Fare thee well, flightless friend

Last Sunday morning, after a night of heavy drinking and little sleep - so worthless there was no veritas which I could type in vino-ed - I was hanging out with a friend of mine when my foggy brain realized that, in his aviator sunglasses, he looked like Steve ... Austin. No. Steve Tyler. Not it either. Steve ... city in Texas; he's a Bloom County character ... Steve Dallas! Compare, here. As he likes the work of Berkeley Breathed, I believe he took the comparison as a compliment. I meant it as a complimentary observation, at least. Then I remembered, "Holy shit. We only have one week until Opus leaves the pages of the comic section, forever." I need to take the little bird out. I need to show him some love. I need to get caught up!

That week has passed, and Opus departed today.



When Breathed announced he'd return to comics, he struck a deal that Opus would be a half-page, front page, one-week only strip. Honey and I were thrilled. Who else but Breathed deserved such an honor? Like Postsecret, it became a Sunday ritual for me. What did Opus have to offer this Sunday morning? This week, I read the preceding four strips only, but I don't feel caught up at all. I had fallen behind in the last year or so. During that time, our paper moved it from the front page of the funnies to the second, then later the third page. Bastards. Also somewhere during that time, my thesis and performing and my job became all-consuming and taking an hour on Sunday to read through the paper became a luxury I didn't afford myself as often as I should have. I needed sleep. Or a drink. Or a Tylenol PM with a benadryl chaser and post-it note reminder to spend 5 minutes with my dear, suffering husband and dog.

Bloom County is the first comic I remember following. (Not that I'm a big comic follower.) It was such a fun world for me. The first time I remember noticing it was when my dad received a copy of Loose Tails for his 40th birthday, from a friend. A wheelchair-bound man bedecked with nerdy kids and wierdo animals? Something about the wheelchair attracted me. Was this about a guy in a wheelchair? What a wonderful country we live in, where one who can't walk can be the hero! And all the little critters and kids riding on him: it's like when my brother and cousins and I used to take turns riding on the back of my cousin S's chair! Awesome!

As I dug into it, it seemed to be less about Cutter John alone, as it was all the awkward misfits who inhabited Bloom County. It was smart and dorky. Kinda like I was when I was 10. Some days I was Milo, principled and precocious, others I was Binkley, clueless and a vegetable resemblant. Incidentally, when I learned that New Orleans' newspaper was called the Times-Picayune, I had a hard time believing that they didn't swipe the name from Bloom County's rag. As a teenager, I decided I should grow up to be Lola Granola; I'm wearing overalls as I type this, ready to garden a bit this afternoon, so maybe that's the connection anymore. I learned what a vegan was from Bloom County. After the aliens swapped Steve Dallas' brain, he ditched Republicanism, got a perm, gave up smoking and eschewed ingesting any animal products. And yes, even though I've been a Democrat since I was a kiddo, I loved Steve, as well. How can you not love a character so sexistly clueless - or cluelessly sexist? He was kind of the antithesis of Cutter John: strapping and healthy, selfish and a defendant of the status quo.

I loved how Bloom County celebrated our hopes and fears, our flaws and fantasies, our accomplishments and mistakes. It's the fault of cockroaches that Bush the elder chose Dan Quayle - I laminated that one, as it was from the last strip received at the doorstep of my native home before our big move downstate; a souvenir. Don't we all need a field of dandelions to escape to to ponder the meaning of life? And of course, there was Opus to love the most. I think I like him - and identify with him - because he's always a little out of place, but wide-eyed, receptive and hopeful. He, like me, suffers from foot-in-mouth disease ("Hare Krishnas = Hairy Fishnuts"). He's both a progressive and a traditionalist. He's a romantic at heart, but also a thinker - for real, he is. And he's got a penchant for silly hats. I don't have that penchant, but I have a deep admiration for it. In recent years, I've assumed that if I ever got a tattoo, it would probably be of Opus; maybe of him looking chastened. Of course, I'm not so sure that pudgy, perplexed penguin anywhere on my body would entice my husband's amourous fingertips to continue their tradition of tracing my curves. (That's for you, VirginiaGal ... you can open your eyes, now, or clean up the puke on your chin, depending on your reaction.)

