Groan

I don't think I'll be getting a Thursday Thirteen up today, friends. I think I pushed it too much yesterday, because I'm sick again today. I did make it in to work, but I was afraid I was going to lose my breakfast toast on the subway. The only reason I didn't turn around and go home was I knew the contractors would have my bathroom disabled until later this evening. At least here I can fall out in the nurse's office, if I must. (Yes, we have a nurse's office at my job. You never know when a stagehand is going to get beaned by a piece of scenery or an elderly patron is going to have a heart attack.)

Where I should be right now.

If I still had my own office with a door I'd be lying on the floor with the lights off right now. But, I must... soldier on... somehow. For the children...

Mmm. Comfy wristwrest makes nice pillow.

Fun With Home Repair

Since I was home sick yesterday, I got to experience first-hand what the contractors are doing in our apartment (and, by sound, what they’re doing to our downstairs neighbours’ apartment, too).

They were supposed to be there at 8:00 am and leave at 5:00 pm with a functioning bathroom (i.e. one in which we could use the toilet and shower) in their wake. They didn’t show until around 10:00, which was fine, as I was working through a fevered sleep and a half-bottle of bismuth at the time, but it was less convenient when I was still begging them to finish up at 6:30, before my colon exploded. There was a tense period where I thought I’d have to decide between getting an assfull of dirt and plaster dust, or trying to clean off the toilet seat and possibly re-plastering the walls with my own special brew, but I made it just in time.

The toilet and shower do work – although I immediately had to clean them, and the plastic sheeting draping them makes attempting to shower feel like being slowly laminated. The walls are… well, let’s just say they’re olde-timey. As in, the slats and horsehair plaster have been exposed, then most of the plaster disintegrated, leaving a frontier bathhouse sort of feel. On inspecting the condition of the plaster (look! It’s got hunks of actual horse hair in it!) and wood, I suspect they haven’t been touched since the building was built, sometime around 1900. Layer after layer of plaster and paint had just been slapped on top of them for the last hundred-odd years. No big surprise considering the shape we’ve found the rest of the place in.

While I don’t think horsehair plaster is as evil compared to sheetrock as this guy does, he’s got a point in that it’s incredibly messy. I doubt the contractors had much trouble removing ours, considering its deterioration, but the dust is pernicious. Even with plastic sheeting everywhere, we were hacking and sneezing all morning, and the cats, once roused from the protective flanks of their Mommy Who Would Defend Them From The Strange, Noisy Men, quickly became coated. That’s the most troubling part to me, so if you hear I’ve become rich after inventing a claw-proof filter mask for pets, you will know the inspiration. As it is, they won’t even stay out of the piles of debris when we try to isolate them. (“What’s this? Some kind of chemical-soaked rag? I must roll in it!”)

At any rate, with a much improved stomach and most of the dust hacked out, getting to work was actually something of a relief this morning, considering I have the detritus of sheetrocking to look forward to tonight.

Until I discovered they are doing construction on the office next to mine.

Technorati tags: rant, stress, plaster, contruction, contractors, cats

Meltdown

My poor sister. I called her and my brother in law late Friday night blubbering and babbling. My job has been even more crazy since they told me they're eliminating my position. I had a good talk with my boss, who said she really appreciated me working so hard rather than blowing things off what with all that's going down, and that she'd be happy to be a reference for me. This after telling her that I wasn't going to apply for the new job (with more work and about the same pay) and that we both know it's time for me to move on. I told her I'd be happy to do my work well and train a new person, but I had one request: please don't let HR screw me over by offering me a job I would hate and then saying I quit because I refused it. I know how they work there to try to avoid paying unemployment. She couldn't make any promises, but she said she'd do her best.

At any rate: crazy busy. There's this huge rush to get the subscriptions for next season on line right away, in less time than we've ever done it before, but with more features and information. I wouldn't be surprised if the rush partially has to do with them knowing I'll be gone soon, one way or another, and trying to do it without me would be a huge pain in the ass. So I'm working extra hours at a place where they've refused my raise and laid me off. Am I too conscientious and ethical, here? I can't help it. Plus, I really could use that reference.

I also haven't been sleeping. All week I'm working, stressing about what might come next, trying to put together my design site, looking for and applying to jobs and, oh yes, trying to get the writing assignment (that I hate) for my new class done. Even my usual night-time meds are having a hard time countering all that agitation. So, I'm up past midnight, up in the wee hours, up before the alarm goes off, with bad dreams inbetween. Fun, eh?

All of which leads me to the call on Friday. I had planned to go down to Maryland for the long weekend and see my sister, bro-in-law and niece and nephew, whom I haven't seen in months. I even cancelled the last visit for similar reasons of stress and not feeling well, but it's getting ridiculous. At this rate, the kids will be driving by the time I see them again, and my sister... well, I don't know, but let's face it: my fear is that they're all going to hate me. I know it's ridiculous, but that's what stress does to me. One minute I'm behind on a project, and the next I'll never get anything done and if I did it'd be terrible and everyone hates me and maybe I should run off into the wilderness and be eaten by feral ferrets (I hear it can happen). Or maybe I need a little less caffeine. You pick.

So, on Friday night it all came to a head and I just couldn't see myself schlepping to Port Authority to catch a bus five hours down there and back (which Mrs. Nator was bitching about the whole time, I might add - neither of us likes long rides like that). I called my sister & her hubby and the next thing you know, I was blubbering incoherently about how stressed I was and how I just couldn't make it down there. They seemed okay about it, but maybe they were just glad they wouldn't have to deal with the drama in person.

Oh, who am I kidding? They hate me now and they're telling their kids that I'm an evil Sith Lord. If I ever see my nephew again, he's going to clout me on the head with his plastic lightsaber.

Along with all that, my poor girlfriend, because I am a mess. She's generally quite understanding - as well she should be, considering she went through the same mess a few years ago - but I know my mood swings are hard on her. Sometimes if I'm being cheery she gets this frozen smile on her face, like "oh God, here's the manic, when's the depressive shoe gonna drop?" Don't think I don't see it, hon.

Ah, yes, and one more thing - we got the message on Saturday that the contractors have decided to start tearing apart our bathroom on Monday from 8am - 5pm every day for the next week or two, which I should be happy about on one level, but on the other hand, there goes my one holiday off for a while, as I'll have to make myself scarce from my own home for most of the day, rather than getting the relaxation or time to work on my job hunt that I need.

Deep breath.

So, in summary, I didn't go down to Maryland, which makes me a terrible person. Oh, and I've decided to quit my writing workshop and hope they'll let me take one at a later time, when I don't have all this unemployment shit hanging over my head. Or, you know, I'm a big quitter who will never amount to anything or even figure out what she really wants to do, because she doesn't have the fortitude to shoulder on, etc. Whatev.

So, my main focus will have to be looking for a job, now. The crappiest part is, I can't imagine finding something I like or want. I am so burnt out now, I feel like I'm getting desperate to find a job with a paycheck immediately, and just assuming it will be just as bad or worse than the one I've had. It may very well be that I have potential in a lot of areas, but since I can't pick one and potential doesn't pay the rent. I feel trapped, even though Mrs. Nator assures me she'd rather I be unemployed for a while or work as a barista or something than be miserable.

But do I know how not to be miserable?

I do feel a little bit better for having opted out of travelling and the workshop. The truth is, I need to concentrate on finding a job now, and the more I focus on that in a less-than-hysterical way, the more likely I am to land something that I might actually like, as well as bringing in some cash. Plus, all this desperation and stress is bound to affect me in job interviews. I'm nervous enough about the whole process as it is. Nobody likes it when the interviewee sobs and clings to them.

