Fears, Idle Fears

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

I have an irrational fear. I don't know where it came from. I don't recall a definitive moment when I acquired this fear, but it is there, lurking beneath the surface of my consciousness.

Of course, it comes and goes in intensity. Like a tic I have forgotten I have, until it rears its ugly head and I am ever aware of it for the next several weeks...or months.

My fear? Being stabbed by a person walking by me on the street. Nothing flashy, nothing "Psycho"-esque. Just a random stranger walking by, sliding a thin stiletto blade into my belly, as they keep walking. This person doesn't know me. Hasn't got it in for "Me" in particular, just a random serial stabber.

I know. Weird. But this fear has been there for as long as I can recall. I remember being nine and having this fear. For awhile it had a companion fear, the one I like to call "Fear of being shot to death in your bed while you sleep by an unknown assailant". For several years, I would fall asleep facing the door - so I could see death coming for me, were it to make it's move. As if I had something I could bargain with - "But wait, unknown assailant - I will grow up and make quilts and write things on the Internet, and have some mental health issues, but generally be a decent person. Isn't there some kid MORE deserving of death than I?"

Part of my city fear has been tied up in these two other fears. Being in a city, one would more likely encounter the stiletto wielding pedestrian than say - Vermont. While my chances of dying in a snow related car accident, or a potential moose mauling increased - Death by sneaky stabber was low.

I'd actually forgotten these two fears in the last two years or so. Having gone to New York and Detroit and not being stabbed, nor shot to death in my bed seemed to allay the twin fears.

"Oh Look", said Dawns irrational stabbing fear, "I can walk in a crowded street, or get on a subway and not meet my doom at the hands of some unfeeling sociopath."

"I know!", responded Dawns irrational shotgun while sleeping fear, " We've slept in these scary cities and no one has shot us in the head while we sleep!"

I feel successful. I have showed the fears that they have no power here.

"Psssst", whispers Dawns fear of dying in a fiery high altitude plane crash, "I'm still here."

I roll my eyes at it. "Fuck off", I say.

Too bad "Hermit" isn't still a viable career

Tuesday, December 26, 2006

My family isn't....well, you wouldn't ever find us on a postcard of "How to host the perfect large get together". In fact, we barely seem to be able to sustain the "small get together" for more than 2 or 3 hours.

It isn't like we're hermits (although it has occasionally crossed my mind) or ritually sacrifice "outsiders" to appease our angry gods. We just are...loners. No, that has too much of a potential serial killer ring to it. Misanthropic? Fans of Alone time? Actually, while watching Capote this weekend, it struck me - We should have been the alcoholic, jaded literati of the 1950's. Those people are OUR people, or at the very least MY people. My guess is that I would have been a closeted homosexual man, for the extra angst value.

When I met and married Terrance, one of the things I had to get my mind around was his Family. They love to be together. They travel together. They visit each other all the time. They all talk, several times a week. Coming from the family who m-a-y-b-e got together for dinner for a "graduation" or "wedding", this was foreign to me.

The first several years I skulked about on the edges of his family, wondering why the hell these people could spend hours together and no one got cut or strangled. They also weren't drinking heavily. I would dart out of the room, like a cornered possum, looking for an escape route. My instinct to scream "STOP TALKING TO ME!" and hide under the bed with a bottle of red wine had to be stifled. The first vacation that Terrance told me that we were traveling with his family had me in near histrionics. THE WHOLE THING? ALL THE TIME? I had to be "on" for the whole time? Fuck. Me.

Of course, to Terrance the odd disconnectedness of my family seemed somehow Un-American and certainly Not Black. My looks of horror when he would suggest that we visit my family for extended lengths of time were interpreted as something he needed to fix.

And while he has never fully accomplished his goal to get My family to Act like HIS family, I laughed this Christmas morning as he called each of his siblings, put them on Speakerphone and we had a round robin conversation - Aunts, nieces, nephews, friends et al joining when they could. And I participated. Sincerely. Willingly.

Not bad for 16 years of work.

Dear Santa....

Sunday, December 24, 2006

Please save my daughter from her impending ass beating.

Right now, she is flailing and kicking her feet, much in the same manner she did at the age of 2. Apparently, I am not doing exactly what she wants, and therefore she WRONGLY assumes that by behaving like a juvenile monkey that I will capitulate.

This morning, she climbed on my back at 7 in the morning. Of course on SCHOOL DAYS I can barely move her booty from bed at 8 a.m.. However, on weekends, she can wake at the crack of Me and pester me mercilessly.

Later on, when her father told her that she couldn't dictate what he made for lunch she stomped back into the living room and announced "I wish he had never come into our Lives!" When I adroitly pointed out that had he NOT come into my life....the point of her life would be moot.

Her response? "I still don't care."

Oh, and did I mention the whining? Yes, normally I expect some whining. In fact, lack of whining might indicate a demonic possession or her impending death due to avian flu - however, she has really cranked it up a notch the past two days. She has added tears. A continual fountain of tears. I could sell her as a party fountain if she could cry "Andre Cold Duck". The lip quivering, eyes moistening, nose twitching that foretells the arrival of the tears makes me want to rip my hair out and scream "Enough already - I GET IT." Puberty is going to be a real test of my ability to mother any living creature, as I already have an almost nine year old Emo queen. But I digress.

So....Santa. We may have to leave you some whiskey tonight. At least what ever is left from the bottle after Terrance and I get done with it. I'm pretty sure there will be some kind of cookie, but that isn't my department, so I can't guarantee anything. The whiskey? Is my department - It will be good.

Oh, and thanks for letting her still believe in you, wholeheartedly. She has resisted the proclamations of her classmates who have told her that you aren't real, that it is her parents. She steadfastly told them that they were wrong and their disbelief earned them coal. I strongly suspect this is the last year we can keep her belief so strong, her total innocence intact. For that, I thank you.

Just see us through the next 24 hours, N'K? I appreciate all the help I can get.

Baleful Regards,
Dawn

Still Numero Uno for all the internet's Shank/Shiv Info

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

Its time, once again, for a peek into the minds of the populace - particularly how they end up here at Baleful. And, as always, it ain't pretty.

How to make a shank or How to make a shiv

These search terms remain strong. Who knew that by using these two words in the context of any post would drive any hood rat with the need for home made stabbing utensils here to my humble blog? However, and I stress this AGAIN. I am a white woman who grew up in Vermont. I have never been to prison. I have at no time shanked anyone with a shiv (unless you count Izzy and that bitch had it coming. How dare she be so tall and pretty.) I know that the pictures from BlogHer of Nancy, Tammy, Julie and I throwing gang signs are easy to mistake as some authentic prison be-yotches. I know the tat's on our arms look damn good, but they are rub on Mommyblogger tat's. Actually, now that I think about it...we could be a gang....Drive by's? Fuck that. We've gestated.

