Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Like, Really
At some point, a number of weeks ago, Other Girl gave Possible Boy the "You know we're just friends, right?" speech. I think she needed to give that speech to everybody around them, too, just to clear up confusion.
The universe is too infinite and absurd for me to handle right now. I'm all too aware that it's not my grip on reality that's slipping so much as reality is made out of brontosaurus gyroscope CheezWhiz and was never grip-able in the first place.
Life is Beautiful, Dammit
Brought my dog to the vet. While he doesn't seem to actually have fleas, he may have been near fleas or "exposed to" fleas, and because his allergies are so bad it made him batshit itchy. $166 and three types of medication later, he should be feeling better very soon.
On the way back from the vet, I stopped at a few used bookstores to sell my applicable wares.
Last stop, I made my sales pitch. She's only interested in selling for trade, so I was only interested in selling the non-shmancy books. My nice architecture coffee table book that I almost didn't bring in she offered $8.
"That seems low," I said. I'd been hoping for $20 from Powells or something.
She went off on me for trying to haggle.
Those of you who know me well can guess how I responded.
We started debating. To her, the haggling culture is inherently aggressive.
"You wouldn't go to 7-11 and argue their prices."
I tried to explain that in the buying and selling of used goods market, it's expected. It's a cultural thing.
She said it's inherrently adviserial and bullshit and bad.
I said it doesn't have to be bad; it's a game. It may very well be bullshit, but you can laugh at bullshit. Bullshit doesn't have to be bad.
She didn't like that.
So, in my infinite wisdom, I kept pushing, tried to explain that the entire universe is only what you make of it and that all these things only have to be negative if you choose to see them as negative. I ended up talking about my migraines, about friendship, about life in general. At some point I started crying in frustration. This mostly just flummoxed her, softened her a bit. I couldn't stop the crying which was embarrassing and made me seem like just a crazy person.
In the end, I kept all my books and bought Tom Robbins Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas for $6.06 (including tax).
Life is full of things. This was a thing. Hopefully I didn't ruin her day. I wanted to get through and shine light where I saw bitterness and pain. I'm like those born-again evangelicals who want to smear happy over every bit of misery they encounter. I want misery to see that there's no reason to hate. Laugh at the hate. It's all just part of life and life is amazing and beautiful. The fight, the pain, the tears. All of it. Amazing and beautiful, dammit.
On the way back from the vet, I stopped at a few used bookstores to sell my applicable wares.
Last stop, I made my sales pitch. She's only interested in selling for trade, so I was only interested in selling the non-shmancy books. My nice architecture coffee table book that I almost didn't bring in she offered $8.
"That seems low," I said. I'd been hoping for $20 from Powells or something.
She went off on me for trying to haggle.
Those of you who know me well can guess how I responded.
We started debating. To her, the haggling culture is inherently aggressive.
"You wouldn't go to 7-11 and argue their prices."
I tried to explain that in the buying and selling of used goods market, it's expected. It's a cultural thing.
She said it's inherrently adviserial and bullshit and bad.
I said it doesn't have to be bad; it's a game. It may very well be bullshit, but you can laugh at bullshit. Bullshit doesn't have to be bad.
She didn't like that.
So, in my infinite wisdom, I kept pushing, tried to explain that the entire universe is only what you make of it and that all these things only have to be negative if you choose to see them as negative. I ended up talking about my migraines, about friendship, about life in general. At some point I started crying in frustration. This mostly just flummoxed her, softened her a bit. I couldn't stop the crying which was embarrassing and made me seem like just a crazy person.
In the end, I kept all my books and bought Tom Robbins Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas for $6.06 (including tax).
Life is full of things. This was a thing. Hopefully I didn't ruin her day. I wanted to get through and shine light where I saw bitterness and pain. I'm like those born-again evangelicals who want to smear happy over every bit of misery they encounter. I want misery to see that there's no reason to hate. Laugh at the hate. It's all just part of life and life is amazing and beautiful. The fight, the pain, the tears. All of it. Amazing and beautiful, dammit.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Dream: NOT for the Squeamish
Migraine day. Lots of sleeping and lunch at Neighbor Guy's house.
In one of my migraine dreams, I was with my family somewhere vaguely exotic and tropical. A less chartered part of the Caribbean, perhaps? The four other members of my immediate family were discussing plans to go on an evening canoe trip or something while I tried to rest on the large thatch-like bed/couch thing. There were other people milling about the cabin and I wasn't feeling well and I tried to ignore everything and everybody so I'd be ok in time to go on the non-optional evening outing.
