Back? Maybe? Kinda?

OK, so the whole other blog thing didn't work out. I'm just gonna transfer the posts I had there below this one. So, if you're interested, keep scrollin'.

Am I blogging again?  I dunno.  I do have a blog for my business, which remains completely disconnected from my identity here because, hello? The Internet is full of spies? I mean, you know your next job interviewer/loan officer/dominatrix is going to Google you at some point, and then you'll have to explain yourself.  And also prove you're a U.S. citizen, change all you credit cards, and/or go on the run, because someone else now has your identity... and maybe your wife, too.

Anyhoo, mainly I'm just popping in because I'm so delighted to see FirstNations has been blogging again.  Not that there's any point in anyone else blogging once she is, because she's just that good, but... well, you know.  I'm always hoping I'll improve, or something.  Or maybe get all evil and leech on society and get lots of money. I'm still working it out.

Psst... I've got a new blog.

I don't know why. I just thought I'd start anew with a blog that will only include silliness. Here's the address:


http://justletyourselfbespecial.blogspot.com/


That is all.

Excerpts from a Zoo Intern's Journal, Pt. II

Names and details fudged to protect the innocent and influential.

I help change out the dove’s paper. The frogs get specially distilled “Culligan water” every day and get powdered (not gut-loaded) crickets every other day. We are supposed to give them plenty, so they never have to fight over food. They also get misted with the Culligan water. W is pleased that I know this is because chlorine is bad for their skin, which they breathe through. Their lamp, like the turtles’, is a large UVA/UVB spot, and they are kept at around 82 °F. No wonder I’m sweating in here!

The birds get diets of mixed veggies, fruits, seeds and other stuff, like “soft bill” mix for the dove, ½ in the morning and ½ in the evening. We have to put the birds’ food bowls in a larger dish of water to form a “moat,” because there is an ant problem in this building. If you look closely enough in almost any area animals are housed, you see lots of tiny ants sniffing around for scraps. Frankly, working with animals and their food in old buildings in the middle of a park in summer, this is probably the least offensive problem they could have.

W also shows me the notation system on the whiteboards, which matches the zoo database. Each animal has an assigned number and code. They also have a numbering system by gender, where, for example, 0.0.3 stands for 3 mantella frogs of unknown gender, and 0.1 stands for one female fruit dove. There are notations for what rooms the animals are in, as well.

By the way, if you introduce a new animal into quarantine, all the other animals in the room go back to day one of the thirty days, too. However, according to W, there are “grey areas” where the full 30 days is judged unnecessary. I imagine that there would have to be, with the limited space they have.

W takes me in to see keeper Isabela in ISO. ISO here is not really an isolation unit, but a sort of holding area. It’s full of fish tanks, aquariums with bugs, snakes, turtles, lizards and frogs in them, and a separate room where some other animals are being held because they are supposed to be moved elsewhere. W gets the impression that I’m a herp nut (well, I do like them) and thinks I’ll enjoy looking around. They do a lot of water quality checks here, usually in the morning, and W later tells me that learning how to do that got her her first job at the NY Aquarium. I hope I get to learn that while I’m here.

Back in the clinic, she enters info into the database system the use. Holy cow – it’s on DOS! Another small budget constraint, I guess. W says she used to be a computer programmer in C++, by the way, so that must particularly annoy her.

The vet, Dr. R, comes in, and things become a whirlwind. She does a bandage change on the scalped tragopan (a type of pheasant). I keep an eye on the anaesthesia settings as she explains the exposed bone of the skull must be kept moist. She is intentionally a bit rough with the wound area to promote blood flow. They use a rectal probe for the pulse oximeter. Both she and W are pleased when they forget they meant to pull up fluids and I ask if they want me to do it for them. I feel like having to be on my toes at the hospital is maybe helping me out a little bit.