Best Meth Recipe on the Net or What a Meth User is doing searchers

Is it that easy to get a meth recipe? And who writes that their recipe for meth is the "best"? That is rather full of oneself, is it not? And frankly, potential meth cooks, I am not a fan of what you have done to my beloved Sudafed. I am a perpetual stuffy nose haver and your actions have caused the companies to use a suck ass formula which does NOT help my stuffy proboscis. I rather resent having to produce a blood, urine and stool sample to get some god damn Sudafed.

care for my husband in a diaper he has a fetish

Now, the hits I get for "shoe fetish" or "pointy shoe fetish"...I understand. But this one? I say either get comfortable or start moving towards divorce. But then again, what do I know?

Decorated Labia Pics

Decorated with WHAT? Piercings? Jewels? Jimmies?

Can a nurse teach me to massage husbands prostate

Sadly, I could help with this one, although I am not a nurse. My best advice, lube up and get in there. You'll find it. He'll let you know, I promise.

Is love real during a manic episode

Well, given my limited experience...I would say kind of. I think you can fall in love at any time. I think that love is an intense emotion. Having a manic episode intensifies everything times 76. But I don't think a manic episode makes you think you are in love if you aren't already.

How can I see into my future life

I suggest a Magic 8 ball.

best picture of holy crib made in 2005

Aside from my "disguise" as a naughty Mennonite, I have to say that I couldn't tell you what a Holy crib may be. Like as in MTV cribz? Or as in "Place to lay baby Jesus"? And honestly, aren't we talking "manger" here? The "crib" was akin to a feeding trough, if I interpreted the idea correctly. Seems a hard to screw up design. Hay, wood, wool blanket.

Sex talk video ( I get this one ALOT) and Sex screamer

No...and No. It is impossible to have a child who doesn't sleep in the house and be a screamer. Terrance is already jumpy enough without the added screaming from me.

All variations of Brazilian wax photos , how to prep from Brazilian , does Brazilian hurt

No, I am not posting photos. Take ibuprofen and Yes, but only the first time. Second time was a breeze. I'm not kidding. Piece of cake. Yellow cake.

and finally "I hate playmobil"

You, random visitor, have no soul. Why not just search for "ways to suck all the joy from childhood" or "I plan on telling every small child I meet that Santa isn't real"
Do rainbows and unicorns offend you as well? A pox upon you and your playmobil hating self.

Edited at 10:21 pm to add: HEY Person who googled "Can you drink GermX to get drunk"

The answer is NO. Do not drink Germx. Geesh - just go buy some Pabst, I think it may cost the same. Or some Thunderbird.

I have seen my future, and it involves petty theft

Sunday, December 17, 2006

I recently realized that my march into "elderly woman who steals the packets of sweetener from restaurants" has begun in earnest.

It started with the move to Canada. The first time I ordered a coffee and said "Two Splenda"...I was rebutted with "We only have Sugar Twin."

Oh?. All right. Why not. It comes in a yellow package LIKE Splenda. Until I had to scrape it off of my tongue with a knife. UGH. That shit is nasty.

So, I did what any woman would do. I began carrying a little plastic baggie of Splenda in my purse. Cause - you know - I want my coffee, my elixir of life, my ichor ,to be perfect.

The next step into my descent came with my realization that the guy at school was charging me a buck fifty for a REGULAR tea bag. And Hot water. Dude. Seriously? It's a Red Rose tea bag. You're gonna charge me a buck fifty? I could buy 150 of those for a buck fifty.

I added a baggie of tea bags into the purse.

Now, Splenda is expensive here, much more so than the states, which is why it is most likely not available on every counter, everywhere. BUT, when we went to Burlington last week, there it was - sitting on the table in the restaurants, and the coffee houses. So I did what every "future crotchety old woman" would do.

I re-filled my plastic baggie of Splenda. I was like a veritable Splenda Squirrel, hording packets for the "lean winter months".

But honestly, it wasn't until the day I pulled out the baggie in front of a new acquaintance that I recognized the path I was treading. As her eyes scanned down to the beaten plastic bag of stolen Splenda packets, I felt as if I needed to justify why I had a bag of sweetener and tea bags in my purse. I might as well have been wearing the aluminum hat to deflect the "brain rays" being beamed into my head and talking about my hatred for the industrial complex ala Teddy K.

Soon, I will become the crazy lady you hope to get trapped in the elevator with - cause I will have the contents of the five course meal secreted about my person, along with a propane stove and the means to re-route the electrical system ala McGuyver.

But only if I like you - otherwise I have no compunction about eating you "Alive" style. I'll have the propane stove after all.


And thank you all for all your love and support - I'm feeling better. In fact, look. Can you see the spark coming back?

Lost in Translation Part Deux

Saturday, December 09, 2006

I've talked a little about my "issues" with depression on this blog.

Wait a second as I laugh hysterically at the understatement of that last sentance.

I've been dealing with a whole new avenue of depression in the past few months - a side street of the crazy, if you will.

I seem to have had a real manic episode. As in manic depressive. As in bi-polar.

Of course, being away from my long time therapist hasn't helped. Moving to a new country hasn't helped. Settling Emily, Terrance and I into a new home, a new city and new schools hasn't helped. Feeling lost and misplaced and adrift hasn't helped. Being unemployed REALLY hasn't helped.

When it was happening, I knew something was wrong. I think that was some of what the accupunture was helping to regulate, and when I stopped the accupunture in August, the spiral down started fast.

However, as I have learned first hand, when you are in a manic space, it is a wierd and almost magical experience. On one hand, I knew that I wasn't myself - but I couldn't tell you what was wrong, exactly. It wasn't depression, cause I know what that feels like. But it had some attributes of depression. I was sleeping more, often mid day for hours at a time. I found that I couldn't concentrate on school work, or blogging - or anything that required emotional processing and spent hours playing solitaire on my computer. But other things - ones I am not ready to talk about here - I pursued with single minded intensity. Fixated. 150% of my attention. And while I was not dangerous to others, I was in a very very self destructive space for me.

When the new therapist mentioned it the first time, I got angry. Very, Very angry. I was not crazy. Bi-polar is for the real crazy, not just crazy lite.