I noticed what looked more like a zit than a wart on the bottom of my foot and started picking at it. Immediately it oozed out a semi-solid snake of pinkish puss that went from expected and thin to pencil-thick in barely a moment of squeezing. Now I was freaked out mortified and just wanted this out of my body, so as I called for my dad the doctor I kept squeezing until it burst into a huge snot-colored anemone of moldy spaghetti squash. I screamed and jumped away from it, or as far away as I could from my own foot. I was completely disgusted and terrified, but according to my dad and the other people who knew about that sort of thing, it was really no big deal. There was a certain small parasite that, until recently, scientists though was extinct, but it had shown up a few other times recently in similar regions. The more I squeezed, the more I'd fed it, but it's otherwise not harmful and you just have to wait for it to die and/or scrape it off. As we scraped my foot, I thought to myself that we should have taken a picture first; how often does the scientific community get to see such an advanced example? I imagine most people, like me, just want it off and gone as fast as possible so very little research gets done with the parasite in action.
My foot was still quite gross and the parasite was still days away from dying, but my parents expected me to still come on the canoeing trip. I just wanted to throw up and die and lock my foot in another room, but I knew I'd have to suck it up and sit in a boat and get seasick on top of everything else.
I woke up with the moldy spaghetti squash image still ripe in my mind.
In one of my migraine dreams, I was with my family somewhere vaguely exotic and tropical. A less chartered part of the Caribbean, perhaps? The four other members of my immediate family were discussing plans to go on an evening canoe trip or something while I tried to rest on the large thatch-like bed/couch thing. There were other people milling about the cabin and I wasn't feeling well and I tried to ignore everything and everybody so I'd be ok in time to go on the non-optional evening outing.
I noticed what looked more like a zit than a wart on the bottom of my foot and started picking at it. Immediately it oozed out a semi-solid snake of pinkish puss that went from expected and thin to pencil-thick in barely a moment of squeezing. Now I was freaked out mortified and just wanted this out of my body, so as I called for my dad the doctor I kept squeezing until it burst into a huge snot-colored anemone of moldy spaghetti squash. I screamed and jumped away from it, or as far away as I could from my own foot. I was completely disgusted and terrified, but according to my dad and the other people who knew about that sort of thing, it was really no big deal. There was a certain small parasite that, until recently, scientists though was extinct, but it had shown up a few other times recently in similar regions. The more I squeezed, the more I'd fed it, but it's otherwise not harmful and you just have to wait for it to die and/or scrape it off. As we scraped my foot, I thought to myself that we should have taken a picture first; how often does the scientific community get to see such an advanced example? I imagine most people, like me, just want it off and gone as fast as possible so very little research gets done with the parasite in action.My foot was still quite gross and the parasite was still days away from dying, but my parents expected me to still come on the canoeing trip. I just wanted to throw up and die and lock my foot in another room, but I knew I'd have to suck it up and sit in a boat and get seasick on top of everything else.
I woke up with the moldy spaghetti squash image still ripe in my mind.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Strengths and Weaknesses
Male protagonists have deep, conflicting lives. Women comfort, support, inhibit the men. Women's stories rarely get treated with the same depth or complexity. I'm trying to think of some good meaty female main characters to disspell my own theory and at the moment none come to mind. I just watched Munich.
Help me out here, people. Great gritty girl character where the whole point of the movie isn't that it's a girl in what "should" be a male role?
One of my friends who is black and female apparently used to imagine clothes and things on Generic White Person when she saw them in the store and wondered how they'd look on her. I wonder how much of my over-valuing of boys as friends and humans in general is because all the best characters have always been boys. Either that or the grass is always greener when you are beige shag carpeting.
I ditched the auction today. I need to sell off more of what I currently have before loading up on any of the things that I saw at preview night last night, but since the real spark of my not going was much more of an emotional temper-tantrum I feel unnecessarily guilty. I'm still trying to find my controlled grip again post-NBF visit. It's all quite fragile; this thin layer of awesome is dangerous. People see the thin layer and expect me to be able to do things, and I expect myself to be able to do things, too. I have to remember that I am still a) human and b) gimpy. Neighbor Guy set me off earlier today when he came over as I was trying to leave. He needed to use my printer right at that moment to print out his resume. I was in the midst of printing things out so I could leave and get to one of my lamp buyers before they closed and the auction began. By the time Neighbor Guy left and all my pictures were printed out, there was no way I'd make it in time and I was stressed enough without the rush. I was a good friend even though I wanted to hit him and maybe it's best I didn't spend 8 hours at the auction today since now I'm rested and well-fed and tomorrow I can finish the phone calls from my "DO NOW" folder before therapy and then try to sell all my rare old books and the lamps and get my car emptied out and my wallet filled up.