Meanwhile, I’m noting where all the supplies and meds are, and that they use PDS-II 4-0 sutures and give fluids near the rear of the bird to avoid the air sacs. W tells me the pocket under the dorsal hinge of the leg is a good place. After applying SSD, they discuss with the supervisor whether there’s any medical reason for the tragopan not to go back on exhibit. The doctor takes a Sharpie and colors in a piece of Duoderm, testing to see if the ink will bleed through. It doesn’t, so they put it on the bird and she’s ready to go. Up close, she looks like she’s wearing a little birdie yarmulke, which I guess will match all the little Chasid boys running all over the zoo. We are near a famous Jewish neighborhood, after all.

Next up is a Western screech owl with a chronically inflamed joint on her wing. They take radiographs (which I develop) and blood samples. The owl skeleton, particularly the head, with its enormous eye sockets, is very cool. Unfortunately, the bone looks like it’s part of the growth, so they discuss amputation as they wake her up.

Now we have Hydrox, an elderly guinea pig whose hair sticks up in clumps like an anime character. I keep processing rads and track of where W is getting the supplies from, like the formalin sample jar, catheters, slides and surgery pack. They are checking out a wound on Hydrox’s foot and taking a biopsy of a growth in the lower conjunctiva of her eye. They don’t have some of the instruments Dr. R wants, so she MacGuyvers something out of a scalpel and some wire. She is clearly really good at what she does.

They use DMSO on Hydrox’s foot to help her absorb the medication. The supervisor grinds her claws down with a dremel, as long as she’s out, anyway. Her rads show she is full of gas – poor thing – so they give her Gas-X, as well. Her veggies will be rationed to discourage bloat. She takes a long time waking up and it worries us a bit, so she’s put in the incubator to recover. I make her up a paper tray of food and wish her well.

Heading to lunch, I meet Stu the fish crow, who calls out “hi!” from his enclosure near the clinic. There are chipmunks all over and wild bunnies zooming through the undergrowth. I guess the zoo is a haven for the wild local critters, as well.

By the sea lion pool, I meet up with zookeeper Dalli, so she can let me into the locker room. She is stopped by a woman, grandchild in tow, who says “oh, there used to be bears and other big animals here. I remember when it was a really INCREDIBLE zoo… about 45 years ago.” When she leaves, Dalli and I share an eyeroll. “Oh, back when they used to keep elephants in trash-compactor sized cages, you mean?” we snort. Sadly, this is not even close to the most ignorant comment I will hear from visitors as my internship progresses...

Excerpts from a Zoo Intern's Journal, Pt. I

Names and details fudged to protect the innocent and influential.

Day one. Although we corresponded beforehand about my sizes, the supervisor didn’t have time to look for a uniform for me, so we spend the first 15-20 minutes searching. What are the odds they have other fat zookeepers? Aren't they usually outdoorsy, willowy people with ponytails? Surprise! None in my size. Fortunately, I brought scrubs.

A call comes over the radio that one of the ferrets has crashed and needs to be taken to the clinic stat. A senior zookeeper rushes out with the limp critter in a carrying case and we all run over to the clinic. (I learn here that my boots are going to be too stiff.) Heloise has collapsed before, but not this badly. She was flat out in the middle of her cage, which is a sorry sight when you know that ferrets are usually hidden in their bedding or zipping around like they are on fast forward.

W., the vet tech, administers dextrose and fluids both SQ and PO for hypoglycemic shock. Heloise slowly revives, but is still blinking and stumbling a bit when Karen OKs her to go back to her cage. Pitiful! One of the veterinarians is coming in today, so they will run bloods and consult on her problem.

...

Later, W. walks me through the clinic. She shows me how to run the radiograph processing machine, which is pretty straightforward. The smell of the chemicals brings me back to my darkroom and retouching years in high school and college. Next thing you know I'll be putting on a black beret. W. says their budget isn’t huge, and they just got the machine about a year ago. All rads were hand-developed before that. It’s quite a difference from the digital set-up at my job. Fancy emergency hospital group, meet small, non-profit zoo.