However, as the mania subsided, and I started to return to myself, I am able to view the episode with more objectivity. Two weeks ago, my therapist mentioned how much more centered and in control I seemed. Yes. I know. I'm on the other side of the wave. She asked me to consider a medication change. Maybe I needed a mood stabilizer. Lithium. Depakote.

So I saw the psychiatrist who prescribes for me in Canada ( long story - my therapist can't prescribe, unlike my therapist in the states who managed my meds as well. Argh!) He listened and suggested the medications. As a preventative.

And I asked alot of questions. About side effects. About the possibility that this was an isolated event brought on by the overwhelming amount of stress and life changes I experienced over the past several months. About how long the medication would take to kick in if I were to wait and not take it until I was in another episode - if ever. About the odds of my having another episode ( which are, of course elevated since I have had one).

And so, I have been thinking about it. Lots. And I have decided to wait. The side effects of both medications are signifigant. There is no sure bet that I will have another, and I am loathe to take such powerful medications - in addition to the anti-depressants I already take - on the off chance I will expereince another manic episode. I am certainly NOT anti-medication, Shit, I could have invented the "Better living through Pharmacueticals" phrase - but this is a time when I think I need to wait and see.

I was never dangerous to others in the epidsode (which lasted almost two and a half months) - and I retained a voice of caution in my head, albeit a muffled and ignored one. I was aware that I was not "right" within myself - I just couldn't name what was happening.

And Honestly - I think I have had mild manic episodes before, but ones that I managed and turned into creativity ( may I point to completing quilts in a weekend? or my need to have all the embroidery floss in numerical order?) Feel free to bitch me out for the justification, but it's one of the traits I love about myself - The single minded focus I can bring to something and accomplish amazing results. My creativity, my fast mind and quick wit. My ability to process vast amounts of information. I am beginning to think it is related to possibly being bi-polar. And the thought that I would take something like lithium which would change that within me? I can't bear it. I've fought so hard to learn to like ME that changing me seems a betrayal.

Sigh.

And so I understand another piece of the puzzle that is me. Just as I thought I had seen and carefully placed every piece, the frame falls out and the pieces jumble up again. And I sort out the edge pieces to start to make the outline again.

Love you all.

Lovewhipped

Monday, December 04, 2006

You know those weekends? The ones where you have a TON of things you should be doing, but instead of doing those things ( Oh, I don't know, like writing all of your big, important final papers), you ditch it all and run off with your friends to your former home and then proceed to drink and dance, vomit and then get asked to "leave" the establishment?

Not that I know anything about that last bit. Nope. Nothing at all. Nada. Zippo.

So up until the moment when you jumped the alcohol shark, you had been taking pictures. Because you weren't ready to dance yet. Then, at some point, the god of wine bitch slapped you and you became really, really intoxicated.

And I am not a gusher, but this band is so kick ass good it is sinful. And the fact that they played a kick ass set for 5 drunken friends and a handful of vaguely unworthy others only further attests to their status. Oh, and may I add that the unworthies didn't even get up and DANCE. WTF?

May I introduce you to Lovewhip?

Lovewhip? May I introduce you to my friends?





This last picture? The last one on my camera before I got too intoxicated to continue. Hypothetically, that is. Erin is the lead singer and I know how old she is, but I was sworn to secrecy.

So here are the people I was with - my girls. The Bad ass cohort.

This is Lisa. She's fast and wily.
This is Leah. It is her fault that I ever even started a blog in the first place. Blame her, for everything.
This is Pilar. The dimples, My GOD, the dimples.
And this is Denise. I have agreed to allow her to maintain Lemony Snickett like anonimity. But do you love the way she has pimped my shirt?

And where is Dawn, you wonder?

Aw.....Here I am. Wearing my new Lovewhip Shirt.

Warning... Graphic sex talk included...and a video!

Saturday, November 18, 2006

Terrance downloaded a free movie from iTunes called "Dealbreaker"

I must admit, that I was dubious at first, being in a somewhat shit-tae mood. However, he first warmed me up with two episodes of "30 Rock" (which may be the funniest fucking thing I have ever seen since Seinfeld). I was ready.

So he showed me the film. And I laughed. Hard. Snorted, in fact. Rolled about on the bed. I may have wept at one point from my hysteria.

And then I began telling him tales from the past of Dawn's dating. Oddly, and I know you all will find this hard to believe, but I hadn't before shared much about prior guys I dated with Terrance. I was not the most active gal in the dorm, but I wasn't a prude either. I had a time period between "serious relationships" in which I happily investigated the benefits of being a young woman in college. (Plus I was taking the advice of a certain 27 year old man with a failed marriage that I just needed to be more communicative with my Husband - to just TELL him...)

So, yes. I told him of the one who insisted on wearing socks during sex and how much that skived me out. I mean SOCKS! during SEX!

The one who made disconcerting noises during his final act. I'm all for the sounds of sex, but I worried I was going to have to resuscitate him. He sounded as if he was having an event, and it sounded medical in nature.

The one who's penis was so small that I understood the old joke about "Is it in?", or the one who smacked my ass at the Wrong time, or the one who so clearly knew nothing about female anatomy and I had to endure the worst oral sex of my life, for far too long, but I felt badly because you know - he seemed so enthusiastic.

Of course, I included the ones who never made it as far as my bed because they had said something incredibly Bad during the prelude phase. You know, the insulters, the assholes, the pompous. The ones who say things like the guy in the Youtube video below? The ones you wonder about how they will ever attract a mate and then fear that they will and then these two people will reproduce! ARGH! You know, the ones who during their "opening" conversation give you in detail their opinions of fellatio and how they need to have it, and have the woman swallow in order to have a truly fulfilling sexual experience?

What do you say to that? "Congratulations!"??

Or the one with whom I was kind of fooling around in college who simultaneously called me a Whore and a liar when he insinuated that I did this kind of "thing" all the time with men. He couldn't understand why I got up and left. Not funny.



So, come on friends...I need a giggle as I finish up one take home exam from Satans asshole and begin one of two research papers which may be situated in his left and right ball sacks.

I know there are only 4 of you left since I have taken to posting every fortnight and haven't been spotted on your blogs since Labor Day, but tell me your stories....

Now in Sound-o-vision!

Thursday, November 16, 2006

I have reached yet another milestone in "olditude".

When they use songs in commericals that you have a personal attachment to?
And you wander around for days thinking "Who tell hell really sang that song? I can remember all of the lyrics" and then one day, in the shower you realize

Tears for Fears. You corporate fuckers have taken "Mad World" from Tears for Fears and made it into a video game commerical.



