My brother-in-law is good people. Last night he said (and I'm paraphrasing here), "If you saw your friend getting beaten up, would you just stand there and not do anything about it? No. Then why are you treating yourself that way?" That is right on. Why is my first impulse to try and figure out what is wrong with ME? Why do I continue to believe someone else's criticisms of me, when I've always known that they were bullshit?

I need to be kind to myself. Like I was my best friend. It's sad that I have to remind myself to do such things, but there it is. When I take a step back, it's totally obvious that I've done the right thing and will be much better in the end for it.

Things are looking much brighter and calmer today. Thanks for reading and continuing to care about me, your cyber-web-friend.

This letter could have been written by me.

EDITED TO FIX THE STUPID BROKEN LINK

Things are happening in my life that I can't blog about. They are both bad things and good things. There are about three hugely bad things and one or two good things, so the balance is way off. Overall I've been wanting to flee, but to where? I've got to stick it out for now, so I Don't Let The Bastards Win. (Whoever they are; I've never met them.) What sometimes helps is to throw myself into some projects at home (and out) so I can feel more whole and less lost. I need a purpose in life beyond gathering a paycheck every week and watching the occasional TV show or drinking the occasional drink out with a friend. So it's time to turn back to making art in a more serious vein. At the very least, it will make me remember that I have mad skillz. At the most, I'll get a show together and a website and start publicizing myself. This will take time and energy, but September always acts as a catalyst for action - it's the school year permanently hardwired into my brain.

Getting more regular amounts of sleep wouldn't hurt. And if the fucking weather ever clears up, things will probably seem a bit less dismal.

Okay people, I never promised to be timely.

Here are some shots from my vacation in the Adirondacks a couple of weeks ago:


This is where I was:




This is who I was with for most of the time:




She might have foot n' mouth disease. But don't tell her parents.




And I wore my new shirt! It was an awesome vacation.





THE END.

My brain is very brave, but my body is a total coward. Whenever something exciting is about to happen, some big change that I've been anticipating., my body decides that it needs to go into "fight or flight" mode and never ever leave it. Thus, I don't sleep enough, I don't eat enough... which ends up making me even more clumsy and wan than I already am. It's like my primal brain can't let my cultured brain do what needs to be done. It takes effort to wrestle it into submission.

cultured brain: Look, something new is happening! It looks like it could be totally awesomely rad!
primitive brain: Something new, you say? "New" means carnivorous predators, falling rocks, or drowning. RUN AWAY!
cultured brain: But do you see that this new thing is not dangerous in any way? I'll even sit down and reason this out with you. ... See? No possible way anything scary will happen.
primitive brain: Yes, BUT WHAT IF IT DOES? Look at you, all ready to roll over and bare your tender underbelly! You shameless fool. Someone's got to be looking out for our survival!
cultured brain: *sigh.*

Seriously, people, it's a wonder I ever get to leave the house at all.

(p.s. This page has the best web poll I have ever seen.)

Howdy readers. I'm feeling pretty great today. I went out a bunch this weekend, which helped distract me from my first dog-less days off. Friday night I went to a show at the Elevens, which I ducked out of to dance to the Drunk Stuntmen over at the Horse. After the bars closed I ended up at an after-party at a hair salon, where I got drunk-shampooed (and drunk-conditioned, luckily). And then we dancercized. It was awesome, as you can imagine.

Saturday I walked to town to load up on corn, potatoes, onions, and lettuce at the farmer's market downtown, came home and promptly took a nap. As an aside, my relationship with my cat - now my only pet - is going through a renaissance. It's like a second honeymoon over here (without the dirty parts). For dinner I got takeout from Amanous and watched some episodes of Curb Your Enthusiasm. Then it was off to meet L at the coffeeshop, where I stupidly got a medium chai. I never drink caffiene at night, and here it was almost 9 p.m. But I knew I was going to fade fast if I didn't imbibe something soon. L and I sat on the courthouse steps and watched people go by. A few of them were people we knew, but we were hidden in a cloak of invisibility; I know I never look over at the darkened stone stairs when I pass the courthouse. Anyway, we met some folks at the Basement, which is becoming like a food-free, alcohol-serving Fire & Water. The caffiene started kicking in and I was all fidgety (more than usual, I mean) and feeling oddly floaty. Eventually we went over to Hugo's where there were some other people we knew. I couldn't stop picking at the label on my beer bottle, and I kept on getting up off my stool.