Now he's gone to live in his fantasy. Even with being so far behind in reading the latest strip as to feel estranged, I can't help but feel loss. My pudgy penguin friend won't be there anymore to greet me on Sundays. My Steve-Dallas-doppelganger pal doesn't think this is the last from Breathed. He's sure he'll pull a Michael Jordan in a couple of years and resurrect something from Bloom County to run for a few years again. I'm not as convinced. Though, I'd be thrilled if he did. Certainly, I'll have the books to keep me company (note to self: ask for entire collection for Christmas?), he'll no longer be part of my Sunday. Who'll fill that gap? Boondocks? Our paper hasn't run that strip in about 2 years. Bastards. Doonesbury? Too overtly political - excellent, but I prefer foibled accessibility. Foxtrot? Puh-leeze. Maybe Pearls Before Swine or Non Sequitir. Apparently, Berkeley Breathed is going to focus on writing childrens' books. I guess if/when Honey and I have kids, I can use those as a starter drug to lure the bairn into the church of Bloom County. Our favorite Homer Simpson quote is, "Raising kids is easy. You teach them to hate the things you hate, and what with the internet and all, they practically raise themselves." I don't hate much, but I do hope I can inculcate them to appreciate the pen of Berke Breathed.

3BT: Early "Voting," Soundtrack, Complacent Canine

In the spirit of Clare; some things that I noticed yesterday:

1. On a mid-day trip to 7-11, I caught a cardboard merchandise stand near the door. "Cast Your Vote '08," it pitches. I can choose to buy non-campaign endorsed keychains, buttons, bumperstickers and the like for either Obama or McCain. As you can see from the photo on the right, Obama's merchandise was all sold out. McCain's merchandise still had plenty to offer. It re-affirms my hope that we'll have a sincere change of leadership next week.

2. On my walk to 7-11, I plugged into my iPod to find I'd left it not on shuffle, as per usual, but on the Amelie soundtrack. I walked deliberately slowly down the blocks from my office to the store so that I could soak up the music. The capricious cold breezes and cool grey sky were completely opposed to the warm, semi-nostalgic light that bathes virtually every scene in that movie. Nonetheless, when the music began, I felt suddenly awakened to the world around me ... a little like the title heroine.

3. Babydog had to have a bath last night. Apparently on her walk yesterday, she decided to roll around in a pile of some other dog's poop, and our dog-walker discovered what enticed her too late. She managed to wipe off and gently clean the bulk of it, but Babydog still had some smudged in her fur, and she stunk. She hates being bathed and will wriggle away as much as possible. But last night, she dutifully stood in the bathtub as I focused the shower sprayer on her. With soaked fur looking like feathers, she looks up at me as if to say, "Is this what you want? Fine. See if I care. It was worth it!"

Pup-cake

Sonnjea, over at Koji's Kitchen, always ends her posts with WMML, or "what made me laugh." Often, it's some antic that her dog Koji did during the day. Last night, we had a moment that made me think I should add a WMML tagline to my posts.

We have lots of reasons to eat cake in our house. Mine and Honey's birthdays and wedding anniversary, as well as Memorial Day and 4th of July all fall within roughly a 10 - week period. Plus, cake is a good thing and sometimes you just need cake*. We had cake last night and we indulged ourselves with a second helping late in the evening as we settled in to watch a movie in the den. Babydog, who often licks our plates clean if she's been good, was treated to Honey's leftovers. I took my time with the second piece. An entire second piece was just too much for me, so I scraped about half the icing to the edge of my plate, ate a bit of the cake and ate the other half of the icing. Babydog watched this all eagerly. I put her on a down-stay and then released her. She eagerly lapped up as much of the icing as she could and ate some of the cake. I took the plate away from her, so she wouldn't overdo it, and left her smiling.

Then, we watched something we'd never seen in our dog. Babydog had a sugar-high. She was grinning from pointy ear to pointy ear, panting. Her eyes were wide. She trotted over to Honey, sitting in his recliner, then over to me on the sofa. She'd jump up on the sofa with me and pace the length and come and pant and smile in my face. Then she'd jump off and then on again. Several times, she jumped up and climbed over the pillows to peer over the back of the sofa, like a kid who climbs monkey bars. She'd look over the edge and smile at us widely then jump off the way she came. Then she'd jump back up to peer over the back of the sofa again, pondering whether she could jump from a place so high - akin to a 10 or 12-foot jump to you and me, I suppose. She never did it. But she was so smiley and fidgety that Honey and I had to stop the movie to laugh at her. I half expected her to start saying, "you know what? you know what? you know what? you know what? I can curl my tongue." Or even better, " you know what? you know what? you know what? I can count to 200 by 5s; wanna hear?" I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd have climbed to the arm of the sofa and started belly flopping into the middle of the cushions or if she'd have started playing "the floor is lava."

