Thursday, February 25, 2010

Ghost Busted

Turns out it was kind of mistake to let Coyote watch Ghost Busters.  Its said PG.  And I honestly didn't remember it very well.  Now he can't be by himself on any floor of the house alone.  I want to do laundry ("want" may be over stating that!) then he's got to come down to the basement with me!  He needs to put on unders... I've got to go up to his room with him.  Argh.  And then he came up with his own solution!  Casper the Friendly Ghost.  It's helped....some what.  But god forbid, you've got to haul in another arm load of firewood and abandon him in the entire house, alone!  God, (Coyote, our devout theist, has actually forbidden the casual use of that word in his presence!) the tricks our imaginations can play.

Since I'm getting all into this domestic work by choice, the creative and fun stuff... the kids, among other humans with opinions, have decided that I should have more kids.  Yeah... well a funny thing happened a few years ago.  I was still considering a third.  Huck wasn't.  So the question was actually dead, but I wondered if I had enough oomph, if I could take him on.  And then Coyote started to crawl in the usual manner of small children which is every where at once.  And I realized that I could either have a career (my aforementioned Legal Thriller) or a third kid.  But I didn't have energy for both.  I thought I was still considering my options, when my subconscious logged on to Craig's list and sold ALL THE BABY GEAR.  I like to say that I've gotten out of parenting what I wanted, and that's enough.  Now that I'm actually liking my job as Domestic Goddess Extraordinaire, the issue re-arrises.  And for some reason, every time it does, my subconscious trots out the images of poopy diapers, 24 hour tit service, crying for no reason, sleepless nights, potty training, ACK!!

But the two I've got are all for new siblings.  And to make their point, they have collected all the baby dolls from every corner of the house.  They've wrapped them in swaddling clothes.  They coo at them.  And then they get me to hold them and look at me with pleading eyes, "Don't you want a real one, mom?"  Ummm, considering that one of them grew up and just demanded that I hold a doll while I was trying to make a dinner that the other one will summarily reject, in all cases, with all possibly ingredients.  No.

They've got a Shirley.  Let's repeat that, shall we?  Blue named a baby doll SHIRLEY.  She's also go a Rosie and a Lily, inadvertently named after good old Alaska friends.  And Coyote has a September.  That's a little bald baby in a navy onsie.  September, unfortunately, also doubles as a bat... a baseball bat.  Coyote takes little toys, tosses them up in the air and whaps them to the other side of the basement with September.  They assure me that it's just a doll and he would never do that to a real baby, honest.

I've been reading another Martha Beck book (I would love everything she ever wrote, even if it was just a 2nd grade spelling test and she only scored 50%).  And she suggested that we each can look into our future somewhat.

I think I've seen myself in the future a few times before.  But I look so different, it's hard to believe it's me.  I've got really short totally gray hair and I'm dressed in extremely expensive business clothes.  I have a hard time seeing how I could or why I would want to move from my bra-less, shit-boot life to that. 

So... I did the suggested exercise.  I relaxed deeply and imagined 10 years into the future and what I saw horrified me.  I was nearly 45. 44, I kept reminding myself.  I hunched and slumped on our fancy couch.  I'd lost about 8 inches in height.  My hair was all white (that's the common thread) and in a bun.  I was totally crippled with a walker on hand.  My feet were relaxing on a hassock.  As was a large book that I'd written, about what, it wasn't clear.  A car pulled into the drive way.  My kids are home!  There were only two, Blue at 18 and Coyote at 15.  They walk in, or rather crawl in.  Because they are now 15 feet tall.  "We're home"  Announces Blue.  She tries to stand in the dining room, but can't entirely fit.  "Hi mom" Coyote's deep voice shakes the lamps.  And I said, "I'm pretty sure I took a wrong turn somewhere in this exercise."

In case you were wondering, I did see a therapist for a while, after two car accidents (they weren't my fault!  I wasn't even distracting the driver in one of them!).  It involved deep relaxation and simultaneous visualisation of frightening traffic events.  After one particularly hilarious mad-cap freeway adventure during my anti-car-phobia visualization the therapist stopped the process, unrelaxed me and said, "I think I see the problem here.  You officially have an over-active imagination."  And he prescribed lots of creative and imaginative outlets.  And that's why I'm telling you all this on my blog. (You don't think there's anyone else reading it, do you. Well, you haven't seen my yahoo in box, have you.)

I've seen the future, people.  And it is yet another unwitting victim of my imagination gone awry.  Is that bad?