I mean, I really like this version too...but hey, don't pillage my youth.



What's next? Fergie ripping off JJ Fads Supersonic, nearly word for word?



Oh, apparently yes.

Random Quote of the Day

Saturday, November 11, 2006

Me: "Yeah, so We'll be having thanksgiving, you know, American Thanksgiving, and everyone else around us will be just going on like normal!"

"It'll be like you're Jewish and celebrating Christmas!"

Me: "I think you mean Hanukkah. Jews celebrate Hanukkah."

"Yeah, whatever. You know what I mean."

Domestic Dawn

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Courtesy of Denise.....

Something you will see after taking several hits of acid, a couple of bowls of good Thai and drinking profusely....

Look hard, cause you ain't gonna see this in real life, folks.



(This was at least 2 years ago, during my graduate cohort. See how friendly and helpful I look?)

Baby Brother

Monday, November 06, 2006

I've written a bit about my brother Donnie. You know, my co-designer of the game "Coma"?

Ok, newbies. I now give you several minutes to piece this bit of high hilarity together. Yep. His name is Donnie. And my name is Dawn. Will it surprise you further to know that our mother and father are Donna and Donald, respectively?

Collect yourselves. Is it any wonder that two children with name origins such as these ended up with the odd and warped humor that produced the game coma? I mean, I view it as a pure defense mechanism. If you are already mocking the sad heathens who inhibit most of society, how can their derision at your matching names affect you?

My brother is 4 years younger than I. I honestly recall the day they brought him home from the hospital. He was a bundle of scrunched up fists and hair. He had a scream that could wake the dead. They set me on a chair and set him on my lap. I have no doubt I was wholly unimpressed.

Donnie was a fairly easy going kid. I do remember when he was of crawling age that he stashed away several marbles in his cheeks and proceeded to choke quite spectacularly in the middle of the living room. As my mother had him upside down and banging the shit out of his back, I remember the blue tinge to his face and the marbles rolling out of his mouth onto the floor. He also tended to taunt death by running into the ocean, sans life preserver, running into traffic and occasionally falling out of the truck when my mom would take left hand turns. Oh and that scary month when he was 2ish and had spinal meningitis.

Donnie slept with his butt up in the air. He did this until he was probably five. You would walk into his room and find him, Legs tucked under his belly, butt up in the air. Because of this, he almost always wore footie pajamas. My mother gave up trying to keep him covered. He had a "wa-wa" - a blue silk edged blanket that he loved. I bet it is still in the attic at my moms house, along with my "banky".

Donnie, it should not surprise any of you, didn't do alot of talking. As the brother of a bossy, verbal older sister, he rarely needed to talk. I talked for him. It wasn't as if he Couldn't talk. he could. But why expend the energy when I was perfectly willing to convey his needs to everyone?

Donnie was motion. He ran, he jumped, he rode his big wheel. He later played lacrosse and I loved to watch him on the field, all six plus feet of him in full motion.

Of course, at a certain point, our lives diverged. Being older, I was mostly annoyed by this person who infringed on my television choices and my proprietary right for all attention as eldest child. I knew that to ask Donnie for a "sip" or a "taste" of something would drive him Nuts. He didn't want your germs on his food. I also knew that if he was on the couch, I could wiggle my toes under him until he got disgusted and left, allowing me to spread out. I would run into his bedroom in the middle of the night because his snoring was so damn loud and poke him until he stopped.

I went to college...he went to college. He moved away from home, I moved back home. I moved away, got married. He moved to Boston and started a career after several years on the ski/summer resort cooking circuit.

We email, and there is no one on this earth who can make me laugh like he does. With simply a few words.

This is the email I got today:

"Look outside, is it getting dark? Do you see a swarm of locusts coming? Perhaps the 4 horseman descending upon you? Is it the apocalypse right around the corner?

No, but I did get engaged this weekend.

Perhaps there is a chance for peace in the Middle East after all."



Can't you tell we sprung from the same source?


I love you Donnie, and wish your betrothed all the love and patience and sense of humor she will need to swim in our gene pool. If needed, she and Terrance can commiserate while you and I throw old hip hop references and other inside jokes around to our hearts content.

Phoenix

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Hi everyone.

I'm Ok. And more than a little embarrassed about losing my shit back there on Sunday. I even thought about taking the post down so that I could pretend it never happened, but that is not me.

I had a hard session on Monday. One of those you feel the need to nap after - nap for days?

One of the difficulties right now is sorting out what are stress reactions - very high stress, like almost non-paralleled in my life stress - and what could be symptoms of bi-polar.

So like lots of things, we have to wait and see. Watch. Assess. Monitor. Confer.

And we know how well I do with waiting. Not.

What these experiences have driven home for me is my absolute need to have support systems. I do not do well when I am fluttering in the wind. I must be grounded in some way.

I also must be working. I am a mother who does not do well as a stay at home mom. I always suspected as much after my 12 weeks of maternity leave with Emily, but never tested my theory. I can tell you for sure now. Part of my ability to cope with life and the world is tied up in the work I do. While my work does not define me, it does provide a space outside my other roles in which to shine. I am a mother who is better for working.

Oddly, Terrance resisted this notion. I think he likes having me home. I think that for the first time in our marriage, he is comforted by my presence. Of course, he doesn't like when I flip out and accuse him of forcing me to move to Canada so that I would have to stay married to him, and dependant on him for everything, that this was part of his nefarious plot to cut my legs from under me and leave me with no options...

It is in this way that he understands my need - my insistence - for autonomy.

So...slowly...I am unfolding here. Starting to look for positions that will fit my needs ( maybe as a TA?), slowly making friends with a few of the other adult students, starting to chat and have coffee (or real Chai, as the case may be) with a few of the school moms.

However, almost like the pine cones that need a forest fire to ready them to seed, what you saw on Sunday night was my wildfire. Burning me up so I could start to sprout again.

And I say without reservation that I love you all. You are part of my support system and I feel so fortunate to simply know that you are all there.

Lost in Translation

Sunday, October 29, 2006

You know, I do feel badly about my lack of...productivity lately.

I seem to be able to sum up enough energy for one post a week, and while I try to get around to visit you all, I am woefully sucky at that right now. When you do see me, I show up for 25 minutes, read a two week chunk of your blog and then disappear into the ether again.

I have a visit scheduled with Ruth again tomorrow and she has begun to broach a topic with me that I am loathe to get into with her.

In fact, so loathe, I have avoided all of her "suggestions" for this past week, including getting her the number and fax for Sandy so she can get my records from the past five years. Now, does that sound like me?