That is what made me laugh.

*Cake is a large part of the reason we are married to begin with.

**note: The image above is not, in fact, Babydog. I just grabbed a picture off the "series of tubes" of a corgi eating cake. I accidentally left my camera at a friend's house during 4th of July festivities, so I didn't get to capture Babydog's mania. My friend promised I should receive my camera again, soon, with a few jokey pictures included. The last time I entrusted her with my camera, I found she'd taken a snapshot of hers and another mutual friend's cleavage.

Making me smile this morning

... that after what felt like an interminable 5 days of cold and rain and overcast and dreariness, the sun, that life-giving, bright and glorious and dynamic face of God has slipped the surly barrier of clouds to touch the face of Earth.

... seeing old grade school photos of my husband that my mother in law left him. In fifth grade he looks uncannily like the little boy from Love Actually, so innocent. By sixth grade, he's wearing a Coca Cola rugby shirt with the collar popped and his hair in a pre-Zach Morris spike, preening to be the heart-throb of his class. Adorable to "awesome." Awesome to the max.

... the cat, after several (blissful) years of ignoring us as we sleep, has decided he needs to start sleeping with us again. It doesn't hurt that since the weather has warmed up, the dog has opted for the floor. Apparently we're prime seasonal slumbering real estate.

Lost Teca?

Saw this poster outside my office window the other day at work and thought immediately of Sonnjea's friend's dog. Yipes! As I'm pretty sure Teca is on the West Coast and here I am on the East, this certainly is not the same doggy. However, I can't help but worry a little about them both. Luckily, this one has been found by responsible people, it seems. Poor baby. I hope his/her mommy or daddy finds the pup, soon.

Chicken or the Egg

After having burned Sonnjea with a picture of another cat whom she thought was mine, I figured I should make amends. To the right is a picture of CootyCat, strutting his stuff on our bed. Isn't he sexy?

This week was crazy hectic. I had to help get a proposal out the door at work which kept me there till 8:30 on Tuesday and 9:30 on Wednesday. I had a rehearsal on Wednesday which I was sorely in need of and looking forward to, and I missed it. Not to mention school in all this. Thursday and Friday are a blur.

For the last few weeks - maybe even the last couple of months - I've been feeling insignificant in my own life. It's a scourge that swells and remits in my heart from time to time and in the last 10 days or so, it's been particularly hard to ignore. Several times this week I've been on the verge of tears for no reason and have had to swallow them. That's not common for me. Yesterday morning, after a good work-out walk with my fitness group, I visited my therapist. I hadn't seen her for several months - I only go if there are issues I'm having problems resolving - and I thought, "it's not good to feel insignificant in one's own life; let's go get some help." She agreed. As this really is something that has been plaguing me on some level for the last several years particularly, we're going to keep meeting regularly until I iron out.

In the meantime, I've been trying to figure out exactly why I feel so insignificant and replaceable in my own life. My parents did an excellent job in making me feel worthy, valued, safe and loved. Certainly there were episodes with peers which made me feel devalued - that's the evil of adolescence - but my safety net at home was strong enough to carry me through to adulthood unscathed and able to live past those moments. I have never felt anything other than love and admiration from Honey. So this feeling is not from my most significant and intimate relationships.

Aside from the highly probable prospect that this is just some inherent malady that I'm going to have to treat on occasion for the rest of my life (like emotional plantars fasciaitis or something) is that this feeling of insignificance is social and/or professional in nature. And that I'm 30. Apparently, women are most likely to enter therapy for the first time around age 30 because that's the age when society has the most pressure on them (marry? kids? career? etc). Shortly after getting married, trauma touched our household which left me feeling completely incapable of affecting the world around me, among other things. A few years later, I was laid off from a job that I didn't like but didn't want to be laid off from. On top of that, we live in a metro area almost entirely populated by high achievers. And everyone is very convinced of their own opinions.