After last call, I stood outside and did the 1:10 shuffle with a bunch of folks. Then I did the most amazing thing - I walked home. It was lovely. Cool but not cold, with some nice moon action. I walked through tunnels of shrubs and trees and was surrounded by the noise of a thousand crickets. I saw a few other people on their bleary walks home. It was great to be free again.

The next day I went to the mall with L. Somehow our little trip turned into FIVE HOURS. It was crazy. I had slept very little the night before, and I still have no idea what powerful reserves my weak little kitten's body drew upon to help me make it through the treacherous ordeal. But we managed to not pass out or get mall-eyed or anything. It was just good times. A Chicken Ranchero Soft Taco helped me drive home without losing consciousness.

Then it was time to make corn chowder with ingredients from the farmer's market. I used fresh butter-and-sugar corn. It took me like three hours, but the end result was delicious. I foolishly used the faulty big burner on my electric stove. The burner goes from not-hot-enough to way-too-hot with just a tiny nudge. I have yet to figure out where the magic point of combustion is on the dial. So I burned the butter just a little. It was, and is, still fantastic soup. And that's the most any of us should ever ask for really.

I have a tendancy to over-share.

It's something I'm very aware of, so I try to stop myself before I go too far. Usually, I do a good job. Usually I do a good job of it on this blog.

But it's especially hard to not over-share when I'm feeling exceptionally aimless, lonely, bored, and sickly (still have a cold, and it's cramping my style) and it feels like if I don't talk to someone about it, I might die. I have some notion that doing so will help me out. Like the other person will say, "I hear you debl. I know a great guy with a big crush on you, here's his phone number. And I found a job listing for an artist, they want someone to make fun crafts for 100k a year, and it says the person must have 8 years of magazine editorial experience, isn't that odd. And hey, we're all about to go white-water rafting, followed by a clambake, at which we've hired The Pixies to play just for us. Come with!"

In reality, I should be the one to make arrangements for the amazing clambake, if that's what I want to do. I'm just so tired and gross-feeling with the cold I have that I don't feel up to doing anything, while at the same time, I really want to be feeling great and going out and having adventures. And as hard as I try, I can't will myself into getting over this cold. Stupid viruses, they're so frustrating.

If you people aren't reading my comments, then you are missing out. I'm just saying.

My birthday is at the end of the month. I was just going through my blog archives, looking for a particular post (read the comments!) and I found an entry about last year's birthday, where I said something like "being 31 is going to rock!" because my 30th year kind of sucked balls. 31 was definitely better than 30, but I can't say that I truly rocked 31. Plus, now I'm going to be 32, which puts me firmly into my 30s. 31 is kind of like 30, in that it's really just the top of your 20s.

I really shouldn't care at all. I am trying not to, and I manage not to most of the time. It's unattractive, or so they say, to care about such things. I'm supposed to be all confident and carefree and secure in my lovely fresh ripe-peachiness. Maybe that will be my goal for my 32nd year.

So have you seen the new Victoria's Secret ad where Tyra Banks is all "Take a look at my tits"? It's all about some really nice bra (really nice if you have really nice, big breasts already), and at the end of the ad text on the screen says:

"IT'S" HERE!

What?? Why are those quotation marks there? I don't get why they're emphasizing that word. That's not how you emphasize something, anyway! Unless they're being sarcastic about "IT," which makes no sense. Can anyone explain this to me? Because this is the kind of thing that makes us editor-types lose sleep.

Hi everybody, I came home. My vacation was fine; there was a little swimming, a tiny amount of kayaking, a couple of hours of crafting (I made an enameled leaf pendant), some puzzle-piecing-togethering, and a lot of rain-avoidance. There were also many salads and ice cream cones eaten. Due to a warning about a stomach bug going throught campus, I got all OCD about washing my hands for a few days (and I didn't get sick like that, though I now have a cold, courtesy of A). I spent most of my time in the company of my niece, who turned six months old yesterday. Man she is a heart-melter. I let her drool all over my shoulders and chomp on my fingers. I made her laugh a couple of times, the cutest sound in the world. It was painful to say goodbye.