All animals are kept in quarantine 30 days, more if they end up housed with later arrivals. In quarantine right now are a green-winged king parrot, 2 monkey frogs and, in the back room, 2 mata mata turtles and a nervous fruit dove. There’s also a tragopan –a type of pheasant- elsewhere in the clinic that was scalped by another bird. I can’t get into her area, nor am I allowed in with the macaques, for liability reasons. I’m a little sorry about the macaques, but not at all about being banned from being near the Hamadryas baboons. Those guys are one of the few animals I am actively frightened by. They're all aggression, muscle and teeth.

...

Karen shows me basic husbandry – hosing down enclosures, feeding, etc. I have to be extra careful to watch the drains if I have the covers up, so animals don’t go down them. The parrot, “Holly” according to W., is an escape artist, too. I am do a head count on everyone – especially the tiny, jumpy mantella frogs – and to note feedings on and the animals' health on cards. The mantellas are poison dart frogs I've never seen before, ebony black with outlines in yellow, green and orange. "It's okay, I've been to your cloud forest and respect you," I silently tell them. Hop, hop, suspiciously hop, the mantellas say.

The mata matas get around 10-12 minnows every couple days and have an optimal water temperature of 80-85 °F - similar to my red-eared slider turtles. The mata matas are so COOL! They look like lumps of leaves with triangular heads. The shells are covered in pointed peaks, and their skin is covered in irregular nodules and flaps, to make them look all the more like plant litter at the bottom of a creek. Their tiny snouts just poke up out of the water. Just when you think they're ugly, you look closely enough at their alien faces, and their mouths turn up like a happy-face smile...

Hello, Old Friend

One of my major problems has been that I seem to cling to negative emotions. There are stupid slights and embarrassing situations that happened to me as a child that no-one else would still remember, or hold against me if they did. Yet, excruciatingly detailed recollections of them will spring to my mind unbidden, and the rush of emotions that come with them will leave me stunned. It doesn't help that I had a rather odd childhood, with plenty of opportunities for bad feelings and embarrassment.

This is why, over the last couple years, I had decided it was alright that I had fallen out of touch with my closest childhood friend. Yes, we had taken different paths in a number of ways, and changed. She has become a great believer in and advocate of twelve-step programs and a mother of three, while I have a bohemian lifestyle of lesbian partnership, rejection of traditional work and religion and too many cats. But I came to feel that, as it seemed I would never be able to view my childhood calmly, from a distance, much less with affection, it was for the best that I detach from childhood friendships that remind me of it.

For a while, it seemed to work. I felt guilty about the ebbing of the friendship, but relieved to be able to blank out on memories that fed my angst. I tried to tell myself that this was a natural evolution and the way of the world.

But when I checked my voicemail and found a message from her while I was in the hospital, I was excited.

The truth is, I missed her. Not only was she my friend, but my stepsister. We shared a checkered and difficult past within our dysfunctional family, different in some ways but, in many, similar. And as many awful, disturbing memories and feelings we may share, we were also always there for each other from our single-digit years through our early twenties. Even though we have changed, we still know each other's cores better than perhaps anyone else, save our partners.

So, despite knowing it would dredge up old wounds, I called her back. We've been in contact many times over the last few weeks, and have shared some biographical writing we've both been working on. It has been difficult facing some issues, and I can't say it's been easy. I'm also not completely confident in the return of our relationship, yet. But I'm so glad to hear her voice on the phone, and I'm hoping that, together, we can put together the stories of our past and learn to be a little bit kinder to ourselves.

Goody Two-Shoes

I am terrible at being a criminal. Sure, I sneaked liquor from my parents' cabinet a couple times. I went to a lot of clubs when I was underage and drank and did other illegal substances. But all of those were pretty much given to me for being pretty (shut up - I was back then!) and didn't require a whole lot of effort on my part. Actually, I'm pretty sure it was that lack of effort that left half the Haitian drug dealers in late 1980s Manhattan with blue balls. Poor Haitian drug dealers. Hi-yo!

