

Because I am an animal-lover, it breaks my heart every time I see Something Dead on my way in or out of town. There has been a small, dead deer down the road from me for about 3 weeks now. Because it's cold outside, it's not going to rot away or get eaten up by something anytime soon. Sigh. Last night, I spied a HUGE dead deer a few hundred yards from the baby. Greeeat. I understand dead wildlife. But pets? Those are a different story.

Across the street from the cemetery as we speak is a very young-looking German shepherd. I'm assuming its owners went out of town for Thanksgiving and don't know it's been on the side of the road for two days. It's the dogs and cats that hurt me the most. This is why leash laws are important. Use leashes or pens, people. Double-check the gates.

Last summer, I saw a dead beagle in the middle of the road and burst into tears. I wonder if dog owners know how much it affects me to see their pets in my road? It breaks my freakin' heart every single time. I really don't need help feeling blue right now. It's the holiday season, people. Even though I have and adore my own kitties, I do understand that cats scamper into the road much easier and quicker than dogs. And of course, squirrels, raccoons, deer, and the odd woodchuck come with the territory here in the country. But dogs? It makes me sick. If I had a dollar for every time I've stopped to honk at a random dog in the middle of my road, I would no longer owe the Tax Man.

I don't need to see dead dogs on the road. It breaks my spirit. And it kills me to know that any children who were riding the many buses this morning probably saw the dog, too. Children don't need to see that. Especially if it turns out to be a pet they know.

So I decided to write this public service announcement this morning because I just can't take seeing another dead pet between now and the end of the year. Do NOT let your dog go outside by itself, no matter how "good" you think it is or how "safe" your area is. Remember this dog I wrote about? Dead. Splattered to death on the road a few months after I wrote that post. I still regret not "talking" to its owner.

If I ever see a dog with a tag in the road again, it's game on. I'll be tracking down the owners and letting them know how I feel. Because when you let your dog die like that, you not only feel the loss yourself, you actually transfer your loss onto me -- and whoever else sees the carnage. Not fair, ladies and gentlemen. So not fair. Take care of your pets. They deserve it. And if you can't handle it, don't get one.

In the Kitchen

2011-11-23T10:05:00.001-06:00

See that pie up there? I made that pie a few years ago for Christmas for my family. It's an apple raspberry crumb pie with almonds. Mmmm. So yummy. This year, I'm going to make that same pie for the Blonderson family Thanksgiving. I have promised to not add any poison.

It's not very often that I cook or bake for others. Being single will do that to you. Recently, I made chili for Sprinkle and Spice. I also made lasagna for my parents. I was reminded how nice it is to create something for others to eat. It's a different feeling than creating books for children. You see the immediate rewards. When Spice piped up, "Your chili is good," I felt a kind of pride I hadn't felt in a long time. Food pride is a unique sensation.

When I was a little girl, Grandma Blonderson used to make pies and let me have a tiny pie tin to make my own in. I have clear memory of a step ladder in her kitchen. I'm putting cherries into my baby pie on the second step of the ladder -- using it as a counter. I must be very short. How old? No clue.

I have very few memories of Grandma Blonderson before she got Alzheimer's. But in this memory, she's fine. Also, usually my sister or cousins are in the memories. But this time, it's just me and Grandma. Maybe we were having a special day together? Or maybe I've just blocked out the other people to make it that much more special? But I can see her -- hear her voice. I love having voice-memories. They are so rare.

The memory only holds putting together the pie. I don't remember baking it or eating it afterward. I only have a few moments of putting in the cherries and then POOF it's all gone. I wish I could go back to that moment and hug Grandma and tell her how much I love her. I would also tell her not to be afraid of what was going to start happening to her because we would all be there for her -- right up until her last moments.

I can't change the past, but I can make the most of my present. I'm going to go bake my pie at Ma's house. Ma always wants me to cook with her, but I never do. Ma can be... how do I put this... unruly in the kitchen. She's not used to people getting in her foodstuffs, so it can be a challenge. And she pops into teacher mode and likes it done her way.

Despite all this, I do cherish my memories of cooking with my mother and look forward to making more. So today, she will boss me around while I work on my pie, and I will roll my eyes and groan like a teenager. But I will secretly love it. And then all of our love will go into that pie and the Blondersons will be filled with it. (And maybe a little poison. You never know.)

A Follow-Up Nightmare, or My Subconscious Speaks

2011-11-22T10:56:00.001-06:00

After writing about my creepy nightmare yesterday, I realized I might as well tell you about the follow-up nightmare I had last night. First, a little back-story about Ma:

Ma doesn't allow animals in her house. Period. Maggie the farm cats comes in and out to go from the garage to the back yard, but that's it. I do have evidence of King and Webster being at Nerdtopia right when I moved home. In fact, here is King in Ma's chair:

I also have another photo of King ON Ma's lap, but I don't put pictures of Ma on this blog. You'll have to use your imagination. Trust me, it was CUTE CUTE CUTE. Anyway, Pa and I sometimes joke that after Ma dies, he can finally get that dog he's been wanting. Or maybe an indoor cat -- I like to push that one considering the love affair that goes on between Pa and Webster. Personally, I think my parents would adore an indoor cat, but Ma is old and stuck in her ways and she doesn't want to clean up cat hair -- or litter. Whatevs. Let her be herself, I tell myself. Sigh.

The other thing about Ma? She LOVES deer. She sees God in them. They are a gift to her from above. So whenever there is a deer outside (right now = always), she gets all squealy and excited like a little girl. Her enthusiasm about deer has rubbed off on me, so now I see them as amazing and wonderful, too. Except when they run out in front of me on the road. That's a different story altogether. But for the most part, I now swoon at the deer and always alert Ma if I see one wandering through the back fields. Pa is NOT as impressed with deer. He always says, "I've seen deer before." So Pa is not enthusiastic about the deer the way Ma and I are. He likes them, but they're everywhere. No biggie.

OK, now you're caught up. Ready for the nightmare?

The Nightmare

I show up at Nerdtopia. I'm walking up the driveway. Pa has called me to come over, so I'm hurrying. In the dream, I know Ma is dead -- has been dead for a few weeks. I'm worried about Pa. What does he need me for?

I go in the house and he's standing in the living room -- right next to that chair you see above. My line of vision is blocked by his body and the chair. I know there is something in the living room, but I can't see it.

I come around in front of Pa. There, on the floor on a blanket, is a baby deer. Pa is holding a bottle to give it milk. It's hurt in some way -- maybe a broken leg? Pa tells me it's hurt, so he's going to nurse it back to health and then release it. I start bawling like a psycho and cry out: "Ma would have LOVED to see this!" I wake up.

Deconstruction of the Nightmare

In real life, Pa would probably shoot an injured deer to put it out of its misery or find someone else to put it down. Deer are NOT domesticated animals. They're dangerous. We are farm people. If you run into an injured deer, badger, or bobcat, you're LUCKY if you get away. Seriously. Given, this was a baby deer, but still. I know that my father would not nurture an injured wild animal back to life in his own house. He might call someone, sure, but he wouldn't do it himself. So the deer in the dream is NOT a deer. It's that baby I've been thinking about.

Fear = Ma will die before I have a baby and I'll be sad that she'll never meet it.

Dear Body,

I get you. I hear you. TICK TICK TICK! You're releasing all of my deep down fears right now. Why? I don't know. But I GET IT ALREADY. You can STOP NOW. Hrumph. I'm not going to run and get preggo just to please you, so KNOCK IT OFF!

Love,
Blondie

Publicly Deconstructing a Nightmare

2011-11-21T09:48:00.001-06:00

My dreams are so vivid that I often think they are real when I wake up. A nightmare awoke me at 4am today, and I couldn't go back to sleep afterward. I dreamed that my sister, Dorothy, had died and no one had the guts to tell Little. Something like 3 weeks went by. During that time, I was searching for apartments. I was in Chicago on a familiar street, but every time I came around the block, I was back where I had started. Then suddenly, I was in Portland. I had the same problems with the streets. I could make no progress. Before I knew it, I was back in my parents' home. I was asking them when they were going to tell Little about my sister. Then, there she was on the bed. She was pale white and started coughing something awful. I realized she wasn't dead but would be soon. Then I woke up.

My dreams are usually:

Something from my real life that is stuck in my psyche.
Something from a television show, movie, or book that I've recently seen or read.