It's beginning to get me down that I have peers who are much further ahead in their respective careers than I am. I know I'm not alone in just schlepping through, but still leaves me wondering what I have to offer that at age 30, after 7 years in the workforce, I'm still at entry level admin positions.

As far as the opinonatedness: I too have always been an opinionated person, but since my youth, I've made concerted efforts to be more open to other peoples' opinions or at least the experiences that have shaped them. I don't claim to be 100% open to 100% of all viewpoints - it's certainly a struggle for anyone, and probably not necessary - but since youth, I think my sympathy for others' points of view has grown. However in the last few years, I feel that when I offer a differing POV or an argument or explanation for another POV (which even I may disagree with) in discussion with others, people just knock it. And it's rare that others actually argue against the POV, it's just an instant dismissal. Seriously? There's nothing you can learn from an experience that is not yours or that does not agree with your viewpoint? So, I've learned to be more quiet in discussions where I may want to offer an alternate POV; my viewpoint is insignificant and if it does not agree with the prevailing view of the discussion, then any "devil's advocacy" I may want to introduce is insignificant as well. ... of course, my worst fear is that I behave this way to others. I'm sure I do: as much as I try to refrain from the knee-jerk dismissal, which we are all prey to that I complain about, I'm convinced I fail more often than not at restraining it. I'm so un-self-concious.

Whew. Maybe I've had a "breakthrough." Then the question remains: how do I assert my own significance to myself? I'll have to save that for later.

As for now, I vowed I'd trek to campus and cloister myself in the library until I'd written some good stuff this afternoon.

Live long and prosper!

They ARE after you. HAPPY BIRTHDAY! ... and what we remember.

I found this article on MSNBC.com about a guy in Australia who was being mauled by a great white shark from the top down. The diver pried himself off enough to poke the jurassic beast in the eye, right as he was coming down for a second munch on the noggin. Kudos to the diver! He is a fracking bad motherfucker! God bless the Aussies!

I really like this picture to the left here, by the way. It's just cool. To learn more about how predatory fish want to find you at home while you're watching Wheel of Fortune or doing Sudoku and kill you and eat you with a side of dijonnaise, please click here.

Before I go any further, I also want to extend the warmest, fuzziest and most loving of greetings to VirginiaGal, on this the eve of her 30th birthday. (Since I'm pretty sure she'll read this on the 24th, maybe I should dispense with formality and just call it her birthday.)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, VIRGINIA GAL!!

... as Honey says, being 3o is orgasmic! all. the. time. I wish you many, many arousing days from here on out! (see how she blushes!) Seriously: Blessings to you on this milestone. May you have scores more! ... and if on this day that those who love you want to celebrate you, you post about being 30 and single, and not the good fortune to have made it this far, I will go cry in my milk.

Moving on!

I grew up in west Texas. Anyone who's read more than two posts (or who reads and knows me off-line) has probably picked up on that. My experience on the East Coast has been that people tend to think Texans are illiterate morons. (Pardon the exaggeration of their perception of us. What can I say, we're prone to hyperbole.) And frankly the current dipshit in chief does everything to perpetuate and affirm that ugly stereotype. I always find it amusing that Texas gets totally dissed for anything it doesn't do in a progressive manner, when there are many other states - some not even in the South - which have their own backwardy ways, too. But that's for another post. Nonetheless there are definitely aspects to life in Texas that many of us who no longer live there - and those who still do - are either irritated by or downright pissed off about. The amount of children uninsured for one. But as I was having drinks with friends the other night - two others of whom spent their youth in Texas - I was struck by their memories of public education.

One woman grew up in and graduated high school from Amarillo. The young man lived in a suburb of Houston till he was 15. I spent my entire life pre-18 in the Panhandle then the southwest hunk of the state. Houston to Amarillo is a 12 hour drive on a good day, to where I lived it was 13 or 14 hrs. Amarillo to the desert southwest section is about 8 hours. For Sonnjea in CA or Joe in Vegas, you may know that's not a big deal, but if I have any readers on the East Coast, it indicates that people can have very different experiences all within the same geopolitical unit.