Anyway, my point is, my life of crime has been negligible. There was the time when I was working three student jobs to get through college that I'd sometimes under report the earnings at the student lounge/pool hall by a couple dollars, so I could get a juice and some crackers from the vending machine for lunch. Horrors! The thing was, I felt terribly guilty and I like I was going to get caught every time. I knew that I was fortunate in that I appeared to be the last person anyone would suspect of stealing: a small, shy, lower-middle-class white girl with good manners and a semi-midwestern accent (my parents hailed from out there, even if I was raised in New Jersey). Of course, many teenage girls will tell you that's why they know they'll never get caught. But I genuinely hated doing it and thought I was a terrible person the whole time. Plus, above and beyond that, I was always waiting for The Man to catch me and stomp me down with the iron-heeled boot of justice. "I have terrible luck and am a terrible liar, and therefore, if anyone gets caught, it will be me," was my reasoning. It still echoes today.

Thus, standing by the line for the Rufus Wainwright show trying to sell my tickets was an alarming affair. It didn't matter that there was a geeky-looking kid of maybe 15 or 16 beside me who'd bought his tickets at the original rate of $40, and was trying to sell them for over $200, while I wasn't even hoping to break even on the $220 Mrs. Nator had spent on seats in the same section via eBay. The whole time I was sweating, and waiting to be accosted by the ginourmous bouncer at the front of the line.

Even getting to the place was surreal. It being one of those sudden summer weekends in New York where five million events were going on at once, the subways were full of a mix of rainbow-bedecked Brooklyn Pride goers, Puerto Rican flag draped Boriquas making their way home from the PR parade, and blonde tourist families in matching sneakers and golf shirts whispering to each other "Daddy, is that man speaking Hispanic? And why is that fat lesbian sweating like she's been caught in Singapore customs with a condom full of crank up her ass?"

Outside of the subway was more weirdness. Hordes of people surrounded food tents in Madison Square Park, supervised by far too many irritated-looking police than I wanted to see at that juncture. Then, just as I was drawing up to the venue, a mob of bedraggled bicyclists came barreling down 23rd Street, taking up the lanes with everything from tiny foldable bikes to weird, double-cranksetted contraptions about eight or nine feet high. This did nothing, I assure you, to make me feel more comfortable.

I suppose I could have imagined that, what with all this going on, little old me trying to sell a couple of tickets would hardly be on major law enforcement's radar. I also must confess that, in actuality, I'm not even sure this whole deal was illegal at all. Still, the first pair of gays that talked me down to $110 for the pair got the tickets, because I just wanted to get the hell out of there. (I just know the kid beside me was grateful to see me go. There was no way he was going to make a profit with the weenie with the air of desperation throwing better tickets than he had at people at a loss.) Besides, I had to get back to Brooklyn to get a quart of Italian ice and Mrs. Nator's anti-inflammatory prescription before the stores closed.

As I made my way home, circumnavigating stocky women plastered with Puerto Rico stickers and Gay Pride buttons and sniffing the rare sea-tang in the air from a front blowing in, I took stock. I got $110 for the tickets, half of what we paid for them, and $60 of which were blown on frozen desserts and medications within 20 minutes. Not so great a deal. If I had hung in there, no doubt I could have made a lot more. Ah, but the relief from fearing that I was going to get hauled in and ass-raped in the hoosegow? Priceless.

Meme-A-Licious

Oh, look – it’s a way to procrastinate from formatting the dreaded “career change” résumé… I mean, a lovely meme that Warrior Two tagged me to do.

Eight Songs I Am Diggin’ On Right Now:
Dude, I am so lame about music nowadays. There was a time when music was my life, I lived it and breathed it. I performed in coffee houses, made amateur tapes and dreamed of being a professional performer. I have 3 ring binders full of songs I wrote, gathering dust with my old drumsticks and three guitars.

Now I barely even listen to it anymore, and tend to say things like “I don’t understand these kids nowadays and their music,” or “this new band is just imitating X band from my youth. There’s nothing new under the sun”, &c. I spend more time watching TV and on the Interwebs, honestly. Even if I do listen to music, it’s often older stuff.

