The healing process apparently involves more quadrupeds

Everyone keeps telling me, "The fastest way to recover from your grief is to get another dog, and get one right away." And while, yes, I will admit that dogs are awesome and the loss of Alex has left a gaping hole in not just my heart but my life in general, I'm just not in a place where I can bring a new dog into it. I swear, some people are worse about me getting a puppy than those folks who get on my case about having kids. The big difference, of course, is that I'll eventually be able to shut the puppy people up. Just not for a while.

So yesterday I went to the SPCA to pick up Alex's ashes (which, incidentally, are in a HUGE box; I was a little taken aback with the size of it, but then I remembered that Alex was a pretty enormous mutt), and just for the hell of it, I walked through the adoption kennels. They had some pretty interesting dogs, though a little heartbreaking on the pit bull side (nearly 2/3 of the dogs up for adoption were some mix of pit). There were a couple of Great Dane mixes - and naturally they were the ones I gravitated toward, given my love for Danes and Dane mixes. There was a Great Dane/Basset Hound mix that was so weird-looking you couldn't help but fall in love with him, and a Dane/Lab mix that was absolutely beautiful and reminded me a lot of Alex.

After I got my fill of dogs, I wandered through the front area where they keep the cats and the small animals. I hung out and admired the bunnies, laughed at the ferrets, and then moseyed on over to the bank of cages where they keep the pocket pets. Guinea pigs, hamsters, a couple of gerbils...and then I saw it: a black and white hooded rat with some of the prettiest markings I've ever seen, including a really interesting head spot - and she was a girl! She was all by herself, and that's primarily what prompted me to do this:

Me: (Checking pocket and finding $17) "Hi, how much is the adoption fee for rats?"
SPCA Lady: "Rats are five dollars."
Me: "I'll take that one you have over there."

I was given all the requisite paperwork to fill out, the adoption contract and the pledge to take proper care of the animal, etc, etc. I even get a free vet visit! Not a bad deal for my five bucks. And so I have brought the number in That Crazy Rat Lady's colony to lucky 13. Now, I know that seems like a lot. And, well...it is. But she was all by herself, and rats just don't do well in solitary situations. If there had been two or more in that cage, I would have just admired them and walked away. If this rat had been male, I would have not taken it home (but would have definitely called someone I know with boyrats and alerted them). Nevertheless, some things I think are just left up to fate, and this I believe was one of them.

She doesn't have a name yet; I'm waiting to see what her personality is like and try out a few names on her and see how she responds (that's how I named Nancy, my first rat). Right now she's in quarantine in a separate cage, but if all goes according to plan she should be moved into the big cage by week's end. So...without further ado, I present to you the newest member of the Planet Deedums Mammal-rama!

The most difficult choice of my life

*Warning: Emotionally charged and really long post*

On Wednesday, October 17 at 2:30 p.m. Alex the Wondermutt was put peacefully to rest. It was the most heart-wrenching experience of my life, and the most difficult decision I think I've ever had to make. But at the age of 15 years, five months, Alex was ready to go.

She had, in fact, been trying to tell me this for quite some time, but I was selfishly unwilling to accept it. I kept thinking it would get better, kept thinking that perhaps I was overreacting, kept ignoring the people who said, "you know, Dee, maybe it's time to let her go." I kept saying, "but she's eating just fine, she's still cognizant, and she's still healthy for her age!" I didn't want to make a hasty decision in case there was something that could still be done. Yet I saw the struggle she had with walking and with getting up and down the front steps. I watched her once-strapping stature and robust frame wither and droop, felt the bones protruding from her hips, her ribs, and her swaybacked spine. I cleaned up the bathroom accidents on a daily basis (sometimes more than once a day). I listened to the hacking cough and looked into cataract-clouded eyes. All the signs were there, and although I saw them all, I didn't really see them closely enough until last week.

That Monday, I had a conversation with a customer of mine, someone who works closely with animals. I told her about Alex and how I thought it could be time to let her go, but that I just couldn't bring myself to be ready. She gave me a little food for thought to chew on, mostly stuff about "quality of life" and such, and assured me that no matter what, I had to remember that I'd been extremely blessed with more than 15 years with Alex. Considering Alex's size and breed composition, this in itself was miraculous. She told me that the decision was ultimately mine, but that I needed to look to Alex and make my decision based on what the dog was telling me.

I had a huge project due on Tuesday, one that had me upstairs in the studio all the rest of that day after I got out of work. It was a 28" x 36" pastel-on-paper piece which had to be done while standing, due to the nature of the composition and the medium with which I was working. For the first couple of hours I worked with my iPod blasting away at my eardrums, dancing around as I pasteled myself into a frenzy of color-stained fingers and dusted hair. Then I took a break, coming downstairs to get something to drink, and when I opened the door I saw it. Alex had been up on the sofa while I was upstairs, and had apparently not been able to get down before releasing a torrent of pee all over one cushion. She stood next to the coffee table, shivering and looking very guilty, and slunk off into the corner when I gasped and cried out an expletive (just because I loved this dog doesn't mean I didn't still get pissed off when she did something wrong). It was at this point that I began thinking about what Diane and I had discussed earlier in the day.

I went back into the studio, but this time I left the earbuds out, and I worked in total silence, listening only to my thoughts. I thought about the last 15 years, and how up until a couple years ago, Alex's days had been filled with walks and playtime, with toys and treats. I thought about how she used to get so excited when I'd come home, dancing around and wagging her tail, dragging me down the street on her leash...and then I thought about how now I had to wake her from her silent slumber and help her down the steps upon coming home. We couldn't really take walks anymore; we'd get to the corner and she'd want to turn back because her legs hurt. If we walked any further, she'd be out like a light for the next eight hours. I thought about how the weather was going to be turning soon, and how the cold had started to aggravate her arthritis in recent years. When she was younger, she couldn't get enough of the snow (part of the excitement of the first snowfall every year was getting to watch Alex go bonkers over "the white stuff!"), but now it was a source of exacerbation and pain. By the time I finished the piece that night, I had boiled it all down to one question that I asked myself: For whose benefit was I really keeping this dog around?

On Tuesday morning (after cleaning up a pile of poop off the kitchen floor), I went to school and continued to think about the situation. During a break between classes, I called Alex's vet and told them everything I'd thought about. It was their opinion that yes, perhaps the time had come to say goodbye. I called the SPCA and asked about the arrangements. And then I called some friends and asked if they would be willing to accompany me the next day. By the time I'd gotten to my afternoon class, I'd worked myself up into an emotional mess. I ended up coming home early and spending the afternoon hanging out with her until it was time to go to my evening class. And that night I took a pillow and a blanket, and I camped out on the dining room floor. Alex came and laid down next to me on the blanket, and we slept like that the rest of the night. At one point the two cats joined us, and it was like a big old furry slumber party.

Wednesday came too soon. I wasn't leaving to take her in until 2:00, so I spent the morning sitting quietly with her, petting her and telling her how sorry I was that I had to say goodbye. We took a stroll around the neighborhood, and I let her wander and linger as long as she wanted. I let her eat grass and eat dirt. I let her stay outside and root around in my garden while I put the sheet on the back seat of my car. She watched me with curiosity, and I felt a pang of guilt when I saw how excited she got when she figured out that we were going for a ride in the car. Shortly before 2:00 I loaded her up and we pulled out. We went to McDonald's and I ordered three double cheeseburgers with no pickles (pickles were one of the few things that she didn't like) but in a comically bittersweet moment, I realized I'd forgotten to order them without ketchup, too, and I laughed at the red mess she made.

At 2:00 we met up with my friends. We were meeting at Starbucks, and it seemed as though everyone was working that day. I was met with an outpouring of sympathy, which only made me cry that much harder. Because there were three people going with me, we took two cars, and as we proceeded I drove in silence, one hand on the wheel and one hand behind me, scratching Alex between the ears.

It's strange now when I think back on what happened next; I don't remember really saying anything. I remember telling the woman at the counter that I was there to put my dog down, and I remember giving her my license and Alex's information. Then in a really bizarre turn of events, my boss emerged from the back room (she's a volunteer there). So now I had four people with me. It was like a posse of support. My boss tried to pull some strings to get them to let me back into the room where they were going to perform the euthanasia, but to no avail. I would be allowed to go back once they were done, though. I accepted this, kissed Alex on top of the head, scratched her snout, and told her I loved her. I told her that Lepew would be waiting for her on the other side, and that I would see her again someday, too. I then watched as she was walked away, the last time I would ever see her alive. She looked back at me as if to say, "it's okay, Mom. I'm ready."