I wonder if Possible Boy or Other Girl are at the bar...that would be nice. I could use the non-Neighbor Guy-human contact. I think Neighbor Guy is from another planet, anyway.
One of my friends who is black and female apparently used to imagine clothes and things on Generic White Person when she saw them in the store and wondered how they'd look on her. I wonder how much of my over-valuing of boys as friends and humans in general is because all the best characters have always been boys. Either that or the grass is always greener when you are beige shag carpeting.
I ditched the auction today. I need to sell off more of what I currently have before loading up on any of the things that I saw at preview night last night, but since the real spark of my not going was much more of an emotional temper-tantrum I feel unnecessarily guilty. I'm still trying to find my controlled grip again post-NBF visit. It's all quite fragile; this thin layer of awesome is dangerous. People see the thin layer and expect me to be able to do things, and I expect myself to be able to do things, too. I have to remember that I am still a) human and b) gimpy. Neighbor Guy set me off earlier today when he came over as I was trying to leave. He needed to use my printer right at that moment to print out his resume. I was in the midst of printing things out so I could leave and get to one of my lamp buyers before they closed and the auction began. By the time Neighbor Guy left and all my pictures were printed out, there was no way I'd make it in time and I was stressed enough without the rush. I was a good friend even though I wanted to hit him and maybe it's best I didn't spend 8 hours at the auction today since now I'm rested and well-fed and tomorrow I can finish the phone calls from my "DO NOW" folder before therapy and then try to sell all my rare old books and the lamps and get my car emptied out and my wallet filled up.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Rain, Rain, A-OK
It's raining! I'm so glad it's raining! I spent all day today in my migrainy demi-coma and thought I had to re-renounce even the single glass of wine and/or products containing corn syrup I had at Other Girl's house last night, but it's raining! The exact kind of weather shift that usually knocks me out. Maybe I would have survived the day had I stuck to my strictest regiments, but add in such a big strong trigger as sloppy weather and it's much harder to say I can never eat or drink anything worthwhile ever again.
Clearer and clearer: NBF is a fucktard, this buying and selling antiques thing might actually work, Neighbor Guy is a child, I like making absolutist statements
Other Girl's dog looks just like my dog except he's tan instead of black and white and his ears bend. He also acts like my dog only minus the whole trying to kill people who enter "his" territory thing and he's less dog-aggressive. But his personality is very much like my dog's personality when we're alone, and they're the same size and shape. He even has the name my dog had when I got him from the crazy lady in Ohio. My dog is whining at me. He knows I'm writing about him and he's upset that he gets no final editorial approval.
When I sit down at my computer, I expect it to provide some sort of satisfaction. Then I'm annoyed when it doesn't. Same thing with food. There's something internet and food and television are supposed to fulfill. Except the only one that every really works is food, and that's often a shot in the dark. Maybe I'll eat frozen mango chunks and read.
Clearer and clearer: NBF is a fucktard, this buying and selling antiques thing might actually work, Neighbor Guy is a child, I like making absolutist statements
Other Girl's dog looks just like my dog except he's tan instead of black and white and his ears bend. He also acts like my dog only minus the whole trying to kill people who enter "his" territory thing and he's less dog-aggressive. But his personality is very much like my dog's personality when we're alone, and they're the same size and shape. He even has the name my dog had when I got him from the crazy lady in Ohio. My dog is whining at me. He knows I'm writing about him and he's upset that he gets no final editorial approval.
When I sit down at my computer, I expect it to provide some sort of satisfaction. Then I'm annoyed when it doesn't. Same thing with food. There's something internet and food and television are supposed to fulfill. Except the only one that every really works is food, and that's often a shot in the dark. Maybe I'll eat frozen mango chunks and read.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Bird Shit
The sharp pain is back. Just the last two days. I earned it while NBF was here. Albatross upon albatross around my neck. Black clouds. Whatever you want to call the things that I now stuff in a folder labeled "DO NOW." I forgot to take my before-bed drugs two nights in a row. I smoked pot wrapped in a tobacco casing. I drank an entire beer. And a medium sprite. And I had to confront the difference between me and me just a few months ago. And NBF. And many many other major friendships I've had over the course of my life.