Have I grown up, or just become old?

Anyway, let’s see what I can think of…

1. Keane, “Is It Any Wonder.” I think this was a hit last year. Nice little emo/indie rock tune, showing the influence of U2, who they opened for on tour. I got into this song when it lodged in my head after playing five hundred times on the Madden 07 soundtrack.

Incidentally, my new Madden superstar is our big, tall adopted son, Bayard. He’s a rookie wide receiver for Kansas City this year, but I’m hoping I can get him a contract with the Giants. He’s a killer kick returner, too. He looks like a taller Tiki Barber. Hee.

2. OK Go, "Invincible". You’ve gotta enjoy the clever premise of a song that imagines the singer’s heartless lover forcefully thwarting an alien invasion. At least, I do.

Runner up: OK Go, “Do What You Want.” Mainly because you can never get enough cowbell!

3. The theme from “Cubis 2”. I play this game on my iPod almost every day during my commute, and the burbling, loopy synthesized soundtrack is now constantly stuck in my head. Fortunately, it’s a pretty good one. Unfortunately, I also find myself obsessively creating cube combinations in my head, just like I used to do with Minesweeper and Tetris, and Mrs. Nator now does with Sudoku.

4. Stevie Wonder, “Power Flower.” A classic from my youth. Not a hit, this song comes from The Secret Life of Plants, a double album of what was supposed to be a soundtrack for a movie that I don’t think was ever released. The album didn’t do very well for a Wonder release, mainly because a lot of it was atmospheric. I still liked it, though, and this is one of my go-to songs while singing in the shower. It’s a sunny love ballad to nature sung in the voice of Pan, the Greek god thereof. Avoiding the obvious bleat of a goat, however, Wonder sings in an unexpected, smooth falsetto that could put Smokey Robinson to shame. The synthesized backgrounds are a little hokey and dated, but this song never fails to put me in a calm, contented mood. I’ve been listening to it on occasion lately just to relieve stress!

5. Stevie Wonder, “Love’s In Need of Love Today.” Another classic, this time from Songs In The Key of Life. The theme can make you sad, but the melody and singing lift you.

Runner up: the equally good remake by Joan Osborne. Joan is one of my favourite current female vocalists. Honestly, she just kicks ass.

6. Scissor Sisters, “Better Luck Next Time.” Cornball, bouncy, snarky, gay alterna-disco. What’s not to love?

7. Kate Bush, “Cloudbusting.” Kate Bush is one of the most original pop artists out there, and Hounds of Love is still my favourite album of hers. In fact, it’s one of the few albums that makes me actually miss the LP format, as the tracks are divided to tell different stories on either side.

In this song, Kate is telling a story that is both heartbreaking and encouraging. Who is this woman? Why was her father taken away by shadowy men? And yet her memories of her father are filled with joy:

Ev’ry time it rains
I hear you in my head
Like the sun’s coming out
Ooh, I just know that something good is gonna happen
I don’t know when
But just saying it could even make it happen…

Kate Bush is one of the only artists whose songs have actually made me cry, even after repeated listenings. I also made my mom cry by playing “This Woman’s Work,” for her one time. I don’t know why this particular song of Bush’s has been in my head lately – it could be any of a number of hers, instead. But it’s so bittersweetly evocative that once it’s there it’s hard to let go.

8. The Darkness, “Knockers.” HeeHeeHeeee… knockers! I just love The Darkness. They’re like the illicit love children of Queen and the band “Limozeen” from the Homestar Runner cartoons. They just crack my shit all up… and they can play!

I am still utterly heartbroken that the lead singer left before I could see them in concert. Sigh.

If money were no object, what would you be doing with your life?
Get a personal chef and trainer. Travel the world. Make a lot of donations, particularly for the boo-boo animals. Spend more time with animals and learn more about them. Give nice things to my family and friends. Buy a brownstone in Brooklyn and a vacation house. Learn to SCUBA dive & snowboard. Take writing and photography courses. Have my own home recording studio.