After what seemed like eternity but was really only about ten minutes, I was led into a room, and there she was. She was lying on a table, wrapped in a pink flowered comforter. What emerged from me was the unmistakable cry of grief, the cry that had come twice before and has a sound unto itself. It can't be described, but if you've lost a loved one, you know the sound. I don't know how long I stayed like this, but I collapsed over her body, sobbing and shaking, not even realizing until Meaghan rubbed my back that everyone had come back there with me. I was told that it was quick and peaceful, and that Alex had gone willingly without a struggle, without a fight, and that she had, without a doubt, been ready to go.

Afterwards, I had Meaghan drive my car back to Starbucks, and we sat and had coffee for a while. I couldn't bear to come home right away, not to Alex's bowls and bed and toys still around the house. I wasn't ready to face the house without her presence. On Wednesday night after I came home, I sent out the obligatory email. I made some phone calls. I decided I would make a little tribute to her on my myspace page, so I got out the photo album. Her bed was still on the floor and I thought it might be good for me to dispose of it. But as I walked toward it I realized I wasn't ready to toss it just yet, and I laid down on the floor and rested my head on it. I ended up falling asleep that way, and for the second night in a row, I slept on the floor.

These last few days have been a rollercoaster of ups and downs. I know things will even out with time, my heart will heal, and I'll stop crying all the time. I'll be able to come home and not feel a lump in my throat every time I open the front door and remember that she's not here anymore, and eventually I'll get used to life without a dog. One of these mornings I'll get out of bed and not look for shoes to put on right away to take her out. Someday I'll not think about how I need to rush home in between classes to walk her. I'll have to start remembering to pick up food that falls on the floor. When you do something every day for over 15 years and then it's not there anymore...it takes some adjustment.

This truly is the end of an era. Having had Alex since I was 21, she was with me through thick and thin, through every trial and tribulation, joy and celebration of my adult life. She was like a fixture. A big, stinky, furry, destructive, yet lovable fixture, always there through every move, every relationship, every life event. She had a long, happy life, and I was blessed beyond reason to have her as long as i did. Even still, there will never be a day in my life that I don't wonder if I really did the right thing. But I have a feeling that she's having a good old time tearing something up wherever she is. Hopefully the folks in charge of the Rainbow Bridge remembered to put away their hardcover books.

Rest in peace, Alex. May 6, 1992 - October 17, 2007.

A once-in-a-lifetime event: Meeting Henry

Tonight I met the greatest hero of my life, Henry Rollins. Some of you might remember a little over a year ago when I posted about my homage-in-ink to him on my back. Well, tonight I got to show him - in person - just how much he means to me after his spoken word show, thanks to a connection I have with the venue's management. We took some photos, I got his autograph on my favorite book of his, Black Coffee Blues, and we chatted for about ten minutes.

Ironically, he had talked at length during the three-hour performance about meeting his heroes and turning into a blushing, blithering idiot in their presence, like an 11-year-old meeting the newest teen sensation at a strip mall appearance.

So anyway, after the show I was escorted to the back door by security where I waited for Henry to come out. After he finished signing autographs and chatting with the small group of fans on the sidewalk, he came over to me, and the entire little speech I'd prepared for weeks was no longer on the tip of my tongue. What came out instead was, "Henry, I want you to know that I'm trying REALLY hard not to be an 11-year-old at a strip mall right now." He laughed, and I went on to tell him how big an impact he's had on my life.

When it was all over, I thought, "wow, that was a lot more laid-back than I thought it would be!" He's really down to earth, very friendly, and extremely humble. This, 0f course, has much to do with my admiration for him. I was very surprised at how composed I remained; I did not pass out, I did not pee my pants (and yes, I was worried about both of those things happening). But aside from my flushed appearance and giddy smile, I think I held myself together quite nicely.

But then I realized that I never even told him my name! Duh! Well, anyway, here are some photos of the excitement!


Waiting in front of Henry's bus, book and Sharpie at the ready!


We were talking about Chicago and all the shows I saw when I lived there.


Okay, now he was impressed with the tattoo, but in this picture I can't figure out if he's thinking, "Oh, yeah, check this out!" or "This chick is whack!" I know what I was thinking - "Holy shit, Henry Rollins is holding my hair!"


One final parting shot. A little blurry, but I like it anyway.

And just for the record, it really feels incredible to be able to check off a goal on your life's list! I don't know how to thank the people who made this happen, but I can assure you there is a very special place in heaven for them! Or at least some free coffee...

I don't even really like baseball!

I wish people could be more grown-up when it comes to expressing feelings and desires. I include myself in this list, of course, as I am notorious for saying everything BUT what I mean to say, circumventing the issue at hand and at times getting all cryptic and weird. Then I take my frustrations out and vent to people who aren't even part of the situation, and end up tangling more people than necessary into the web o'drama.

*Gratuitous Baseball Metaphor Alert*

If we all had more balls to just step up to the plate and take a swing, the world would be a much happier place. Even if you strike out, at least you know you've struck out and aren't left standing there wondering whether to drop the bat and run or retreat back to the bench. And sometimes you surprise yourself and hit it out of the park. But so many of us never even pick up that bat.

Cheesy analogies aside, why is this? Is it fear of rejection? Trepidation in the face of the unknown? A gunshy attitude based on previous experience? The desire to "spare" others' feelings? Why can't we just come right out and say, "Hey, you really pissed me off," or "I dig you" or "Yes, those pants make your ass look big," or "Sorry, I'm not into you that way," or countless other sentiments? Granted, one is required to be relatively tactful and diplomatic when offering such statements, and few people possess the necessary tools for being so. Even still, if we all started being more honest and straightforward with each other, there would be some broken hearts and disappointments, sure, but there would be a hell of a lot fewer misunderstandings.

I am Veruca Salt.

I want the world
I want the whole world
I want to lock it all up in my pocket
It's my bar of chocolate
Give it to me
Now!

-Veruca Salt, in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory

As I stated in a previous post, I have issues with delayed gratification. I want everything, and I want it yesterday. And this bothers me.

I was originally going to post this in my diet blog because I figured out that a lot of my food issues stem from the instant gratification compulsion, i.e. I don't have the patience to cook. But then I realized that so much else in my life, so much of what drives people - and myself - crazy about me is the fact that I'm simply too damn impatient. I hate waiting. This may be behind my chronic tardiness as well. If I'm late, I join the action in progress and don't have to wait around for it to start. It also has a lot to do with my housekeeping issues. I want my house to be clean, but I don't have the patience to clean it. I unwittingly sabotage relationships because I don't stop to savor the stages of development, and tend to come on way too strong way too soon. Despite my best intentions, I always screw it up. But yeah, I'm sure you get the idea.

So this week we started learning how to "throw" in ceramics class. For the record, I hate that fucking class. I'm not good at it, I'm not particularly interested in it, it's obnoxiously messy, and the teacher is a straight-up jerk sometimes. He does a marvelous job of making me feel really stupid, in fact. Anyway, the other day I was sitting at my wheel, fighting with a spinning lump of wet clay (and wearing a good deal of it as well) and all I wanted to do was turn it into a bowl. Just a bowl. Nothing fancy, nothing extreme, just a god damned bowl. Well, it's a lot harder than it looks, and I couldn't even get the stupid thing to stay on the wheel, let alone get it centered or shape it into anything that looked remotely like a bowl. In fact, at one point I looked at my creation and thought, "Wow, that's a really great rendition of a pile of dog poo."

This semester sucks.

The Gynecological Picnic

Oh, fun! A post about my lady-parts! Men blog-watchers, you may want to go back and read about my sign again, or go play in the archives for a little while until the next post. This is not the kind of lady-part blog entry that's any fun, trust me.

All righty then! So today I had to go for the first in a set of tests I have to have to take a "closer look" at stuff. And like most women, the OB/Gyn office is one of my least favorite places to go. I have tried in vain for years to find a gynecologist who's not also an obstetrician, but they are apparently a dying breed. Literally - like, they're all 90 years old. They're also all male with incomprehensible accents. Not that there's anything wrong with a male gynecologist (my first one, in fact, was a man and I adored him), but when it comes to my most precious body parts, I'd prefer someone I can understand and who does not resemble an Indian Montgomery Burns.

So, yeah. The OB/Gyn office sucks. Not only is it an all-around unpleasant experience, but it is exacerbated by the fact that I'm surrounded by pregnant woman all talking about their kicking fetuses and their swollen feet and their newfound aversion to orange juice because it makes their morning sickness go on all day. Oooh, so THAT's what Florence Henderson was talking about with that whole"Orange Juice - It's not just for breakfast anymore!" commercial campaign. Well anyhow, not only am I surrounded by women with whom I have nothing in common, but I am also surrounded by nothing to read except magazines geared toward the breeding crowd. Did you know there is actually a magazine called "Conceive" that features articles - among other things - on how to make your bedroom more pleasant for baby-making activities? Yowza. As if the sperm is going to come out and look around at the wallpaper and candles and think, "yeah, this is very tastefully decorated, nice ambiance...betcha there's some good eggs in HERE!" or conversely, take one look at the piles of dirty laundry and torn comforter and go, "Oh, hell no, I'm not swimming any further in this dump!" Whatever. Shouldn't there be a Cosmo around here somewhere? Or at least a Reader's Digest? Good God.