This dream appears to be neither of the two. It was a straight-up foreign nightmare that jarred my soul. There were a few elements of it that were "true." All of my family members were real family members (sometimes, they're strangers posing as family members) and my sister has one hell of a cough. She is a very violent cougher -- always has been. Other elements were total fiction, such as the fear of my sister's death and the "familiar" streets of my previous cities. While I have had a lifelong fear of my parents dying, I've never been afraid of my sister's death. I'm sure it's what one would call hard-core denial, but it's true. It's not something I think/dream about. So what was going on in my brain?

I've long been a studier of my own dreams. I've had plenty of dream journals. I used to wake up and write them down in the middle of the night, but then in the morning I realized I could never read my own handwriting. At some point, I stopped bothering with the journals. My dreams are so real that it's hard for me to forget them. I can't shake this one about Dorothy even though it's been like 6 hours. It was so real.

My parents were alive at the end of the dream, but somewhere in the middle, they weren't. While I was searching down those long, city streets, I had a conscious thought: I can live wherever I want because I have no family left. Here is a large difference between my dream world and my real world. See, if my parents and sister passed away, I would still be in contact with my niece and brother-in-law. I would also still be in contact with all of my extended family. None of those relationships would change. But in the dream, they disappeared out of the picture. I realized I could move anywhere, go anywhere. I had no strings attached at all. I wandered into two or three apartment buildings to see how much the rentals cost. There were a ton of people waiting in line to rent the units. I remember being frustrated. It's going to be so hard to move alone.

Aha! I knew this writing exercise would have a purpose!

See, I always know what my dreams mean. I'm very intuitive about my own emotions and fears, so I can usually work out the symbolism of my nocturnal musings quite easily. This dream has haunted me all morning because I haven't been able to get to the source of it. Why did I dream that my sister was dead? Why was I wandering through cities looking for apartments? How come I was in Chicago and Portland instead of Farmsville?

But as I sit here writing, it all becomes clear. See, my Chicago Cousin? She just got engaged. I'm THRILLED for her. I like her fiance, and I'm excited to see this new family come into the fold. But after all of the excitement wore down, I realized that I'm the only "local" cousin left from this side of my family that doesn't have a family:

Eagle: Older male cousin, wife, 2 kids
Dorothy: Older sister, husband, 1 kid
Chicago Cousin: Older female cousin, now engaged
Kira: Older female cousin, married, 1 step-kid
Hawk: Younger male cousin, 1 kid
Blondie:

Now that I think about it, I mentioned this to my parents this weekend. They all have families now, except me. Yes, I have a large, extended family and living parents and a sister, but I do not have a nuclear family of my own. One of my greatest fears that I've spoken to my Shrinkydink about for years is being left behind. And even though I try to fight it and do things on my own schedule, this fear is creeping up on me. I'm being left behind -- again.

Note that list of cousins. In age order, we're all roughly 1 year apart, with the boys being two years on either end, like a nice set of bookends. We all participated in extracurricular activities, went to the same church, and participated in sports. After high school, Dorothy, Chicago Cousin, Kira, Hawk, and I all went to the University of Iowa. Eagle, ever the lone wolf, went to Iowa State. And after that we scattered around and started our lives. But somehow, my life has taken a different turn than theirs.

I knew it was only a matter of time before Chicago Cousin got married. She's gorgeous, super smart, and a great catch. From experience, I can tell you that it takes a lot longer to find the right people in cities, so it doesn't surprise me that she took her time finding the right man. And I'd like to note that my own neurosis doesn't take away at all from my happiness for her. I am genuinely excited for her. But sure, after having this wonk dream and journaling here for a bit, I have to admit that it also scares me. I think having her be single as well was kind of like a woobie to me, and now that woobie is being taken away. Make sense?

Now the pieces of the nightmare all become obvious -- the anonymity of large cities, the death/lack of information about my sister, the overwhelming feeling of options because there's nothing holding me back. I don't want a rootless life. I want roots that grow down so deep that the greatest of storms can't tear them out. I do not want to be left behind.

I don't even have to call Shrinky. I can hear her:

Shrinky: "What does it mean if you are left behind?"

Blondie: "That I'm not good enough."

Shrinky: "And if you aren't good enough then...?"

Blondie: "Then I will be alone."

Shrinky: "And what does it mean if you are alone?"

Blondie: "That I have failed."

Every road leads back to that same sentence. I have failed. You can name any fear I have aloud and we can do this same dance and I'll always come back to the same place. I wish I could see my life as filled with accomplishments, but I obviously still have a very real and powerful fear of failure that is connected to relationships. I wonder if I'll ever conquer this fear?

At least I can acknowledge it. Each time I say (or write) it aloud, I take away some of its power. It's helpful to look my fears in the face. I see you. If I see you, maybe you can't win.

Shrinky wrote something on a piece of paper and gave it to me once. She encouraged me to repeat this line over and over in my mind. I did for a while, but then I got distracted and went on to other things. I think it's time to bring this mantra back into my focus:

It may be possible that I'm enough.

Inspiration

2011-11-20T10:06:00.001-06:00

A few nights ago, I watched a PBS special called One Last Thing about Steve Jobs. It was brilliant. I cried. Not because I knew the man or was a crazed fan -- just because he was fascinating, inspiring, and I felt sad because very few people in this world inspire me anymore. As I've gotten older, I've been able to better identify the kinks and flaws in those I once worshiped. While I'm still inspired, I'm not blown away. So knowing that a living legend was no longer living? It hurt me. I long to bow in awe before geniuses. Well, the right kind of geniuses, anyway.

The documentary showed a rare clip of Steve talking at some time in the past -- 1980s? 1990s? I don't know. But he said something wonderful. I'll try to paraphrase. He said something about how you're taught that life is a certain way and that you just have to live with it. Just be careful not to bump into too many walls along the way. The challenge is to see that you can change the world. He said (and for this one, I found the direct quote):

"Life can be much broader once you discover one simple fact, and that is, everything around you that you call life was made up by people that were no smarter than you ... the minute that you understand that you can poke life ... that you can change it, you can mold it ... that's maybe the most important thing."

I remember when I first started working at the Giant Publishing House (on my very first Mac) that I was quite overwhelmed by the idea of making educational materials -- teacher editions, student editions, tons of ancillaries to go with them. When I was young, I read out of a student edition. Now I was going to make one? Me? I was 24 years old. I remember that first assignment. It was overwhelming. A full-blown ESL program for the state of Texas (a monster in educational publishing).

Every time I thought I was finished with the student edition, Coco would inform me that a new chunk was on the way. It kept growing and morphing. There was SO much to learn and build. Through my coworkers' careful guidance, I slowly figured it out. Now, 10 years later, I giggle when I think of that young Blondie. She was so clueless about the trade. Now? I know the process like I know how to breathe. It's true, Steve Jobs. Everything around me is created by someone no smarter than me. Who knew?

But I'm not going to sit here and pretend that I'm a genius. It's just that Steve is right. If I wanted to make the cell phone sitting next to me, I'm sure I could figure it out. It just takes time, dedication, study, and passion. I could learn how to build this desk I'm sitting at if I had the patience. I could learn how to operate on Gretchen or Webster if I really wanted to (and yes, went back to school).

What Steve was saying was that anything is possible if you really want it. You can do it. When he said that, my eyes started leaking. It's been a long time since someone has told me I can do anything I want to. Usually, people give me 1,000 reasons why I can't -- or shouldn't. Even though he wasn't talking to me and was on a video (actually a video of a video), I felt like he was talking to me. The Universe was sending me a message. All things are still possible.

Even though I still struggle, life has gotten much easier than it was in my 20s. Those years were filled in insecurity, self-loathing, and identity issues. In comparison, the 30s are amazing. But I also get this feeling like I'm staring at the peak of a mountain. Sometime in my 40s, I'll hit that peak and begin a downward journey. I no longer have the ambition of my 20s -- that urge to create something that will change the world or bring fame and fortune. But I do still have ideas. Steve Jobs reminded me that it's never too late to bring those ideas to life. Thank you. I needed that.

Thoughts on Humanity

2011-11-17T09:37:00.001-06:00

Last night, I began reading Isaac Asimov's robot series. I've read all of the Foundation books and the I, Robot collection, but I've never cracked into the full robot novels. I'm starting with The Caves of Steel, which was published in 1954. The version I have has an Introduction from Asimov that was written much later -- I believe 1991.