Even before elementary school and the mean children, I learned to be snarky. Both sides of my family are very sarcastic and sharp. We play with eachother's words and mannerisms and turn them into our own witticisms and put-downs. My dad is a notoriously slow and awkward joke teller, so when I was still in elementary school I started doing an impression of him trying to tell "why did the chicken cross the road?" that had everybody in stitches. Barney Frank's recent town hall reply reminded me of our old big family get-togethers.
Some people seem able to give eachother shit but then balance it out with love and affection. My dad's side is bigger on the zingers, but my mom's side was well versed at just criticizing the hell out of absolutely anything and everything. She and her siblings seem to be crawling out of that now that their own children have grown up and born the brunt of it, but hey, it's progress. Still, both my parents have a very specific idea of right and wrong, good and bad, black and white, including on the many many many many many many things in the universe that aren't. Like, um, everything. So when you put together the sarcasm and the "humorous" put-downs with a constant directive that you're doing this wrong or that wrong or everything wrong even if it feels right to you, you're no longer just "giving people shit." It becomes deep and seething and paraded with a laugh until you don't know where the joke is anymore. Snarky 5-year-olds are only cute for a few minutes.
I watched a lot of sit-coms, too. Alf. Small Wonder. Golden Girls. Empty Nest. The snappy come-back always wins on television. Earns respect in my family (my brother can be a long series of one-liners).
Elementary school. Bad bad bad. I'd spend all day every day in teasing battles where a new and zingy come-back wasn't worth shit if you didn't have a posse. The kids would use the same insults over and over and over again. I'd ask my parents what to do and they'd give me new sharp things to say. I'd go back to school and say those things and the kids would tease me for being smart, for using big words, for everything they could.
My mom wrote me notes on my napkins in the lunches she packed for me. "Catherine" would steal them and read them out loud and have the whole grade laughing hysterically. I told my mom. I didn't really want her to stop writing the notes because then Catherine would win, but at the same time I wanted the notes and humiliation to just end. My mom started writing the notes to say things like "I'm glad I'm your mother and not the mom of a vicious note-stealing child." Catherine then started making fun of me for telling and being a tattle-tale "as usual" and everybody just had new fodder for the teasing.
Over the years I've created many friendships based largely in giving eachother shit. Some of you at least used to read this blog, and I am sorry. As all of my friends will attest, my shit-to-compliments ration varies and I'm much more comfortable with the shit than the compliments, but sometimes I'm able to spew out just the right thing at just the right time. The other big variable is how much love v. malice goes into the shit. It changes day to day, friend to friend, moment to moment.
I'm just not sure how to show affection any other way. When it comes to letting Boys know I'm remotely interested, I still blush and freak out and tell them they're stupid. That may be part of why I'm more comfortable being friends with guys in general: they're used to the shit-giving friendship model.
Life lessons:
The way to be recognized as a person looking to make connections is to give shit.
Everybody I ever wanted to have accept me growing up gave me shit.
Kindness? Happiness? Fake! Bullshit! You're being effusive!
I'm learning to be happy for more than a moment at a time and it's working. I wish there was a way for me to go sit in the big Depression Ditch and tell everybody there that it's possible, but even a few days with NBF toppled my latest streak of joy because I couldn't get through to him. I'm a compulsive sharer. When I find something I like, I want everybody to know.
Some people seem able to give eachother shit but then balance it out with love and affection. My dad's side is bigger on the zingers, but my mom's side was well versed at just criticizing the hell out of absolutely anything and everything. She and her siblings seem to be crawling out of that now that their own children have grown up and born the brunt of it, but hey, it's progress. Still, both my parents have a very specific idea of right and wrong, good and bad, black and white, including on the many many many many many many things in the universe that aren't. Like, um, everything. So when you put together the sarcasm and the "humorous" put-downs with a constant directive that you're doing this wrong or that wrong or everything wrong even if it feels right to you, you're no longer just "giving people shit." It becomes deep and seething and paraded with a laugh until you don't know where the joke is anymore. Snarky 5-year-olds are only cute for a few minutes.
I watched a lot of sit-coms, too. Alf. Small Wonder. Golden Girls. Empty Nest. The snappy come-back always wins on television. Earns respect in my family (my brother can be a long series of one-liners).
Elementary school. Bad bad bad. I'd spend all day every day in teasing battles where a new and zingy come-back wasn't worth shit if you didn't have a posse. The kids would use the same insults over and over and over again. I'd ask my parents what to do and they'd give me new sharp things to say. I'd go back to school and say those things and the kids would tease me for being smart, for using big words, for everything they could.