Luckily I didn't have to wait too long (and for this I was especially grateful since my bladder was extremely full, as it has to be when you go for one of these things) and after only a few minutes of reading how a $1,100 bed from Crate and Barrel would be more conducive to getting it on with your baby's daddy, I was whisked into the ultrasound room. Here's where the surreality begins. I'm told to drop trou and hop on the table. Warm jelly stuff is smeared all over my abdomen and the technician moves what looks like a wide roll-on bottle with a cord over the slime. She is silent. I crack jokes. She doesn't smile. I say, "Do you see anything?" She says, "I see your uterus. I see your ovaries."

I say, "But do you see anything IN any of those things?" She says, "I'm not allowed to tell you."

Um...this is MY uterus we're looking at, no? So why can't she tell me anything? Apparently because she's not a doctor, she's not qualified to tell me if there's a baseball-sized cyst on my ovary or some foreign object growing in my fallopian tube. I say, "Well, you would tell me if you saw anything bad, right?" Her answer, "I can't tell you anything either way, good or bad."

She finishes and tells me to go empty my bladder and come back for the second part of the test, and this is where things get a little more intimate. There is this wand with a sensor on the end of it, and the whole thing is covered with what looks like a giant condom, and ... oh hell, you're all adults; you can figure out what happens next, crikey. So while she's poking around in there and pressing on my stomach, I'm watching her face, which is watching the screen (which I cannot see, and even if I did wouldn't be able to tell what everything was anyway). She looks serious. I ask again, "Do you see anything?" and she says, "The radiologist will be able to tell you about anything we find." I lay back on the table and watch her some more. Her mouth is turned downward, her eyes are boring into the monitor. I can't tell if she's concerned or just concentrating. In any case, it's fucking annoying and scaring me.

This is going to be one really long week.

Getting in touch with my "other" roots

This weekend was the annual Oktoberfest party at the Central Terminal, where I've been a volunteer for the last four years. This year was the second year I donned the "Bier Wench" outfit for Oktoberfest, and as you can see from the above photo, I had a pretty good time!

Anyway, I've decided recently that while I am proudly ensconced in my Irish heritage, it's high time I started recognizing and appreciating the other nationalities of which I am made. The Irish part is easy because I just look the part so well (that, and the fact that Irish people tend to disregard/squelch/ignore/deny any other non-Irish part that might by lurking within the genes). However, just because the Irish part of me is so dominant does not mean I can't appreciate the other parts of me, one of which is, indeed, German. My grandmother on my father's side is of German descent, though it's something that we just never talked about in the family. My mother's side is mostly English and is largely settled in Canada.

Partaking in Oktoberfest celebrations has made me realize that I should be proud of my German heritage, even if it is just a small part of me. Watching some of the older German folks, dressed in their Oktoberfest finest and dancing the polka like pros, made me wish I was more connected with that side of me. Perhaps it is because that part has been repressed for so long, or maybe I just like the idea of being something other than Irish, I don't know. Or maybe because the Germans drink just as much as the Irish it appeals to me more than if I were, say, part Amish or something.

In any case, I've decided that I would like to explore my roots some more, research just where exactly my family came from - all of them, not just the Irish ones.

The soundtrack of our lives

We were born forever
We are twinned in a fugitive mind
Friends should stay together and
Light the world with the fugitive kind

-"Satellites" by Ricki Lee Jones


The other day I was walking through the pet store and this song was playing overhead. Suddenly I found myself stopped in my tracks, clutching a bag of dog food and sighing wistfully. There is so much about this song that means so much to me, and because it's not a song that gets a lot of, if any, play, it threw me off to hear it out of the blue like I did.

It's funny how a song can stir up memories that had long since been tucked away. Not memories like, "Oh remember the time we did such-and-such," but just random bits and pieces like the purple velvet bedspread you had in your dorm room, or the pack of Merit cigarettes that was always in your pocket. You remember things like Paul Masson "california carafe" wine and the Throwing Muses poster in your best friend's bedroom at Condo #7. Suddenly all this stuff comes rushing back, and you start thinking even further and deeper into it. You suddenly remember people you'd forgotten and the nicknames you'd given them. You remember the mauve tabletops in the cafeteria and the time "Equine Boobie" galloped over the catwalk. You remember Matt and his tea. You suddenly recall pieces and vignettes of conversations that were otherwise unmemorable.

Funny how all this can come back within the first few seconds of a song you haven't heard in a long time.

Funny how you start thinking of all the stuff that happened back then and how your life has been shaped by those things. You start to think about the path your life has taken and wonder how it would have been different if those things hadn't been a part of it. You can't control the feelings and emotions that wash over you in those seconds of recollection; they just come. And to think these things wouldn't have even crossed your mind had you not decided that you needed dog food at that moment...it's kind of weird, isn't it?

Astrological musings and tattoo meanings

I'm often asked what the tattoo on my chest is. Some people have asked me, "Why do you have a number two on your chest?" and "Is that the Pi symbol?" (The latter is the funniest one, because anyone who knows me knows that math is so totally not my thing).

It's a Gemini sign surrounded by three stars, representing both my sign and my number, placed purposely on the left side of my chest (so that it's directly over my heart). Hey, some folks wear their hearts on their sleeves; I wear my sign on my boob. Kind of the same thing, yeah?

Anyway, I know many people like to discredit astrology as a bunch of bunk, but most of my definitions are so spot-on, it's hard to ignore the consistencies and similarities. If they weren't so accurate I would probably not be so adamant in defending my belief, but they are, and anyone who knows me even remotely well can see how the descriptions fit.

The Gemini Personality:

The symbol for Gemini is the twins, which stand for the duality and changeability of this sign.

'I THINK' is the motto for Gemini. Geminis are intelligent, with quick minds so they learn fast. They're always studying something, because they're curious about everything. Words trip off their tongues, in a quicksilver flow that makes them good at languages, marketing and anything that calls for the gift of the gab.

They can turn their hands to writing almost anything, whether a novel, play, speech or advertising copy. They like to know what's going on, hence their penchant for gossip. They're also witty and have a sense of mischief.

Variety is the spice of life for Gemini - they like to be in two places at once and have more than one thing on the go.

Their nervous energy and restlessness can give them a reputation for being unreliable and a bit of a butterfly. They can also appear glib.

They are the communicators of the zodiac.

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Numerology is a little trickier. Whereas in astrology you need look no further than the day you were born and the sign under which that day falls, numerology requires a little more calculation. Numbers vary according to different categories; typically you have many numbers - a sun number, a life path number, a personality number, a birth number, etc. Your personality number is based on adding up the letters in your full name, and is typically the number with which you most closely define yourself. The letters correspond with a series of numbers which are then added up and reduced to the lowest number. In my case, the letters add up to 21, then 2 + 1 = 3.

3 - OPTIMIST

Traits:creative, social, easygoing visionary, humorous, energetic, spontaneous.

The number 3 symbolizes the principle of growth. When the initiating force of 1 unites with the germinating energy of 2 there is fruitfulness -- 3. It signifies that there is a synthesis present -- that imagination and an outpouring of energy is in action. The 3 is optimistic and fun-loving, and strives to uplift and color its surroundings. Its energy is enlivening, youthful, and enthusiastic.

Gifts: Enthusiasm, imagination, versatility

Challenges: Exaggeration, lack of direction, unfinished projects, sensitivity to criticism, laziness

Personal Goal: Enjoy life, stay young, play

Fears: Loss of youth, restriction, boredom

Succeeds as: Motivator, coach, writer, musician, artist, parent, salesperson, communicator/all media

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Now of course there are some inconsistencies here. Succeeds as parent? Uh, no. Coach? Well maybe if you count my designation as a Learning Coach at work. Definitely nothing having to do with sports. But everything else fits so tightly it's almost frightening. One need only to look through the blog entries preceding this one to see that these descriptions are accurate.

If you delve further into it and start looking at things like compatibility and relationships and career paths, it makes even more sense. Geminis typically get along best with other Geminis. As crazy as this might sound (because, in essence, there are four personalities involved in a Gemini-Gemini relationship), it's true. The two relationships I've had with Geminis have been long-term, serious, intense, energetic, truly loving, and sexually supercharged (sorry if that's too much information, but it's true). When I look back on other previous relationships, I see patterns that can't really be disputed. Relationships with Sagittariuses have all been volatile and full of drama, ending badly. Relationships with Virgos were frustrating and difficult to maintain. Leos drive me up the fucking wall with their constant need for validation and assurance.