So, that's my story, for now. Wish me luck. I hope to be able to work a little on the writing on my own, but as much as I want to be dedicated, I can't use writing as a distraction from getting these other things done, right now. At least those couple sessions at the workshop made me realize that I'm a decent writer. If that's all I can get out of it right now, that's enough.

Unless anyone wants to pay me for blogging? Bueller?

Technorati tags: rant, stress, job, writing, family, neuroses, c'mon and give me a big kiss

Hi, Dad!

So, my sister gave my father my blog address.

From now on, my posts will be all about kitties and angels. Or maybe even about kitty angels. But definitely not about porn.

Unless it's kitty angel porn.

Technorati tags: cats, kitties, angels, porn, behave yourself, young lady

Thursday Thirteen: Possible Sperm Donors

Since Mrs. Nator and I have discussed having kids a few times recently, I thought I'd dedicate this Thursday to thirteen gentlemen who might be acceptable babydaddies for our spawn.

1. Neil deGrasse Tyson. Incredibly brilliant, handsome and funny? Tyson is a leading astrophysicist, the director of the American Museum of Natural History's Hayden Planetarium, a columnist for Natural History Magazine, the author or coauthor of six books and a witty match for Jon Stewart in his guest spots on The Daily Show. This one is a no-brainer. I mean the pick, not him. Ba-dump-bump.
Alternate: Kip Thorne. Sorry, Hawking, ALS might be genetic.

2. Nelson Mandela. 'Nuff said.
Alternate: Muhammad Yunus. Another brilliant Nobel Peace Prize Winner, currently working to end world poverty. What more can you say?

3. David Bowie. If David Bowie is not one of the coolest, most artistically brilliant men on the planet, I don't know who is. Also, he once spoke to me after stepping on my hand. Really!
Alternates: Rufus Wainwright, as long as the spoiled ego doesn't carry through, or Daniel Craig: English. Cool. HOOOOTTTT.

4. Tiki Barber. Anybody who has been reading this blog long enough knows I loves me some Tiki. Not only is he one of the best running backs to play in the NFL, but he's smart, a shining example of old-fashioned sportsmanship in a game that's become filled with conceited prima donnas, and totally H-O-T-T. I'm going to miss seeing him play for the Giants, who he pretty much carried on his back to the playoffs the last couple years, but I think NBC had the right idea in snapping him up for Today. With his instant likability, crisp delivery and that sweet smile, women all over the U.S. are going to be tuning in to NBC in the morning. Trust me, I'm about as lesbian as you can get, and I still squeal "oooh, Tiki!" every time I see him.
Alternate: Tom Brady, who would get his own entry if Mrs. Nator didn't have something against him.

5. Sir David Attenborough. Unparallelled naturalist and journalist, he has raised awareness of environmental issues and made people the world over fall in love with animals.
Alternates: Animal Planet's snake-handling hottie Jeff Corwin, or Fabien Cousteau, grandson of Jacques and People magazine's "Sexiest Man of the Sea", 2002. How do you say grrrr-OW in dolphin?

6. Sir Ian McKellan. A brilliant actor, witty raconteur, activist, sexy and gay as the day is long. Every time Mrs. Nator and I see him we pine to have him as our friend and mentor. What more could you want?
Alternate: Tim Gunn. Squeee!!!

7. Jamie Hyneman. A modern Rennaissance man, Hyneman has done some seriously cool stuff. Build a killer robot for Battle Bots? Check. Run a SCUBA diving business? Check. According to his bio, he's even wrangled animals. His work ethic, organization skills, drive and smarts are all impressive, and he's clearly a sexy gay daddy type, even if he wants to claim he's married to a woman.
Alternate: Christopher Meloni. Just because he's hot. (And how many biographies prominently include the phrase "sociopath bisexual serial killer"?)

8. Michael Fay. No, not the kid who got caned in singapore. This Michael Fay is the ecologist who completed the Megatransect, a 2000 km across Africa, and the MegaFlyover, a 70,000 mile photographical survey of the continent taken from a small plane at low altitude. Not only does this guy love nature, but he's passionate about conserving it. Not to mention it couldn't hurt to carry the genes of a guy fit and determined enough to hike through huge tracts of jungle documenting every tiny detail.
Alternate: Hugo, AKA "Grub", the son of Dame Jane Goodall. Because maybe some of her would carry over.

9. Jon Stewart. Do I really have to explain?
Alternate: Larry Wilmore, partly for being the creator of The Bernie Mac Show, but mostly on the basis of this clip.

10. Dr. Kevin Fitzgerald from Animal Planet's Emergency Vets and E-Vet Interns. A laid-back, veterinary guru, he won my heart by saying that as a vet sometimes you get to save animals, and it's "good karma." He loves everything from pythons to malinois, is exteremly smart and skilled, kind and patient with animals and interns alike, and adventurous. How many veterinarians host their own show, perform stand-up comedy and have toured with George Clinton, The Rolling Stones and Bob Marley?
Alternate: Dr. Kevin Drygas, because he is a bright, up-and-coming veterinary surgeon who's learning from Fitzgerald, and is also clearly the hunk of the show.

11. Prince. Adewale-Akinnuoye Agbaje. Seal. Like Prince, Seal is very musically talented, and even worked with Wendy & Lisa - big points for that in my book. However, he is not as wierd, short, full of himself or Jehovah's Witness-y as Prince is.
Like Adewale Akinnuoye-Agbaje, Seal is British-Nigerian, charismatic, conscientious, spiritual and intense. His father's name was even Adebisi, the name of the character Akinnuoye-Agbaje played on OZ that made us love and fear him. So, best of both worlds, here. The only cons here are are that he may carry a genetic predisposition to the lupus which scarred his face and Heidi Klum might not approve. To which I say: he makes lupus scars look attractive, and Mrs. Nator can take Heidi in a fair fight any day.
Alternate: Taye Diggs. Actually, maybe Seal should be the alternate for Taye...

12. Fareed Zakaria. He may be a bit too centrist for my tastes, but has international relations punditry ever been more yummy? Of course, he'd be off the list if Christine Amanpour were a man.
Alternates: Nicolas Kristof, Lucian Perkins, Keith Olbermann.

13. The Olmos. Because he could act you to actual death, and is a passionate activist.
Alternate: Martin Sheen. He may not have facial scarring like Olmos, but knowing he produced Charlie Sheen bumps him to alternate.

Honourable mention: Ishmael Beah. Because even though I haven't read his book yet, any person who can recover from being an orphaned, forced child soldier on multiple drugs and become a positive, creative human being should have his genes spread around.

Naturally, this list is subject to change. Mostly, it should not be seen as evidence in a sudden interest on my part in actually having a baby soon. But I will give Mrs. Nator the allowance that if she can actually convince one of these men to donate, I will seriously consider it.

Well, the first few, at least.

tags: thursday thirteen, sperm donors, celebrities, heather has two mommies

La-Di-Frickin'-Da, I'm The Queen of The World

So, I read my first story in the writers' workshop, last night. I read first, because I was overcaffeinated and nervous, and just wanted to get it done. I was pleased to get laughs at some laugh lines, but wasn't completely sure how it was being received until the end, when a couple people immediately said "well, shit -- now I don't want to read my story." They really liked it!

Seriously, pretty much all good comments. Even during the break and after class, people came up to me and said how great they thought it was. Cue head swelling, horn fanfare -- now.

But here's the problem. I'm not usually an overly confident person, but when I heard the rest of the writers' pieces? I honestly thought mine was the best in the class. There were maybe three people who had some good, solid writing in their stories, all of which needed some cleaning up in one way or another, but mine was the most developed and complete. Does this make me a giant jackass?