No, no. Don't answer that. It does, when I am avoiding something I don't want to deal with (much like homework - RIGHT NOW!)

Since I have come to terms with being a person who lives with depression - not as a one time occurance, but as a fact of my life, to be managed and monitered, I have never seen my self as a person with an illness. If anything, my mental illness was so mild, no negligible, as to be practically inconsequential. I mean, I wasn't a hard core mentally ill person. Not a paranoid schizonphrenic, like my uncle. Not a bi-polar, like my biological father. Nope. Just a run of the mill crazy person. Mental Illness Light.

When that first therapist mentioned that he wondered if I could be bi-polar, I was so offended I wanted to punch him in the face. Dude. I know what I have. I am all fun crazy, not crazy crazy. I know crazy crazy, and I am no where NEAR that level.

And then Ruth mentioned it....and I got still. You know the old saying "When you meet more than one asshole in a day, maybe it's you who are the asshole"...
Staring at her across her office, she began to ask me questions about my patterns in activity. My depressions. What follows after. What leads up to it. What are my energy and sleeping patterns.

At first, I insisted that I KNOW my signs of depression. And the feeling that I was having, the slightly numb feeling was like depression, but wasn't depression. Because I KNOW my signs. Then, she started down the list.

My sleeping for hours during the day.

Well, all right - but that doesn't mean anything. I'm just tired cause I haven't been sleeping at night. What? Do I normally have problems sleeping at night. No, Never...unless I am in a depression.

Craving carbs/sugar?

Nope. I can assure you that I am not craving sugar. Before I used to sneak to the store before I drove home and buy chocolate croissants or doughnuts and eat them in teh car. I was almost complusive about it - then would stop to throw away the bag so Terrance wouldn't know. Now - No. No sugar cravings...unless you count the hits of maple syrup I have been sneaking from the cupboard. A lot of maple syrup. I guess that IS sugar. Pure.

But I am telling you Ruth - This isn't depression. I know what it feels like. This isn't it.

Do I get impulsive?

Well....maybe a little. Shopping? Even when I know we don't have the money? Not so much right now, but yes - in the past that was a real problem. (See my confession regarding the $600 Hannah Andersson DAY). And are some of the behaviors I am currently exhibiting showing some impulsivity? Maybe. Well, I guess so.

Do I have an uncommonly hard time if my routinue is disturbed?

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHHAAAAAA.
Next Question.

Do I have bursts of energy in which I produce an amazing amount of work?

Yes. Why, yes I do. In fact, all of the internet has commented on my productivity. The quilts. The rugs. The writing. The PhD. The,well, everything.

Did I know that children of bi-polars are more likely to develop this?

Wait. Are you suggesting, Ruth, that I may be hard core crazy? Holy fucking shit. Did you just mention lithium? Are you suggesting that my depression may not be depression or as I like to think of it "Mental illness light"? You know, the normal crazy. Are you suggesting that I am moving into the cul de sac of the big boys of crazy? Cause you, Ruth, are full of shit. And I will not tolerate this implication that I am not regular depressive. I will not think that I may be manic-depressive. And while I am prefectly happy to eat a combination of Prozac and Wellbutrin , and any other anti-depressant you want to throw down my gullet, I am not taking anti-psychotics. Mood Stablizer, my ass. I don't want to talk about this. I don't want you to talk with Sandy about this. I don't want to talk to the Psychiatrist in charge of my medications about this.

THIS IS NOT POSSIBLE.

and then I go home. I read the literature on bi-polar. I start to see patterns in my behaviors. My life time behaviors. I don't want to tell Terrance, cause how is it fair that he gets stuck with the shitty wife and mother who ends up being certifiably crazy? How much can the man be expected to cope with in a spouse? When do I become too damaged? Have I passed that point?

And Emily? Good fucking god.

And I'm sorry. I'm just sorry. Sorry to Emily for not being a regular mom. Sorry to Terrance for not being a regular wife. Sorry to you all for not being witty and funny and all the things I want to be for you. I'm sorry for my restlessness and my dis-satisfaction with a very good life. I'm sorry for maybe being crazier than I wanted to admit, and being afraid to think about it. I should be braver. I should be able to just deal with these things and let them slide off of me. I am the truth speaker. I am the brave one. But not now. And I hate it. I hate feeling this way and I hate that it sounds like I am looking for sympathy. Because I am not.

I'm just a little lost right now. And I wanted you to know.

One of these things is not like the other

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

I think I need to really clean off my bedside table.

Last night, I grabbed my lip balm. If there is one thing in the world which can drive me crazy (aside from being licked needlessly by my child, or questioned about my "washing of the chicken" by my spouse) is Dry Lips.

Every night, I apply my lip balm right before I go to sleep. The result? Smooth, unchapped lips.

So, last night, I was finishing my "wash face, brush teeth, use toner, smooth cream on face...check feet to see if Shea butter must be applied" - You know, the night routine.

I reached for my little pot of lip balm and applied.

Truth be told, I was also sniping at Terrance who was being a twit, and I was upset at missing the last few minutes of Deadwood, and was taking umbrage at the tone my husband was using...

Finger in lip balm....and apply.

Lay down on my palace of pillows to watch Daily Show. Begin to think that this lip balm does not taste right. Start to lick lips and ponder the taste. It ain't good. In fact, it is awful. Wrinkle nose, sit up in bed.

Look at bedside table....come to horrible realization that what you just liberally applied to lips is NOT lip balm. Grab sheet and begin to vigorously rub stuff off lips. Ignore husband who begins to call you a "nasty mother fucker" for doing this thing to the sheet ( which his anal retentive ass will be changing, cause you have grossed him out).


Exhibit A ( lip balm) Exhibit B ( non lip balm product)


Jump up and run to bathroom to begin washing lips off with cloth.

When lips stop pulsing, return to bedroom.

Disgusted Husband stares at me and asks the question:

"What the hell is wrong with you?"



Yep. I had applied "Double Strength Bump Stopper" to my lips.

This is, sadly, not the first time I have mis-applied a product to my skin.

Exhibit C (Product for Face) Exhibit D ( Product Dawn applied after coming home a little drunk from her meeting with Fancypants)



And what was Exhibit D?



Yep. Time to clean off the bed side table.....

I go to Rio

Tuesday, October 17, 2006

I had a completely new experience yesterday. Well, kind of completely new, in so much as I added an external participant in my previously "solo" endeavor.