And then I came home, and there was no L-dog to pick up, because she has been adopted by the piano teacher from Salisbury. She seems very nice and says she already loves L. Of course, she also sent me an email today saying L had torn up the kitchen floor this morning. She asked me for L's behavior history, for her appointment with a doggie therapist. I hope that all works out for L.

As for me, the debl homestead is seeming a little lonely. It's quiet, too; I hadn't really thought about how much I speak to my dog. But I used to say things to her all the time. Many were directives, sure, but also things a person might say to another person, like "yeah, it sure is hot up here," and "soon we will go swimming" and "it will all be okay," as well as singing little songs with her name in them. It's been even weirder at work, where I keep on looking over to her empty dog bed, and I have to stop myself from automatically saying "Stay, L" every time I go downstairs. I'm trying to get into talking to my cat when I'm home, but come on. She's a cat. There's just no comparison.

I also have yet to fully realize all of the new things that can happen now that I'm dogless. I can ride my bike to work, for example. I can put the cat's food on the floor. I can walk into town or drive to the store during daylight hours. I can sign up for yoga class again. I can put on my give-up pants (or keep them off, as the case may be in this heat) much earlier in the evening, since I don't have to go out for a late-night walk. Tonight, if I can get a nap in first so I don't feel quite so crappy, I hope to walk over to see a show at the Iron Horse (you should go too). Tomorrow I can ride my bike to Shape-Note singing (unlikely, since it's all uphill, but I could if I wanted to). So I've got all that going for me.

Hi y'all. So I said goodbye to my dog today. The new woman seems very nice. She has her for a trial period of a week, while I'm away on vacation. At the meeting place, within a couple of minutes of meeting her, my dog jumped into the new person's car and settled down in the back seat. That made it a little easier. I'm really missing her right now, probably because I'm a little woozy from wine and sadness. A few minutes ago I heard a noise that I thought was my dog doing one of her stretching-groans, but then I remembered that she isn't here. My heart feels all broken.

It was nice to be able to walk into town and have dinner while the sun was still up, without worrying about my dog baking in the car, or barking. I'm trying to focus on the reasons why I did this, but right now I think I need to feel bad for a little bit.

Thanks to everyone who commented. It helps.

So I'll be away this week, no blogging for you. Maybe you can take a walk down memory lane by reading through the Archives? I'm back Sunday, on August's Eve.

The time for a Big Decision has arrived. I put up a free ad for my dog on Petfinder.org, and someone actually responded, and she sounds like a really good match for my dog. Which means it's time to put up or shut up. When I got the email yesterday my heart unexpectedly sunk. How can I give up this close bond I have with my dog? The unconditional love I get? How can I let her down and break her heart, when she's been through so much in her life already? She helps me feel less alone, and it's very hard for me to ever turn away love of any kind. But a couple of things have happened in the past week that have made me pretty sure that my dog would do better elsewhere:

At Hugo's one night, my dog was (as she always has to be whenever I leave the house) locked inside of my car. And apparently she was barking so incessantly that a woman in a nearby building called the police, who loudly summoned me from the bar in front of a bunch of people I know. I had to walk out to my car and face the irate and exhausted woman who had called the cops. I was very apologetic. Luckily the policeman himself was very understanding, so all I had to do was move my car. But it was a definite low point.

This Sunday I didn't leave the house except to walk the dog. True, I amused myself by downloading a ton of my CDs onto my hard drive and then my ipod, making a couple of mixes along the way. But I didn't even have the option of, say, walking into town to grab a bite, or driving to Trader Joe's, or riding my bike to Pete's for ice cream.

...

I just had lunch with a couple of sympathetic co-workers, both dog-owners (one has a shelter dog), and they made me feel better about the whole thing. They agreed that if I was bringing her into a good situation, then it was the right thing to do in order to regain my freedom. There are two other people at work who are making me feel extremely guilty about giving her up... They don't know that I've started seriously looking for a new owner, but when I brought up the idea a few months ago they were both adamant that I keep her. One said that her anxiety will get worse with the new person, so to spare both the dog and the new person, I really just needed to keep on with the training (which I've been doing for years without success). The other said that she wouldn't be able to stand not seeing my dog at work every day. So why don't YOU adopt her, I was thinking, but I've asked her in the past and she can't or won't. Neither of these people, by the way, are ever willing to dog-sit for me.

