Sigh.... Confessions of a Crafty Wench

Nothing is really wrong. I mean, except for the usual stuff these days.

George's periodic surprises, demands and constant nagging.

Unemployment and reduced monetary circumstances, the wolf not yet at the door but lurking in the bushes, and fear that makes me stare at canned tuna for five minutes contemplating which brand is actually cheaper.

The bum knee and the fact that the GOOD knee is achey from picking up the slack in a freakin' two story house where whatever I need is always on the wrong floor. The various and sundry aches and pains that flesh is heir to, at least for out of shape, overweight, middle-aged women like me. Lack of health insurance. You know. Normal.

I spent the last few days getting ready for the first street fair I've done in over a year. In my last stretch of unemployment during the summer, I was doing an event of some kind almost every weekend. Then we stopped organizing CRAFT, and I got out of the habit.

I ran around like the proverbial chicken, flapping and squawking, trying to get everything together. Not just trying to finish one more painting, one more box, one more monkey -- I tore the house apart looking for my table skirts -- I packed them up and then forgot where I put them. Had to remember how to load the car with tent, wire walls, tables, paintings, boxes and monkeys -- getting my booth into a compact sedan is like putting together a complex puzzle, there's only one way it all goes in.

Meanwhile all those muscles I haven't used in a while are screaming at the unfairness of it all.

Doing street fairs and festivals is a damned hard way to earn a dollar. Making the stuff is easy. That's the fun part. Hauling your crap out to a field or street corner, putting it all together -- that's a bitch. Fitting it in the car. Guessing at the weather, watching the five-day forecast with bated breath. Dealing with heat that ranges from merely uncomfortable to life-sucking, keeping one eye on that large dark cloud looming in the distance. Fearing gusty winds that threaten to take your tent airborne in an eye blink.

You are trapped in that booth, smiling hopefully at strangers all day. You're afraid to go to the bathroom either because of the porta-potty horror or because you know -- you just KNOW -- that the minute you step away, that's the exact moment someone will want to buy the big-ass painting that you've been dragging around for two years. (Of course, the hotter it is, the less likely it is that you'll even need the bathroom; three bottles of water in two hours and you're already dehydrated.)

I'm whining here, but it's not all bad. At least when I used to do our CRAFT events, I was hanging out with my crafty peeps, and when you've got friends around, it's fun. You get to talk to people and catch up. But in Saturday's event, there was only one peep around, and luckily she was next to me, even though it only happened because the event organizers screwed me.

I arrived at 8:30 and was informed that my booth space -- #86, a prime location! -- had already been "accidentally" given to someone else. They moved me to space #110 -- a crappy space. Not as crappy as some, but still crappy, on a back row that the organizers kept insisting faced a "walk way" -- only nobody walked that way, and I was so close to the stage that my ears rang all day.

Even when you are on the "main street" of an event, getting people to stop and actually walk into your booth is the name of the game. It does no good if everybody in the world walks by your booth unless you can get them to come in and look. Touch, even better. Buy, bingo!

It's not really even about the money, though the money is important. Especially if you've paid a high booth fee; if you don't make at least enough to cover the booth fee, you are basically paying to suffer through a long, hot, boring day. I've actually worked a fair where I spent more money on food and drink that day than I earned. If you're not careful, you might actually buy something from someone else, going further in the hole.

But no, it's not all about the money. For an artist or crafter, money is love. Money is tangible proof that someone really likes what you do enough to pay for it. It's acceptance, it's feeling like you haven't wasted days, weeks, months, years -- hell, a lifetime -- doing something just because you love it.

When someone comes into my booth, looks around briefly and then walks away.... it's a terrible feeling. You try not to take it personally, but sometimes it's hard not to feel rejected. When someone comes into my booth, they are looking at my heart, the very core of my existence, my soul. It is not just what I do, but who I am.

I don't expect everyone to buy something. I empathize too keenly with people on a budget. And with my monkeys, it nearly broke my heart to see a kid Saturday who kept looking at them, obviously wanting one, but his mom said no, wouldn't even really look at them; I wanted to give him a monkey for nothing.

I know what he felt like. I walk into other booths, galleries, stores, and see work I greatly admire. Things that take my breath away, make my heart ache to take them home with me... but my wallet simply won't allow it. All I can tell those fellow artists and crafters is that I love their work. But I also know that my admiration won't pay their rent. Still, it is nice to hear.