In the Introduction, Asimov talks about the history of robots in science fiction and the creation of the Three Laws. I'm amazed to think there was a time in history when the words "robot" and "robotics" didn't exist. And a world without the Three Laws is baffling to me. But I am a NERD that way and there are probably some of you reading right now who don't know what I'm talking about. To be clear:

The Three Laws of Robotics

A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm.
A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law.
A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.

The laws work well for humans. Not so much for robots.

Anyway, it turns out the history of robots has always been filled with terror. From the very start, robots "took over" and destroyed humanity. Asimov's goal was to write some stories involving benevolent robots -- the kind people could relate to and not fear. (His masterpiece The Positronic Man is one of my favorite books of all time.) It remains to be seen how the robots in The Caves of Steel will act. But I do recognize the name of one of them from the Foundation series. It turns out that Asimov wove all of his major books into each other at some point in time. Dude, he was such a freakin' storytelling GENIUS. May he rest in peace.

But this post isn't really about the book per se but that Introduction. Asimov writes:

Even as a youngster, though, I could not bring myself to believe that if knowledge presented danger, the solution was ignorance. To me, it always seemed that the solution had to be wisdom. You did not refuse to look at danger, rather you learned how to handle it safely.

After all, this has been the human challenge since a certain group of primates became human in the first place. Any technological advance can be dangerous. Fire was dangerous from the start, and so (even more so) was speech -- and both are still dangerous to this day -- but human beings would not be human without them.

I nodded in approval when I read that because I feel strongly that knowledge and learning are my only true weapons against the evils of this world. I study in detail the ugly things -- serial killers, Casey Anthony, the Holocaust -- because they are so evil. How did that happen? What trigger set that off? How can we make sure that doesn't happen again? To throw up a sheet and cover up the "ugly" -- to turn away and pretend I can't see it? That's never been me. I stare at the grotesque head-on. And underneath all of the gore and terror, I learn something.

I was particularly pleased with Asimov's notion that speech is the most dangerous of all human weapons. While I know this to be true, I've never thought of speech as a form of technology. I think of this blog as technology, this Mac as technology, but the words I'm writing to you right now? No, I haven't thought of them that way. Always learning something new from Asimov -- always.

Some people say that what separates humans from the animal kingdom is our ability to be self-aware. But I feel that many animals are -- particularly members of the ape family. And I can say with an absolute straight face that many animals in my lifetime have exhibited self-aware behaviors. So what truly separates us from the animals -- and the machines? What do you think makes us the most human?

The Rarity of Redheaded Dolls

2011-11-16T10:17:00.001-06:00

Erin doll image c/o Carpatina

Yesterday, the UPS man drove up the driveway and instead of letting him dump his package and leave, I went to the door to personally receive the box. I knew what was inside. It was the Erin Carpatina doll. I tore open the box and checked her to make sure her eyes opened and she really did have gorgeous red hair. She looked exactly like the photos on the company site, except she was carefully mummied into her box and was wearing a hair net. Overall, I swooned.

No, this doll is NOT for me. After talking with my sister Dorothy about what to buy for Little this Christmas, I realized it was my goal in life to find her a fake American Girl doll with red hair and blue eyes (because there aren't any redheaded American Girl dolls and they are ridiculously expensive at over $100 a pop). It's true, most of us redheads actually have blue eyes instead of green (I do and so does Little). But the Myth of the Redhead is stronger than the 4% of the population that actually has red hair, so we can do little to fight the battle.

Erin is the PERFECT doll for a redheaded girl. She has amazing hair -- not the weird orange hair I saw on other dolls. She has pretty freckles -- not the obnoxious, unrealistic freckles I saw on other dolls. Erin is truly unique. Carpatina won me over immediately when I saw her little face. And did I care about the $69.00 price tag after searching for hours on the Internet feeling like I had no hope left? Hell no. Because I remember being that little girl who wanted a doll that looked exactly like her. Instead, I had an African American Cabbage Patch Kid named Tanya. We loved each other despite our differences.

To get away from myself for a moment, I also appreciate Carpatina because I work with English as a Second Language educational materials. Along with Caucasian dolls like Erin, they have stunning Asian dolls. (I'm a little baffled that there isn't an African American doll or a Latina doll, but everyone has to start somewhere. I'm sure they'll get there.) I think the line that has the broadest ethnic swatch is probably the Karito Kids collection (which I lurved, but they didn't have a redhead). I was also impressed by the diversity of the Journey Girls (I almost got Kelsey, but I couldn't really tell if her hair was red or brown). The Madame Alexander Favorite Friends group is nice as well. I see they have a new redhead for 2011, but I was already wooed by Erin. At least I know there is one other pretty redheaded doll out there in the universe if I need another one.

I've written about the awkwardness of redheaded pop-culture characters before. It's so hard for me to find GOOD books or dolls or movies or whatever for my little ginger niece. I have EXTREMELY high hopes for Pixar's movie Brave, which is supposed to come out sometime next summer:

Please be good, please be good! And damn, I'm pretty sure those are BLUE eyes. WHOOT!

But back to Erin. I bought her this dress and these shoes so she would have something to wear. I told Dorothy about all of this and we squealed with delight. Somehow, all of the angst of Christmas disappeared while we were talking about the doll. We were little girls again, excited at the prospect of unwrapping such a treasure. I can't WAIT to see Little's face when she opens Erin!

As for me, I had to get Erin out of Farmhouse Villa. Gretchen would NOT stay away. I left her in the the pretty blue box she came in but also in the cardboard shipping box on the table. Ten minutes later? BAM! It was on the floor. I moved it to the top of the chest of drawers in my bedroom. Crunch, crunch, crunch. I heard Gretchen nibbling on the shipping tape. Out of desperation, I called my mother and had her stop by to pick up Erin and move her safely to Nerdtopia. No kittehs can get to her there. My home doesn't lend itself to "hiding" things from cats. I don't have what one would call "cupboard space." And who wants to put Erin in a cupboard anyway? Not me.

Thankfully, time has been flying by SO FAST that I won't have to wait long to see the big reveal. I just hope Little will be as excited as her mother and I are. If not, maybe we'll just keep her. We can have joint custody.

Freakin' Holidays

2011-11-15T11:03:00.001-06:00

Grandpa's copper roses from his personal collection.

Well, crap. I just looked a week ahead in my day planner and realized NEXT WEEK is Thanksgiving. Really? I have purchased exactly ONE Christmas present so far -- for Little. I'm still waiting on invoice payments from my various clients, so shopping is the last thing on my mind.

Every year, I start to feel the tightness in my chest regarding the holidays. There are pressures to wear fancy clothes, attend religious services, and be on my best behavior despite incredible amounts of work/life stress. No likie.

I would like this year to be different. The holidays of 2011 are going to be less stressful. How? Um, well... They just will.

I will remind myself of the good old days when the Blondersons gathered at Grandma and Grandpa's house for Christmas. I week eek out memories of eating Thanksgiving turkey at one of my auntie's houses and then playing like crazy with my cousins into the wee hours. I will remind myself of watching The Ball drop in New York with my parents in front of a television screen. Oh yes, the holidays of my youth were easy, carefree, and FUN. I need some fun, people. I really do.

What are the odds I can make this happen?

Brain vs. the Biological Clock: An Epic Battle

2011-11-14T10:14:00.001-06:00

When Little was still little.

Sometime last year, my biological clock started ticking. I didn't know I had one. I thought perhaps that whole must-breed thing wasn't part of my general makeup. But one day, it started ticking loud and clear. TICK TICK TICK...

If I was from my mother's generation, I would be told it's far too late. I'm 34. Ma had me rather later -- she was (66 - 34 = 32) whoa -- 32 when she had me. I thought she'd been 31. It's possible that she was actually 31. There are months involved and things -- whatever. What I'm trying to say is that she was old for her generation to still be breeding. Her peers had their children in their early-20s, like they were supposed to. Ma was a little on the late side. Perhaps I am more like my mother than I thought...

When I was young, I thought I'd be married at 23 and have kids by 25. When I got older, I was career-driven to the extreme. No time for kids. But oh boy YES did I want to get married. I had that fever. When my Chicago ex and I broke up, the fever broke. As I sweated it out, I realized that marriage and kids weren't the answer to all of life's mysteries. It was OK to not be married. It was OK to wait for the right time. It was also OK to wait to have children. No need to rush. No need to keep up with the Joneses.

But then my body started changing. It's as if my hormones have taken a giant shift. When I'm ovulating or just about to get my period, my body craves reproduction. Without being aware, I find myself drawn to tall men, dark men, good breeding stock. To be clear, I do NOT act on my body's demands. But the desire is there. Oooh, he looks interesting. Why? I have no knowledge of who that person is. I don't know his name. He's a stranger filling up a gas tank somewhere in Omaha. But my body? Totally attracted.