So am I horrible? How horrible am I? The new person is arranging to meet with me this Saturday. I don't know if they will take her right away if things go well, or if they're going to wait a week (I'm going on vacation next week). And then I will be weepy and sad for a while. But then I will start to remember that I can once again ride my bike and walk everywhere I need to go in town, and I can do anything and go anywhere at any time of day, and I hope I'll realize I made a good choice.

Yesterday a co-worker noticed the black and white picture of a young and brooding Marlon Brando I've taped up in my cubicle. She sighed and I said, "Yes, wasn't he beautiful? And somehow knowing that he later became all tortured and anguished makes him even more beautiful." My co-worker nodded and said "hmm..." which could have meant either "I agree, sister, the bad boys totally do it for me," or "I think I've just figured out why you haven't found anyone 'good enough' during the past year."

Because this is the trick, the trick I and my girlfriends are trying to pull off: To find the guy who acts like a bad boy, but is a good guy in disguise. Who gets kind of introspective and cross sometimes, but never cross at you; and has done some things he regrets, but has learned from his mistakes; and who has had his heart broken a couple of times, so now he really appreciates the way you stroke his hair in a way that makes him like it, or how you laugh at the stupidest things as though you can't control yourself, or that you do things like find a pretty rock on the beach just to give to him. Because he knows by now that not all girls do that. So he treats you like a precious and rare creature, like a baby panda (they're endangered, you know).

And when he dresses up in a muu-muu and kisses Larry King on the mouth on national television, you will just shrug it all off, because he's treated you right and that's what's important.

I had a dream last week that I keep being reminded of due to the location and the celebrity guest-star: I was in the big back room of Essentials, the hip mod furnishings store on Main Street, lying on a bed with my sister as we watched and then listened to Freedy Johnston play a concert just for us. It wasn't meant to be just us, but it was early in the morning (thus the bed and the lying down) and he was charmed that we were there so he was doing the show. He was also simultaneously running a pirate radio station, and would occasionally take a break to broadcast some station i.d. or something. And of course he was helping out with the store. He was also acting a little crushed out on me. and in the dream this was uncomfortable: I had a feeling like I should really be enjoying the attention but instead I felt yucky and sad. (In real life, of course, I'd be all, "so when's the soonest we may marry?") During one of the songs he climbed up on the bed and was playing while lying next to me, staring up at the ceiling. The show seemed to go on forever, way past the point of my attention span. And when it ended, I noticed that a lot of my friends from town were there, having arrived late. So Freedy went over to talk to all of them. And I had to pack up a lot of stuff that I had brought while also rearranging the various things on sale at the store, and I was embarrassed about cleaning my cluttered mess in front of everyone. And that was that.


I do have a real-life Freedy story. Back when I was a band girlfriend, the Ms (I think...) opened for Freedy at the Iron Horse. We corralled him after the show and convinced him to go out to Bar 19 with us. And he said yes! A small crowd of musician friends gathered there and waited for a little bit wondering if he'd show, and eventually he did. We chatted about mundane things, and I think P got to speak to him one-on-one about the business end of making music. When it was time to go, the bunch of us walked from the bar back to the Horse (and our cars) together. It was all snowy and cold and gross mid-winter-ness, and Freedy was walking right in front of me, crossing the hump of snow between sidewalk and road, when he slipped and fell right onto his back. I let Freedy fall!

To this day I can point to the exact spot on King Street where it happened. Sigh.

What are you doing tonight?

You are watching the Amazing Race at 10 p.m. on CBS. If you missed the first one, go to Television Without Pity (in Links over there) and read the recap. TWP will make you love it.

What are you doing Thursday?

At 9 p.m. you are going to see Spouse, the Fawns, and Red Door Exchange at the lovely (and really way too small for this show) Bishop's Lounge. Because they are all beautiful, and I think the show is a mere 2 bucks, so you can afford to get one of their expensive fancy drinks.

What are you doing Wednesday?

That's up to you, sport. Take some initiative in your life for once.