My mom wrote me notes on my napkins in the lunches she packed for me. "Catherine" would steal them and read them out loud and have the whole grade laughing hysterically. I told my mom. I didn't really want her to stop writing the notes because then Catherine would win, but at the same time I wanted the notes and humiliation to just end. My mom started writing the notes to say things like "I'm glad I'm your mother and not the mom of a vicious note-stealing child." Catherine then started making fun of me for telling and being a tattle-tale "as usual" and everybody just had new fodder for the teasing.
Over the years I've created many friendships based largely in giving eachother shit. Some of you at least used to read this blog, and I am sorry. As all of my friends will attest, my shit-to-compliments ration varies and I'm much more comfortable with the shit than the compliments, but sometimes I'm able to spew out just the right thing at just the right time. The other big variable is how much love v. malice goes into the shit. It changes day to day, friend to friend, moment to moment.
I'm just not sure how to show affection any other way. When it comes to letting Boys know I'm remotely interested, I still blush and freak out and tell them they're stupid. That may be part of why I'm more comfortable being friends with guys in general: they're used to the shit-giving friendship model.
Life lessons:
The way to be recognized as a person looking to make connections is to give shit.
Everybody I ever wanted to have accept me growing up gave me shit.
Kindness? Happiness? Fake! Bullshit! You're being effusive!
I'm learning to be happy for more than a moment at a time and it's working. I wish there was a way for me to go sit in the big Depression Ditch and tell everybody there that it's possible, but even a few days with NBF toppled my latest streak of joy because I couldn't get through to him. I'm a compulsive sharer. When I find something I like, I want everybody to know.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Vomiting Mathmos
NBF enjoys the dark clouds and rainy days. He loves me best when I'm at my worst.Yesterday was difficult. He doesn't like me having my own agenda. He wanted to come back and lay around and watch movies and do nothing all day like old times, except when he had plans with other people and then he wants to go off and do that and then I can do my stuff. I wanted him to come back and see my shiny new friends and shiny new condo and shiny new life and all the things I do and I wanted to prove to myself that all my new shiny things are strong enough to resist his dark cloud urgings and NBF would finally get the benefit of Shiny New Annabell after putting up with three years of Sad And In Pain Annabell. But that's not how it works. With much of the world and my life these days, I can have positive hopes and ideas and then throw myself in the direction of hope/idea and as long as I just sort of go with things and remain flexible, it's all fine and new and interesting and I enjoy whatever comes out. I make money, I meet people, I enjoy the ride. NBF tends to amplify all the negatives. Last night at the bar, everyone was watching the Bears game like zombies. Possible Boy and Other Girl were sitting at a table together with Other Girl's dog. NBF informed me that the two of them were clearly on a date/together and didn't invite us to sit down so they didn't want us there. NBF had many other absolutes of social "knowledge" that in the past I've listened to and taken for fact, and while they are in fact helpful as guidelines, there's so much more to human interaction. NBF has this huge pill of doubt festering in me now that Possible Boy and Other Girl don't want me around at all and don't enjoy my company, but have other context clues and know that's just not true. But the fucking doubt! I had no friends when I was little. People hated me and thought I was annoying. I'm very susceptible to that seed of darkness. I'm drawn to the negative. I frequently am the negative. I've been doing so well. I can continue to do so well. NBF sees the world through puke-colored glasses, and no matter how sure he is about the universe, he's only "right" because he makes himself right. I'm still skating around on fairy dust and I hope to continue for the rest of my life. If he doesn't want to be included, our paths still cross at some wonderful points and the rest of the time I just have to learn to smile.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
stigma(ta)
I like to martyr myself to selfish boys. It's not healthy and I feel like crap, but it's a nice familiar pattern, stemming from both my parents but particularly my mother. It's this idea that you should do and give everything for your family, and it should make you miserable.
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
worry, boy
I'm feeling weird and panicky. I've been this way since Saturdayish. At first I thought it was Boy-related, but now I think it's just me. Medication? Hormones? Something I'm not doing that I know I need to do but have crammed below my consciousness? I used to get this way over that last category, but I'm not finding it right now. I've been eliminating those dark clouds, not creating more of them. So the Panic may be chemical. Blech.
It started with The Boy. But I'm thinking Possible Boy may not be so much anymore. I'm slipping into a status member of his fanclub, and our interactions are reminding me more and more of the bad parts of some of my Boys past. I caught myself starting to revel in the yearning that had nothing to do with Possible Boy himself, meanwhile back in reality he's so completely unsure about anything that I had to ask myself if the struggle was worth it. I'd gotten my hopes up for plans yesterday that never happened, and I'm ignoring an entire world's worth of Possibility prematurely for a Boy who isn't even doing me the same favor. Fuck it. He can keep a glimmer of possibility, but I'm taking my hopes and dreams back. He never asked for them in the first place.