This is not to say I date or choose friends based on someone's sign (although declaration of Sagittarius status usually puts me on high alert). I just think it's interesting. And it's fun to see how people naturally fill the roles of their signs. I think I fill mine pretty damn well.

Happy Surprises Rule!

Today we got the project sheet for the next assignment in my Illustration class, and I read with dread all the stuff we're required to buy for it. Now, you would think that at this point I've amassed a collection of supplies - and I have, but not much that I need for this class. It's all new media for the most part, media in which I've not yet worked. So while, yes, my t-square and my massive pad of tracing paper and my precision rule have come in handy, I do not own technical pens or a Crowquill pen. Then there is the constant need for presentation supplies, which I tend to buy as I need, because if I buy too many at one time they tend to float around and get damaged. So anyway, I'm thinking "man, this is going to cost me some money that I don't have," and I started worrying about how to budget this week's paycheck to cover the cost of a couple of $17 pens, illustration board, bristol board, and cover stock.

Upon coming home this afternoon, however, I found in my mail a dividend check for $102 from my insurance company! Thanks to everyone who has State Farm and drives carefully, I got some of my money back on my premium. Woo-hoo! So now I can buy my supplies AND some groceries, too! I love when stuff like this just falls in my lap!

Maybe I'll go buy a lottery ticket, just for good measure.

Creativity on demand

Now in my third year as a design major, I'm discovering a disturbing trend: I struggle immensely with being creative on demand. When I started school, I had stars in my eyes and big dreams of finally earning a living doing something I love to do. I thought back to all those days in Chicago when I had my drafting table set up in the corner of my kitchen on Whipple Street, and how on my days off I would wake up, put on a pot of coffee, and draw all day in my pajamas. I thought of all the days and late nights spent doctoring photos and drawing on the computer, teaching myself the ins and outs of Adobe Photoshop. I recalled the greeting cards I used to make, and how everyone who received one would rave about how I really should be doing this sort of thing for profit. And so I went in, thinking "this is going to be great!"

However when forced to create, I lock up. Deadlines paralyze me, as does the fear of criticism. I don't think I'm exceptionally good at anything, to be honest. My book, which has been in the works for years at this point, sits dormant in ancient Word files. Half-finished vignettes and dangling endings plague me, and I don't think I'll ever finish because I just can't figure out how to wrap it all up. I have a portfolio full of stuff I'm not all that excited about. I have a cache of unfinished songs that I've written. I know how to play only parts of songs. I get to a certain point in lessons and give up, opting instead to stick with what I know instead of challenging myself to do more.

This goes with something I realized while struggling with the piece I'm working on in Ceramics class -- I don't do well with delayed gratification. If I'm not good at something immediately, I get extremely frustrated. The trouble with this is that most art, whether it's fine art, design, music, writing, etc, is a process. One must have patience to see the process through, and well, patience has never been my thing.

And now I'm losing patience with this blog entry, so I'm going to stop here.

Comings and goings

I'm not always right. I'll admit that. But when you've been on this earth for 36 years and have the type of history that I do, you tend to possess a wealth of knowledge and experience that only someone who's been there can relate to. You tend to become a much better judge of character, because chances are you've dealt with the type before. You almost feel like you can predict the future based on the past; you've lived in a few different places, you've traveled a bit, you've worked every job known to mankind, and have known/met/dated practically every type out there.

So when someone finally realizes that you are, indeed, not so full of shit after all, you understand that they just needed some time to figure it out. And it makes you happy. Not in an "I told you so" sort of way, but more in an "I'm glad you finally came around" kind of way. When people start coming around and realizing that your complaints were valid, that your arguments held water, that your observations were real, that your perceptions and opinions weren't just the result of some odd psychosis...it makes the struggles worth it.

It is this that keeps me sane during periods of strife and conflict, because I know that as long as I'm sure I know what I'm doing and what I'm talking about, eventually I'll get my point across, and it will become evident that I'm not so "out there" after all. And no matter how many people try to make me feel inadequate, stupid, crazy, unstable, ugly, or otherwise unworthy of existing, I sleep well knowing that the ground upon which I stand is solid, *I* know who I am, and at the end of the day, I'm the only one who has to answer to myself.

New fur!

By happenstance, a little black and white kitten has found her way into my home - and my heart. Meet Giblets, the newest addition to the ever-growing furry family!




She's about five months old, and I swear she's the reincarnation of Lepew. She's completely affectionate, friendly, and vocal - everything that Turkey is not (yes, that's correct; my cats' names are Turkey and Giblets). It was only somewhat accidental that she arrived to the Planet Deedums Zoo; a few weeks back I was browsing some online pet ads, just because I'm a freak and like to look at the photos. Well, this little girl struck me for some reason, so I responded to the ad. The woman who'd placed the ad replied that she'd already adopted this kitten out, so I figured it was just not time to get another kitten and I went on with my life.

Then two days ago, I got an email from the woman again, telling me that the original adopter wasn't a good fit, and that the kitten was mine if I wanted her. Well, that was all the sign I needed. I picked her up yesterday, and for the last 36 hours or so have been enduring a cacophony of hisses and growls, punctuated by an occasional cat-scream. Yikes. I've never had more than one cat before, except the time my roommates surprised me with two kittens that they'd brought home and I swiftly moved Lepew to my boyfriend's house. So this is totally new to me. From what I'm told, eventually things will calm down and they'll become friends. I'm hoping this is true, since the whole idea behind getting another cat in the first place was to ease the transition for Turkey once Alex is gone (though I'm convinced at this point that dog is immortal).

Oh, and I welcomed four more rats into the colony a few weeks ago. Eight wasn't enough after all. Two of the four were babies from Paula's litter that came back because their new owner wasn't able to keep them. The other two were their cagemates.

At this point I'm beginning to think that buying stock in Petsmart might be a good idea.

Why the *%#! do you care?!

My family is the very definition of dysfunction - this I will not deny. However, in their favor, they have never been meddlers. When I hear friends speak of their overbearing and interfering parents, I thank my lucky stars that I was blessed with a mother who could care less about my personal life. This is not to say she's not interested in the things I do, but we have a strict, albeit unspoken, "don't ask, don't tell" policy when it comes to aspects of my life that are the most personal to me, e.g. friends, love, sex, relationships, money, health issues, etc.

Lately, I have been subjected to some discomfort from - of all people - strangers and those who do not have direct relevance in my life. Because I've been blessed with non-meddling family, I am never sure how to deflect rude questions. I try to answer politely, but it really boils my blood when I'm asked things that are nobody's business.

Now, I'm not exactly the most private person when it comes to discussing my personal life with my closest friends. I probably offer way more information than I should, but I do this with people I trust, people I love. Yet recently I've had a coworker come straight out and ask me questions about my financial state. And even more recently, I've endured a barrage of judgment and questions about my perpetual state of singlehood by people who just don't seem to get it.

See, I decided not too long ago that I had no desire to get married. This stems, partly, from the decision I made a number of years ago to not have children. It also stems from some pretty serious soul-searching in which I came to terms with the fact that I'm just not that good at maintaining healthy relationships. To some, this may appear as if I've given up. Have I? Maybe. But it's not something I'm all that upset about. If anything, I'm proud of the fact that I've stopped pining for Prince Charming and have continued to live my life - a healthy, fulfilling, and full one at that. I feel like as long as I continue to do this, the possibility of meeting someone who fits my life remains open. But it's not a priority, and I date, but with all the elan of a paper bag. Because marriage is not the ultimate goal, I really don't give a shit what my date may or may not think of me. The "Rules" do not apply here. I am who I am, and I've actually gotten pretty good recently at tossing the bad eggs off the island. It's amazing what you won't put up with once you've decided your own company is ultimately the best company to keep, and that being selfish is not necessarily a bad trait to have.

But I digress.

So this past week, a friend of mine from another country came to visit and was staying with some of my relatives. I accepted a dinner invitation, and hoped that the subject of my love life would not come up. Alas, it seems to be the main focus of this particular friend - this girl REALLY wants to marry me off. Within five minutes, the question came: "So, Deedee, when are you gonna get married?" With a sigh hinting of exasperation, I said, "Never." You would have thought I had just stabbed her in the thorax and called her mother a whore by the look of horror on her face.

For the next half hour, I had to defend my position. She was like a two-year-old, continually pestering, "But WHY?" She actually had the gall to say, "But I want to come to your wedding!" I said, only half-joking, "I'm too old to wear a white dress and dance in front of a bunch of people." Then my relatives' neighbor piped up and chimed in, "My sister didn't get married and have her first baby until she was 39!" Well, great. Maybe when I'm 39, I'll be in a place where I'll meet someone fantastic and it'll all work out. But I can guarantee there will be no babies, and if there is a wedding, it certainly won't be something to fly across the Atlantic to attend. I explained that even if I were ever to get married, I wouldn't have a large wedding, or even a small wedding for that matter. No white dress, no bridesmaids, no obnoxious DJ, no chicken in bearnaise sauce, no Hokey Pokey. This I thought for sure would be understood, as this friend had married her husband in a small civil ceremony with only one witness. Alas, this was not sufficient for her. Nor was it sufficient for the neighbor. "There's GOT to be a nice man around for you somewhere," I was told. Apparently they didn't notice that we're in Buffalo.