Listen, I don't want to put people down, but a lot of the folks in the workshop really haven't written before, or in a long time. And though they are lovely people who may have some interesting ideas, their craft is, at this point, in the early stages of development. Honestly, it has been rare that I have been in a class or workshop situation where I didn't think a least a few people's stuff was as good as or better than mine, even without accounting for differences in style and taste. So what does this mean? Have I suddenly developed a huge ego, do I just happen to be in a low-level class, or am I really that damn good?

I feel a bit full of myself, but unsettled. I'd like more of a challenge than the exercises we're being given, and I'd like to have more experienced writers to share comments and ideas with. I even looked into whether there's an intermediate level workshop I could transfer into. But, it seems that this particular organization has "mixed" courses for beginners and intermediate writers, and advanced courses for published authors; that's it. So, what do I do?

Well, I suppose I can just work the assignments and get what I can out of them. You can always learn something new, after all. But I feel disappointed, because I now realize that I'm ready to move a bit farther forward than that, perhaps working towards publication of some other pieces I've been noodling with, and the format and level of this workshop just won't allow for that.

Besides, I'm doing all this while working on my portfolio and looking for a job. I'd rather go at writing full force or have my time free for now to work on those other things. Or, you know, get some sleep.

What do you think? Stick with it, or try to engineer something else, maybe by asking the instructor? Would that make her think I'm an ass?

Honestly, it's nice to really feel that I can write. And hey, if I ever get too big for my britches, I can always go read First Nations. Like my writing could ever be that interesting.

P.S.: They made me switch to New Blogger. Everything look alright to you?

Tags: writing, ego, look at me I'm Samuel Clemens

When in Doubt, Say Mean Things About Celebrities

1. I wonder if anyone else who caught the Grammies last night was as horrified as I was by the plastic surgery parade that was the Smokey Robinson/Lionel Richie/Chris Brown segment. Smokey and Lionel had both had enough skin sliced from their faces to have as few wrinkles as 17-year-old Chris Brown. The effect, however, is eerie. Smokey, in particular, has that look of perpetual, wide-eyed surprise that comes from several too many face lifts. Classy.

2. We've been watching Top Design since Top Chef ignominiously ended, and let me tell you, it is no Project Runway. Not only are the judges and attempted catchphrases boring ("goodbye" is not equal to "auf wiedersehen", people), but Todd Oldham comes across as kind of creepy. We can't tell if his stilted delivery is due to an attempt to seem Mr. Rogers-esque nice, or if he actually cannot read and deliver lines properly (we can't imagine that he actually talks like that - does he?). There's one thing for certain though: he looks like the secret love child of Ellen Degeneres and Bob Denver.

3. If Anna Nicole Smith was our generation's Marilyn Monroe, the world can't end soon enough.

Now, back to work...

Tags: Grammies, facelift, shame, Top Design, Todd Oldham, Anna Nicole Smith

They Got Me

You know how your junk mail box gets filled up with spam with strident or bizarre subject lines? Well, this morning, somebody actually had the creativity to make me open one. The subject line: "Godzilla's Advice!!!"  I literally yelped, "what?!" and clicked.

The message? "Size does matter!" and a link.

Touché, evil spam writer, touché.

Sorry

I had a great Thursday Thirteen all outlined, but between work, writing for class and doing stuff for finding a job, it had to go on the back burner.

I'm almost done with a kick-ass Flash movie for my portfolio site, though...

How YOU doin'?

Emotionally Dysfunctional Theatre

In which our heroine pries herself from a fetal position and makes a few cautious taps on her keyboard. Hot buttered Xanax sold in the lobby at intermission...

In other words, I've been a bit of a pill to be around the last few days, kiddies. I held up fairly well to the stress of being "restructured" at work and told to my face by HR that they would never do the kind of dastardly things to me that I know for a fact they have done to several people I know well, including Mrs. Nator. I kept a civil tongue in my head and got things done. I also continued looking through job listings, brushing up on various software and composing cover letters. Then the weekend hit, and I suddenly found myself incapable of little more than rolling over and drooling, or rolling over into my own drool, as the case may have been. The stress had sapped my energy and optimism reserves and it was time for two and a half days of solid wallowing. (I also took Monday off, so as to better savour the complexity of this particular wallow. It was oaky, with harsh tannins, notes of despair and corn chip undertones. Or that might just have been my breath.)

The truth is, what's happening to me is not unusual. It's just the first time it's happening to me. I've known for some time that this job wasn't right for me and I wasn't right for it, but we both seemed necessary to each other. That is, they needed me because I was the only one who knew my way around the company site and how to maintain it, and I needed the money and health insurance. Unfortunately, the more I was thwarted in my attempts to use my creativity to better the site and expand my role, the less I wanted to use my skills at all to help the company, and it showed. My supervisors and I knew that we were only going to get so much out of each other, and resentment built up. What I did was necessary, but I was not important, and they didn't want me thinking I was, lest I realize I deserved better. So why didn't I leave?

I guess I'm an underachiever. I come by it honestly, as I can definitely see when looking at both of my siblings. Something in our minister's-kids' upbringing during the recession of the 1970s made us feel that there was only so far we could get. Both of my siblings are of above-average intelligence, personable and highly skilled, but both have been in jobs for years that they don't particuarly like, and that don't offer them the challenges or rewards they deserve. We had a lot of advantages growing up, but perhaps we were taught to be too cautious or "practical," to refrain from tooting our own horns and expecting too much. As a result, there's a big part of me that believes that I could never have a job that I actually like that would support me. Not only that, but that I don't deserve such a thing or am not good enough for it. From an objective standpoint, I know that I am only exaggerating and holding myself back, but it's hard to shake the feeling that The Powers That Be, whatever they are, don't want me to get too big for my britches and succeed. In other words, as my cantankerous grandmother used to say, "Sweetheart, you can't win for losin'!"

The truth is, I know that I sabotage myself. I know that when I consider a career move, I get overwhelmed by contemplating too many possibilites at once and focussing on the worst of them, trying to inoculate myself against projected failure. I know that when I read a job listing, within a few seconds my eyes will focus on the things that don't look good about it - aspects that may be difficult or skills I don't yet have. Even when I remind myself that I didn't know how to use much of the software I now use when I applied for this job over eight years ago, and that employers are usually looking for someone that they think fits with the company, not just a set of specific tools on a list, it's hard for me to check the visceral fear that wells up. It's that kneejerk emotional reaction that floods my brain with paralyzing chemicals, and the next thing I know I'm sleeping most of the weekend and crying during Diana Ross's last song in The Wiz.*

On top of all this, I've never been terrific with change. Yeah, I know, change is opportunity, blah blah blah. Unfortunately, enough of my formative experiences, from my parents' divorce when I was little to my first live-in lover cheating on my with a good friend, have involved changes that were both forced upon me and unpleasant. I suppose if I were an optimist, I'd be gushing about how the difficult times only made me better, and led me to some of the awesome aspects of my life today: a nice home, a loving family and friends, the best damn girlfriend anyone could have. There are even times in my life when I've been in a good space that I realized all this. But I usally revert to my glass-half-empty ways. This means that, for me, change is not only uncomfortable and uncertain, as it is for many, but perceived as a veritable Harbinger of Doom. In my little world, the cable guy can seem like the four horsemen of the apocalypse, especially if he's mucking with my premium channels.

So what's to be done about it? Well, the first thing is to take one step at a time. I can't get myself my dream job instantly, but I can do a little bit of resarch each day, and I can send out a couple applications every weekday, too. The second is to speak calmly and positively to myself. I have people rooting for me. If I have eight out of ten skills listed in a job listing, that's pretty good. The worst thing prospective emplowers can do is say no to me, and since I don't know the details, I can't even know if I want the job, yet. I also don't have to know I have one grand purpose in life that I must fulfill right away. Who does that? Shut up, Mother Theresa, who asked you?