I seem to have become unable to fall asleep in a timely fashion. I stay up too late, waiting until after the Daily Show to walk the dog and brush my teeth, and I'm yawning and bumping into things on my way to bed, and then I just lie there in the dark, wide awake. I'm not really even thinking about much, though I guess there's a general existential crisis. I think I'd sleep better if I didn't spend all evening inside my apartment, making crafts and watching TV and reading stuff online. It's almost like being half-asleep, doing those things.

Yesterday I did the very bad thing of taking a nap after work, which worked against me in two ways: It made me miss the show at P.A.C.E. I had wanted to see (and would have gotten me out of my apartment), and it made it just as hard to fall asleep later. Thank God the weekend is here to help put a stop to my secret shame.

Anyway. My blogging friend Jennifer wrote about her own overhearing-her-mom story, and you should read it because she is a hoot.

Remember way back on February 27th, when I went on and on about an old video game my sister and I used to play, and we couldn't remember the name of it?

Well it is found. It's called Agent U.S.A. I have my sister to thank. She downloaded a PDF of "Classic Gamer Magazine" from a link provided by the wonderful boingboing, and that zine had an ad for the game. I love the internet!

p.s. I was totally right about the "people" in the game being just a hat and feet.

Another highlight of the weekend was my sister and I overhearing my post-menopausal mother sing the praises of Astroglide to her also post-menopausal best friend. After she listed a few of the lube's various qualities, I blurted out "Oh my god, stop! We can hear you!!" They were standing not five feet from me, yet they acted surprised that we had heard. I blame the wine.

I spent the holiday weekend at my parents' house in New Jersey. It was fine. It was all very baby-centric, because my sister and her four-month-old was there. Which is fine, because I Believe That Children Are Our Future. I did remark at one point that I could lose an arm and no one would notice, which caused the people around me to joke, 'Yes we'd notice because then you couldn't hold the baby as well.' Ha ha. Ha.

We all went to a family friend's house for supper and fireworks on the Fourth, and because I had no choice, I had to bring my dog. The house is very close to the park where the fireworks are set off, and you can get a great view from the yard. I knew this would not go well. When the shells first started my dog just seemed startled, but then with each explosion she kept trying to back up, to get away from the noise and the flashing. Then she started panting and trembling, and I didn't want this to develop into a full-blown anxiety response (because I've heard other dogs who were upset by fireworks went on to become nervous wrecks during thunderstorms) so I took off. The group was busy seeing how my baby niece was reacting to the show, so I just told them I had to go, and we walked as fast as we could down the street in the other direction from the fireworks. Walking seemed to calm her, or at least give her a purpose, so I kept going. The friends' house is in a charming little town with historic buildings onstreets lined up nicely in a grid. It was cool to see them illuminated by the fireworks, the sidewalks mostly deserted except for the occasional person sitting in their yard watching the show. I turned onto the shadiest streets, trying to get some sizeable buildings between us and the noise. I kept walking and walking, onward and upward and away. By the time the big finale began, the dog was relaxed enough to stop and sniff at interesting things. So I turned us around and started walking back. About halfway there I bashed into the river of people walking home from the park. I had to swim upstream. When I got within a block my dad was waiting on the sidewalk as though he had been about to come search for me. "There you are," he said. My sister was worried I had been kidnapped, but my dad seemed more concerned that we were now unable to get a jump on the traffic. The drive home was slow and grim, the baby crying because we weren't moving (she had been calm throughout the fireworks show).

I was so good. I got into bed, lights out, before midnight last night. Finally, I was going to get at least 7 hours of sleep on a week night! My productivity at work was going to be phenomenal.

Then at around 2 a.m., I started dreaming that the city was under attack. I drifted up through a few layers of awakefulness and realized it was a thunderstorm. The lightning was non-stop. Flash, flash-flash! Flash, flash, FLASH-flash! And the thunder seemed to be rolling in both from nearby and far away, surrounding me. I had been in the deepest level of sleep, so I could barely move. But with my windows open all the way just a few feet from my head, I felt endangered by the violence of the storm. I live in an attic, after all - I'm high up and have nothing above me except a flimsy roof. So with all of the energy and adrenaline I could muster, in a desperate attempt to try to save my own life, I managed to turn over onto my other side and lay an arm across my head.

It seems to have worked, for I survived the night. But I did not get my full-night's sleep. Curse you, Thor!