NBF finally booked his ticket. He shows up Saturday.
I'm worried about my dog. That's a real worry. He's been chewing on himself a lot and we never went to the cardiologist. I wanted to get reimbursed from his doggy health insurance for his last round of ailments before having to dole out hundreds for new things, but there may not be a choice.
Seriously, stomach, shut up. I have to go spend 8 hours in a hot auction room as soon as I convince myself to put on clothes and make a final phone call or two. Do I dare pop my lorazepam? I'm already so overmedicated, but this is exactly what it's meant to "fix."
It started with The Boy. But I'm thinking Possible Boy may not be so much anymore. I'm slipping into a status member of his fanclub, and our interactions are reminding me more and more of the bad parts of some of my Boys past. I caught myself starting to revel in the yearning that had nothing to do with Possible Boy himself, meanwhile back in reality he's so completely unsure about anything that I had to ask myself if the struggle was worth it. I'd gotten my hopes up for plans yesterday that never happened, and I'm ignoring an entire world's worth of Possibility prematurely for a Boy who isn't even doing me the same favor. Fuck it. He can keep a glimmer of possibility, but I'm taking my hopes and dreams back. He never asked for them in the first place.
NBF finally booked his ticket. He shows up Saturday.
I'm worried about my dog. That's a real worry. He's been chewing on himself a lot and we never went to the cardiologist. I wanted to get reimbursed from his doggy health insurance for his last round of ailments before having to dole out hundreds for new things, but there may not be a choice.
Seriously, stomach, shut up. I have to go spend 8 hours in a hot auction room as soon as I convince myself to put on clothes and make a final phone call or two. Do I dare pop my lorazepam? I'm already so overmedicated, but this is exactly what it's meant to "fix."
Sunday, September 06, 2009
Annabell and Possible Boy: A Webcomic
This was going to be a card for Possible Boy in response to my completely and utterly stupid 2:30 AM but not drunk texting him stupid shit that culminated in "I know i could really fall for you and thats dangerous and terrifying," to which he never responded. My printer is running out of black ink so when I tried printing the card out it looked like total crap and I'm trying to take it as a sign and chill out for a bit. Not having such an easy time with the chilling out part. I'm now officially going to be Girl Neighbor Guy to Possible Boy. There are two Other Girls now that he may be dating and I don't know what the fuck I'm doing and all these other boys at the bar last night were dripping and drooling over me but I was too nutsoid to just flit about and enjoy it the way I "should." Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. What am I doooooooooooooooooooing???????????????
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Even Doves Die
"It was such a bad break and so badly infected that the bird did not make it."
Did I make things worse? We think we know so much and we want to fix everything, but how often are things better left to run their course?
OR
The dove was already dead when I got to the parking lot. But it was a beautiful catalyst for story and a dreamlike apparition.
OR
"The meaning of the conclusion is that everything dies and there's no sentiment so you'd better get used to it." That's NBF's take. He's on the phone now.
Did I make things worse? We think we know so much and we want to fix everything, but how often are things better left to run their course?
OR
The dove was already dead when I got to the parking lot. But it was a beautiful catalyst for story and a dreamlike apparition.
OR
"The meaning of the conclusion is that everything dies and there's no sentiment so you'd better get used to it." That's NBF's take. He's on the phone now.
There's a good story in here somewhere
Serendipity day. So much. Driving to an organic farm 2 hours away tomorrow to see Birdie. WTF.
Trying to find the bobeche(s) to finish my chandelier already.
Shmoozing and being businessy with the people at the lighting and antiques stores.
I have a part number now for my bobeche, but it was discontinued, so I have to find somewhere that still has it in stock.
Going to stop at a thrift store just to see if there was anything good and instead finding two school-aged kids worrying over a wounded dove in the parking lot. How do you leave a wounded dove? It couldn't fly away but it clearly wasn't dying as it struggled in terror and frustration. With my advanced knowledge of all matters avian (on a clear day I can almost tell the difference between a bird, a plane, and Superman) I went to my car to see if I had a box or something useful, came back with a pillowcase and asked the kids to go find a box. They spotted small flat soda crates behind the Walgreens. The bird and we fluttered helpless and hapless around the parking lot. I'd put my purse down a few feet away, so when a gruff looking man came down the street I watched him more closely than the dove.