Maybe it's time to consider that if I am overwhelmed by the range of possibilities in my life, that's a good thing. I am interested in writing, so I'm starting my writing workshop today. That doesn't mean that I must be the next Shakespeare or die. I can also explore other things I find interesting, and while all of them can be included in my future employment, none of them have to be forever. Likewise, I may be limited by certain factors, like what I can afford and how much time I have, but I'm not in a forced labour camp in Siberia being given the options of break rocks or starve (or both). I may not get to live the life of a leisurely gentleman scholar of centuries past, but I have more open to me than the majority of people in the world.

Good things are possible, and I not only need to believe that, but be able to imagine and be open to them. Right after this nap.

 

*Okay, it actually started during Lena Horne's turn as Glinda the Good. As she sung to Dorothy, I found myself whinging "why can't I believe in myself as Lena believes in meeeee?"

I Find This Very Disturbing

There's no way a computer-generated M&M character should look this much like me. Besides the fact that I don't usually wear a corporate logo on my cootch, that is.

At least I got to put myself on a nice beach.

Thanks for the link, Trish.

The Gayest, Geekiest Thing Ever

Are you ready?

It's this.

Want to know something else?

I would actually play that game.

Maybe I am the Gayest, Geekiest Thing Ever.

 

That's it for now, kids. The Lying Liars Who Want To Screw Me Over at work have exhausted me this week. Have a fabulous weekend. And go watch the Superbowl, even if you don't like football. It's got men in tight pants, and Prince! (If that's not redundant.)

The Dangers of Google

It is becoming more and more clear to me that I am not the only one who Googles myself. Some of y'all probably remember the incident wherein I blogged about a Margaret Cho stand-up routine being unfunny, and noted she had mentioned that she was in a lawsuit with her ex-manager. Shortly thereafter, her former manager actually contacted me, wanting to know more about what Margaret said. Not wanting to get caught in some kind of spat/legal proceeding I had nothing to do with, I dropped the matter. Not so with the manager, as I noticed her address showing up in my site meter records now and again for months afterwards. (Of course, she could just like my blog. If so, hi there, Margaret Cho's ex-manager! Can you get me a comedy writing gig? Let's do lunch!)

Now, something a little bit more unsettling has occurred. It seems a certain well-known mentalist/paranormalist/magician who shall go unnamed in this post in case he's still Googling himself, found a post I'd written several months ago that mentioned him, and decided to email me about it. It was a nice email, flattering my blog in the beginning, saying I'd made keen observations on his routine and noting that I'd tried to be objective. Taking a bit of a wounded tone, however, he then mentioned some sources I'd referred to that indicated an organization he is affiliated is a nefarious, pseudo-religious group for the purpose of making its leader rich and powerful. He said that wasn't his experience, and he'd be happy to "dialogue" with me, to better represent himself authentically.

As in the previous case, my first reaction to this was "how did this person find my little corner of self-indulgent chatter?" We all know that Google (and other search engines) and Technorati have made it possible to find thousands of instances of certain words one is seeking. However, the fact that these people are able to find my obscure blog this way is not just impressive ("wow - Google really can find anything") and alarming ("yikes - guess my little rants aren't as under-the-radar and anonymous as I thought") but somewhat telling.

I say telling for two reasons. One, it shows that the folks writing me are actively looking to see what information is drifting about the Intrawebs about themselves. It's something most of us do at one point or another, but one has to be especially circumspect to find a minor outpost of the blogosphere like mine, which proves a certain hyper-vigilance. Two, it is telling because of the search terms they would have to enter to find my posts that referred to them. In the mentalist's case, for example, if you search for his name on Google, my blog doesn't seem to come up - at least for the first ten pages of results I bothered perusing. But, run a search for his name and the word "cult"? It's right there on the first page. Very interesting.

I mean, does someone search for the word "cult" attached to their name because they've been unfairly associated with that word, or do they search for that word with their name because they are affiliated with a cult and that information has been posted before on the Internet? It's a little chicken and egg, but it's a curious quandary, and it brings me to my next reaction to these emails: "why do these people care what I wrote?"

Seriously, both of those posts were throw-away bits in pieces rife with purely subjective opinion on this matter and that - ramblings and rants, if you will. To search for a mention of oneself so thoroughly is one thing, and to take the mention so seriously as to contact the author, however little-known, is another. On the one hand, I can understand the impulse - I'm sure if I found a blog mentioning me I might be tempted to clarify things or say howdy. On the other, I'm not a public figure, so I wouldn't expect to be mentioned, and I imagine if I was a public figure, I'd ignore it or let my PR rep handle it, you know?

I guess my third and final reaction, then, is... just being kind of squicked out. Not only have my toss-away comments been noticed, but these people attempted to communicate about them with me in private. It just seems too personal, somehow. Not to mention, anyone affiliated with a strict religious/spiritual group scares me a bit, anyway, whether it's technically a "cult" or not. When it comes to true believers and my fear of attempted indoctrination, I'm just as wary of priests, imams and rabbis as I am of gurus and "enlightened ones". Hey, organized religion? I'm an equal-opportunity eschewer!

So, yeah. I don't think I'll be answering that email. No offense.

At any rate, all this leads me to one last question I've been pondering, and maybe those of you who regularly visit here can give me your opinions on it. As you know, in the past I worked as an animal communicator, but I don't anymore. My practice and its results were pretty successful, but I gave it up after being overwhelemed with work and stress, plus going through surgery, which seemed to alter my outlook on a lot of things, somehow. Now that I am applying for jobs in more traditional, AKA scientific or hands-on based animal organizations, I've wondered if I should take down my old AC website in case one of my interviewers Googles me, sees it, and thinks I'm a big crank.

The problem here is partially my own ambivalence about my past practice. At this point, I think of myself as neither a strict believer or non-believer in AC. I cannot deny some of the freakishly accurate readings and results I got in my sessions, things I never would imagine. On the other hand, I know that people tend to believe in things mainly because they want to and it's comforting, and I want neither to deceive others nor myself, even unintentionally. I've also been mentally blocked in terms of AC, and whether that is because I'm anxious and unresolved about it or my anxiety is causing the block, I can't say. Another chicken and egg.

My point being, if I thoroughly believed in AC, I probably wouldn't want to "closet myself" by hiding my past, just to get a job. I'd figure that if the interviewer wasn't open to what I'd done, that job wasn't the right one for me. However, if I truly had given up on bellieving in AC, I'd have taken my damn site down, already, and it wouldn't be an issue. Unfortunately, when it comes to animal behaviourists, advocates and researchers, it's very like religion: you believe in Science or you believe in God (or something spiritual beyond science, at least), and there's little room for anything in-between.

So, what do you think? Take down the old site for now, or leave it up? In the past I've been proud of its design and writing, but now I'm not sure. On the other hand, it's a part of who I've been and am, and it's not like I'm going to be able to erase the Village Voice article on my old career that comes up every time I Google myself. If someone wants to find out what I've been up to, they probably will.

I'll be taking votes and comments. In the meantime, I'll also be making a list of who NOT to blog about, lest they take offense track me down. Can someone confirm the spelling of "Kim Jong-il"?

P.S.: No Thursday Thirteen this week, kiddies. I think this is enough.

Take This Job And..

Thanks, y’all, to those who’ve commented on the job mess I’m in. I really appreciate your support!