"Tell them you're a lesbian," I kept thinking to myself. "That'll really shut 'em up." But as questionable as my orientation might seem to some (I do hold "honorary lesbian" status, don't you know), I'm ultimately not gay -- and thought it insulting to my friends who are to falsely identify for the sake of worming out of an uncomfortable situation.

So finally, after a half hour of this nonsense, I took my leave. Resisting the urge to stand up and scream, "What is the MATTER with you people?! WHY THE FUCK DO YOU CARE?!?!?," I thanked them for the lovely dessert, came home, and canceled all my personal ads. Then I went to bed - alone - and relished it with a newfound appreciation for my solitude. Ah, yes. Single IS good.

And I don't care what anyone thinks of that.

Oprah has the answer: Polychronism!

A couple years back, I posted about my inability to be on time for anything. It's annoying to some, infuriating to others, and accepted by a select few. I've worked on it, I really have. I even got a little "talking to" by my boss recently, asking me to please keep an eye on the time and to give myself a few extra minutes. I'm never horrendously late for work - usually just a minute or two - but I'm late, nonetheless.

So. This morning while relishing my last true day of vacation (I go back to work tomorrow and start school in another week - for those who don't know, I took this week off to relax and hang out with some pals elsewhere), I found myself on Oprah's website. Now, I'm not normally an Oprah fan - at least not since I lived in Chicago and spent a good portion of my last four (unemployed) months there parked in front of my television - but yesterday I just happened to catch a preview of today's show while eating lunch in a restaurant. She was going to be interviewing Jeanette Walls, whose book The Glass Castle was a much-enjoyed read of mine last year. Since my television doesn't really work (the reception is maddeningly awful, so I don't even try), I logged on to see if I might be able to watch the show online. While poking around on the site, I stumbled upon a link to an article from last month's O Magazine. The headline was "Transition Anxiety," and the lead-in read, "If you're always running late, carelessness might not be to blame—your perception of time could be the culprit." Hmm...this sounded like something I might do well to read. And read I did!

Martha Beck, the author of the article, explains that people with "Polychronic" time perception aren't necessarily procrastinators, but rather have difficulty perceiving the amount of time it will take to complete a task and underestimate the transitions from one thing to the next. In other words, it's not getting to point B that's the problem, it's leaving point A that is. Polychrones, according to Beck:

• Do many things at once and are highly distractable.
• View time commitments as objectives.
• Are committed to people and relationships.
• Change plans often.
• Base promptness on the significance of the relationship.
• Have a strong tendency to build lifelong relationships.

Yep, that pretty much sums me up. So, thank you, Oprah and Martha Beck, for finally putting a name to my problem. Now I can figure out how the hell to fix it...as soon as I finish what I'm doing at the moment.

"You'll find someone good"

Sage wisdom from my friend Scott upon hearing that I'd removed myself from yet another less-than-ideal situation.

I honestly just don't understand it anymore. Then again, maybe I never did.

Out of sequestration!

And so I have, this evening, joined the ranks of those who have finished reading the seventh - and final - installment in the Harry Potter series.

It took me longer than I'd thought it would to read it, only because I was having some difficulty finding significantly adequate chunks of time during which to read. I hated the thought of trying to read it a few pages at a time, and my 10-minute breaks at work were just enough for me to get so engrossed in the story that I would return from the break feeling anxious and resentful about having had to stop reading.

I will admit that, yes, I cried throughout various points in the story, and at the end of it as well. My tears at the end were a mixture of sadness, happiness, bittersweetness, and the hollow feeling that comes from knowing you've reached the terminus of something you wish would never end. And yet I was almost disappointed at the ending.

Now, of course I cannot give said ending away or offer much commentary on it, at the risk of producing a spoiler for those of you who've not yet finished. But now at least I no longer need to shield myself from the blogs and messageboards and myriad commentary on the book.

I wonder if this is how the O.J. Simpson jury felt after the trial.

Defying the status quo

I graduated from a prestigious all-girls Catholic private school in Buffalo. It's not a "Catholic" school, per se (privately funded, not part of the Diocese), so I'm not a traditional "Catholic School Girl;" no uniforms or daily rosary readings or nuns beating me with rulers, but yes, I went to Nardin Academy.

When I tell people this, I get the same reaction: "YOU went to NARDIN?" I'm never sure if I should be insulted or flattered by this reaction, because I'm never quite sure how to interpret it. Is it that I don't seem smart enough to have gone there? Rich enough to have afforded it? Well-behaved enough to have managed to stay in? Or is it that my lack of success in life belies my superb educational background? Maybe it's because I didn't grow up to be a doctor or a lawyer or a software developer, or any of the other various "good" career paths chosen by my classmates. Maybe it's because I didn't grow up to marry a Canisius boy and pop out a mess of Nardlets whom I cart around in my M-class SUV. I mean, hell, I don't even own my own home, let alone a giant one in East Amherst.

This is not to say that I feel bad about any of the above possible reasons. I never wanted to be a lawyer, and was strong enough to face the truth about myself and a career in medicine two years into a pre-med program. I hate the suburbs, and I never even liked Canisius boys. I always thought they were obnoxious, spoiled, preppy jerks, and coming from the modest background that I did, felt I was - and never would be - snobby enough to fit into their social circles, even if I'd wanted to. Nope, I was happier dating the public school dirtbags and the occasional Timon boy, not to mention catching myself in a load of trouble with a dropout at one point. Yeah, I sold myself short most of the time.

But I digress. I suppose the status quo of the typical Nardin girl is nothing like what I've turned out to be. And I'm okay with that. I just wish people would be a little less obvious about registering such shock when they find out I'm an alumna.

Why I hate my job sometimes

It's 2:00 on a Saturday morning, and I'm wired on the grande skinny cocomoco (yes, I went to Spot - *gasp*!) I guzzled down earlier this evening. Why, in the name of all things holy, did I not order decaf? Because I have declared myself "immune" from the effects of caffeine. A silly and unrealistic declaration, for sure. I'm not immune, and now I'm posting a blog entry fewer than four hours before I need to be at work for an 8-1/2 hour shift. Ugh.

I never really minded working mornings, but lately as my summer winds to a close and my social life makes a final surge before school starts in a month, I'm getting increasingly annoyed with the fact that I have to cut my nights short to go to bed so I can wake up at the crack of ass to go to work on a Saturday. I was having FUN tonight, damn it! And it was all for naught, since all I did was come home, toss and turn, and get up to post a blog entry. I could have stayed out and been in the company of interesting people instead of this.

Alas, this is the nature of the beast. Ironically, the reason I'm working in the morning is because I didn't want to work tomorrow evening in favor of going to see some beloved bands playing out. So I suppose it's, as they say, six of one and half a dozen of the other. And until I figure out a way to be independently wealthy or talk my boss into letting me work short mid-shifts on the weekends, I suppose I'm stuck.

Why am I always alone when this stuff happens?

This afternoon, as I was sitting at the light at Hinman and Delaware, I noticed a woman at the bus stop. There was nothing extraordinary about her, really; she was older, maybe in her 60's, and had kind of funky, longish gray hair. Anyway, as I watched her, she pulled out from her dollar store bag a bottle of talcum powder, the contents of which she proceeded to dump down her pants. She was, I could tell, trying to be somewhat surreptitious about this, tugging slightly at the waistband and holding the powder bottle closely, but there was no denying what she was doing.

As I watched this, I burst out in hysterics. I mean, sure, we all need a little freshening up now and then, right? But something about this scene just seemed so odd to me, and I had to laugh. What sucked, though, was that I had no one with me to share in this oddity. I just think it would have been funnier if someone else had seen it, too. This doesn't surprise me, as I spend a great deal of my free time by myself. That is to say, when I'm not at work or out socializing, I am usually by myself. And even when I go out, I normally arrive and depart solo. This is not a bad thing, but when I see something funny, I do sometimes wish there were someone sitting in the car with me so that they can at least corroborate my story.

And I only see stuff like this when I'm by myself.

A perfect example of this is That Guy Who Walks Down Delaware. I see this guy every day, sometimes several times a day. He wears a red cap, sunglasses, has a white moustache, and carries a black bag, looking ever determined like a man on a mission. Every day, no matter what time of year it is, I see this guy walking. I see him as far down as Forest Lawn and as far north as Kenmore. I've seen him early in the morning, I've seen him late at night. A couple of months ago, I saw him exiting an apartment building in Kenmore. But whenever I ask anyone about him, no one knows who I'm talking about. I feel like I'm in a Twilight Zone episode sometimes, the way people look at me quizzically and make that face like, "oooo-kay..." when I talk about him. And whenever he walks past my work, by the time I'm able to point him out to anyone, he's out of sight. That Guy moves pretty swiftly.