Then I started having these dreams. Crazy, weird dreams. I'm in a mall shopping for a doll. It's always under the guise of shopping for a doll for Little. But I'm looking for a redheaded doll -- a Cabbage Patch Kid or Strawberry Shortcake. I can't find any. The store is huge and there are a ton of dolls to choose from. No matter what, I can't find the one I want. I climb up ladders to look at overstock. I dig back into shelves -- nothing. Usually in the dreams, Ma is with me. After time, she grows impatient and asks me to just make a choice already. But I can't. Because I realize I'm actually searching for a doll for ME, not Little. So I have to find the perfect one. One I can hold and nurture and feed and dress. I realize no one in real life can know about the doll because I'm a grown woman. So I'm secretive about my motives with Ma. But I never find the right doll...

After having this dream over 10 times in the last year (with the store and doll options being different each time), I realized the truth: I'm shopping for a baby. I want a baby.

*record screeches*

But here's the thing about babies. They are a lot of work. And they grow up. And while I know many single parents, so I know for sure you can do it on your own, I can't. At least not right now. I know my limits, and this is one of them. I'm not confident I could do it alone. But my body? Somehow the neurons between my ancient-animal-must-breed brain parts and the modern-know-your-limits brain parts aren't communicating very well. They are at total odds. So I finally, after all this time, truly understand what a biological clock is and what it means when that f*cker starts ticking.

As a woman, I'm inundated daily with information about the odds, risks, and statistics that go along with having a baby once you're over 35. Ooh, so dangerous! Don't do it! BOO HISS SCARY!! Even though my bestie Coco had two children in her late-30s/early-40s and they came out GORGEOUS and PERFECT, I can still buzz over to any news outlet right now and read about how if I have a kid now or in the future, it will come out with 4 heads. And besides the news, since I'm surrounded by so many young people in Farmsville who have already procreated, I just plain look old to be having a kid. Wasn't your life supposed to start a long time ago? Mine sure did!

I don't really know what to do at this point. I've never been at such odds with my own body. Usually, we get along quite well. Except when my back goes out. Then we hate each other. But for the most part, we have an understanding. I feed it when it's hungry. I take care of it when it's sick. So having it go all wackadoo and start ticking on me just seems mean. The nerve of it.

I keep reminding it that I would like a husband or at least a long-term live-in boyfriend if it's going to have a child. It doesn't listen. It sends me messages in my dreams. In fact, I had that damn doll-shopping dream again last night. And once again, I couldn't find the right one. Maybe one day I will. Maybe one day, I'll have it all. But I'll admit, I'm afraid to hope.

A Day with MetaMaus: A Partial Book Review

2011-11-12T09:04:00.001-06:00

Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, I had a day off. So I read. Like literally, that's the only thing I did. I woke up late (NOON!), opened MetaMaus by Art Spiegelman, and devoured it. By the time I looked up again, it was 8pm. I ran to town to grab some food, came back, and kept reading until I went to bed at 11:45pm. It was the best day I've had in a long time.

I first encountered Maus I and Maus II in college during a class on the Holocaust. Over the years, I've read them multiple times because something always brings me back to their fascinating/dark content. I also became quite interested in the idea of storytelling visually through comics. Yes, I said comics. It turns out Mr. Spiegelman doesn't like the genre "graphic novel." Hey man, whatever you want. I bow before you.

This past year, I asked my father to read Maus I and Maus II so we could discuss them. After I gave my books to Pa, I then gave them to another friend. Now, they're with Star. They're kind of making the rounds so to speak. I bought these books when I was a freshman at the University of Iowa. They're old and some of the pages are starting to come unglued. They are precious to me. But I feel it's important to share them with whoever would like to read them. Collectively, Maus tells the story of the Holocaust but also the story of a father and son, the artist and his work, the tricky games of memory, and the legacy of family. It's heavy sh*t.

I saw a notice for MetaMaus one day, went straight to Amazon, and ordered it. MetaMaus is basically a long interview with Art Spiegelman. He gave Hillary Chute complete access to his notebooks, recordings, and sketch books from that time period. And WOW what an interview. Spiegelman is very sophisticated with his thoughts, theories, and answers. He uses BIG words, so sometimes, I didn't know what he was talking about. I had to reread a few paragraphs more than once. But still, I find the material highly-accessible and fascinating. (The book comes with a DVD-R filled with sketches, recordings, and articles, but I haven't looked at it yet.)

There are interviews with his wife, Francoise, and his children, Nadja and Dash. There are original sketches all over the place, imagery from other comics collections that visually show whatever he's talking about, and detailed descriptions of the art of making a full-length comic collection -- or as he says "one that needs a bookmark." I needed no bookmark while reading the this book because I couldn't put the damn thing down. Literally. I carried it to the kitchen to get a soda. I held onto it while I had a quick phone call. I brought it with me when I had to pee. It's that kind of a book. You don't want to stop reading it.

The wealth of information packed into this book is amazing. I have so many parts that are speaking to me about so many different subjects -- the Holocaust, art, writing, storytelling, family, inspiration, frustration, taboo subjects, etc. As a writer, I'm enjoying reading about the process of storytelling in a unique way. And I had a great LMAO moment when I saw all of the rejection letters from the big publishers on their own spread -- shown big enough that I could read them all word for word. I bet all of those people are rather embarrassed now...

I haven't quite finished MetaMaus. I fell asleep before I could get through it. It's not that it's super long or anything, it's just very dense. I'm going to go straight to the couch and see if I can finish it now. The house was so quiet yesterday. No conference calls, no distractions, no television programs -- I didn't even check my email. But boy did I learn. It was a day of knowledge. I love that.

Passing the Newf Test

2011-11-10T09:20:00.001-06:00

Lately, I've been courting a Newf. You know? A New Friend? Newfs are hard to come by as we age. You think everything is fine and then BAM you do Something Stupid and the Newf flies the coop. (Or that might just be me.) No seriously. I've written on this blog before about how hard it is to make friends as an adult. (For the serious version of this topic, click that backlink. For the silly version, keep reading.) It's a tricky dance. There are many obstacles in the way.

Making new friends is kind of like dating. You put on your best face, stay on your best behavior, and hope you don't make some fatal error that will leave the person thinking you are batsh*t crazy. I've found our tolerance level for Newfs goes waaaay down the more we age. If you aren't clicking with someone, it's over in a flash. POOF. There goes the Newf! On to the next thing! I've met plenty of interesting people, have gotten to know them a bit, and realized they would not make good friends. It's disappointing, but such is life.

So anyway, I've been courting Spice. I like her a lot and feel we have a lot to learn from each other. Also? She makes me laugh. I LOVE LAUGHING. I know her boyfriend and have hung out with them at the watering hole, but I've also been inviting Spice and Sprinkle to my HOME to watch American Horror Story. (Watch it--it's SO awesome.) I've known Sprinkle for years. She passed the Newf test in the first 6 months I was here, so I wasn't as concerned about inviting her into my home.

Are those your dead cat's ashes in the bookcase?

Yes, yes they are.

See, Sprinkle would already know they're there. May Kingie rest in peace.

But Spice? I wasn't sure how she would feel about seeing the Real Blondie -- the one that comes with baggage and a house filled with trinkets that hold secrets to her past. If I start showing Spice the little girl behind the curtain, what will she think?

I found out last night.

Sprinkle couldn't make it to watch American Horror Story, so Spice came by herself. Her boyfriend dropped her off, and we snuggled up on the couch under blankets to watch our show. Usually, we gab on and on about things, but last night we were focused on the plot. What will happen? Holy crap! Damn, this is LIVE so I can't fast-forward the commercials!!

And then during one of those commercials, I mentioned my dollhouse. We saw an eBay commercial, so I told her I used to go on eBay for my dollhousing materials. The last purchase I made was a tiny, tan bug car to represent Ted Bundy in the Serial Killer Room.

*crickets*

Spice was tinkering around on her phone, so at first I wasn't sure she'd heard me. But then she said, with perfect intonation and a giggle: "You're SO weird!"

And bam! I knew my Newf was here to stay! Whee!

Because I am weird. I like being weird. It used to bother me, but I've gotten over it. Call it what you will -- weirdness, creativity, oddity -- it doesn't matter to me. The people in my life who know me the best know that I am weird. And they still love me.