As for the terms of my transition (to whatever might come next), I'd like to think getting fair treatment was a simple as following the letter of the law and otherwise threatening a lawsuit, but I happen to know the company counsel - I worked across the hall from her for five years and am friends with her assistant - so I know she is wily, heartless, and never loses. (Also? A big, giant closet case who is fooling no one.) Anyway, who has the time and money for a lawsuit? No, my best bet here is to suck it up and behave as nicely as I can to try to get semi-decent terms from the powers that be.

Ay, there’s the rub, too, because it’s not the fact of being “restructured” that bothers me – heck, I’m the one who was asking them to figure out a way to lay me off not a year ago. It’s that they have so much power over me that makes me crazy. I know that it’s for the best that I get out of this job and find a career that makes me happy, but they’ve taken away my opportunity to do it under my own terms. I was looking for a new job without the duress of possible lengthy unemployment hanging over my head, and now I feel just that much more panicked and stressed to find something now, now, NOW – even if it means just accepting what comes along next.

What’s more, I’ve let them get to me again. The announcement put me into a state of shock yesterday, and triggered my low self-esteem and fears that I don’t have enough qualifications to get a job where people are treated like human beings, again. That’s what I’m mad about: not the loss of the job, but the degrading treatment. Now I find myself having to ask them in writing for the terms in writing, while I keep one eye peeled over my shoulder to see if security is coming to my desk to unceremoniously escort me from the building at any time (trust me, that’s par for the course, here).

Oh, and yesterday afternoon, I got to go to the endocrinologist, who had a distinctly Russian bedside manner (i.e. blunt as an boxer and no sense of humour or gentleness) and kept informing me how very fat I am. To her credit, however, she’s the first doctor who’s ever told me straight up that I clearly was born with a crappy metabolism, and although it’s unfair and will be harder for me than it is for most people, I just have to deal with the cards I’ve been dealt with and work harder accordingly. You’d think that would be depressing, but I already knew it, so it’s nice to have it confirmed and addressed, rather than getting some kind of saccharine pep-talk about how I can do it and things will be great in no time. (Saccharine because it’s sweetly false, but also a diet-related pun. See what I did there? Ah, I’m a genius.)

Anyway, I’m feeling a bit better and clearer today. I’m setting up a list of things I have to do, goals, etc., which gives me a better handle on it. Mrs. Nator has been wonderful, reminding me of how it was when the same thing happened to her, and letting me know that she fully expects me to have episodes of anger and crying jags, and it’s okay to do that, even if I also believe this will end up being a good thing.

Also, apparently Qenny has invited us to live with him and his Lovely Husband in New Zealand, so that’s nice. “Alternative families” are always cooler with with non-American accents. ;o)

I swear I’ll blog about something else, soon. Thanks for “listening” and being kind, gang. Kiss, kiss!

Fury

Well, I just got called into my old boss' office. In the hugest coincidence ever, three weeks after I asked for a raise, they have decided to "restructure" my job. This means that they are creating a new job - essentially my job with a few other things thrown in - and eliminating mine. Surprise!

I am told that I am "welcome" to apply for the new job, but that it probably won't pay as much as what I was already dissatisfied with for my present position. Well, draw a line down my forehead and call me Fanny. If I don't apply for it, I'm out of here sometime in February.

I suppose I should be happy, since I've been trying to engineer my way out of here for some time, and have started looking for something else. My outrage, however, stems from the duplicitous, eeeeviiil way they do things around here. What's more, now I have to dick around with the lying liars who lie in HR, to find out if I don't apply for the new position if they will try to say I quit and deny me severance or jeopardize my unemployment pay. So, where I realize that, overall, this is probably a good thing that will get me out of here and moving towards a career I actually like, I am, for the moment, consumed with anger and hatred for the entire administration of this organization. Not surprised at their behaviour, which is business as usual for them, mind you - just enraged.

Meanwhile, I just discovered these on Friday, and now I am going to the endocrinologist and nutritionist today to try to set up a weight loss plan. Life just isn't fair.

On the other hand, at least I wasn't born into a culture that hunts for days to happily consume the delicacy of unwashed warthog anus.

Thursday Thirteen – Things About Living With My Stepfather

This is an extra long one, folks, because I'm trying to write more, and it's hard for me to be succinct about this topic. You have been warned!

1. The first thing I say to anybody who asks what my childhood was like is “did you ever see “I’m Gonna Git You Sucka?” They invariably say “no,” and I have to try to explain a scene where a dashiki-wearing black activist hauls out his white wife (played by Eve Plumb, no less!) and her impossibly blonde children and makes the kids read from their book report about how Abraham Lincoln was a “white capitalist swine”. I always lamely finish, “because, see, that’s so much what our family was like,” and the listener is confused.

It isn’t exactly true that life with my stepfather and his kids was like this – but it’s only a slight exaggeration. My stepfather was an extremely intelligent, charismatic, and complex human being, who deeply cared about the plight of his fellow African-Americans. He also was a dashiki-wearing, occasionally bombastic activist who tried to counter white racism with some seriously twisted rhetoric, which could be very confusing to a little Caucasian child who had hardly known that people were of different “races” before she got to know him. Case in point:

2. The second example I usually use to humourously encapsulate life with my stepfather is the Toilet Paper Incident. I’m not sure what instigated it, but one day he started exclaiming with frustration and called me and, I think, my two youngest stepsisters into the bathroom.

“Let me show you something,” he said, plucking the roll of paper from the holder as we all tried to cram in between the pink-tiled wall and the sink. “Do you know what the difference is between the African-American way of hanging toilet paper and the European-American way?”

Was this a trick question? We all looked at each other for a moment. At an age still in the single digits, even the term “European-American” was confusing to me. I somehow got it into my head that European must apply to toilets actually in Europe - then the land of knights and fairies and fauns that came our of wardrobes - and images of gold-and-velvet royal Victorian loos and fancy hotel ladies’ lounges danced in my head – not that I’d ever been across the Atlantic.

My stepfather, seeing our blank stares, began to rotate the roll in his hands in illustration.

“The European-American way is to hang it backwards, with the loose end hanging down the back, like this. They think this looks better, but what happens is the paper gets caught there and it bunches up, or you can’t get a good amount because it gets all stuck. It’s fancy, but it’s stingy, and it makes a mess. It doesn’t make sense.”

He reversed the roll and brandished it, putting it into the holder.

“The African-American way is to hang the paper like this, hanging off the front. This way, you can get as much paper as you want at anytime, without it getting stuck. Now, you don’t go pulling and pulling and get too much,” – here he yanked on the roll to allow several sheets to puddle on the floor – “you use your head. But I think you now know the right way to hang the toilet paper, and how to use it so you don’t make a mess.”

I have to say, this whole speech stands out in my mind as one of the most nonsensical and unintentionally silly monologues I’ve ever heard in my life, but he was dead serious. I never did buy that there was an “African-American” way of hanging the toilet paper, although it was illuminating to discover that even the direction of a paper roll could be used as a tool of oppression. Still, I also have to say I never forgot to hang the toilet paper the “right” way again.

3. To go back to dashikis, they will always be emblematic of my stepfather to me. Although I think they were fairly popular in the 1960s and early 70s, by the time I was of an age to notice, my stepfather seemed to be the only person I ever saw wearing them regularly. In fact, the only times he ever wore anything else were doing farm or yard work, which usually involved changing to denim overalls, or at his oldest daughter’s wedding, just shortly before he died, where he deferred to her wishes and actually wore a tuxedo. Everyone who knew him was slightly agog – and fairly delighted – to see him looking so dapper in that tux, especially since it had been a real possibility that the side effects of his cancer would keep him from the wedding altogether.