I see him so much that I'd decided a while back that if I ever got close enough, I was going to talk to him, ask him what his deal was, ask him where he's always walking to, maybe try and get a glimpse into that bag. One day I saw him in the laundromat, but I was only there to pick up my cleaning, so I didn't have time to try and sidle up to him and strike up a conversation. I got my chance again a couple weeks ago, and I chickened out. I was shopping for shoes in Target, and because I was shopping for work shoes, I was in the boys' section (I have little feet). As I was trying on some super cute athleisure lace-ups, this figure cast a shadow over me. I looked up, and there was That Guy, shopping for new sneakers in the mens' section. I froze. I got nervous. I mean, here was a guy that I have seen and wondered about every day for the last four years, and he was practically breathing down my neck. I kept thinking I should ask him about his shoes, maybe make a comment about how he must go through a lot of sneakers with all the walking he does. I wanted to snap a photo of him, and send it to a bunch of people, but as fate would have it, my phone was in the car. Curses! In the end, I walked away having not said a peep to him.

Since then, I've continued to see That Guy, but never do I ever have anyone with me when I do. But at least now I know where he got those new sneakers.

Eight is Enough

Meet Pepper, the newest addition to my rattie family! She's a Dumbo (see the ears?) Black Berkshire. I picked her up earlier this week from my friend Amanda in Rochester, and she was well worth the drive!



So this brings me now to eight rats in my colony. I think I'm going to stop for a while, since I think eight rats is all I can reasonably manage.

I went to the fabric store today to buy fabric to make new pads for the cage, and the woman working at the cutting counter asked me what I was making with all this cute, brightly-colored, girly-patterned fleece. I said, "I'm making bedding for my rats' cage," at which she responded, "Rats?! You mean, like, rat rats?" I affirmed this and she said, "Oh, tell me you are not sewing for rats!" I stopped short of saying, "Oh, but I am...and I COOK for them, too!"

What was funnier was the woman standing behind me really liked the pink and purple "Princess" patterned cotton and asked if she could have the bolt when I was done having it cut. She asked me what I was making with it, and I said, "a hammock for my rats." She kind of choked and said, "Oh. I'm making pajamas for my granddaughter." I guess you had to be there, but it was funny at the time.

So yeah, I've got a new baby, and I'm finally gonna bust out the sewing machine and try my hand at making some simple pads and a hammock for the cage. It shouldn't be too difficult, but then you've never seen my sewing. It's on par with my cooking, so these poor rats may end up with some weirdly-shaped stuff. But I'm sure they won't mind. And besides, they seem to like my cooking.

Embarassment and Triumph, Part III (with new toy)!

Aaahhhh....stepping out of the clean shower into a clean bathroom is heavenly! The "before" photo of the bathroom really doesn't do the mess justice - it had actually gotten much worse before it got better, but just try to imagine a few more towels and clothes on the floor, and fixtures in sad need of scrubbing. The after photos don't really show how squeaky clean the tub and sink are, but trust me - they sparkle!

Bathroom before: And after:



AND! I did the music room today, too. I went to the music store today to buy a mute kit for my drumset (so I can practice whenever I damn well please), and while I was there I saw a keyboard on sale that I couldn't resist. So I bought it, and was inspired to clean up the music room so that I can spend hours of clutter-free practice time in there! Now that I can actually access my instruments with ease, I might actually play them as often as I should! Yay!!!

Before:





After!





It's music to my eyes!

I still have the basement and the upstairs work studio to work on, but I think for now I'm just gonna enjoy my living space. In a few days I'm going to try and sort out the various closets and cabinets and make them more user-friendly. Most of them are jumbled messes with the exception of my bedroom closet, which is beautifully organized these days - gotta keep track of all those damn shoes, of course!

Stay tuned, dear blog-watchers! There is much more to come!

Embarassment and Triumph, Part II

The bedroom is done, and I can now sleep easy. There is something to be said for sleeping in a clean room - somehow sleep just seems to come easier when you're unobstructed by clutter.

I call my bedroom "The Princess Lair" because it is, unlike most of the other rooms in the house, very girly. Definitely shabby chic and very feminine, and I like it that way. One time a while ago when my place was clean (because it wasn't always so messy, you know), a friend of mine came over and looked in there and expressed shock at how girly it was. I asked why he was so surprised, and his response was, "I don't know, I figured you'd have it decorated in, like, a Harley motif or something." God, I hope that's not really the image I project!

Well anyway, here's the moment you've been waiting for -- another set of before and after images! Woo-hoo!

Before:



After:
(Yeah, there really was a bed under all that crap)!



I'll be going to bed now.

Small town city

I really don't know what it is, but I have this uncanny knack for running into people I know every time I venture out. Not just people I know from working with the public - I don't count those people, unless they're regular customers with whom I've established a deeper rapport - but people I know on a personal level. It seems like no matter where I go or what I'm doing, I run into at least one person I know. Stores, restaurants (remember the buffet bust?), shows, bars, festivals, or even just driving down the street...there's always someone.

I used to think Chicago was the biggest small town I'd ever lived in, but Buffalo has it beat. Today I was driving back from running errands in Williamsville, and as I was inching along on the expressway in rush-hour traffic, I pulled up next to a familiar-looking car. It was, indeed, a fellow partner from Starbucks. Then I was in Target, and as I rounded the corner of an aisle, I ran into my cousin. Then as I was driving home I heard a beep next to me, and there was my drum teacher and her roommate waving at me.

Note to self: don't commit any felonies. Someone will recognize you.

For the love of rats

I was recently asked by someone how I got into rats. Those of you who know me know all about my obsession, but not many people know how it happened. Having been asked the question a few times now, I thought it prudent to compose a blog entry with the answer. And in formulating said answer, it occurred to me that my love of the critters came about quite accidentally.

I've always been an animal lover. There has never been a time in my life, save for the first four years, that I have been completely petless. For the past several years I'd thought about getting a rat, and often I would stop at the rat cages in various pet stores and watch them. Part of it has to do with their "underdog" status in society, I suppose, but in observing them and talking to people who've owned them, I was intrigued by their sweetness and brightly intelligent nature. So one day in March of 2006, I was in the local pet shop buying dog food, and I asked the girl if they had any rats. They did, but they were kept in the back in the "feeder" tank. I asked if I could look, and she let me back there. There was a white and black hooded rat who looked at me quizzically through the glass, so I asked if I could hold her. They took her out and handed her to me, and she squirmed a bit, but I held her tight, looked into her eyes, and said, "Listen, rat, you're coming home with me, it's a good place, you're going to love it there, and that's final. Understood?" The rat immediately calmed down, almost went limp, and I was in love.

I brought her home, named her Nancy (another story in itself), and couldn't believe how cool she was. A couple months later I got her a cagemate, as I had read that rats quite literally require the companionship of another rat, and just happened to see an ad on craigslist for a female rat that was being given away. The cagemate had a rough start (suffice to say her name "Dash" was given to her due to the fact that she'd escaped in the car on the way home and spent three days living in my dashboard before I was able to coax her out) and she was a bit more of a challenge, as she had been kept alone for quite a while and had had no socialization. Eventually she came around, though, and I fell in love with her, too.

A few months later, I decided a third rat was in order, so this time I went to a breeder, a fellow in the Grant-Amherst area who specializes in exotics. Ivy was the most obnoxious rat I'd ever met; completely misbehaved and resistant to any kind of affection or discipline, and she ended up scurrying into the darkness one night. But still I couldn't stop. I had this huge cage now, and I felt compelled to fill it. I brought Rosie home from Steve's Pets in Williamsville one morning, introduced her to Nancy and Dash, and the three became fast pals.

I still had all this room, so one day this past March I was in the same store where I'd gotten Nancy, and that's where I got Paula. If you look back into the archives, you'll see the post about Paula and her babies - but just to refresh your memory, I brought Paula home not knowing she was pregnant. Three weeks after I brought her home, she had her litter of fifteen babies. I had to keep the babies for at least five weeks before I could adopt them out, so at that point I had 19 rats.

A couple of weeks after the babies were born, Nancy passed away despite the valiant efforts of the vet to save her. I was heartbroken. Nancy was, as we call it in the rattie-loving world, my "heart rat." She was the one who introduced me to the love of rats, to the coolness that rats could be, to the loyalty and affection one could never believe would come from a rodent. Nancy spent hours riding on my shoulder, content to just watch the world from her perch. Everyone who met Nancy fell in love with her. Nancy was, to sum it up, one really cool rat. Shortly after Nancy died, Dash, who'd been ill but until Nancy's death was making a recovery, fell seriously ill again and also passed away. It was very tough losing two rats in a week's time, but bittersweet knowing that Dash just gave up without Nancy.