I don't know if Spice has fallen for me yet, but she did have a little sparkle in her eye when I told her more about the dollhouse. Sure, we've talked about surface subjects like where we live and family and boys and work and what we're doing this weekend, but now we've gone a little deeper. I'll show you my weirdness if you show me yours. And I'll accept you. Isn't that lovely?

Cheers to Newfs! I challenge to you find one or be one today.

Mystery Military Coin, Part 2

2011-11-09T12:26:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, after writing about the mysterious military coin that my father found in the road, I got some good email suggestions from readers about how to track down the coin's owner. The general consensus is that it would be AWESOME to find the owner by this Friday -- which is Veteran's Day. The clock is ticking...

Today, I called the general number of the group (which I'm still somewhat attempting to keep anonymous) and tried (somewhat lamely) to explain my predicament to the nice man who answered the phone.

I asked: "Are there a lot of people in the [group name]?"

He laughed.

"Like over 100?" I asked.

"More like a few thousand," he answered.

Well, that makes things a bit more complicated.

(Edited to add: He did take my info and said he would email me if he finds out anything.)

I will be the first to admit my COMPLETE IGNORANCE of all things military. I've been to the nearby base with friends, know plenty of people who have served, and feel strongly about veteran affairs. But do I know the organization? Hells no. I don't know the ranks of any of the groups. Is a sergeant higher than a commander? I don't know.

No matter how many movies I watch or books I read, I can't tell the difference between the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, or any other group that I'm currently forgetting. (And yes, this is totally embarrassing, but I'm just being honest.) Both my mother and father can rattle off the list of ranks from any of these groups at the drop of a hat. Why? I don't know. Maybe it's a generational thing? Maybe they know more people in the military than I do? The only thing I know for sure: I feel like an a$$hat whenever I try to talk to someone about the armed forces.

So my quest to find the owner of this coin is hitting some kinks:

It's hard for someone who knows nothing about the military to try to contact them. Their phone contacts sheets? Filled with acronyms that fly over my head.
As previously stated, this group is in a different state. OK, OK, fine. They are in Kansas; I'm in Iowa. The nice man on the phone said I could bring the coin to them. That's a heck of a drive, so no. I suppose I could mail it there, but who would I mail it to? And how could I be assured it wouldn't end up in a mail room completely forgotten? (I do not trust mailing things without a direct contact.)
Rather than there being like 100 people in the group, there are thousands. Meep.
They have a Facebook page, but I'm not on Facebook. Plus, I like to keep Farmsville anonymous, so where I found the coin needs to be kept private for the sake of myself and my family.
I have no idea what I'm doing.

I have a few friends who are working on their own investigations with me, so perhaps that will help. I do love a challenge, so despite the initial hurdles, I WILL continue to look for this coin's owner. I might not find the answers by Friday, but I'll keep trying.

(Wouldn't it be awkward if I get a hold of the owner and he/she had tossed the coin out the window while driving and totally doesn't care if I have it? That would be just my luck. Whatevs. I'm going to keep trying anyway...)

The Mysterious Case of the Military Coin

2011-11-08T04:57:00.000-06:00

The other night, I went to my parents' house and noticed a large, metal coin sitting on the counter. When I inquired about the coin, Pa told me that he found it when he'd been out farming with my uncle. It was sitting on the road by so-and-so's house. So I asked, "Well, why didn't you take it to so-and-so." Pa's reply was rather amusing, "Well, so-and-so has been dead for about 20 years." Hmm. Guess it's not his coin. (OK, maybe he's been dead for like 10 years. I can't remember what Pa said, but it's been a looong time.)

I was immediately fascinated by this coin. I've seen them before. I've had friends in the various wings of the military show me coins they've received for a variety of reasons. But this one is unlike one I've ever seen before -- it's quite large. I'd say it's got a larger circumference than the top of this Diet Mountain Dew can sitting next to me. The military coins I recall seeing were much smaller -- like 50 cent pieces.

I know that Spice's boyfriend has been in the military at some point. So the other night when I saw him, I asked him about the coin. He said they do make them larger now. He said it's possible that we could find the owner, but it might be a generic coin. Hmmm.

I love a good mystery. I really do.

Pa had already googled the information listed off the coin, so he was able to point me in the right direction. I wrote down what it said and did my own little bit of hunting. It has a battalion and infantry number listed on it, the name of a group, a coat of arms, and "Award for Excellence." I would list all of these details here, but I don't want some poor man or woman to realize his/her information is being blasted all over the Internet by some random farmie. Also? The group I tracked all of this to is in a different state. It would be much easier if I had tracked this to a local group, but now it seems a bit more complicated.

All I really want to do is return this coin to its owner.

So I went to the web site of the battalion/infantry. I searched around trying to find any information that would offer up a clue. Nope. Nada. Then I emailed the information to Spice in case her boyfriend has any ideas. At first I thought about taking the coin to the local Veterans group to see if they could help. But now I think the best thing might be to email the web site and ask them how many people could be in that group and if they could ask around to see if anyone lost a coin? What do you think? How shall we solve this mystery?

Making Time for Old Friends

2011-11-07T10:16:00.000-06:00

On Saturday, I drove to Omaha for a lunch date with Featherplume. I left my house at roughly 11:40pm and returned at close to 6pm. It was a long lunch date -- the best kind. We had a fantastic meal at a little bistro with Featherplume's daughter. Then we took the Wee Plume home, read her some stories, and put her down for a nap. (Well, she talked and sang to herself for a few hours in the crib, but I'm pretty sure she slept eventually.) During that time, Featherplume and I sat down at her kitchen table right across from each other and talked. No cell phones, no husband (Egg was off watching the Iowa game), no distractions whatsover. Just two old friends, some tea and soda, and a hella good time.

When I left, I was in a haze of friendship love that lasted far into the evening. Seeing my dear, old friend was exactly what I needed after a ROUGH month. And because we are alike in so many ways, I didn't have to explain the why of things I was feeling or the how of how things happen. She gets it. All of it. And if she doesn't get it, she asks the right questions and patiently listens to the answers. I could have stayed and kept talking to her all night. When I left, I remembered many more stories I wanted to share and things I wanted to ask her about. It's OK. There will be a "next time."

But I did realize something kind of sad while I was there. Wee Plume is almost 3. How did that happen? Wasn't Featherplume just pregnant with her? And here's another interesting thing. Featherplume is preggo AGAIN. Like quite-a-ways preggo. And I haven't seen her during this entire pregnancy. In fact, I'm pretty sure we saw each other MORE when we lived in Chicago. Why?

When we lived in Chicago, we didn't live that far from each other. She was like one neighborhood to the left of me. Now, we live in different cities. (OK, OK, I live in a town.)
At that time, we were both "single." We lived with our boyfriends, but she wasn't married yet. Well, she was for a little bit, but it was right at the end of our time in the Concrete Jungle. So we had a little more time and freedom.
There were no children involved. Now, Featherplume has a Wee Plume. Kiddos are -- how shall I say this -- a time commitment. (Hahahahahaha. Isn't that a simple way of putting it?)
We didn't have family in Chicago. Here, we both have parents, aunts and uncles, siblings, etc. We have to divide our time in many ways that didn't exist before.

After I thought about all of this, I realized it is OK that Featherplume and I see each other less often now. It doesn't mean we don't love each other. It just means we're busy. We have fuller lives now, and that's a lovely thing.

When I was leaving, we both said that we needed to get together more often. I could feel that both of us were having a weird pang of nostalgia and sadness -- and guilt. Oh no, not that dreaded Shame Monster. I refuse to let it take me down! So I said, "We'll do better." And I meant it. We will do better. There is NO good reason for either of us to beat ourselves up for having busy lives. What we should be doing is simply appreciating the fact that we still have each other after all these years.

I've had many friends come and go out of my life. We grow apart, circumstances change, or a disagreement leads to estrangement. Then there are those friends who will be there forever -- no matter what happens. The beautiful, loyal, caring, generous, lasting friends. Sometimes, I get overwhelmed by life and forget that these gems are just a phone call away. Oh yes, I have wonderful friends. I am blessed.

Thank you, Featherplume, for being there in good times and bad. I love you. And I will do better.

October Sucked, But It's Finally Over

2011-11-05T11:16:00.000-05:00

This morning, I woke up of my own accord. No alarm clock going off at 5 or 6am. No restless sleep filled with dreams about the pages I've been writing for work. In fact, I just woke up. I slept in until 10:30am. And it felt FANTASTIC.