As for the dashikis, my mother made every single one. I remember long afternoons at the fabric store with her, rooting through piles and rolls, looking for busy, African-looking or vaguely exotic patterns for his daily or semi-formal wear. It makes a strange, oddly romantic picture thinking of her, a white woman in the racially charged 70s, up at the attic sewing machine, cutting and lovingly sewing the fabric she’d chosen for him, imagining how it would look on him as a completed “African” shirt.

4. In addition to being an activist, my stepfather was an educator. When he and his former wife had found out that their son was in the lowest reading group in his elementary school class, they decided to do something about it. They ended up creating a phonics-based reading program for children that used tape recording of their own voices, along with drawings, games and crafts materials, to teach him to read – and it worked. Within a few months he was in the highest reading group, and they knew they were onto something.

That home-made program became my stepfather’s life work, as he adapted it for use by parents and schools and did his best to get it sold or donated to every child struggling with reading. Although it got picked up briefly by Encyclopaedia Brittanica, creative differences with my stepfather and his dissatisfaction with their marketing and distribution made that union short-lived. In truth, the program probably never got beyond the tri-state area of New Jersey, New York and Pennsylvania, with strong emphases on the poorer sections of New York and Philly, but the difference it probably made is mind-blowing. To this day I wonder how many children learned to read with the help of my stepfather’s program, which was extremely effective. Although I was halfway to learning to read on my own by kindergarten (and fully convinced that I could read and write properly, a bit of an over-reach, if you look at the little “books” I made), by the time I finished taking the program I was reading everything I could get my hands on fluently, including adult fiction and the newspaper.

Although the effects of his work as an educator bettered my life as well as many other children’s, there were some down sides. For one thing, he was not a good marketer – he was intimidating and stubborn – and although a good many people found him charismatic, others found him overbearing. This meant his dedication to selling his program his way not only limited its distribution, but it kept those of us who lived with him in a fairly constant state of financial anxiety. It was bad enough living through the 70s recession, with my dad struggling to maintain a decent job and lines forming at the gas stations. With my stepfather, although he dreamed of being wealthy and that one day he would be vindicated, sticking to a strict vision of marketing for a product as unsexy as a reading program meant that growing vegetables, hunting and fishing were not just pastoral pursuits for us, but insurance that we’d have something to eat.

Then there was the time I, as a child, was made to appear on national television, in my blue velour shirt and with a giant rat’s nest sticking out of my hair, to semi-embarrassedly intone the opening monologue of Our Town in an incongruous New England accent. This was meant to display the efficacy of his reading program, somehow. The less said of that, the better.

It wasn’t until a short while after he died that “Hooked on Phonics” became a big deal. Although I think he’d be glad to see people learning, I’m glad he was gone before that happened. It was just too unfair.

5. Besides teaching us to read, my stepfather was always teaching us something. Having grown up black in a poor, rural area in the depression, he’d become quite handy, and found it important to pass down all sorts of skills, whether we wanted to learn them or not. He taught us how to grow and can fruits and vegetables and tend a garden, hunt and fish, drive, do various car repairs, chop wood and build a fire, install drywall and numerous other practical tasks, and not all of them had a particular “African-American” method.

He also would, frequently out of financial necessity, teach us how to deal with being in situations where neither the electricity or water worked, it was below freezing outside and, say, there was a family of mice trying to take shelter in our beds. Although at times it was fairly miserable, a warm brick at your feet can be a great comfort in times of trial, and I always really liked mice, anyway.

Although at times his manner was stern and we’d get tired of being taught, preached at, worked and subjected to roughing it, (a common mantra when garden-weeding time came was that they’d only had us children to use as slaves), many of these lessons came quite in handy later. Even if I can’t always remember exactly how to do the things he taught us, I have, at least, always had it in the back of my mind that if I am in a scrape, I can use my ingenuity and some of the basic skills he taught us to get out of it. I, for one, spent several days alone in a roach-infested studio apartment in the East Village (right behind the Hell's Angels' house) with no water or heat and a collapsed bathroom wall during my sophomore year in college, and, rather than running home to mommy, was able to cope with a laugh. How many Americans don’t even know how to change a tire on their car for God’s sake?

6. He also taught us about music. Having toured Europe as an operatic concert singer in his youth, with his then-wife as his accompanist, my stepfather had a great love for music. As a consequence, not only did he sing around the house, but he encouraged us all to listen to music – mainly the disco, funk and r&b of the time – and even perform it. Frequently at his farm in upstate NY we would have mini-talent show nights, with all of his kids (and the occasional addition of me and/or my brother and sister, who were more shy and easily intimidated by the others’ uncanny abilities to mimic The Sylvers) demonstrating dance moves, acting out improv scenes or singing pieces from The Wiz.

These performances carried over into how we amused ourselves. Since the reading program used a tape recorder and drawing materials, we were encouraged to create radio plays and record them, or draw our own board games and comic books. (This segued into my best friend/youngest stepsister and I making anatomically correct paper dolls, but I digress.) Although I enjoy sitting in front of a computer or television as much as the next person, I will forever hold up some of those standards for creativity as prerequisites for a well-formed childhood.

7. Art and writing were also important, and while I was a bit older, I remember accompanying my stepfather on a visit to the studio of Romare Bearden. In truth, I didn’t know anything about the artist, much less that he was famous – just as I didn’t know Dick Gregory, a friend of my stepfather’s, was a well-known comedian. I just could tell that my stepfather’s bond with him went far beyond being two artistic, light-skinned black men of a certain setting and era – that he really respected the artist’s work. We had some signed prints of his around the house from then on. I don’t know what happened to them – perhaps they went to his children.

He was also friends with Audre Lorde, particularly later in his life, when they were both struggling against cancer. I remember at the time that my older stepsiblings had been whispering some kind of rumour that she was his mistress, which at the time did not strike me as implausible, even though I knew that it was likely wishful thinking due to their lingering resentment of my mother. It was only when I got to college and started doing some reading on lesbian feminism that I realized the full hilarity of this plot. It also made me realize that my stepfather was perhaps more liberal than I thought, and he might have accepted my homosexuality, had he lived long enough for me to come out to him.

8. Along with my stepfather, of course, came my stepsiblings: five stepsisters and one stepbrother, ranging from three months to ten years older than me. Although we knew each other before our parents connected romantically – we lived a few blocks from each other, and my mother worked with him to put together an alternative school for the older kids, because the local schools were so bad – it did not follow that we would be closest of friends once that happened. Indeed, their father left their mother for mine, and my mother left my father for theirs, leading mostly to a lot of pain and resentment among us.

Much like their father, most of his kids could be clever, intimidating and quick-tempered. Although I wanted to fit in with them, I feared all of the siblings except the youngest, who eventually became my best friend. Before that happened, I distinctly remember one of the most torturous afternoons of my life, as she and her Lucy-Van-Pelt-ish older sister paraded home from elementary school calling me “Spooky the Spooky Ghost,” a lá Casper, and refusing to explain why or answer me with more than insults. Typical people-pleaser that I was, I followed them hither and yon beseeching them to tell me why they were doing that and what I’d done wrong. Years later, of course, they had no answer but “it seemed like fun at the time.” This was to be indicative of most of my relationships to come, at least through my twenties.

9. We did, however, have our pleasurable interludes, and often these occurred while fishing. My stepfather loved to fish, and he would frequently take us to local stocked ponds or the nearby lake. Before I came up against a sudden squeamishness at puberty that took away my ability to skewer a worm or kill a fish sans remorse, I greatly enjoyed fishing. I was actually fairly good at it, and, compared to weeding the garden, pruning the vineyard or pushing for deer, it was relaxing and fun. I particularly remember our delight at the times when we’d get store-bought crayfish, or “crawdads,” as my stepfather called them, as bait instead of compost-heap dug earthworms. Besides not being slimy, the crayfish were fascinating, wriggly, slightly threatening little creatures who popped on the hooks with a satisfying crunch when their time came – a fair comeuppance for threatening us with their tiny claws, we children thought.