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Post Doc

Excuse me! I apparently have a lot to say this month.  I apologize.

And now for a rare political moment:
Have you ever tried to mail a letter from Mexico?  Malawi?  Paid half a days wages at a P.O. that may or may not be open for a letter that may or may not make it there?  Luckily, that's not the case in my neck of the woods.  The U.S. has one of the best, least expensive, most highly functioning postal services in the world.  I get my Netflix next day.  My mortgage payment ALWAYS makes it there.  I've waited, maximum, 15 minutes in line.  So what is with this alarm bell that a government run, or even regulated, health care system would look like the Postal Service.  That's not an alarm bell!  That's a celebratory ringing in the belfry.  If my health care system could look anything like the postal system, bring it on!  I want my health care to go postal! Currently my health care looks like it's run by Chrysler and Enron.

The real tragedy would be if the Postal Service started to look like our current health plan.  My family would pay $4000 a year, just in case we wanted to mail something.  Then, if we should need to mail something, we'd have to pay full price until our family deductible of $8000 is met.  After that, we'd only have to pay 20% of all mailings.  If we wanted to mail something locally, no problem, it's 80% covered so long as we've paid the monthly postal premium, and have met the deductible.  By the way, each year both the premium and the deductibles would be raised by 40%.

Should we want to mail something out of area, say Valentines for Grandma's in Seattle, we'd have to see the specialist.  This would require an appointment made two months in advance.  And once we get there, we still have to wait two hours to see the postal worker.  They break that up into waiting in line time and standing at the counter but it's still two hours (seriously) before you even get to the weigh/stamp/pay procedure.  Then, they'd mail your package off to New York, because they weren't listening when you said Seattle. Postal Workers would also kill a lot of citizen through careless errors, rather than taking out a few every decade with a rampage.  Now that would be a postal service to complain about.  I wouldn't want my health care looking like THAT either... oh... wait...

Monday, February 22, 2010

I made it with sticks!

Unfortunately, my first dish rag spontaneously unraveled.  It had internal errors in it's DNA. I'm glad it didn't make it, honestly.  It was awful and now I never have to look at it again. 

I redid the dish rag.  Overwhelmed with the futility of spending hours and a five spot on cotton yarn to make nothing more interesting than a dishrag I could buy for a buck, my fellow knitters have rechristened it the "Spa clothe."  And I feel much happier about that.  Marketing genius.

I finally picked up the classic knitting primer: Dummies for Knitwits, or something like that.  I apparently used the worse possible yarn, cotton, for my first projects.  It has no give.  Unfortunately, it has no receipt now either.  The book has these little "side bars!"  with tips.  "Tip: it's important to not quit.  Even if you get frustrated, don't give up."   That's a quote, seriously.  Thanks, but I think I'll give up whenever I damn well please.

But I'm not.  Now I'm on to a dainty little baby hat for one of the three thrillion babies coming down the pike.  I'm using tiny bamboo and wool yarn with itty bitty gauge ooky booky needles.  I'm knitting "in the round" with four of those babies.  I realized that knitting with what amounts to fuzzy thread would extend the creation of this project by about twelve years, at which point, if things continue to digress culturally, I'll just gift it to the child's child. The genius of this new hobby, however, is that I simply don't care how long it takes.  Production volume is not my goal here.  My goal was initially just to fit in, but this knitting thing has fit in with me now.  I didn't realize this before, but I've got mindless work to do while standing at the sink, hauling and shoveling shit, cleaning the damn house, laundry delivery up two floors.  I've got brainy sedentary hobbies.  And knitting fits right in with the less brainy (although the set up!  the planning! turns out that is genius-level mind-kicking mathematics) and sedentary.  Babing! I want to sit? I can sit and appear productive simultaneously!

Knitting is like solitaire and sudoko, a time-passer.  Only it's slightly more useful because after passing the time for a few weeks, you have something (hopefully) not too wonky or warped that you might actually use.  Whereas, after several weeks of these other time-killers, you've got nothing.  When I was little, I watched a old Lummi woman at a potlatch playing some kind of clock solitaire. It intrigued me, but when we got home my dad was very clear that solitaire was a waste of life, of our precious time here on earth (see?  it's the freaking Dutch utility thing, bah!!)  And so I started playing as soon as I moved out.  Winning is random but you can some how convince yourself that you're to credit for it, what with your attentive playing skills and lucky deck of cards.  Loosing is way more common and is easily dismissed by reminding yourself that the game is utterly random.  It's a nice metaphor for a life your not working too hard at.