October 2011 was a complete disaster, people. I ended up with 6 different contracts overlapping each other due to scheduling snafus that pushed them into the same time slots. I worked, slept, ate, and worked. I hated my life. I cried.

Last night, I got done working around 8pm and realized something beautiful -- my schedule for next week is light. Fluffy. Barely a schedule at all, if you ask me. I still have little drifting pieces of these old contracts to finish whenever they eventually show up, but for the most part, it's done. Relief. The massive Blondie Work Train is slowing down. I was able to go to sleep last night with no worries. I cuddled into the bed, grabbed my stack of unread magazines, and drifted off to the Dreamland without a care in the world. I slept like the dead.

I've been contacted about multiple contracts that would take me through the winter months. After careful consideration and many twitchy what-do-I-do moments, I chose two contracts that a.) I wanted to do the most and b.) sounded like the most fun and c.) involved straight-up editing. After a solid year of using my brain in every creative way possible to write new educational products, I'm ready for a break. I just want to read what other people have written and fix it or offer suggestions.

Ma was concerned that I was taking on two contracts that would be overlapping and involve quite a bit of work. She knows that I have smaller contracts that I'll be doing at the same time. She pointed out that I might be stretching myself too far again? For the first time in a long time, I actually listened to my mother's opinion about my work life. She was right. Why take on two big contracts at the exact same time? Money. I need it. But also, one of them is with my old Giant Publishing House (so I get to work with my old coworkers--whoot!) and the other is with a client I've been DYING to work with forever because I lurve their products. I think this set up is perfect. Is it a lot of work? Yes. But I know I can do it.

So I turned down some contracts that would have meant mega money (but also crazy busyness and a ton of writing) to take on the contracts that I really wanted. I will be busy, but there is no way I will be as busy as I've been this past October.

Hopefully, you will now be able to stop reading about how busy I am and enjoy my usual shenanigans of stupid things happening on or near me. I fully intend to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE and HAVE FUN this winter. I need some ME TIME and AWESOME FUN WITH FRIENDS. In fact, I'm going to meet Featherplume for a completely overdue lunch date right at this very moment. Once again, I have time to actually see my friends. Today is all mine. Finally. I freakin' earned it. I'm going to go play.

Dear Month of October, 2011,

F*ck you. Goodbye.

Love,
Blondie Blonderson

The Delicate Dance Around Boundaries

2011-11-04T11:25:00.000-05:00

(One of my grandfather's copper creations c/o his personal collection.)

As the old saying goes, we teach people how to treat us. It's totally true. If I allow you to walk all over me, you will. If I require respect, I'll get it. And if I draw a line in the sand and you cross it, I'd better push you right back over that line or everything will go to hell.

I used to be very good at determining where my boundaries were with people. I knew what I liked and what I didn't like, and I wasn't afraid to say it. My college years were filled with righteous speeches about My World and What Belonged There (just ask my parents).

But as I got older, my solid lines turned into dotted, wavy patterns. I had to learn how to adapt to different personalities at work, in friend groups, and around family. You have to bend sometimes. It's the only way to keep moving through this world. Sometimes, we have to compromise our own thoughts, feelings, or values in order to keep the peace.

Then there are times when enough is enough. Backpedaling to try to reestablish the line is confusing. You can walk away completely, have a conversation (or fight) about said line, or go behind the scenes in your mind to etch it back into place without the other person noticing until it's too late. Personally, I've done all three of these dances, and I can't say which of them has worked the best. Each option is unsettling. But each time, it's been my fault anyway. I'm the one who let the person cross the line in the first place. That = My Bad.

(Am I being vague? Yeah, I am. But I'm talking about roughly 6 different things right now that are all revolving around this very topic, so I'm actually saving you from reading every little detail and getting lost and giving up and running for a cocktail. So there.)

The absolute WORST thing you can do is let the person run wild in your territory. Once the boundary invasion has begun, it's only a matter of time before the chaos takes over your life. And then you end up stuck in a mud puddle up to your knees with someone chattering in your ear and you can't move. You're stuck. You're like that horse from The Neverending Story that got sucked down into the doom and gloom pit of goo.

So to anyone who is reading, think about your boundaries today. Is someone standing right up against one? Dangling a toe over the line? Using it as a tightrope? I encourage you to put a stop to it. Use your voice or actions before it's too late. It will save you a lot of trouble in the long run.

For Those Awkward Moments in Life

2011-11-03T12:55:00.000-05:00

These last few weeks have been rough. All has not been sunshine and roses behind the scenes in Blondieland. These things happen. Yesterday, it all kind of came to a head. It was a long day, and I'm glad it will soon be a distant memory. So here's a little tune for those moments when you want to throw in the towel. Or, more accurately, you want to say BITE ME, but something stops you. Instead, listen to some passive-aggressive music. It will make you feel better. Trust me.

Bitter End
Dixie Chicks

The words that you said
They still ring in my head
Don't you know
We say goodbye with a tear in our eye
Oh, where'd you go

It's alright, you can sleep tonight
Knowing you'll always live on
In this song

Farewell to old friends
Let's raise a glass to the bitter end
Farewell to old friends
Will you be the same when I see you again

Remember the days when we'd laugh as you played
Who'd have known
The water would come and just take you away
Oh, where'd you go
It's not alright, I can't sleep tonight
Knowing you should have played on
On and on

Farewell to old friends
Let's raise a glass to the bitter end
Farewell to old friends
Will you forgive me when I see you again

You had a good time drinking all of our wine
After the show
We all rode the wave of that crazy parade
Oh, where'd you go
What happened to the ones we knew
As long as I'm the shiniest star
Oh, there you are

Farewell to old friends
Let's raise a glass to the bitter end
Farewell to old friends
We'll still be here when you come 'round again.

Will Any of the Kids I Know Go to College?

2011-11-02T09:01:00.002-05:00

The other night, I ran into Farmsville to get some take-out. The waitress who took my order was frazzled. She was flying around huffing and puffing, and I had a gigantic urge to say: Calm down. Deep breaths. Rushing like that doesn't make you look like a hard worker. It makes you look like you can't handle it. But I didn't. The girl couldn't have been older than 20, so I thought back to my own waitressing/bartending days and remembered being That Girl. Usually, I don't tip on take-out, but something about this girl made me feel a bit sad, so I gave her a Very Good Tip before I left. And then I felt even more sad.

It dawned on me as I drove away that this girl will probably never go to college. She'll probably keep working as a waitress -- perhaps for the rest of her life. I see a lot of that in Farmsville. Due to a lack of parental support, opportunities, and cash money, many young people around here fall into a trap that keeps them earning low wages for the rest of their lives. I know people who use the local food pantry, have no health insurance, and sign up for the Christmas Love Tree gifts for their kids each year. These people don't have the time, resources, or knowledge to go to a four-year college, let alone a trade school. Somewhere along the line, they slipped through the cracks. And no one bothered to dig them out.

I was FREAKIN' BLESSED to be raised in a home that included two college-educated parents. It was blasted into my brain from the time I was a young tot that I would be going to college. Period. By the time I got there, I was hungry for higher learning. I wanted the degree. It didn't feel like an obligation or a waste of my time. I really, really wanted it. And because my deceased grandmother left me college money and my parents had been saving since I was a little girl, I got it. (Thank you, parents.)

After graduating from the University of Iowa, I worked at a small publishing house and then quit to work at a bookstore for a few years. At the bookstore, I realized just how lucky I was. It was a HUGE bookstore, so I knew hundreds of people who worked at its various locations. Very few of my colleagues had college degrees, and many were working their way through school or saving to go one day. It was an eye-opening experience. Doesn't everyone go to college? Um, no, a$$hat. They don't. You're LUCKY.

Once I got to Chicago and started working at the Giant Publishing House, I started hanging out with my coworkers all the time -- people who had college or graduate school degrees. I got lost in my own world and forgot all about what it's like to make $7.25/hr as a grown woman or man. Then, I moved back to my small town -- and reality smacked me right in the face.

After I got my dinner from that young waitress the other night, I decided to look up the Iowa colleges and see how much it costs to apply. That's the first hurdle. I remember it costing about $25 when I applied to the University of Iowa back in 1994. Who paid for that? (Thank you, Dad.) So I got curious about what kids do these days when they can't even pay the application fee. I looked up the 3 major schools in my state:

University of Iowa: $40 application fee; $250 acceptance fee
Iowa State University: $40 application fee
University of Northern Iowa: $40 application fee

(The latter two didn't mention acceptance fees, but I'm sure they're there.)