The young man from Houston said he remembered having to get permission slips/waivers signed from his parents before his school could teach him Sex Ed or evolution. My friend from Amarillo said her school would have never even broached either. But I remember the Sex Ed section of health class pretty well - it lasted at least 2 weeks - and while I don't remember a "section" or specific class lesson about evolution, I do remember in biology, we just kind of talked about it like a given. We evolved from apes; we're adapted to this or that, etc. We never had to have waivers for either concept.

I called my brother whose adolescence was split between the middle of nowhere southwest of the state and Houston. He remembers in the small town, all the 8th grade boys were coralled into the auditorium one afternoon and one of the town doctors explained sex. As for Sex Ed in Houston, he recalls a week in health class and no waivers. He remembers nothing of evolution in science class. He remembers nothing of science class. (We're more of a word family. We're happy with the Cs we worked hard for in math.) Additionally, a friend of mine from SwTX, now in Austin, recalled with me the day all the girls in HS were given a sex ed talk from a local nurse, complete with birth control options - and how we thought it grossly unjust the too-fertile boys didn't get the same treatment. Nonetheless, no waivers. But I, unlike her, have memories of people in the town we could go to for BC if we needed/wanted it. She remembers it being not available at all.

I guess I find all this curious for two reasons. Again, as much as popular as it is to lump all Texas experiences into the same basket, the communities really do vary region by region. The second reason is this: how much of memory is accurate?

Of the 5 people referenced (my brother, me, my Amarillo friend, my Houston friend and my small town friend), our time away from high school ranges from 9 to 17 years. I barely remembered anything I was taught in high school, aside from classes I liked. Most of my memories from those days are social. And, how much of our memory is affected by the image we want to retain? Does my friend want to remember no birth control options in our town? Does my other friend want to remember Amarillo as the constrictive-Bible belt city? Do I want to remember taking evolution as a given in high school Biology? I recently discovered that what I understood to be the reason I wasn't specifically taught Greek Mythology in Junior High was inaccurate. I'd picked up somewhere along the way that it was because a religious right-wing parent demanded my school stop teaching it. I learned a decade and a half later that wasn't the case. It was simply that I missed that section because in 7th grade (generally when it's taught in TX), I had moved before my prior school got to it, and after my new school had covered it.

How accurate is memory, then? Especially memory of events that really don't seem to matter that much now? High school biology class? Sex ed? I already knew what evolution was and my parents, though not as much help in the department of the mechanics of sex, were always there to talk with us about the emotional aspects. It seems memory would be far more accurate, or at least impactful, for the moments that mattered: picking a name for my baby brother, when we had to put our dog to sleep, the mean teacher who gave me detention for something that wasn't my fault.

... something I do presume, though, is that in this country that is becoming more and more politicized, waivers may be becoming the norm in many parts of the state. But I wouldn't be surprised if they're becoming the norm in many states, period.

(You all know what a period is, right? I'm presuming you took some form of Sex Ed?)

Fastest. blog. ever.

The next 48 to 96 hours are going to be hectic, but for the most part exciting. As for today? I get a temporary promotion at work (hence the image) which may last through tomorrow. At work they're calling it "filling in" but I'm calling it a temporary promotion because what i'm learning while i'm filling in i can apply to my next job. and hopefully there'll be some eyes watching who are already thinking ahead to whom they want to fill upcoming positions with. Tonight? Another crunch-night adding onto my thesis. This weekend? Babydog's first herding competition. Sleep? Overrated!
Now to put on my shoes and hustle to my assignment!
ps. thanks to some police org in the UK for giving me an image that illustrates my day and uses a model who looks like she could be my sister ... or uncanny cousin.

those which tickled me

1. hearing Babydog yelp with unfiltered joy as she chased the sheep this morning.
2. letting Honey choose the Halloween candy tonight at Target. "But I don't think the children will really like the dark chocolate Hershey's, babe." He smiles, "Exactly!" ... and he talked me into getting Babydog a costume even though he thinks they're stupid, just becuase he knows how much I'd kick myself if i'd've passed it up. yea, Honey!
3. replacing the previous owners' (henceforth to be known as the Dundies) kitchen nook overhead drab light with a prettier warmer one. it's fun: with each minor change, this house becomes more and more ours!

what i like about today

again, borrowing from Clare:

1. spotting a bunny in the garden of my neighbor; the one on the end unit.

2. Damien Rice. his music and finding his videos on YouTube. it never fails to take me to some past life i didn't know i had.