Sudoku was my passion in recent years. I convinced myself it was like studying for the LSATs, which I was really into for a while there.  I went all the way up, baby! To the super hard.  Now the sight of Sudoku literally turns my stomach.  I think I developed an allergy from over-exposure.   

So, here I am with knitting.  It's got an entrancing quality to it.  Knots knots knots and viola! fabric! It's taken me a minute or two to get the hang of the basics.  Physical intelligence has never been my forte.  I required a full day to learn how to down hill ski.  And I didn't ride a wave before four bloody and bruised days of mad surfing determination.  My physical self is a puzzle to me.  An unnatural asset and an annoying detriment.  I've found great joy is my adulthood of physical curiosity.  What can my body do?  Can it run? Can it stretch like that? Can I learn balance?  Can I push it further?

Now that I've got some rhythm, this knitting thing is almost relaxing.  And it seems to make some odd, unexpected sense out of life, joining it together and merging this randomness into some coherency.  It's not an intellectual moment of epiphany, or a sense of solving the puzzle.  It's more that as the yarn flows beneath my hands and moves into itself, I have this sensation of flowing, of tributaries finding their river and coming in together, a joining of the disjointed moments of life into one coherent clothe.  The image of that motion stays in my eyes and as I move through other parts of my life, I feel it all knitting more perfectly together.  I almost sense The Moirae behind the facade.  Knitting, a spiritual practice.  I never would have guessed.  The doors of The First Church of Knitting have opened unto me.  Where once I was blind, now I see.  

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Home work

Blue got some notes home from school.  Not directly directed to me, apparently.  Just a note to herself that the teacher made her copy down onto the parent communications paper.  "I need to get back on track with my homework and start doing it every night."  Definitely, a note to self.  Right.

She's only missed three lately.  Well, two before the note.  One she forgot at school.  And the other, I'd reminded her only three times to do it! I'm not into haranguing.  I told her if she didn't do it the teacher would make her stay in at recess.  And she never got around to it.  Fine.  I love these small consequence items.  A small punishment.  But it had big effects.  After that, she did her homework without me having to ask twice.  It was nice.  I liked it.  A lot.

That's what childhood is for, lessons with small consequences.  Adulthood is for big consequences: yuck!  Parents are supposed to set up small and annoying consequences on purpose. 

This note cracked me up, however.  First, she's only missed homework a few times.  And second, it worked out great for me for her to deal with some mildly unpleasant consequences at school.  And third, she just took the state's standardized tests and scored 10% higher than any other third grader in that school, one of the best in the area.  Her claims of boredom and loneliness, though never doubted, are backed up by test results now.  So, I think she can skip some stupid, crappy home busy work, ya think?  I know they think it builds an independent worker.  But at this age, the kids getting it done are mostly the ones with helicopter parents, hovering over their shoulders and cracking whips.  At this age, it's a meaningless "independence" they're displaying when they hand in their worksheets with all the blanks filled in.  All it means is that I'm great at harassing kids to do things they really don't want to.  I think I'm the one that's supposed to get back on track.  But I already am. Thanks.

(two of these picks are 2006, Pullman house: Blue, with the proper queen face and princess Coyote.  And Blue jumping.)

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Coyotes in the Mist

A few mornings ago, I stumbled from the front door into yet another thick fog.  These clouds we live in are so heavy, we can't even see any neighbors some days.  And they can't see us! Which means they can't criticize: relief!

One bucket of hot soapy teet water in the left hand.  Two empty sterilized buckets for milk in the right hand (two, because if she kicks one with a poopy hoof, we've got a back up).   The air smelled wet, earthy. Thick and cold on my skin.  The smells of early morning, the aroma of a blank new day.  Half way to the barn, a middle-school girls slumber party erupted around me: hooting, laughing, howling, yipping.  I know this racket now.  No, it's not a lost summer camp.  Not the ghosts of a two-drink minimum comedy club come to haunt us.  No.  I was surrounded by coyotes.  I could not see them but they were close.  I'd walked right into their exploratory romp.

The first time I heard coyotes up close, was in Grand Tetons National Park.  They ran through our camp site, singing out their ecstatic language.  Calling.  Responding.  It seemed easily translatable: "half a hot dog at 2 o'clock".  "I've got grill drippings at straight up noon."  "Roger that!" "Check this out!  Here's some tofu, I'll leave it for you."  "Holy Crap!! Massive cooler left out at 10 o'clock."  "Yippeeee!!!!"  "Yahooo!!!!"