I think that I have demonstrated that I am not a shy woman. What with my continuous and inadvertent breast flashing to half of New Hampshire, one would think that I would be perfectly comfortable and willing to do just about anything.

So I figured. What the hell. It was time to move to the professionals. Even with my Yoga, I was not able to contort into the positions it would require to do a bang up job.

I booked the Brazilian.

I mentally prepared for the Brazilian, much as I mentally prepare for the Pap Smear. Come on, I know you all do it. Are my legs shaved? Lotioned? Toes painted. God forbid we let our hoo-ha doctor see us with ashy legs and chipped toenails...not while they are eye to eye with our holy of holies ( Ha-Ha! a Pun!)

I took my ibuprofen prior to, as indicated by all the web sites on which I researched this procedure. This was to help with swelling and discomfort.I also gave myself a trim. I mean, yes, this was a professional, but there is no need to go in looking like I let everything go to hell.

I arrive and enter the spa. I maintain my air of casual aloofness. As if I expose my nether regions to strangers on a daily basis. That this is "no big deal".I announce to the thin, gorgeous receptionist that I am here for my "Brazilian". You know, me and the Brazilian? Old friends. Best Buddies.

I was escorted to the tastefully decorated waiting area, where I lounged on a chaise. I maintained my air of casual nonchalance. Why, I bet EVERYONE in this place has Brazilians!

The "Wax Professional" arrives. And speaks to me in French.

Fuck. Fuck, Fuckity, Fuck. I immediately tense up. I mumble, "Bon Jour, Hello" - which is my way of alerting all French speakers that I am not one of them. She smiles. She changes to English, heavily accented, but English.

Ok, remain calm. Be Cool. You can do this, Dawn.

I am escorted to a lovely room. And then the charade falls, the gig is up, the canary begins to sing. I am revealed as a Brazilian impostor. She asks "Have you had a Brazilian before?"

"Um, well no, well yes, I mean I have never had one done professionally, I've done them myself...but not very well, which is why I decided to just suck it up and have it done professionally, so I guess , kind of."

I stop myself. Hey-zeus, I am rambling. Her smile does not falter. She begins to explain the different versions of the Brazilian. The demi, the full, the front, the back. Do I want everything off? Do I want a strip left, a patch, a smiley face? Do I want the hair to remain on the lips, or all hair off the lips? I may have gone a little wild eyed at this juncture. Did she just ask me about my lips? Are we discussing my .....labia?

I smile.."Let's just do everything." Cause I can not discuss the benefits of hair on or off my "lips". I just can't. Not to mention that I am pretty sure I just agreed to bare my ass for internal waxing. But, I'm in it now. We might as well just go for the gusto.

Now. Here is where is gets REALLY funny.

She tells me to take off my skirt, but to leave my thong on. In my panic, I mishear her and assume that she wants me to take my underwear OFF and lay on the table. I mean, I don't want to seem prudish.

So I do it. I take everything off and lay down on the table. Midsection on, exposed. Trying to look as if I do this all the time.

And she sees me. In direct violation of her first order to keep my underwear ON, I am laying there panty free. She hesitates. She struggles for the question.
"You did not have any underwear on?"

I begin to ramble, apologizing at the same time. I thought you said..I didn't understand, I am SO SORRY. She hands me a paper thong, which I now most ungraciously try to wriggle my ass into, while still remaining in the prone "on the table" position.

I grow silent. I am the worst Brazilian wax client EVER. They are going to be talking about me in the "Spa break room" for ages: "And I told her to leave her underwear On, and when I came back she was laying there with her underwear OFF!"

The good news? My social shame had now made me forget what was about to happen next. I didn't even remember to tense up. For the waxing had begun.

It feels like what you expect. I had done this at home many times, so the sensation was not shocking. In fact, it was easier to take when you aren't doing it yourself - kind of like having someone else take out a splinter.

Until we got to the aforementioned "Lips". Wow. That was a unique pain. As I am not a "yeller", I merely got very wide eyed and took a very deep breath in. She was talking me through it, and was being quite soothing, but still! Ouch!

And here is my second tidbit of advice. In your "pre-wax" prep, Don't trim any hairs too short. For you will be rewarded for your effort by individual tweezing of these hairs which are not picked up by the wax. Each and Every One. And it will feel like an eternity.

By the time we got around to flipping over for the ass section of the waxing, I was filled with endorphins and way past caring. This chick had just spent 35 minutes staring, with a large powerful light, and Tweezers at my Mons Venus. My ass was not going to phase her in the least.

"Voila!", she announced. And we were done.

I got dressed, and exited the room. She met me at reception where I resisted the impulse to Hug her. I felt as if we had just been through battle, together. Instead, I shook her hand, and left her a hell of a good tip. And booked my next one.

It's all fun and games until....

Saturday, October 14, 2006

Ok, I admit it. I am in full fledged, gut wrenching, sleep inducing (at the wrong times), brain paralyzing, inability to form coherent sentences - let alone write a lit review and proposal that is due on MONDAY, panic.

'Member when I was all "happy" about being here and living my foot loose and fancy free life style? Well, fuck that.

I. Am. Screwed.

I am in lock down mode. My brain has frozen up. I can't do anything except play video games or Solitaire on the computer. I have taken to online chat like a duck to water. Seriously, I never used any kind of messenger thing before - now I'm like a freaking junkie. Terrance catches me as I am hunched over the screen like Gollem, protecting my pressssshussssss, rationalizing that it must be "cheaper" to chat with Leah and Jessica this way, right?

I banished myself to campus on Wednesday. What did I do? Looked up a Colbert shirt I plan on buying myself at some point...

Hey Feral/HBM/Bobita, when the hell does this phase pass? When can you think again? I mean, discussion in class? I fucking ACE that shit. I am all about drawing parallels and introducing extra theorists into the mix for the hell of it. I can draw in literary references and cross critical theory into pop culture. I can use the word hegemony now, in context. I can look disparagingly at the sad Masters students who know so very little of life and our profession. What do you mean, you have never heard of the study regarding newborn infants smell preferences? HAHAHAHA! Peon!

And then, I go home and freeze up. I shuffle about. I do laundry. I make sure Emily's school shirts are super white! I do dishes.

Let me repeat that for emphasis. I fucking do the fucking dishes. I have been seen scrubbing the fucking, cocksucking tub. It's as if I have become Bizarro Dawn. Next I will start baking shit ( seeing as I now already "volunteer" at Em's school library on Friday).