At 5 weeks, I had to separate the babies by sex. I knew I was keeping a few of the girls, so I decided to invest in the most coveted of all cages known to rodent owners the world over: The Midwest Ferret Nation. This thing is a behemoth of shelves and levels, a powder-coated luxury rodent condominium on wheels that cost me more than a week's pay. I spent the days preceding its arrival trolling thrift shops and dollar stores to outfit it with brightly colored blankets and toys. After it arrived and I put it together, I then spent two days covering it with 1/4" hardware cloth becuase the bars were spaced too far apart and could easily facilitate escape. But when all was said and done, I filled it with my treasures, and the rats were, as only rats can be, thrilled. The best find was the Weebils treehouse that plays music when the rats step on the ferris wheel. It's awesome to be sitting here and suddenly hear the tinkling and beeping of canned circus music coming from the cage. The first time it happened I nearly jumped out of my chair, but I've gotten used to it, and it makes me laugh. Anyway, the thing is a cinch to clean, and it has made my rat ownership that much easier.

After I'd adopted out all the girls I was giving away, I still had two boys. Bob and Nathan were the coolest, but I couldn't let them live in the Ferret Nation with the girls. I shopped around for a vet who could neuter them, but in the end it just proved too costly, so with a heavy heart, I decided to put them up for adoption. As fate would have it, five minutes after I placed the ad I got a response from a girl who had the exact opposite problem as me - she had two girls that shd couldn't put in the large cage with all her boys. So one Friday morning last month, I delivered Bob and Nathan to her house, and came away with Dex and Moushe. It was a worthwhile trade; I've since heard that Bob and Nathan adjusted fantastically and are much-loved by their new owner and cagemates, and my two new girls, despite an initial fracas in which Rosie's right ear was badly damaged, have made friends here.

I have another girl in the wings, a baby from my friend Amanda in Rochester who, ironically, had taken two of my babies from Paula's litter. Right after she adopted my girls, she had an accidental breeding of one of hers. So see, in the rat community, we never really get rid of our rats, we just trade them back and forth. :-)

So that's the story of my rats. I don't see myself ever not having rats now, and it's hard for me to imagine life without them. Yet despite my best efforts to educate the rest of the non-rat world on the joys of rodentia, it's a tough sell. But that's okay, because as long as there are people like me in the world, rats will always have a place on this earth.

Now I suppose I should include some photos with this entry, just so you can see for yourself how adorable these little kids are!

The Ferret Nation!



Nancy (RIP) meets Turkey the kitten:



More Nancy:



Dash (RIP):



Dash and Rosie spooning!



Moushe squishing into the little house:



Liza in the Treehouse:



How many rats can squish into one igloo? I think I counted six:



I should send these to McDonalds, lol!






Now tell me they're gross!

Embarassment and Triumph, Part I

Operation Project Toss Redux is well underway, and holy shit I have a lot of crap! In the past week I've thrown away no fewer than five Hefty bags full of stuff, and that's just from the living room, dining room, and kitchen. I still have a bathroom, a bedroom, a music room, a basement, and a studio space to clear out and organize. But here is the first round of photos, representing three solid days' worth of work.

Keep in mind that this is a "work in progress;" once the cleaning is completed, there is remodeling on the horizon. I like the kitchen the way it is, but the living room and dining room will look much different when all is said and done. I plan on painting over the awful paneling, the horrid orange carpet will be ripped up and replaced with laminate (or the floors underneath will be restored if they are able to be), and I have vertical blinds to install in the living room, replacing the cat-battered miniblinds.

So, without further ado...

Kitchen before:



And after:





Another kitchen view before:



And after:



Living Room before:





And after:





Dining Room before (God, this is SO embarrassing!):





And after:





So there you have it! More photos to come...

The Greatest Thing EVER

So I bought myself a P-touch labeler, and it is the single most awesome thing I have ever owned in my life. As part of Operation Project Toss, it has become the most indispensible tool in organizing my crap.

And to think I made so much fun of my boss for labeling everything at work...she really was on to something!

Kicking ass and taking hints

Why are people such cowardly shits sometimes? I mean, it's like this: if you don't like me, just tell me. I'll get over it. But if you just ignore me and expect that I'll simply fade into the ether, I mean...come on. Let's be grown-ups here, shall we? It's not that I can't take a hint, it's that I refuse to, based on mere principle.

*frantically searches for dog-eared copy of He's Just Not That Into You*

Where is the line? Seriously! If I decide to move on my own terms I'm selfish. If I blow off a date or do not avail myself, I'm chastised. Yet if I show enthusiasm or optimism, I'm branded a stalker.

I give up. I just can't fucking win this one. Short of getting a personality transplant, I'm doomed in this department. And ironically enough, this time I wasn't even looking for anything. It found me, and it still kicked my ass.

To the Curb

Operation Project Toss Redux continues.

My mom is having a garage sale next weekend, and I'm furiously trying to go through all my shit and figure out what I don't need anymore. I'm convinced that if I just clear all the junk from my house, the junk in my head will follow closely behind. It's actually a proven fact that a messy house = a messy mind, and vice versa. Ironically enough, it's also been proven that messy people are pretty damn smart. I'm not kidding; studies have been done correlating IQ with level of messiness. Something about how the smarter you are, the more pies your fingers are likely to be poking around in, the more interests you have, and the more likely you are to collect stuff. It goes with being creative as well - to a creative mind, there is a potential use for just about anything.

This all makes sense to me, but it's a vicious irony, because I have all this crap laying around with the intention to turn it into something someday, and in the meantime I'm hindering my ability to get anything done in the here and now. Ah, Procrastination, my old friend...time to kick your ass to the curb.

Speaking of the curb, why will I never, ever learn my lesson when it comes to letting people into my life who don't belong there? Well, maybe I'll figure it out once I get rid of all this shit piled up all over the house.

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Oh, and I've lost 16.8 pounds! Squeeeee! If you're interested in reading still more of my ramblings, musings, and grumblings related to this venture, check out my other blog!

Operation Project Toss Redux

In my initial post way back in March of 2005, I mentioned that I am an incurable messie. I've thought about blogging more about it, but it's pretty damn embarrassing, to be honest. Basically, I suffer from CHAOS - Can't Have Anyone Over Syndrome.

So anyway, here I am trying to find things to do with myself instead of eat. I decided that cleaning the house would be something that might keep me occupied for, oh, about six years, so this morning I set to work. An hour into it, I got a call from the Williamsville store asking me if I could cover a shift this afternoon. Being the hour whore that I am lately, I said yes, dropped my trash bag, and hopped in the shower. By the time I got home all I wanted to do was eat dinner and watch a movie and take a nap. But this place is getting to the point where even I can't stand it. Yeah, it's that bad. So I decided that this summer's project is going to be getting this dump into some semblance of order. I'm calling this "Operation Project Toss Redux." (The original OPT was a few years ago before moving here). I took photos, in fact, but I'm not going to post them until I've finished the job.

This is not a job for the weak at heart, believe me. Despite having pushed myself for the last couple of hours to try and at least make a dent, it seems like such an endless venture, like Sisyphus and that damn boulder. Well, at least I won't be bored. Between the diet and the house project, I'm gonna be getting rid of a lot of junk. I hope.

And hey...I lost 5.4 pounds! Ha!

The Fat Chick Speaks

Weight Loss Counselor: So, Deanna, if you continue in your current habits, where do you see yourself a year from now?

Me: Dead.


Morbid? Yes. Exaggeration? Not so much. As stated before, many moons ago when I gave Weight Watchers my 14th try, this is not a weight loss blog. Chronicling the ebb and flow of the number on the scale and blogging about every morsel that passes my lips is not the point of this venture. But it's worth mentioning that my weight is something I've struggled with my whole life, starting when I was about 10 years old. I put up a humorous, Roseann-esque front about it most of the time (like yesterday when I pointed out the irony of the shirt I was wearing - it had whales on it), but deep inside I've always known it would be my demise if not lassoed and corralled for good.

When I was in my 20's, weight loss came easily. Weight gain came easier. I bounced up and down the scale at astonishing speeds. And then when I turned 30, it was like I could hear the audible grinding halt of my metabolism, damaged by years of yo-yo-ing and a myriad of eating disorders, and I've done little else but pack on weight ever since. I'm not going to crunch numbers here, or reveal how much I actually weigh, but I will say that I am officially 108 pounds heavier than I was six years ago, and the most I've ever weighed in my life. Somewhere in those six years I lost about 40 pounds, and put it back on, then lost 35, and put that back on even faster. And while it's been weighing heavy on my mind (nice pun, ha, I kill me!) these last few months, Bill's death last month was the wake-up call I needed. Bill wasn't even overweight, but it brought to light the fact that if I could lose two acquaintances and nearly lose another - all under 40 - to heart attacks, then it wasn't so far-reaching to think that I, myself, weighing over 100 pounds more than I should - could be on a mortician's slab before long. I'm not "obsessed with death," as has been charged by some; I'm simply faced with my own mortality.