A group of us, kids and couples, hiked up high onto a hill in Idaho.  Below us we heard spastic laughter and shrieking.  What was that?  Someone had seen a sign for summer camp nearby. Must be some 12 year old girls whooping it up.  I suggested someone had been pantsed. What else could cause such a thrilled ruckus among girls? But then, I couldn't make out any words.  We creeped closer, peered over the ledge.  Below us a family of coyotes mid-debate.  And they vanished.

The pack usually roams through around 3 am.  I wake up.  And account for all the little animals: the chickens, the cat.  Check, check.  And I go back to sleep.  This was the first time I'd physically interrupted their conversation.  I'd stumbled into the middle of the pack. like a family member.

Coyotes don't scare me, sneaky kids, unless they've got anvils.  Even then, I'm pretty sure I'm safer than they are.  I did meet up with a wolf once, cara a cara, while riding my bike on a rails-to-trails in Idaho.  I was alone and so was that predator.  We stared into eachother's eyes.  I swear I fell in love at first sight.  So wild.  So full of lust was that beast.  I couldn't believe my luck!  I did pick up my pace, however.  I knew it wasn't a coyote, it stood so tall and sure. Coyotes are small slinkers.  Sure enough, I read in the paper the next day... wolf sightings!

But these were coyotes, little hungry mutts.  I saw one in the field across the road later in the day.  The free-range neighbor dogs chased it away. Counting my chickens and road runners both now.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

knitwit

Let it never be said that I am impervious to peer pressure.

I've kept up with my knitting group... which turns out to be a small threesome of compassionate, smart women of very different backgrounds, occupations, religions and skin tones.

I ditched on the field trip to the hoity toity knitting knookery, thank you very much.  But I've kept going and going, toting my humongous plastic ring of shame around like an albatross.  It actually does fit around my neck quite nicely and smells better.  And then I happened across a knitting aisle in somestore somewhere, don't ask me how I got there.  I perused the needles, wondering if I could substitute shishkabob skewers, metal or wood. Skewers get my vote for most versatile kitchen implement, after the vegetable - aka thumbnail - peeler.  My skewers find their way into my every kitchen endeavor.  But they might prove even more embarrassing than the medieval hemorroid seat I've got stuffed in my bag.   And I don't know the gauge of skewers.  "Gauge" is a term that I've evesdropped and suspect is important.

I found some nice bamboo needles, with a slender and well proportioned gauge called 8.  And then I found some yarn, a cotton recycled yarn, in dishwater blond.  The package had the number 8 on it, so I figured that was a match.

And then an 8 year old taught me my first row!  "In through the door. Around the back.  Out the window.  And off jumps Jack!"  The rhyme makes knitting thrill like a murder mystery. Who is Jack?  How long was he there for?  Where did he go?  Did he leave any finger prints?  Where is the body?  It can also sound like a soap opera:  Who is Jack seeing?  Why did he come in the door but jump out the window?  What does "around the back" mean?  Is Jack gay? 

Anyway, the knitting knowledgablest lady in the group suggested a wash clothe to me...not because I stink (or not that she mentioned) but as a first project because you won't care if they're lumpy or uneven.  I found this approach to be much more merciful than the last time I turned down an invitation to take up knitting.  That lady made her students knit a ball of yarn and then unravel it three times before she'd start them on a project.  Excuse me.  But that sounds very very depressing.  I like something to show for my work, even if all it shows is my shoddy, lazy, loopy tangle of ignorance and inexperience.  I still want to look at it in admiration.  Or critique it.  On second thought, now that I'm half way through this dishrag, maybe it IS more compassionate to require the novice to destroy the evidence of their bumbling mishaps.

Here before me, however, I have evidence, proof positive, an enduring memento of all of my cherish-able newbie screw-ups.  They're so much cuter in children.  For instance, Coyote embroidered a frog and sewed it into a pillow.  It's got some glitches.. and they're so cute!!  My dishrag, however, illicits not coos of affection but howls of laughter.

And it's become an archeological sight of my past week. The first corner is purely a cat's cradle of a mess.  Hardly a corner but more like something a bird drunk on moldy cherries might toss together for her ill-fated young.  After a bit, the rows become clearer and neater.  But then, there's the spot where I had to break up the kids before they mauled each other and returned to my knitting only to head off in the wrong direction.  And that's half a line.  I'm supposed to be doing a design on the edges as I go, but again, the drunken bird brain is the only thing evident.  Good grief, did I just call it a biography in yarn?  No... I haven't had a drink in weeks.