Internet friends. Help. I fear if I start the drinking, I may loosen up so much as to be confined to the tub* for the next several days. Or perhaps I will be persuaded that those ultra tight blue jeans (ala Jordache 1979) are a good idea and purchase several pair. And then wear them with Ugg boots. And Very big Jackie O sunglasses.

OK. Off to see what I can clean in order to not write this proposal. I think Emilys socks need sorting by size and textile.

(* reference to the fact that when dawn gets a special kind of drunk, she usually falls asleep in the shower, right Tb's?)

P.S. Lachine is an area of the city near to where we live. The Lachine canals. It is a lovely spot with bike paths for miles.

Lachine

Tuesday, October 10, 2006









Pay tribute to my Feet, oh Husband!

Saturday, October 07, 2006

Behold!

My First new pair of shoes since moving to Montreal!

Given to me by my husband, for he is tired of seeing me hobble about, toes wrapped in multicolored bandages! Lo, though my toes hurt mightily, I could not break down and wear non-cute shoes, for it went against every fiber of my being.

These shoes represent the compromise. Cute, and rather sassy, but not heels.

I approve. Terrance hates them.




Next, the search for the non-dorky backpack....

and gratuitous cat shots for the still unofficially named cat ( but who seems to be called "Jazzy" by my daughter)

October 5th

Thursday, October 05, 2006

I slept in until 11:30 a.m. today. I also did this on Monday.

Terrance woke me this morning with:

"Are you OK? I know one of the first signs of depression is not wanting to get out of bed."

This made me smile at him. The man who had no idea that I was depressed when I was at my lowest, hiding under desks and generally acting psychotic, has now attuned himself with my sleeping and eating patterns. He can now verbalize a concern.

"No", I tell him, "just recovering my sleep debt from the last couple of weeks. I wasn't really asleep, just listening to you talk to your clients."

This is an activity that gives me odd pleasure. Listening to my husband do his job, with clients over the phone. Today he is on the phone with a group in the Louisiana Delta, hit hard by Katrina. His confidence and guidance radiate through his words. He is not impatient as he guides them through the mazes of federal grants and funding, often asking them the same question over and over until he gets the answer that will fit the funding proposal. He also throws laundry in the dryer, feeds the cat, and folds clothes as he talks.

It is not a side of my husband that I ever saw prior to being at home. Our work lives were so completely separate as to seem foreign to each other. I left at 7 in the morning. I returned at 6 at night. Both exhausted, we rarely talked about anything of substance before wrangling the daughter into bed and both sinking into silence.

The move to Montreal, my forced unemployment, have changed many things about my life and my marriage. I mourn my loss of financial Independence and "professional identity". However, I am spending more time with my husband - uninterrupted, child free time. Both of us simply existing in the same space, at the same time.

This is unearthing a part of my marriage that I had not known existed, or had forgotten in the turmoil of life before. It is tender and quiet.

"Do you want some coffee?I made some for you", Terrance asks as he leans down to kiss me. "Happy 10th anniversary, sweetie."

After ten years of marriage and 16 years of being together, he still surprises me.

Happy Anniversary, My Love.

Truly Baleful Regards

Saturday, September 30, 2006




I am stealing this from a variety of folks who have used it...Elizabeth, Feral...

But as I am in a suck ass (oh yes, a double shot of donkey ass for me, thanks!) way, I would like to address the various and sundry things that have conspired to piss me off this week.

1. Upstairs Neighbors

Now, if he shared the ganga, I may be kinder, but DUDE what the fuck is up with your kid who runs around wearing some kind of metal implement on his feet until 11 p.m. at night and then gets up to start it over at 7 a.m.? SERIOUSLY. I want to wring the little fuckers neck EVERY MORNING! And the Furniture moving at 11:30 p.m.?? And the fighting! and the flat wierd stare the wife gives me everytime I try to talk to her... I mean, granted, I am a little odd myself, but if I am smiling and maintaining eye contact with you and trying to establish "rapport" about how hard it is to be a working mom, may I suggest a smile and attempt at conversation rather than an odd explanation of nothing related? For real.

2. My Husband

For leaving me on Monday night until 6:00 P.M. tonight while he went to New York. and slept alone, and ate alone and generally complained about how tired, and sick...and sick and tired he was. Ahem. Fuck you and your silent hotel room. You can tell me how much you love me a billion times and I could give a rats ass. I know you want to have sex tonight, cause you always want to when you've traveled ( like some strange primal mating ritual in which he scent marks me) but HELL, NO. Unless you kill the kid upstairs.

3. My daughter

For being a wicked bad ass during the time her father was away. And touching me constantly. And shrieking and pretending she was "singing" , but wasn't. For licking and kissing me when I clearly don't want to be touched. For stomping her foot and bursting into dramatic sobs this afternoon when I warned her that I was going to KILL her if she didn't knock this shit off. For talking non-fucking-stop for five days and asking for DESSERT from the moment she wakes until the moment she is forced to fall asleep. For waking me up at 6 a.m. to tell me she isn't having "breakfast",but "just a snack of 2 apple bars, cause you're going to get up amd make me eggs... right Mama?" For taunting and poking at the cat until she is scratched, and wanting me to be empathetic. Hell to the Nizz-o, honey.

4. The 23 year old women in my class


Because they have never worked a real job...for pay, with real children or families, nor has a one of them squeezed anything out of their cootch larger than a used condom, I salute you, Oh masters of all things to do with Children and Families. Your insight into parenting and children is a wonder to behold. Last week when one of you raised your hand and asked "How come they do all these experiments with animals and then say that they same thing happens in babies brains? I mean, babies are People, not animals!"

and you respond "Cause we're not allowed to test this stuff on human babies - it wouldn't be ethical" - but do it louder than you intended and make the professor laugh? I fight the urge to seriously bitch slap each and everyone of these girls - every day.

4. 12 oz coffee cup
s

Is there a fear that MORE coffee might make me Happy? Is there an impending coffee shortage of which I haven't been notified? A paper cup embargo? Who ONLY drinks these tiny cups of coffee?

5. Textbook Publishers


You can all suck my bunghole for making me buy a little book for $75.00. You people think you're clever, dontcha?

6. Suckass Therapists

Even though I found one Thursday who I like. The test? I tell her really awful shit and see if her expression changes. This one didn't even bat an eyelash. Me Likey Ruth. The other two remain on notice.

7. My Hormones


I think I am pre-period...But DAMN. I alternate between wanting to shove my face in a vat of lard frosting and kick puppies as I walk down the street. Mean...you know....Cheney Mean?

There is a martini calling me. Go in peace, bitches.