Don't think I don't love being told someone likes my stuff. I do, I really do. But it isn't the same as a sweaty wad of folding money. A compliment is like a peck on the cheek, a slap on the back; a purchase is an orgasm.

Saturday was not a total loss, but it wasn't good. I made $163, but nearly half of that was from one friend's purchases and I greatly fear it was a pity buy. Oh, I'm sure she liked what she bought, but she also knows I'm in a bind. Making a sale that way is like a kiss from your mother, or a prom date with your cousin. If you take her purchases out of it, I was working for less than minimum wage, even without overhead costs.

When sales are good, I love doing fairs. When sales are bad, I hate them. Sales validate my existence, make me feel good about myself, my talents. A good event is like bathing in social acceptance, sipping on the nectar of admiration. Saturday, there were few sales, and not even many compliments. Not many bodies even looking. Sigh. All that work and sweat and aching muscles and sore feet for next to nothing. Very little love.

So maybe that's why my mood has swung downward. It began even in the middle of the day, seeing other people stop by on their way to do other fun things, leaving me stuck in my miserable, lonely booth.

I got home, too exhausted to do much other than push the A/C down to sixty degrees and sit in front of the tele. I paid $4.99 to see "Edge of Darkness" and was utterly pissed off that the movie was so freakin' bad. I want to call Mel Gibson personally and tell him he owes me not just that five bucks, but the two hours of my life he wasted.

This morning I felt like hell, and managed to smack my head hard on an open cabinet door, and started sniveling as if the cabinet door had done it on purpose. Suddenly I was in a full blown pity party, all leaky. Crying for everything and for nothing. Made a stupid phone call, annoyed someone and just made myself feel worse.

I went to Jerry's Art-a-Rama (alone) and since i was in the neighborhood, I drove by my old house. It's vacant with a realtor sign in the yard, completely gone to hell. My flower beds are all dug-up and empty, even my rhododendrons gone. The only thing left is the peach tree, but no one has been pruning it, it's just running wild and shapeless. There are trees and vines sprouting from the gutters. I loved that house. It was the first home I ever owned, and seeing it like that just made me feel terribly empty. In my current mood, it was as if the house was a symbol for my life. Gone to hell.

At Jerry's I blew $150 on paint and canvas... and then wondered why in the hell I bothered. In this mood, I am sure no one will ever buy anything I paint ever again. I'll just end up with another stack of paintings and no where to put them, until I practically give them away.

Nothing is really wrong. I'm just down. I will feel better, I know I will.

But for now... I feel really sorry for myself.

For the Record: Hate Mail to Kodak

Tonight, finally so pissed off at my printer/scanner that I'm afraid my head will explode, I sent this email to Kodak:

I purchased the Kodak ESP 3 All-in-One Printer in December of 2008. I just want you to know that this is, without a doubt, the single most disappointing purchase I've ever made.

Because it was a Kodak product, I didn't bother to go to the store and actually see one in operation. I jumped at the tv offer and bought it because it sounded like a great product.

When it arrived, i was immediately disappointed in the print quality, even using photo quality paper. I thought, well, you get what you pay for, and it was really inexpensive, so I figured I could live with that, as most of what I print are drafts. I could also live with the way it shudders and sounds like a jet taking off when it does print. The fact that it will not accept more than one piece of paper at a time into the feeder -- try to put even two or three sheets in, and it jams -- well, that was annoying too but I figured I could work around it.

Recently, I've had problems with it suddenly "disappearing" and having to unplug it (being told to do this by the printer, you understand) in order for the computer to find it again.

But the single worst thing, and what I'm most mad about is the way I keep being told I am out of ink. I have printed maybe 20 copies on this thing, and have replaced the ink three times. I realize that I don't use it often, so maybe it's just that the ink dries out, but it still makes me very very angry.

I should have just packed the thing back up when i got it, and sent it back. Every time i use it -- or should i say TRY to use it -- it just pisses me off all over again.

As soon as I can afford to replace a printer and scanner, I'll buy a new one -- an HP or Epson this time!!! -- and take this one to the backyard and beat it to death with a sledge hammer. That might give me some satisfaction.