I will confess that I waxed poetic about the futility of life for a while after Bill died, thinking, "wow, what's the point if I eat this donut or not...I could drop dead in the street tomorrow anyway." Yet if I'm going to be found dead on the street, I don't want to weigh so much that they need a fucking piano crane to lift me up into the coroner's wagon. I'd also like to lose some weight so that I have the energy to clean my house before I drop dead and end up with one of my friends or family members saddled with the task.

So. Yeah. I joined Whoopi's ranks today and signed on with L.A. Weight Loss. In the last 20 years or so, I've tried Weight Watchers (several times) and various offshoots like dear old Ida's Ideal Weight Program (several times). I've done the Idiot's Diet, the Grapefruit Diet, the Hollywood Diet (oh, yuck), pills, pills, and more pills, from quack mail-order shit from the back of Cosmo to Metabolife to prescriptions like Meridia and Phentermine. I've consumed enough Slim-Fast to drown an entire small nation in artificial vanilla flavor. I've done protein shakes, South Beach, Beach Body, fasting, and some diet that a customer gave me to try. Some of these plans have worked. Some of them worked well. Others didn't work at all. But nonetheless, the weight always came back, and with a vengeance. I never tried Susan Powter's diet, but I can see now where the "Stop the Insanity!" sentiment comes from.

Anyway, this entry has gone on long enough. You get the point. I'm fat, and I'm trying to not be. But more than anything, I'm just trying not to be dead.

Random thoughts from the bowels of hell

It's like a thousand degrees in my house right now, and I can't sleep...so I'm updating this thing instead.I've been meaning to update for the last week or so, but just haven't gotten around to it. So hey, why not take advantage of not being able to sleep?

This heat is making me think of those Chicago summers when it would be so hot I would strip down to nothing, jump into a cold shower, and then lay in the middle of the living room floor under the ceiling fan. I still marvel at how I survived living in all those third-story walkups with no air conditioning. I can still remember the first summer there, the way my kitchen on Pratt smelled like coffee and cigarettes and pine-sol, mixed with the occasional rotting banana. There was only one small window in the kitchen, and it faced another building. Our back "porch" was little more than a landing, and in the summer our lack of diligence in taking out the trash would manifest itself in yet another lingering smell in the sweltering kitchen. Michael and I would sit around and smoke and read and guzzle gallons of iced coffee and slurpees while the pets would flatten themselves out into furry pancakes on the bathroom floor.

My second summer there, 1995, was the most brutal summer on record. Over 800 people died in one of the worst heat waves in Chicago history. It was so bad that the city had to call in refrigerated trailers to store the bodies, because the morgues were all full. I was managing the Shell station at that point, and I would get up at 4:00 in the morning, walk the dog down to the lake, and the two of us would jump in and swim for half an hour. Then I'd go back up to the sweltering apartment, take a cold shower, and go to my air-conditioned job, where I'd stay for the entire day - not because I had that much work to do, but because it was cooler than my apartment. I hated that job, in fact, but it kept my body temperature down.

Speaking of the apartment on Pratt, the friend who found it for us - Michael's best friend since childhood, Bill - passed away last week. He's the third person under 40 I know who's had a heart attack in the last year, and the second one to have not survived. I had a whole entry on the fragility and futility of life planned out after I learned of his passing, but I just haven't had the energy to write it. Maybe if the temperature drops a bit.

Superpowers

This morning, my friend and I were discussing which super power we'd want to possess (I guess kind of like on Heroes, except I don't watch that show so I don't really know what he was talking about). At first I chose invisibility, but then I decided I'm already pretty good at throwing on the figurative invisibility cloak. What purpose would being literally invisible serve, other than to fulfill a couple of voyeuristic fantasies? Meh. That's why God made webcams and the internet.

Then I thought I might like to fly, but since I don't live in Chicago anymore and the ability to fly over traffic is useless in Buffalo (unless you're headed downtown on Delaware and hit the light at Hertel, at which point it might come in handy), I switched to the ability to time travel. Though our discussion was brief, it stayed with me and got me thinking about what things I would change if I could go back in time.

There's a lot I wouldn't change, despite the fact that it was bad. Why? Because, as Senor Rubio, my friend Gus' late dad, used to say, "No hay malo que no viene para bueno" - There is no bad that does not come for good. I would still make a lot of the same mistakes, date many of the same bad people, and consume some of the bad things I ingested. What I would change, however, would be my opinion of myself.

If I could travel back, say, 20 or 25 years, I would ignore the people in my life who made me feel like shit and made me second-guess myself all the time. I would take better care of myself and be more selfish. I'd learn how to say "No" more often and walk away from things and people that were no good for me. I'd know that when a person no longer wished to be in my company I'd accept it as life and move on. I wouldn't take everything so personally. I'd realize that the definition of insanity is, indeed, doing the same thing over and over again while expecting different results, and in doing so I could prevent myself from making a lot of the same mistakes. I'd eat fewer twinkies. I'd lose my extra fat cells before puberty, and I'd lose them because I'd love myself enough to want to be rid of them, and not because I was trying to please someone else. I would control my temper better. I wouldn't start smoking. I'd hang out with more nerds and care less what the cool kids thought of me. I'd study more, and not just because I was trying to not be grounded for an entire semester. I'd think more and talk less. I'd look in the mirror and like what I saw, even if the boys on the bus barked at me. I'd save my Pigs in Space lunchbox and sell it for a small fortune on eBay in 25 years. I'd listen when my elders tell me time goes too quickly. I'd enjoy the present, forget the past, and not worry so much about the future.

The only thing, though, is that I guess on Heroes, the dude who time travels continues to age in "real time" so it's different. Even still, now that I've gotten a chance to look at what I would have done 25 years ago, I realize that I still have time to do all that stuff - and then when I'm 60, I won't be writing the same post over again. Because that, by definition, would be insane.

Rats!

They're a good thing. And they've taken over my life. I'm not talking about the garbage-eating, suburb-infesting, gigantic, evil mud-brown ones; I'm talking about my pets. When I got my first one a year ago, I never imagined that I would be taking her to the vet, giving her twice-daily antibiotics, hanging out on rat-owner message boards, and making it my mission in life to educate the entire world on the total coolness of rat ownership. Oh, but I am.

But this post is actually about Paula. A little over three weeks ago, I was in the pet store and I walked by the back room and noticed the feeder tank had a few rats in it. I know myself all too well when it comes to "just looking" at pets, yet I still asked to be allowed back to do just that. I ended up taking home a black berkshire who I named Paula, and soon she was co-habitating peacefully with cagemates Nancy, Dash, and Rosie. Last week I looked at Paula and thought, "wow, she sure is fat!" Then she stood up and I realized that she wasn't fat - she was pregnant! Rats gestate for three weeks, so I wouldn't have known she was pregnant when I first got her, and besides, they really don't start to show significantly until the last few days.

So all of a sudden, I found myself scrambling for information, freaking out like a nervous dad. Through my acquaintances on the rat forum, I got the basics: separate her from the other rats. Build her a nesting/birthing cage. Feed her lots of extra protein and fatty stuff. Watch for the signs of labor and delivery. I went on Friday and got all the necessary supplies - an 18-gallon plastic storage tote, some aluminum screen, duct tape, white paper towels, and some super-soft bedding stuff. By Friday afternoon she was set up in her new digs and was nesting like crazy. All night on Friday I kept checking to see if she was in labor yet, but I couldn't tell. She looked like she was about to burst, and a few times I looked at her and she was actually grimacing. If you've never seen a rat grimace, it's quite a sight to behold, I'll tell you that much.

When I left for work at 6:00 Saturday morning, she was standing up and pressed up against the side of the tote. I didn't see any blood, but she looked really stressed out. And sure enough, when I got home from work a little after noon, she'd had the babies. All FIFTEEN of them. Yes, I said fifteen. One-Five. 15. So now I have 19 rats, and my house has become nothing but rat cages everywhere you look. Nancy and Dash are sick, so they're in quarantine in the big cage. Rosie is very unhappily living on her own in the medium cage. Paula and the babies are in the birthing tank. Eventually the babies' eyes will open and they'll start exploring, at which point I will have to move them all and play musical cages. Depending on how quickly they get adopted out, it's quite possible I may end up with more cages lining the perimeter of my house.

I guess I should be happy I got such a great deal. I mean, hell, I got 16 rats for the price of one. But now I have to find homes for them all.

Oh, and baby rats look like hippos.