It's true that Iowa Western Community College, the one closest to me, has no application fee. But it's also a community college. So let's say you're a kiddo who wants to go to one of Iowa's top schools, but your parents don't have $120 to let you apply to all of them. What happens then? I mentioned this to my parents, and they kindly pointed out that if you can't afford the application fee, you can't afford the school. True. Even with financial aid, grants, and scholarships, college is still wickedly expensive. And all of that paperwork for aid? I would have had NO IDEA how to manage it. In fact, I couldn't manage it right now. My brain doesn't work that way. I am bad with the maths. Even with my BA from the U of I.

As we all know, times are changing. College might not be the right choice right now. Pa thinks high school students should focus on learning needed trades, such as welding. I agree. If you could apprentice with a welder in high school and go to a trade school after graduating, you could make a pretty penny. And whoever you work for would probably pay for you to get higher certification in order to keep you learning and therefore making more money for them. It's a win-win. There are a LOT of good trades out there. It was another eye-opening moment for me. Maybe college doesn't matter anymore. But I still think education does -- whichever way that education comes to you.

I worry a lot about my friends' children and my niece. What does this future hold for them? When I was in college in the mid-90s, the Internet bubble was just starting. It gave me HOPE and BIG DREAMS. People were making lots of money, and opportunities were everywhere! For a long time, our country has promised that Great American Dream. Sadly, that dream is deflating. Quickly. Now, you're lucky if you can find any job at all -- even the waitressing ones.

(Man, this is depressing.)

Thinking about the girl the other night made me want to mentor someone or raise money or do anything at all just to help some of the youngsters in Farmsville. Alas, I lack fundraising ability and skill. And time. But I can do the little things. I can talk to the kids and teens I know about their futures. What do you want to do? How do you plan on getting there? And perhaps most importantly: How can I help? Even though I don't have my own kids, I'll be a part of "the village." I can't put anyone through college, but I can offer my support, enthusiasm, and encouragement. Sometimes, that's all they need.

Iowa Harvest

2011-11-01T10:17:00.000-05:00

The harvest is on! Every farmer in Farmsville is working furiously to get all of the crops out of the fields. Many were destroyed this year by the flooding and some wicked hail storms. Some farmers will do well, and some won't. Every year, it's a gamble. Or, more accurately, a fight against Mother Nature, critters, and crop prices. The only thing I know for sure? I love this time of year. I get to see my family members buzzing around in huge machinery gathering corn and beans that will clothe/ feed/ fill-in-the-blank the WORLD. It makes me proud. And their machines are just plain cool.

Yesterday, I showed up at my parents' house just before 8am with breakfast in hand. I have a pile of books at their house I've been reading and analyzing for a project, so I decided to work there all day yesterday to wrap it up. After Pa finished eating, he called his brother to see what kind of help he might need for the day. Pa retired from his job as a mechanical engineer a few years ago. He still works 2 days a week, but he had the day off, so he called his brother to help with farming. They made some plans, and we waited for the machines to roll by.

A while later, I heard the tractors on their way. I looked out back and saw a tractor with a cart (I don't know what to call it right now. You can see one in the picture. They put the corn in it. I can just hear Pa sighing that I don't know the technical word. I'm tired. Whatevs.) and my aunt blazing up the field in a pickup truck. My uncle left the tractor, got in the truck with my aunt, and left. Ten minutes later, I heard the combine coming. Ma and I went outside to wave at my uncle. (I love the combine.)

Uncle maneuvered the giant machine up the little incline to the field, slowed down, and popped open the door: "Does Blondie want a ride?" I made typing gestures with my fingers and yelled: "I can't! I have to work!" He said OK, popped the door back shut, and rumbled off into the field. And my heart sank.

My uncle graciously let me come in the combine with him a few harvests ago. It was one of my favorite days, and I wish to have that kind of day again. They have already harvested so much, and I'm sure that they will be done in no time at all. That might have been my last chance for this year. You'd be AMAZED at how quickly you can fill a combine, a cart, a semi. And they work so fast and for so long. It's truly incredible. I had to pass on the opportunity to go in the combine because I had to work. I had no choice.

So I had a little pity party inside my brain. All I've been doing is working. I want to go in the combine. The only fun thing I've done for weeks is go to the Halloween party. Saturday was my first day off in the longest time. Wait. I actually worked Saturday morning, too. WTF? I want to spend time with my uncle. Wah boo hiss I'm so TIRED OF WORKING. I saw Eagle in the field, too. Dammit! There's my cousin! I want to go talk to him!

About 10 minutes later, my father walked up into the field, climbed the ladder, and drove away in the combine with my uncle. This didn't help my pity party. But then Ma said: "Aren't the brothers cute?" Yes, yes they were. And I saw the whole experience in a different light. My uncle may be having fun in his big machine, but he's also WORKING. And he was still working, just like I was, at 8:30pm -- a full 12 hours later. Farming is a big job. Far harder than what I'm doing. And I was sure that they would work late into the night and then get up earlier than me this morning. So I changed my jealousy into some respect. Well done, family. Well done.

My uncle and cousin know I get a kick out of their big machines, so I'm sure that if I was ever dying to ride in farm equipment, I could just go over to Eagle's and he'd humor me with a ride. But there's something beautiful about being IN the field in that moment. Nature is so beautiful and amazing. Hawks are EVERYWHERE right now -- picking mice, snakes, and other small critters out of the freshly churned fields. Deer come flying over the terraces when a big machine is right behind them. You never know what you will see. And the sunset during an Iowa harvest? I can't even put it into words. It's gorgeous.

But the best part? My family. Seeing them out in the fields yesterday reminded me why I'm so happy that I moved home. This year has taught me some harsh lessons -- life is short. There has been a lot of illness and death in my world. Time is so precious. I used to joke when I moved home that I came back because I only had "so many good years left with my parents." But you know what? It's totally true. All around me, my family members are aging. Eagle's kids stopped by my parents' house to trick-or-treat last night and they were SO TALL. So old. I remember when his daughter was a baby and they showed up with her in one of those funny baby costumes and she probably couldn't even focus her eyes yet. Now, she is as tall as my mother. And stunningly beautiful. Sigh.

So now, I will stop babbling on my blog and go back to WORKING and maybe, just maybe, if I'm lucky and I hurry, I'll get my ride in the combine this year. A girl can dream.

Pippi's Night on the Town

2011-10-31T06:20:00.000-05:00

The Halloween party was fantastic this year. I saw a lot of costumes that were quite surprising (for some reason, a whole bunch of them involved fake penises--for reals. I saw at least 4 of them). Pippi Longstocking went over well, but there WERE a few people who didn't know who I was. I went ahead and told them I was Wendy.

I went over to my parents' to get ready. Pa had 4 or 5 different kinds of wire to choose from. He'd actually gone to the trouble of welding a couple of wires together, but the contraption was quite heavy, so I nixed it. (Poor Pa. Although the wire thing WOULD make a good trellis in my garden, so I think I'll keep it.) In the end, we decided on copper grounding wire. I put in ponytails, we molded it to my head, and then Ma helped me clip/bobby bin it on. Then Ma braided my hair around the wires, and pa clipped/folded the ends so I wouldn't hurt anyone. Good times.

I wore a purple skirt I have that Ma had sewn patches to and put some orange glitter ribbon on the ends of my braids. I also wore an apron, but I folded down the top because it was kind of bunchy. About halfway through the night, I folded up the apron and put it in my purse because it was getting in my way:

Here you can see the skirt and some of the patches. Ma sewed them on so nicely that I am going to leave them there. This skirt now = pajamas. Comfy. So soft. And patchy:

And of course the socks. These are supposed to be "over the knee" socks. Um, no. They came right to the bottom of my knees. Then I remembered that the average female in the United States is something like 5'2. I am 6' feet. So if I carved off the bottom half of my legs, the socks probably WOULD go over my knees. But then I would be all stumpy and bleeding. Whatevs. I wore black tights to hide my ghostly white knees and keep warm. Then I wore some old shoes because I didn't have any Pippi commando boots:

I didn't enter the Halloween costume contest, and I have no idea who won. I was too busy blabbering away with people, giggling at costumes, and having a jolly good time. Man, I love Halloween.

Good luck tonight when all the goblins come out to play!!