Conservation

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

So now, in this stage, I have reached the "Conservation of movement" stage of my re-immersion into school.

I seek ways to blend work into other classes. Can I do the same project for more than one class? Yes? Maybe? Please?

The nice thing about being an adult in school is that I am happy to re-use old things. Thanks God no one here saw any of My Wheelock presentations, cause they are making a strong ass comeback at McGill.

Oh...and Terrance is gone to New York for the week. I'm still not sleeping, I interviewed one therapist this week (meh), and have another on Thursday. Oddly, the therapists all seem a little surprised that I am interviewing THEM. They look surprised! I suppose after 17 years, I have a good idea what I need. I'm not exactly hung up on my Mommy issues...usually.

I hope in the next week to catch up with you all. I know You know that it isn't for lack of love that I have been missing in the Blogosphere....My pleasure has had to take the back seat to the reading, and writing, and reading. I'm happy to report that this weeks readings actually made sense. My new favorite word to say? Hegemony!

P.S. Did I mention that I am writing this in my "Cognitive Development" class? Conservation!

Where in the Hell is Dawn???

Friday, September 22, 2006

I suppose that's what you may be thinking..Did she trip over the gnomes and knock herself unconcious while drinking cheap wine?

While that is, in many ways, an excellent guess ( and one I may attempt late on tonight) the sad truth is

Homework.

I'm swamped.

Take a look:







And this ain't exactly light reading. The stuff that gives me the most trouble? Curriculum Ideologies! The IRONY!

If I have to read the word pedagogy one more time, I might actually die. Of Hypothetico-deductive or Phenomonological. Then I have to write papers on this - critical analysis. With intelligent questions. The best one I have come up with is "What the fuck is this talking about?"

ACK.

Now, I am a smart, smart woman. But this stuff puts me to sleep. I now remember why I napped so much in college, it was the fucking, cocksucking reading.



Help me.

I clearly missed my language era...

Monday, September 18, 2006

Why the fuck didn't anyone tell me how awesome Deadwood is/was?

Cocksuckers.

Jardin Botanique de Montreal

Sunday, September 17, 2006

We spent yesterday at the Botanical Gardens. Poor Emily...dragged to these things by her over-educated parents for some quality family time...

I think my depression is creeping back up. I have a new appointment with a NEW therapist next week. I cried through the intake session with the therapist who makes sure that you are crazy enough to accept. I passed. But, the numb feeling is returning. That not quite inside your body feeling, but there enough to be irritated with everything. AND my sleeping has been off, so that doesn't help my mood.

I decided to add the Wellbutrin back into the mix. I also told the people at the therapists office that I was taking an extra Prozac everyday to stave off the encroaching depression. And now trying with the Wellbutrin to stabilize this before it jumps off into something bigger.

So All I got for you is pictures from the Botanical.










Aftermath

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Hi everyone.

We're fine. I am sure many, if not all of you have heard about the shooting in Montreal at Dawson College.

I was actually leaving downtown Montreal on the 12:15 train to where I live, and was most likely rolling past the college as the gunman began shooting. I never knew anything until later in the day when I was getting ready to drive back to McGill for my last class of the day. That is when I drove back into the middle of it.

Montreal is a large city, but nonetheless. As with any city, colleges can be a mere block away from each other. McGill - where I attend - is in the heart of downtown on the corners of Sherbrooke and McGill. A couple of blocks down is Ste. Catherine.

As you leave the city heading west on Sherbrooke, you will come across Dawson and Concordia, in very close proximity to each other and blocks away from McGill. There is a Metro station right next to the college. In fact, it is the train stop before mine. I rode in that morning with many students Going to Dawson.

I said in my class last night that as an American, I fear that I am a bit ...numb. While the people here in Montreal are genuinely shocked and appalled, I felt like it was just something that happens. Maybe this comes from living in an American society that comes to expect violence...I don't know.

But the fall out for this will take Montreal some time to sort through. This is not a society that Expects violence.

I don't have a tidy ending for this. It is just sad. Sad in the way that all violence is sad. Sad that someone feels so disconected that he decides to inflict this kind of terror and death on others. Sad that a girl who just went to college that morning is never coming home to her family. Sad that many others are in the hospital, same critically wounded because a a seemingly random choice by someone. Sad that this society now is forced to look at their institutions through a lens of "Security".

All I can leave you with is this:

Next - My underwear on Ebay! (not)

Monday, September 11, 2006

All right. This is a shameless post. I am going to admit right up front that I feel all wierd about posting this...but I am succumbing to pressure from the "Man"...or should I say the "Mom"...Club Mom.

See, they give us these little "Contests" to make us work for the duckets. I rarely participate, cause I am all anti-establishment like that. Usually, I roll my eyes and rationalize how I will not try to compete with my other clubmom'ers. Seriously. Have you seen these women? I am SO not trying to get into it with them. Plus, I LIKE them. I don't want to Beat them at things. This is why I hated school. The bizarre competition. Give me something I have a chance in, like drinking martini's, or doing yoga while intoxicated, or saying uncouth things in public venues. I ACE that shit. ACE IT!

But, the shameful thing is...that when I see my little gimlet at almost the bottom of the list of the clubmom blogs that are getting hits and subscribers...It pisses me off. I do good stuff on that blog. I stick mostly with mothering things, but still. Good stuff.

So. Would you consider going over to ClubMom and signing up for a subscription to Gimlet? You can delete it when it comes, I won't be offended...but GAH, I hate being at the bottom. Especially when I can't dress in black and smoke clove cigarettes and mock the others in an existential way.

Now I need to go shower and wash the consumerism from my body. Maybe I'll get to flash some workmen. That should put the universe to rights again.

Delicious Beef Balls!!!

Saturday, September 09, 2006

On a Cold and Rainy Day, one feels called to eat a giant bowl of Vietnamese Soup at the aptly name "Soup and Noodles"




No, I could not finish it. Yes, It was delicious. Cilantro, fennel, garlic and ginger in the broth...and noodles.

And here is the quilt that I have almost finished. Cause I have homework to avoid now. So what better time to finish a massive quilt? Begone "Cognitive development Past, Present ad Future". You can not hold me down. You can not breaka my stride.

Seriously. This thing is so big that it is laughable. I have since put two of the three borders and it is growing unmanageable. I fear trying to put the backing on it.

This is the sister quilt to the original one I finished early last year. These are the left over squares - 2056 in the main body to be exact. So yeah. It is easy to see that I am quite motivated by work avoidance ( witness the birth of TWC!). If only I could harness this power for good.



 
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