I'm prone to tendinitis, so I'm not sure knitting is a great idea for me.  But since I no longer type my day away on a key board (hmmm....perhaps I smell burning pants?), and I've acquire milking farm-girl arms... maybe it's okay.

I've always had this impression of myself as an 87 year old woman.   And sometimes I glance at the river of time and I can't tell which way it's flowing.  Is the future creating itself?  Or is the past creating the future?  Who is knitting who, Moira?  And some days I get this creepy feeling that I could actually be an 87 year old woman with Alzheimer's who's reliving her life.  So if I shout out, "Blue! Don't punch your brother!"  I might actually be talking to my great grand daughter who's come to play her lap harp for me.  It's an endlessly entertaining geriatric variation of my favorite "brains in vats" theory.  And there's no way to prove I'm wrong.  And all this knitting only enhances my bizarre fantasy.  I could be Marilla Cuthbert.  I could be Miss Marple.  I could be any old old woman.

I've always been an old woman.  Always.  I wore a 1901 dress to my Junior/Senior (this was my Christian school's version of a Prom... but now it sounds more like what I am.  I am a Junior Senior)  while everyone else wore current fashions.  Except my best friend, who also oozed classic style, although hers was more 1920's high (and simultaneously low) society while I wore a linen white shift with hand tooled eyelets.  In addition, I've always swooned over antiques, collected random old photos, and just bought a joyful 1901 farm house.

Coyote's clearly inherited this historical dis-ease.  And Blue seems to have too, with her rapid inhalation of historical fiction and her tendency to dress as old fashioned as she can.  Here she is in her school musical, in the Blue, with the drum (actually, I'm just showing off how I can upload photos now!)

So... expect a tangled mangled hunk of yarn coming your way soon!  I'll be sending them out as "gifts" as they are completed. If the current pace is any indication, that should be one dishrag annually.  Little knotty journals of my life.  Minute by minute, I lay down my sloppy, earnest rows, writing it all out, a cursive yarn, an externalized memory of days.  And I'm giving it to you, for you to wipe the grime off your dishes.  What's your address?  Or rather, what will your address be in three years, when I've completed it?

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

You, the lucky beneficiary

First, let's check out my blog worthy kids:  Blue got her 12 year molars, lost her last baby teeth, and got her first big girl, salon hair cut!  While I waited for her I imagined being a salon stylist... chit chat, clip clip, spray spray, other peoples scalps, barf barf.

Yesterday some lady at the grocery check-out line said, "I've seen you two around the store today, and you're little boy is certainly very well behaved.  He pushes that cart so well!"
"Ohmygosh!!!  Thank you so much.  People always comment and notice when they're out of line. Such a nice change of pace! THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!!"  Tears, kisses, falling on floor, wiping her feet with my hair and anointing oils.  She did seem a little put off by that last move, however.

And then the Cashier says, as we're leaving.  "He really is a very well behaved little boy."  Thanks!!  Tralalallala.

But wait.  Does this mean I'm being too hard on them?  I try to go easy, to trust in their innate goodness, to remind myself that children generally WANT to please their parents.  But what if I'm too strict?  I mean, not much candy, no tv, outside play is required for about an hour a day, regardless of weather.  Is their behavior even my fault at all, good or bad?  Were they just born good?  Obviously yes, but I mean, especially good?


Then I had blood drawn, and Coyote got an EXTRA sticker for being so amazing!!  But I didn't get ANY stickers and I almost passed out.  I was so brave to keep my consciousness well in hand!  I bought myself a Fizzy Izzy.  Who needs those damn stickers anyway?  Just ruin your clothes if you forget to take them off before they go into the laundry.

Then: here's the big one!!  His teacher begged me to allow him to stay for six hours a day.  She claims he's one of the smartest kids she's had in her 25 years in Montessori and that she wants to do much more with him than she can squeeze into the three hours he's currently got.  And she's frantic that I send him to first grade next year.  She even grabbed my elbow and said, "I can't seem to make you understand what kind of child you have here!!" I internally replied, "A child!  A small child with child emotions and child needs that must be considered as well as his intellect."  Then she said, she also needs him as a social anchor, since he's impervious to peer pressure, has an extra-ordinary attention span, and is a calming presence on the other kids.  She NEEDS him. They worked with us to fit it into our budget.  And I will gratefully do their gardening this spring.