Beyond the usual sunnies and bass, sometimes he would wake us in the dark of the early morning to rush to a local creek for the running of the smelt. Smelt are fish that grow to be a maximum of about six inches long, and run in huge schools on certain days in certain seasons. There is nothing like stepping into an icy cold, rushing river, with the deep dark of the night punctuated by fishermen’s flashlights, and trying to spread a net while thousands of tiny fish zip around and carom off one’s legs. Then, when you get home, dip them whole in batter and fry ‘em up for breakfast. Them’s good eatin’.

The most memorable fishing experiences, however, have to be the few times we went blue fishing on the ocean. Because they were expensive, these trips were rare, and one of them I spent mostly seasick, but I have always loved being on the ocean, and the accomplishment of hooking, wrestling with and hauling in a fish nearly as large as I was thrilled me.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t had sudden onset sympathy, and could still fish with relish. I do appreciate the times that I did, though.

10. I would be remiss if I did not mention one major facet of living with my stepfather, as it has influenced my lifestyle (and waistline) to this day. The obsession with food.

Growing up, as I mentioned, poor in the depression, my stepfather’s family frequently lacked food when he was a child. At one point, it became his job to make the rounds of the local restaurants and dumpster-dive for edible refuse. Because of this, as well as his culture, food never ceased to be an imperative symbol of caring and nurturance for him, and the skill of preparing it thriftily was highly prized, as well.

As a consequence, although he introduced us to such raptures as bouillabaisse and Indian food (an introduction that scared me away from it for years, actually, as he ordered the spiciest vindaloo in the restaurant, which I couldn’t stomach normally, much less while being nervous that the Vice President of a major television network was dining with us and I thought I saw Nick Rhodes out the window – but again, I digress), he also insisted that we eat his many variations on “garbage soup”, which usually contained, well, anything he could find, plus copious amounts of hot peppers – enough to make us cry. Many was the time I’d be pouting, my bowl turning cold, as my stepsister sobbed that she just couldn’t eat it, and he insisted that we’d never leave the table as long as we didn’t finish our damn dinner.

But that wasn’t the end of it. As I said, he liked to fish and hunt, and he also liked to trade. He was not picky. He’d trade vegetables for the disturbingly beautiful and bloodied pheasant I came across in the kitchen sink one day. He’d pick up a deer on the roadside that recently been hit by a car and butcher it – one time filling the entire house with a sickening stench when the deer’s intestines had burst in its abdomen. He’d sit on the porch swing with his feet up on the railing, a beer in one hand and his rifle in the other and watch over the garden, until- BAM! Rabbit for dinner! I can even say that I am among those unfortunate few who have eaten raccoon, and let me tell you – they are waaay cuter than they are edible, and how.

That said, he cooked some things excellently, and everything in large amounts. Cornbread and fried chicken were specialties of the house. And there was always dessert afterwards – cake, ice cream, strawberry shortcake with biscuits or “paradise pudding,” a mixture of fruit, Jell-O and whipped cream that we’d all spoon up from bowls bigger than our heads. Yes, if he loved you, my stepfather gave you lots of food, and it was frequently delicious, and always fattening. It is somewhat ironic that I was of a normal weight until some time after his death.

11. My stepfather loved to make a fire, especially since the farmhouse was surrounded by woods, and heated mostly by the potbelly stove and the large fireplace he’d built. He was exacting about getting it just right, and would instruct us on the finer points, until he got inebriated, and would begin just chucking shit in to make the flames higher, brighter, multicoloured. Sometimes I’m glad that we didn’t have explosives around the house.

I will say that, unfortunate discovery of multi-flavoured marshmallows for roasting aside (charred lime marshmallows? Oog.), I have fond memories of sitting by these fires. Whether on the rocky shore by the lake, roasting hot dogs and singing campfire stories, or settling down on the carpet with a book in front of the main fireplace, I found a deep contentment, for a while. I’m sure he did, too.

12. Unfortunately, alongside of all this, life with my stepfather was life with a chauvinistic alcoholic. Sometimes, his preferred drinks of bourbon and cheap beer would mellow him, and he’d get friendly, wanting to laugh and give everyone a hug.

Other times, it was sleepiness that would set in. This was particularly the case when we were making the 5-to-6 hour trip (longer, if there’d been a blizzard, which wasn’t infrequent) to the farm. Round about hour three or so, a beer in his lap, his head would start dipping, and frequently he’d fall asleep for seconds at a time while driving, before snapping awake. Being chauvinistic, he would often take my mother’s requests to let her drive as an affront, and insist he was fine, remaining alert for some time thereafter, but eventually nodding again until I was repeating prayers to myself in the back of the station wagon (usually pressed up against the rear wheel well, while the other eight or so children sprawled out asleep over the back seat and the suitcases in the “wayback”). To his credit, however, although he scared the bejebus out of me, I don’t think we ever got into an accident.

However, when the belligerence came out, it was another problem altogether. There was the time he was actually pulled over – he said for no reason – and after refusing to comply with the police officer he was arrested while us youngest children huddled in the back seat. I still remember him pressed against the side window while being cuffed, exhorting us to watch what was happening carefully, because this was how the police were treating a black man who had done nothing wrong – evidence of the bigotry rampant in the system. He may have been right – but having had a few beers and refusing to exit the car did not work in his favour.

And he would get mean and disoriented. My mother doesn’t remember him falling asleep at the wheel, or the time they had a screaming argument upstairs in the middle of the night, where she yelled at him for hitting her with a stick. I do. I wish I could forget the times he stumbled down the stairs to the main floor at night, only to not make it to the bathroom, and piss in the hallway. I wish I could forget the constant second-guessing and self-defensive analysis of another person’s possibly dangerous moods that go along with being a child of an alcoholic and an enabler. But as much as my stepfather taught me, unfortunately, that will always be one of the most haunting of lessons.

13. Sadly, any remembrance of life with my stepfather has to include his illness and death. I have blogged about this before, and I could say more about how terrible it is to see a proud and vital man become weak and vulnerable. I could talk more about the panicked flights he took to Germany in search of some miracle cure, the guilty revulsion I felt at the constant presence of colonic equipment in the bathroom, the anger and sadness I feel at knowing more could have come to him, that he, finally sober, could have grown, and that I could have better resolved my relationship with this aggravating, frightening, yet smart and caring man.

But I think the thing that strikes me most is that I constantly dream about him, and in my dreams he is always alive. Sometimes I am reliving childhood angst around him, sometimes he is merely matter-of-factly there, and part of my current life. But though his personality is always there and vivid, it is often more understanding than I felt it was in life. It is as if, in my adulthood, I understand and forgive him more, and thus can see him as accepting of me, as well. Some might say that he was even communicating with me in spirit. Whatever the case, it is in this way that life with my stepfather continues, even though his life does not.

BrrrrTTT. grrRRRizzBANG- tink! tink! - rrRRRuummm...

Such is the noise of busy things being done by busy little minds and busy little hands in Natorland.

I've been socializing with people! People who actually like me and make me feel good about myself, rather than making me feel like a big loser!

I've been getting creative! I wrote the first draft of a story this weekend, and took a number of photos!

I've been looking for a new job! I've got some leads, and I'm hammering out my resume and cover letters, as well as some pro bono web projects I can put online to demostrate my skillz.

I may be more devoted to this than blogging for a little while. Further bulletins as events warrant.

What Colour Is My Parachute?