"Whatcha got there, a chicken?" he asked.
"No..." and in a flash the man grabbed the bird in his hand.
I flinched and thought he had crushed it, but when I looked back he held the now calm bird in his single fist.
"Where do you want it?" he asked.
Without words or thought I wrapped the dove in the pillowcase and put it in the crate. The children stared.
"It'll die in there. Suffocate," he said.
I tried to get it loose and near the opening of the pillowcase. It flapped, I pulled the pillowcase around its body so it couldn't flap and flutter anymore. I was afraid I'd killed it, or was killing it. I told the children I'd take it to the animal hospital.
411 was useless for "nearest animal hospital that takes birds," so I drove to Petsmart. I knew this particular Petsmart had a vet because I had a coupon at home for a free vet check-up there for my dog. I told myself a vet would have at least some basic background in general wounded animal care and know better what to do than I did. The drive was short and I rolled down the windows and wondered if I wasn't making things worse by interfering, that maybe the bird would have made its way somewhere safe and been better off without the human intervention, or it would have been picked off by something higher on the food chain...but how do you leave a wounded dove???
Petsmart wouldn't treat the dove. They only deal with cats and dogs. But they had the information for Chicago Exotics Animal Hospital.
Back in the car. I started talking to the doveling. Started saying "my little doveling."
A 300 lb woman with a rat crawling around her shoulders was standing in the waiting room. Am I crazy? Is this what I am? The crazy lady who picks up every wounded butterfly and treats it like its a child or contains the entire world or somehow gives importance to an otherwise meaningless life?
I had to sign a form that said I relinquished rights to the wild dove, blah blah blah. They took it in back, gave it a little Valium and somewhere to get comfortable before the vet would do a full check-up whenever she had a break between scheduled patients. They told me to go home. They have my information. I said I'd take the dove home if that's what needs to happen. My dog will love that. I don't really know anything about bird care, but this story ends with the bird ending up my new awesome pet or the bird gets nursed back to health by the vet's wildlife people or the bird gets put to sleep or I end up in possession of the bird but gift it to someone else who doesn't have a crazy dog and/or knows something about birds. It's a beautiful dove. Gray, not white, but beautiful. And so calm in my hands with the pillowcase between us when we stood waiting at both vet's desks.
This is the kind of story people make up. I have trouble believing it wasn't a dream. Especially the random man who just grabbed the bird like he was catching a falling egg. It was incredible. He just happened to be walking past and had either the instinct or the experience necessary for dove catching. Am I dreaming? Have I fallen off the deep end and today was one giant hallucination? Entirely possible.
I wanted to call to check in on the dove but kept extremely busy.
Post-dove:
Walgreens to refill prescriptions
Getting car fixed. Windshield wiper fluid wasn't making it all the way to the squirty things. Looked like a super-easy fix. Turned out to be a semi-easy fix. Total cost: $0
Condo meeting. Re-evaluating my place in the universe yet again. The other owners are all very white, moneyed, pay for someone else to do it "right." Nice people. Very nice. But I felt so alien in much of the conversation. Bourgeois. White white white. So white. I can shmooze with them, but it's shmoozing, not talking. It's not comfortable. Where do I fit in? Need to examine more and write more when I didn't just have the longest day ever and plan on driving to Buttfuck, IL and back tomorrow.
I went to the beach with my dog, too. Sat, relaxed, worked on my breathing and biofeedback relaxation techniques.
I went to the bar after the meeting and smoozing because I wanted beer and something human. Possible Boy was half asleep already. Neighbor Guy was actually there, too, digging into some poor woman who didn't want to talk but he eventually got her discussing her husband's recent infidelity or something like that. The regulars played a lively game of pool. I wondered how to topple The Establishment from the inside.
I've been going all day. I wasn't tired until about 20 minutes ago and now I'm too tired to make sense of anything and I keep misspelling and mistyping everything. Motherfuckers.
Goodnight.
Trying to find the bobeche(s) to finish my chandelier already.
Shmoozing and being businessy with the people at the lighting and antiques stores.
I have a part number now for my bobeche, but it was discontinued, so I have to find somewhere that still has it in stock.