As most of you know, I did start a writing workshop recently, but had to stop due to the job madness. I still hope to take a SCUBA course this summer, though, if money and time allow.

Money is just that - an object, so why aren’t you doing it?
Um, as I said, I’m trying to do what I can when I can swing it. I did get to go to Costa Rica twice and Hawaii once, snorkel, hike volcanoes, and meet wild animals. I’m pursuing being a vet tech and SCUBA, and work on writing and photography when I can. I sponsor a child in Ecuador and give donations when I can. I try to give nice stuff for Xmas and birthdays, and it’s in our plans to buy at least an apartment someday. Uh, I sing in the shower…

So, really, I’m doing things I’d do with money, only on a smaller scale. Hey, just get off my back, people!

What’s better: horses or cows?
I try not to make value judgments on animals – just humans.

What do you think the secret to happiness is?
Great, now I’ve got that damn You’re A Good Man, Charlie Brown song going through my head …

When was the last time you had a dream that you either remember well or did not want to awake from? Can you share a bit?
Um, I dreamt last night that my boss threw a party for my last week (fat chance) and on the stairs of the opera house made this big announcement that I could come back and see whatever show I wanted for free whenever I wanted. I was like “um… thanks.” I wasn’t sorry I woke up.

That’s actually not exemplary, because I tend to have very wild and symbolic dreams. I’ll tell you one of my favourites that I had when I was a teenager. I used to have reoccurring nightmares about tidal waves. I’m not sure why they started, but over time the waves grew smaller and smaller until the last few were puddles. I’d like to think this means I’ve conquered some fears they represented, or something.

Anyway, in this dream I was walking down a beach by a city. Suddenly people started running around hysterically screaming that it was the end of the world. I looked toward the sea and there was this infinitely huge wave rushing towards us. I could see animals, trees, cars and pieces of buildings roiling in it, like it had already been partly around the world and swept it away. I knew instantly that this was it – the water was going to engulf and destroy everything in a few seconds, and there was nothing I could do. I briefly wondered if I should pray, but then just as the first droplet hit me I suddenly thought aloud, “hey, didn’t it say somewhere in the Bible that God said he’d never destroy the Earth by flood again?”

No sooner had I said it than the water covered me. But then I heard a loud, deep, echoing voice say: “Hmm. I forgot about that. Maybe I’ll come back in a few eons sometime when I’ve thought of something else.” In an instant, with a gigantic zzzzooorcht like the emptying of a drain, the water was gone, and I had saved the world!

I woke up laughing. I told my father about it at breakfast, and I believe he worked it into a sermon that Sunday.

When you were a little kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?
I think I went through the typical phases of fireman, astronaut and superhero. Does fantasizing about riding into my nursery school playground in armor on a white horse and rescuing my teacher, who would then marry me, count?

Later on I wanted to be a magician, and after that a rock star. So practical, I was!

Complete this statement: Love is…
“… a many spleeeendooored thiiiiing!”

But seriously, love is awesome. I am so grateful for those I love: my friends, family, and chosen family of the amazing Mrs. Nator and our critters. I had always been a romantic and hoped for a “soul mate” (bleeaurgh!), but I’d given up by the time I met her. Now, my life is gloriously changed and better than ever. I love you, Mrs. Nator, my Boo!

Can you tell a good story?
There once was a man from Nantucket…

Can you remember your last daydream? What was it about?
Um… buying scrubs for my new job. Hee. I’m so obsessed with them… they’ve become my little symbolic badge of being an “animal care professional,” I think…

My usual daydreams, however? Involve snuggling with the cats or diving someplace with gorgeous coral and sealife, like Hawai’i.

Mmmm, Hawai’i…

If you were to thank someone today, who would you thank?
Mrs. Nator, because I should thank her every day, for everything she does and is. (Awww!)

And that’s it. I shall tag Helen, mainly because she’s given me some good suggestions for music in the past. But I have no illusions that she will actually do this meme. Enjoy!

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

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