Blondie's Costume War: A One-Act Play

2011-10-29T10:35:00.000-05:00

[Preface: A month before Halloween, Ma announces she won't have time to help Blondie with any wild and crazy Halloween costumes this year. Last year, Blondie dumped a whole load of glitter feathers over at Nerdtopia (to protect them from the beast known as Gretchen) and spent a few weeks molding together her gigantic phoenix wings. Ma has plans for the month of October. She doesn't want Blondie's Mess in the house due to pre-planned engagements. And Pa doesn't have time to engineer any giant contraptions this year. Blondie agrees. Poor Ma and Pa had to tolerate the giant wings for weeks. She will not do that to them again. This year, her costume will be EASY. Neither parent will have to contribute. But then Blondie got super busy and needed Ma to help her sew some patches onto the Pippi Longstocking skirt Blondie dragged out of her closet. Ma, being wonderful and kind, agreed to sew on the patches. She did a fantastic job. Blondie, mistakenly, thought the case was closed...]

ACT 1

[Setting: The week of the watering hole Halloween party. Blondie is at Nerdtopia doing laundry in between reading books for a current project. She's very tired. Ma and Pa are talking with Blondie as she fluffs and folds.]

Blondie: Ma, thank you for sewing the Pippi patches on my skirt. It looks fantastic.

Ma: It was easy to do. Do you want me to add more?

Blondie: No, I think those look fine.

Ma: How are you going to do your hair?

Blondie: I'm going to put a hanger in it. I'll come over on Saturday night and you can help me braid it.

Ma: (shocked, appalled) NO! You can't put a hanger on your head! It will hurt!

Blondie: (sighs) It will be fine, Ma. It's how it's done.

Ma: (serious; slightly angry?) Blondie, you canNOT put a hanger in your head! You'll poke someone's eye out!

Pa: (snickers) You'll shoot your eye out!

Blondie: (humored) Mom! Pippi had goofy braids. (holds out hair on sides of head) How else would I do this?

Ma: (twitching, no doubt having flashbacks to a Wee Blondie who thought all kinds of STOOPID things were a GREAT IDEA) It will hurt your head! It will be too heavy! Pa, you have some kind of wire Blondie can use, right? Like a thin wire?

Pa: (only half paying attention) Yes, I have a lot of wire.

Blondie: (getting a bit ruffled) I have plenty of my own craft wire. But it will be too light. My hair is THICK. It's HEAVY. I need a strong wire. A hanger will work just fine.

Ma: (unable to imagine cutting the hanger for some odd reason; is probably also tired) But a hanger will be this big! (holds out arms to show how long an entire hanger would be if uncut) You will run into people! It will have rust!

Blondie: A wire hanger? There's no rust. (stops to wonder if Ma gets her evil, rusty hangers straight from Satan) And I'll cut it! My hair isn't THAT long. I'm not going to hurt anyone. I wore 4 foot phoenix WINGS to the bar last year. I banged into people all night long! That was far more dangerous. Plus, I'm 6 feet tall! No one will come near my braids! (holds hair UP to show how high they will be) My only worry is how I'll get in and out of the Corolla.

Pa: (laughing) We could put you in the back of the pickup and drop you off.

Blondie: (glares at Pa) ... Look Ma. Come to the computer. I'll show you a picture of a little girl I found with a hanger in her Pippi hair. She's adorable. If a kiddo can do it, I can do it.

[Ma and Blondie go to the computer. Blondie pulls up the little girl Pippi. Ma tilts her head to the side and thinks.]

Blondie: See? That's a hanger! It's spray painted orange to match the hair.

Ma: So you need to spray paint your hair?

Blondie: No! My hair is ALREADY RED! (groans)

Ma: Pa, do you have any copper wire?

Pa: (looks at Ma and Blondie like they are CRAZY) Of COURSE I have copper wire.

Blondie: I don't need copper wire. I'll use a hanger!

[Blondie goes back to folding her clothes on the floor. Ma goes back to chair. Pa hasn't moved from his chair the whole time.]

Ma: (serious) I still think it's dangerous to use a hanger.

Blondie: (almost yelling; yeah, basically yelling) Ma! I'M 34 YEARS OLD! I CAN PUT A HANGER IN MY HAIR IF I WANT TO! GAWD!

Ma: (symbolically washes hands) Fine, do what you want.

[Two days later]

Text message from Ma to Blondie: Your father has some copper wire for your hair.

[End]

My Own Kind of Empire

2011-10-28T10:07:00.000-05:00

Lately, all I have been doing is working. It's made me tired, irritable, and anxious. I don't have enough time. Projects I agreed to months ago got pushed back on the schedule and they've now all come together in the Perfect Storm of Writing in the month of October. I write and edit for a living, but this month has been all writing all the time. It takes a lot of creative energy to consistently come up with new, exciting ideas. And a lot of Diet Mountain Dew.

Last night, a bunch of my local friends were going to see a comedian who was in town. I got text messages: "Are you going?" No, no I wasn't. I was working. Yes, it was 9pm. Yes, I would have LOVED to get out of my house and out from behind this computer. But I had to prioritize. No fun for Blondie. Just workie.

I kept writing. And I had a little bit of a pity party. Poor me, I'm so busy. Wah. So I called Pa because I hadn't heard a human voice all day. He reminded me that being busy is far better than the alternative. So true. I hung up and went back to my files.

This freelancing thing has been quite the roller coaster for me. Only a few short years ago, I was practically BEGGING people for work. I did a bunch of work for a bad company that ended up filing for bankruptcy. Payment? No. And it would have been a BIG payment.

So I got to the point where I almost lost my house. I was fighting on a regular basis with my parents about what I was doing for work. I actually filled out applications for hourly jobs at bookstores, gardening centers, and other little things I could do part time to make ends meet. I reached out to every single person I'd ever met in my entire professional life with one question: Do you have any contracts available?

*crickets*

The publishing industry, like all industries, was taking a major hit. My friends were getting laid off in droves -- adding heavily to the freelancing competition. Mergers were all the rage. But still, I kept a little light of hope in my heart. I'm meant to do this. I make books. That's what I do. I fought with my parents more than once about this. There are no publishing companies in my local area, so freelancing was the only way to stay on the career path I had worked so hard to build. The folks thought I should abandon that path, go into a new industry. It was starting to look like the only option. There were many tears. No, I swear, I can be a successful freelancer. I really can. Oh, and can I borrow rent money? Again?

I have to give my parents props. They did loan me rent money, and they did put up with the massive overhaul in the publishing industry right along with me. And then something magical started happening. I got a contract. And another. And another. And pretty soon, I was too busy. I started turning things down. And then, over time, Ma started saying things like this: "Oh, your contract is ending? I'm not worried. You'll be fine. You always get another one." WTF? Love that woman.

And so now? Now, while I'm being all sad and mopey that I don't have extra time to go out and play with my friends? I need to remind myself that it could be much worse. I could be begging. I could be working at a company that I HATE just to keep myself afloat. I could be very, very miserable.

I'm not sure what's going on in the Universe, but I've had to turn down current/upcoming projects FOUR times in the last week. People want me. I've made it happen. I've shown my worth, and I'm reaping the rewards. (Be careful what you ask for, right?) I am reminding myself right now that like Pa says, the alternative is MUCH WORSE. It's GOOD to be busy. It's FANTASTIC!

I'm sure a drought will come again. Freelancing reminds me of the rainy seasons in Africa. Super dry, super rainy, then super dry again. I'm hoping this rainy season lasts through the winter into the spring. Then it won't matter that I can't leave the house when there is 10 feet of snow blocking the doorway of Farmhouse Villa. As long as I have enough Diet Mountain Dew in the house, I'll be fine.

"In the long run, men hit only what they aim at. Therefore, they had better aim at something high."

--Henry David Thoreau

Iowa Magical Corn Giveaway Winners!

2011-10-27T09:30:00.000-05:00

Thank you for participating in my Iowa Magical Corn Giveaway -- or at least reading about it. It was super fun to do, and I'm pleased to announce my winners (chosen by the randomizer thingie over at Random.org). Without further ado:

Melanie
Rayne of Terror
Terry

WHOOT! Shoot me an email with your mailing address (home or work) and you will get your Iowa Magical Corn soon. Wait. I'm kind of busy right now, so it might be a while before I get to the post office. But I promise it will be sooner than later. Just not in October. Damn this horrible month of October, no? So beeeezy.

I love all of you, my dear bloggies. Thank you for 5 years of fun. Stay tuned for more silly giveaways in the future.

XXOO,

Blondie