3. popping in on old neighbors on the way home from the library.

Sometimes I'm jealous of apes

... look at this. Seriously, aren't you?

Colbert's ThreatDown Nails it!

Here's one for the "holy shit" files: some bears at a Dutch zoo ate a monkey! Can you imagine the creepiness of behing at that park? What a freaky family outing! Life ain't Disney, kids.

how the children behave

This seems to be the mode of play these days for my dog and cat. These are not my actual pets, but the cat looks alot like my kitty, and though my dog is not nearly that big, it does seem to be her life-dream to pin the kitty down for a good slobbery nibble fest. Their bizarre friendship, which frankly I worry is rife with dominance issues - but anyone who has a herding dog knows there's going to be "type A" personality, bossiness issues - blossoms daily. We suspect in a few months, the cat will be happy enough and secure enough in his relationship with the dog to eventually join us downstairs when we watch TV on the weekends. It'll be good when he does that, too, because then doggie-girl will leave us be and not insist on barking over Jon Stewart's punchlines because she wants us to play tug with her. I'm always amazed at how she knows when it's a critical moment in the story!

In the meantime, I'll be required to have my car with me at work in a few weeks. Until then, I'm trying to find a good public transport route which will allow me to avoid subterranean commuter train traffic. I'm not the person you want to be sitting next to on the subway when it unexpectedly stops in a tunnel, or lurches, or slows. I'm the person who has to hum, breathe deeply and go to her happy place. Or barring that, make instant best friends with whoever is sitting near me. And we all know how socially unacceptable friendly conversation is in a tight space!! However, I think it has to do as much with being stuck in a "crowded-as-hell-on-Nazi-appreciation-day" car during the height of rush hour. Much as I destest car traffic, I'd rather be stuck in my own car where I have at least the illusion of control over my own destiny than smushed with my face in some stranger's armpit in a non-moving train car 100 feet underground. Even a bus in traffic is better. At least then, you can crack a window, and can see outside - so I don't feel so clausterphobic.

Ahh. If only American subway systems were like the one in Hong Kong: seriously clean, cars which were open for people to move freely, constant air flow through the cars, swift moving trains and bilingual announcements which are very clearly ennunciated. (I sometimes wonder how foreign tourists cope with our system of public announcement mumbling.) Even when it was crowded to the gills - and it's Hong Kong, so that's like 75% of the time - you never felt like a sardine! Hong Kong, how I miss you!

At least my "avoid the train" agenda is getting me to walk a lot more. Molly needs to move her buns, these days. Perhaps this'll help burn off left over Christmas fat. Is that Noelle Gras?

Melts my heart like lard on a skillet

My dog is a prodigious chewer. Anything fluffy with a squeaker will be eviscerated within minutes when given to her. Hence, we have given her a fire-hose toy with a squeaker to chew. It has taken her about two weeks to really puncture the ballistic materical. So what's so adorable about all that?

When she has the tubular toy propped up and wedged in her mouth and bites into it, her eyes close and she relishes it. She looks like a wisened old jazz man in a smoky club.

I'm going to be late to my show!

World Peace Begins at Home

The animals in my house may one day truly be friends. Until then, they remain antgonizer and antagonee.

Of course, the antagonizer has no idea she antagonizes. She thinks she and the cats - well, the one cat who will grace her with his presence - are playmates. The highlight of my dog's day, aside from her daily walk, is in the evening after supper. We have headed upstairs to play computer games, check e-mail or post meaningless ramblings intended for my imaginary friend in Shropshire (whaddup, Niamh!), and she races up behind us and tends to her evening activity, cat-watching. Our cats live in our bathroom closet. They chose that spot when we moved in a few years ago, and last year when we got the puppy, they saw no need to ever leave, save for eating and eliminating. So the canine child perches herself in the middle of the open bathroom door and gazes into the linen closet where the cats stare back, anxiously.

One cat learned a few months ago that if he just stays still, the dog provides an essentially free spit bath. They have a routine, now. The braver of the twin cats sits on the closed toilet lid and stares at the dog. The dog-baby stares back for a while until she can no longer stand it, and moves to the toilet and noses the cat into a bizarre ecstasy. Someday our cowardly kit will try his luck, I'm sure. Until then, however, he just watches on in his envy, living in his own dry fur.