What am I doing with him for those three afternoon hours?  He runs errands, an occasional park swing, and then after that, he basically lays around.  He's no longer interested in playdoe and moon sand.  He's no longer two and endlessly entertained by the tupperware bin.  He helps wash dishes sometimes.  We play chess and Sorry and Uno and Monopoly.  I clean the kitchen while he lays in front of the heater.  Honestly, I'm having a hard time keeping him entertained at home.  But I'm sad.  If he goes, who will I coddle and dote on and cheer for?

Homeschooling.  It keeps coming up.  It was my ideal.  And then I had Blue.  We fought over an E.  She called it an F.  This went on for days.  And that is how I knew that homeschooling would not be for us.  And what of Coyote?  He's mellow.  He's malleable.  And he's got me wrapped around his little finger so tight I can barely breath.  I do what I can.  But I still tell him, when he asks, that 12 is 12 despite knowing he's long subtracting at school.  And I still can't seem to make him wipe his own butt.  So, you see, I don't think I am the best person to cajole him to his highest achievements.  I'm his mom.  Our home is his place of relaxation and comfort, not the place where he takes on new challenges and soars into long division.  His mother is his sofa, potato chips, and a good book.  Not a fire under his ass.  That's just not how god made me.

So good little Coyote got a popsicle reward for dinner (!!!!!!), played his favorite game on Kongregate.com (!!!!!!) and fell asleep with a wide wide grin on his good little angel face.

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time, you know that any great news comes with a massive exestential crisis.   I was already in the middle of this one.  And this kicked it up a notch.

Perhaps you are one of the throngs of people that would like to know where-oh-where did my career asprirations go.  I am looking for them too.  Two years ago, after five years as a paralegal, I was visiting law schools, studying for the LSATs, reading Supreme Court history, and screaming through legal tomes.  I'd interviewed leading attorney's and law professors in my preferred field.  And then this whole crazy thing with Huck and the economy happened.  And we moved five times and panicked a thousand.  And over the past year and half the whole vision has just imploded.  Now I'm near a Yale priced law school that has never appealed to me what with its Montana rating.  I hopped in to use their bathroom (it's right on this urban trail) and I got no chills, no thrills.  Nothing.  Nothing registered except, "What a big fancy building.  So that's what they do with your 30k a year."

I tried to jazz myself up for working by riffling through the Working Mother magazine at the kids dentist last week.  Unfortunately, every single article was about how to manage the stress of it all.  EVERY ARTICLE.  And that's all I remember of working, the hectic home life squeezed in around it.  The rushing.  The constant illnesses due to stress.  I caught every single cold and flu that even wafted threateningly in the direction of the Inland Northwest.  Ick.  Ick.  Ick.  I hated not having time for the quarter merry-go-round in front of the grocery store.  And now I do.  And I've only had one flu, mildly, this whole year of not working (oh please oh please don't jinx me!).

People who knew me well two years ago are asking questions.  Including Huck.  No one's critical (that role is still open if you want it!)... just curious.

Now I'll have no excuse to be out of shape.  To let the house go to crap.  To not get a job.  To not meditate.  To not go to law school (except for $ and time -which would be WAY more that 23 hours a week). 
 

I keep trying to think of something useful to do.  But every time I attach money to these things, I loose interest.  I like money.  A lot.  But I want to have a giant garden.  But not a Farmer's Market booth.  I want to milk my cows, but not sell the milk.  I want to draw and make my cards, but not hunt down venues for their sale any more.  I want to write but not about anything that doesn't fascinate me.  I'm a Dutch woman, therefore I value utility in a life, not futility.  Unfortunately, it looks like I'm just going to do what I futilely want to do and we are all going to have to shut up about my uselessness.   Or be encouraging.

Maybe I need a really long break before I get juiced up again.  Maybe I'm pointing in all the wrong directions and until I'm pointed in the right one, I'll spinning my wheels.  Maybe I am doing something now that will eventually pull me into my place in this world, one that will bring us both great joy.  Maybe I am doing exactly what I was meant to do.

I confessed to one of my philosophy professors once that all I wanted out of life was an office with a great view and to be paid to sit in it and think.  He assured me that if anyone could get that, I could.  I didn't believe him.

I don't have a good view in my office (in every room but the office there's a good view).  And I'm not getting paid.  But now, I could, conceivably, just sit around thinking!  And won't you be the lucky beneficiary! I might even have time to figure out why I can't upload pics anymore.  Lucky.  Lucky.  Us.

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