I know there is nothing to be done, and I'm not expecting you to do anything, but I really wanted you to know how much I hate this printer, and how disappointed I am with Kodak.

Where Babies Come From

Today (or I should say yesterday, because, yet again, it is 2 am and I'm still wide awake) marked a major milestone in my life. Ten years ago, I saw a baby born. Up close and personal.

I'd never seen a real birth before, not even in video; after having seen one, I am fairly certain that I will be content to never see one again.

For the record, I should explain that I have no memory of ever wanting a child of my own. Perhaps in the early days of my precious Baby Boo, having tea parties of Coca-Cola and M&Ms with my mom, I may have imagined myself a mother, but I don't remember it.

I played with dolls, of course, but mainly I was interested in dressing them, arranging their domiciles, planning their adventures. I don't remember ever changing a diaper even in play, though I know I had a doll that wet herself. In retrospect, I can't think of anything more disgusting than a doll that can pee on you.

I first confessed my lack of interest in breeding to my gynecologist. This information got a raised eyebrow and dismissal. Throughout years of painful, heavy periods, I got the same reaction every time I brought up a hysterectomy.

"You're young," the doctors -- first male, then female -- would say. "You don't want to make a decision like that now."

"Yes, I do," I assured them. But they never took me seriously. It would be years before one agreed to remove my baby-making plumbing.

In the beginning, I suppose I simply didn't find children younger than myself very interesting. Then again, I wasn't much exposed to babies. The ones I did come in contact with seemed very dull. They just slept, and cried, and waved little fists in the air. They couldn't hold a crayon, nor could they read Nancy Drew. They didn't get my knock-knock jokes, either. People cooed and prattled about their cuteness, but I just didn't see it. As someone else once quipped, they all looked like Winston Churchill to me.

A neighbor who lived behind us asked me to babysit for the first time when I was fifteen or so. If the baby didn't appeal to me, the money certainly did. It was only when time came to change a diaper that I realized I had no idea how to do it.

I called my mother in a panic. She offered to walk me through it, until I blurted out that the phone wouldn't reach. When she found out I'd left the baby on the changing table in the bedroom, she came running.

The diaper was filled with greenish-brown goo and the most disgusting odor ever to assault my nostrils. I would not babysit again until I was in my mid-twenties, and then only out of desperation.

I spent six months as a pseudo-nanny to a three year old boy. And while I was charmed by some of his antics, I was more exasperated by just how childish a child could be. I could not go to the bathroom alone. He would play contentedly by himself until I picked up a book; then he turned into a little dictator, demanding this, that and the other.

By the time his father came home at 5:30, I was exhausted. I could not imagine how anyone could deal with a child 24/7 -- or why in the hell they would want to.

I realized that I was far too selfish to ever raise a child without the application of serious drugs or duct tape. I suspected neither method was approved by Dr. Spock. Child-rearing for me would probably involve social workers and possible jail time.

And to all of my friends who have reproduced, I confess: I suffered through every one of your endless baby showers. Only peer pressure and the promise of cake compelled my reluctant attendance. Baby pictures made me wince, trying to come up with something nice to say that wouldn't betray my complete indifference. When coworkers brought their babies to work, and everyone would crowd around, clamoring for their turn to hold the bundle of joy -- I would hide.

One of the worst fights I ever had with my ex exploded out of his refusal to attend a co-ed baby shower. "You go," he said. "You women eat that stuff up."

I wasn't angry that he refused to go with me. I was furious at his assumption that my possession of ovaries would draw me inexorably to events involving the gifting of gruesome things like Diaper Genies and breast pumps.

Life experience was also teaching me that what little maternal instinct I possessed would be used up in raising the men in my life.

Don't think that I don't respect parenting. My time as a nanny gave me a deep respect for the self-sacrifice and challenges of child-rearing. I just didn't want to be personally involved.

I witnessed the lives of friends completely devoured by the arrival of tiny, squalling and usually damp little creatures with a voracious appetite for time and attention. Their once-stimulating conversation was suddenly reduced to an endless string of baby-talk, the complaints of sleep deprivation interspersed with tales of their child's latest display of brilliance. Children were friendship-killers.

Neither do I dislike all children. But I look at them as I would any adult. I like some and loathe others. I believe restaurants should provide no-children sections. Call me heartless and inhuman, but I simply do not enjoy spending money on meals eaten with a small stranger hanging over the back of the booth opposite me.