I was finally supposed to meet with the Director of my department to ask for my raise today. Instead, I got a note this morning, saying my old boss would be meeting with me. Although we still primarily work together, she is in a different department, and thus has no connection to my department's budget. To top that off, as I think I've mentioned, we've grown somewhat tired of each other and butted heads before. Therefore, I found this change foreboding.

I was right to feel that way. Although my old boss was courteous and charming, she told me it was her duty to inform me that there was no room for a raise for me for the indefinite future. She did say that I was "in good company," in that many people are frustrated of late by the increased workload and lack of raises, but that, unfortunately, there was nothing that she could do about it. She also said that she does hope I'm looking for something else. She didn't sound mean about it - she actually sounded slightly encouraging, as if I could probably do better elsewhere. Still, her words very much formed a steel wall that I smacked into. There appears to be no hope of career or salary growth here in the foreseeable future.

So, what next? I've been combing job listings, and found a couple potentials to apply for, although I'm naturally nervous about it. I've been hoping that going to the writing workshop would help me focus and figure out if I want that to be part of my career, but that's not for a few weeks, and is not exactly a clear path to a fabulous worklife. I guess it's time to actually hire a career coach, as I've been contemplating, and work some things out. I'm a bit skeptical about it, as 1.) it's not cheap and 2.) I have a feeling that most of what's holding me back is the kind of personal emotional baggage some job listings and a Myers-Briggs test can't conquer, but at least it would be an attempt to do something concrete about my employment dissatisfaction.

More anon, I'm sure. Thanks for woooon-ing for me, and keep your fingers crossed.

Friday Cat Blog - Ol' Bald Belly

Somebody has to go to the V-E-T.

Yep, The Shmoo, who was due for a check-up, anyway, has suddenly started licking her lower belly bald. There's still a short covering of fur there, but where there once was a prodigious sea-urchin puff, there is naught but a peachy-fuzzed pink protrusion. Oh, the shame of it all!

Naturally, Her Shmoopiness threatened to gnaw my face off if I tried to get a photo of it, so you'll have to trust me on this one - at least until I catch her asleep, exposed and defenseless. The Buddha belly is fetching in its own way, but a little troubling. I suspect a plastic bag I found her sitting on last night is the culprit, and this is akin to an abdominal version of The Dreaded Chacne, as we call it (AKA feline chin acne caused by a reaction to plastic). If this is so, then removing any plastic bags she has managed to arrange on the floor for her lolling and licking pleasure should remedy the problem.

Of course, this sounds more simple than it is, as her plastic addiction leads her to expend much of her formidable wiliness and force of will on acquiring the forbidden material. It also may be noted that we are not the most vigilant nor neat of kitty caretakers. But, we will have to try, for her health and comfort - to say nothing of the fact that the Betty Ford clinic is way too expensive for our budget.

Thursday Thirteen -Wherein We Begin A New Era

Greetings, gentle freaks. I have a bit of a slow week, and I figure I’m going to be starting my writers’ workshop soon, so why not kill two tofu-based bird substitutes with one stone and practice writing under assignment while letting my adoring public know just a little bit more about me?

Actually, three tofu-based, etc., because in order to counter my recent spate of self-loathing and try to be positive for once, this thirteen will be all about talents you may or may not know I possess.

This is my first foray into the Thursday Thirteen, so it may be a bumpy (or boring) ride. Comments, as always, are appreciated.

1. I am a pretty good singer. No, I’m not planning on going on American Idol any time soon – too old and jaded for that, fortunately – but I’d hazard to say I’m better than most of the people who compete on the show (yes, I’m aiming low, here).

I have always had a good musical sensibility – I memorized most songs I heard and began writing my own (rather prolifically) at a very young age, was in an award-winning a cappella group in high school and had some well-received coffeehouse-type acoustic performances in college. I majored in sound and have a good awareness as to recording and mixing techniques, as well as having learned to play the guitar and drums a bit. So, when I say that I’m a good singer, I have a certain amount of knowledge that allows me to make that a somewhat objective statement.

This is not to say I think I’m a great singer or musician. That knowledge also informs me that I am no Aretha Franklin, honey, nor my voice suited to the kind of melisma-heavy music that tops the charts today. Not to mention, if I’d had the patience, work ethic, skill, charisma and self-confidence to fulfill my teenage dream of being a musical performer, I’d have done it by now. I’m not kidding myself – that’s not my path. But I can at least allow myself a bit of pride now and then for being better than average.

2. I can make people laugh. Not everyone, all of the time, but most people, with a good frequency. And not just laughing at me, thank you very much, although I’m not above that. Some people might even find my sense of humour off-putting. But most of my friends would tell you that I am funny. Look, I can show it to you in my 30th birthday slam book right here!

3. I am a pretty good writer, this blog notwithstanding. I’ve had some people I respect as pretty good writers, themselves, tell me so. This does not excuse the self-promoting radio show on young queer poets I produced in college. I don’t think anything ever will. But I know a good turn of phrase or two.

4. I have a knack for remembering obscure trivia and inserting it into conversation. Some might consider this a curse or tic, actually, but let’s just call it a blessing, shall we?

5. I am good at comforting people. I’ve always felt unsure about this, and it seems a strange attribute to promote, but when I was an animal communicator, I frequently dealt with people who were upset, afraid, angry, distraught or in mourning. They always told me that they felt a lot better after our sessions. Some of it could just be having someone they thought was knowledgeable and sympathetic listen to them, but I suppose being that person is a skill in and of itself, isn’t it?

6. I make a mean chimichanga. Actually, I just made that up, because I just love the word “chimichanga,” and don’t get to use it frequently enough. Plus, they’re yummy. But I am a pretty good cook, when I put my mind to it. Even the kitchen perfectionist, Mrs. Nator, says my omelettes are to die for.

7. I’m good at learning. That is, I tend to grasp new skill sets pretty quickly, when I need to, and also like to learn new things. Of course, there are areas, like mathematics, the hard sciences, etc., where I am more limited than others. But I’m generally a quick study when it comes to learning new programs for work, how to program or fix household appliances, conjugate a verb in another language, etc. This also goes along with…

8. I’m a good researcher. Seriously, if you need to know about something, I will hunt down all the information available on the Internet, make phone calls, peruse books, you name it, to get what you need to know, if I deem it a worthy investigation. Neither this or number 7 necessarily means that I am great at retaining all this information for long periods of time – that brain space seems to be taken up by number 4. But, want to know where to see a scarlet macaw or a brief history of the construction of the New York Subway system by the end of the day? I’m your woman.

9. I speak cat fluently.

10. I have a pretty good artistic eye, which comes in handy in everything from house decoration to designing a website. I used to fancy myself something of an artist, but I’m not under that illusion, now. Let’s just say that’s more of a raw talent I’ve not fostered.

11. I can talk in all sorts of funny voices, and will do so at any given opportunity, whether you like it or not. I’ve thought about pursuing a career as a voice-over artist for cartoons, in fact. Apparently, however, all those spots have now been filled by Robin Williams.

12. I can knit baby hats and booties. I made some really cute ones last year. They may have been beginner level, but they were cute, dammit. And we all know that I don’t even really like babies.

13. I can make a list of thirteen talents I have! Is that a cop-out? Listen, I was thinking of making insinuating comments about my skills in the boudoir, but I refrained, and I’m sure you’re all relieved about that, so let’s just quit while we’re ahead, yes?

Well, that’s that. It was harder than I expected to think up thirteen talents. Whether that’s due to low self esteem, a learned value of modesty or an actual lack of talents, I’ll let you judge. It also could be that my attention span has become so short that writing thirteen things just got boring for me. Writers’ workshop, here I come!

Have a pleasant Thursday. Y’all come back now, hear?