Going to stop at a thrift store just to see if there was anything good and instead finding two school-aged kids worrying over a wounded dove in the parking lot. How do you leave a wounded dove? It couldn't fly away but it clearly wasn't dying as it struggled in terror and frustration. With my advanced knowledge of all matters avian (on a clear day I can almost tell the difference between a bird, a plane, and Superman) I went to my car to see if I had a box or something useful, came back with a pillowcase and asked the kids to go find a box. They spotted small flat soda crates behind the Walgreens. The bird and we fluttered helpless and hapless around the parking lot. I'd put my purse down a few feet away, so when a gruff looking man came down the street I watched him more closely than the dove.
"Whatcha got there, a chicken?" he asked.
"No..." and in a flash the man grabbed the bird in his hand.
I flinched and thought he had crushed it, but when I looked back he held the now calm bird in his single fist.
"Where do you want it?" he asked.
Without words or thought I wrapped the dove in the pillowcase and put it in the crate. The children stared.
"It'll die in there. Suffocate," he said.
I tried to get it loose and near the opening of the pillowcase. It flapped, I pulled the pillowcase around its body so it couldn't flap and flutter anymore. I was afraid I'd killed it, or was killing it. I told the children I'd take it to the animal hospital.
411 was useless for "nearest animal hospital that takes birds," so I drove to Petsmart. I knew this particular Petsmart had a vet because I had a coupon at home for a free vet check-up there for my dog. I told myself a vet would have at least some basic background in general wounded animal care and know better what to do than I did. The drive was short and I rolled down the windows and wondered if I wasn't making things worse by interfering, that maybe the bird would have made its way somewhere safe and been better off without the human intervention, or it would have been picked off by something higher on the food chain...but how do you leave a wounded dove???
Petsmart wouldn't treat the dove. They only deal with cats and dogs. But they had the information for Chicago Exotics Animal Hospital.
Back in the car. I started talking to the doveling. Started saying "my little doveling."
A 300 lb woman with a rat crawling around her shoulders was standing in the waiting room. Am I crazy? Is this what I am? The crazy lady who picks up every wounded butterfly and treats it like its a child or contains the entire world or somehow gives importance to an otherwise meaningless life?
I had to sign a form that said I relinquished rights to the wild dove, blah blah blah. They took it in back, gave it a little Valium and somewhere to get comfortable before the vet would do a full check-up whenever she had a break between scheduled patients. They told me to go home. They have my information. I said I'd take the dove home if that's what needs to happen. My dog will love that. I don't really know anything about bird care, but this story ends with the bird ending up my new awesome pet or the bird gets nursed back to health by the vet's wildlife people or the bird gets put to sleep or I end up in possession of the bird but gift it to someone else who doesn't have a crazy dog and/or knows something about birds. It's a beautiful dove. Gray, not white, but beautiful. And so calm in my hands with the pillowcase between us when we stood waiting at both vet's desks.
This is the kind of story people make up. I have trouble believing it wasn't a dream. Especially the random man who just grabbed the bird like he was catching a falling egg. It was incredible. He just happened to be walking past and had either the instinct or the experience necessary for dove catching. Am I dreaming? Have I fallen off the deep end and today was one giant hallucination? Entirely possible.
I wanted to call to check in on the dove but kept extremely busy.
Post-dove:
Walgreens to refill prescriptions
Getting car fixed. Windshield wiper fluid wasn't making it all the way to the squirty things. Looked like a super-easy fix. Turned out to be a semi-easy fix. Total cost: $0
Condo meeting. Re-evaluating my place in the universe yet again. The other owners are all very white, moneyed, pay for someone else to do it "right." Nice people. Very nice. But I felt so alien in much of the conversation. Bourgeois. White white white. So white. I can shmooze with them, but it's shmoozing, not talking. It's not comfortable. Where do I fit in? Need to examine more and write more when I didn't just have the longest day ever and plan on driving to Buttfuck, IL and back tomorrow.
I went to the beach with my dog, too. Sat, relaxed, worked on my breathing and biofeedback relaxation techniques.
I went to the bar after the meeting and smoozing because I wanted beer and something human. Possible Boy was half asleep already. Neighbor Guy was actually there, too, digging into some poor woman who didn't want to talk but he eventually got her discussing her husband's recent infidelity or something like that. The regulars played a lively game of pool. I wondered how to topple The Establishment from the inside.
I've been going all day. I wasn't tired until about 20 minutes ago and now I'm too tired to make sense of anything and I keep misspelling and mistyping everything. Motherfuckers.
Goodnight.
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Furry Alarm Clock
The sun gets up later and later, but my dog's been getting up earlier and earlier. He whines and whines until I'm aware he's whining and then I'm awake, too and I take him out. From now on, no matter how tired I am, I need to run him ragged before bed. I have no need to see the sunrise.
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