When a close friend -- who'll remain nameless lest what I'm about to say embarrass her -- became pregnant for the first time, I experienced the first twinges of interest in the process. This was inspired by the depth of my love for her, and the idea that I could indulge whatever maternal impulses I might harbor in someone else's offspring. I could enjoy the bright spots, then hand the kid back over to their parents before I started looking for the duct tape.

I missed the first delivery because of distance. On the second, I was in attendance.

I approached it with no small amount of trepidation. My perception of child-birth was formed by "Gone With the Wind." All I could picture was Melanie's desperate, sweat-drenched and moaning ordeal that looked like hell on a bad day. I would have rather faced the entire Union army than go through that myself.

It was unnerving to stand around a friend with her legs spread and private parts on display. It was a tad more intimate than I wanted to be, especially in the presence of her mother, brother and husband. It was just weird.

I was surprised at how little pain she seemed to experience. Apparently something called an "epidermal" worked miracles. There was none of the screaming and profanity I expected. Just some sweating and grunting. The aptness of the term "labor" was clear.

Then, abruptly, a smooth, fleshy spot appeared between her splayed legs. I watched in a mixture of amazement and horror as a small human HEAD came into view.

Oh, my God, I thought. There's a person coming out of her. A very small person, but a person none-the-less, smeared with what looked like a combination of blood and vaseline.

A tiny arm popped out, and I could only think of "Aliens."

It was both the most amazing and disgusting thing I've ever witnessed. Both awe-inspiring and slightly grotesque.

All I could do was stare, mouth gaping like a village idiot, as another human being joined the world. It was like a magic trick, and I could not figure out how it was possible. David Copperfield had nothing on my friend. How could a woman push another living being into creation? How could there be nothing but a swollen belly and hairy cleft one moment, and a whole person the next?

That person is named Emily. Yesterday she turned 10. She's grown into an interesting little human, charmingly imperious at times, utterly confident as she strides through the world. I see both her parents -- people I love as I love few people -- in her features and her character. I am enormously interested in watching her grow.

Emily has two brothers, and they too hold an appeal that no other children can claim on my heart.

But Emily, to me, is the most special child in all the known world. I saw her come into this world. I was there the day she was born. I wouldn't trade that for anything....

But I am still glad I chose not to have my own. There's not enough duct tape in the world.

Attack of the Ninja Kitty

Last night, i made a terrible mistake. I half-woke and in the drowsy roll-over, my hand landed on Doolittle, sleeping as he often does right up against my left hip. I gave him an affectionate pat or two.....

Not realizing that, in my stupor, I had broken the cardinal rule of our cease-fire: i touched his belly.

He nipped my hand, and i moved to pat his head, murmuring an apology in a sugar voice. But no... that was not good enough. He went into full attack mode.

I'm not exaggerating. If i hadn't been wearing my wrist braces, he would have severed an artery. instead, i felt his teeth trying to gnaw thru it, then moving up to my elbow for tender meat.

I pushed him away, yelping "ow" which I thought by now he realized was the human equivalent of saying "Uncle." Or begging for mercy.

Faster than light, he was back on my arm, this time more violently, claws digging in. This time I pushed him hard, nearly knocking him of the bed, yelling "QUIT IT!"

Doo leapt at my HEAD. Only a lucky block by my right arm kept him from biting my nose. I kid you not, every so often he acts like he's freakin' rabid and wants to rip my heart out.

I ducked under the covers, careful to tuck arms and hands under as well, and played dead.

For a moment, he just stood on my chest, sniffing at the sheet, as if thinking, "Where did she go? What's this whimpering lump? Should I bite it?"

Finally he meowed loudly -- triumphantly perhaps -- and jumped off the bed, retreating to the guest bed, which he considers his anyway. Hell, he considers everything his....

He's a bad, bad kitty. Sometimes he downright scares me. I don't know if I should call it Ninja Kitty or just plain Psycho Kitty.

Wisteria, Nostalgia and Pain

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

Several years ago, Rex and I took a trip to New Orleans. It was the best vacation I've ever had- well, the besides the time my parents took me to Disney World as an eight year old. (And really, when you are eight, can anything compete with Disney World? I don't think so.)

It was the year before Katrina, and the city was simply... enchanting. Not enchanting like Disney, mind you, where you know that everything is a carefully calculated fake. New Orleans doesn't try so hard to sell itself. She's a classy vintage brothel, not a modern-day street walker. She doesn't stagger over to your car and push herself against the window, with vulgar offers; No, New Orleans whispers, "Come in if you want, sugar. Stay a spell." It was as if the city itself put an arm around me, drew me close and handed me a drink.

New Orleans isn't picture perfect in that plastic-shiny way of most tourist destinations in the US, by any means. The streets are a little grimy -- but in a picturesque way. New Orleans is a little like an aging old lady, a grand dame whose got a little mud on the hem of her skirt, and her lipstick may be a little smeared, but she's still one hell of a great gal.

NOLA really is a special place where people still live amid its history, where around every corner you find yourself just staring at some bit of architecture that still has a distinct personality. That's something hard to come by in these days of cookie-cutter strip malls. What's special about New Orleans is that .... well, it's New Orleans.

Maybe our visit was helped by the fact that we arrived the week after Mardi Gras, when most of the tourists had gone home and everybody seemed to be breathing a huge sigh of relief in a post-blowout afterglow. The people we met made us feel like tourists were not merely tolerated for the sake of the money in our pocket books, but welcome just for hospitality's sake.

We set aside one night for a special meal, the kind of "throw-away-the- budget-and-don't -even-look-at-the-price-tag" extravagance that life requires from time to time. I had researched all the options carefully before the trip, and settled on The Court of Two Sisters.

I watch enough Anthony Bourdain to know that the most famous of a city's restaurants, the one who whistles loudest at the tourists, are most often not the best food in town. Hell, I know this from living in my home town of Savannah, where tourists are always directed toward the Pirate's House -- an interesting place, to be sure, but not often frequented by the locals who know better. For years, the best food in Savannah was at Mrs. Wilkes' Boarding House, which for most of its history didn't even have a sign out front. You just knew where it was, and looked for the people lining up outside at lunch time. (I have no opinion at all on the newest tourist mecca in Savannah, Paula Deen's "Mother and Sons" -- i haven't been there. When I go home, I'm too busy eating my mom's cooking, and shoving Spanky's chicken fingers into my face.)

I'm not knocking the Court's food -- in truth, i don't even remember what I ate. I vaguely remember it being reasonably good, but the food was hardly the point.

Flash back to many years before. I was sixteen, dragged across country from Los Angeles to Savannah with my family in what has become known as the Great Yandell Vacation from Hell. Yes, we drove. At some point in the navigation, my mother -- from whom I have inherited the travel bug and food fetish -- insisted that we should detour from Memphis (had to go to Memphis, to visit Graceland) down to New Orleans. After the first 2,000 miles, does another five hundred really matter?

We trotted through New Orleans -- we had limited time -- and when it was time for dinner, my mother headed to the gated courtyard of some restaurant in the French Quarter. We could see nothing at all beyond the iron bars of the gate, only the elegant menus posted on the courtyard wall.

My father took one look at the french words on the menu and balked. If there was no hamburger steak on the menu, he wasn't having any of it.

We ate at Howard Johnson's instead.

I have always suspected this was the real reason my parents divorced.

I have no idea if the Court of the Two Sisters was the same courtyard restaurant that my mother had been denied years before, but I was damned sure it was an acceptable substitute.

It was magical. We arrived just as the sun was setting, and we were seated in the enormous courtyard, under the riotous blossoms of wisteria, obviously still celebrating Mardi Gras, sprinkling lavender petals like confetti across the cobblestones.

I have always loved wisteria, but never had I seen anything so freakin HUGE. The base was a mash of dozens of thick trunks, the whole mass as big as the trunk of a giant oak. The creeping foliage covered the entire courtyard in a lush jungle of green and lavender. The vines were like the British Empire under Victoria, spreading everywhere as insidiously as small pox.

It got even better as the sky dimmed to a pale indigo. The wisteria was entwined with thousands of white lights that suddenly twinkled to life.

I came home -- reluctantly -- with a dream. I would build an arbor in my backyard. I would plant a wisteria vine. I would nurture it, pamper it, coax it into glory like the Court of Two Sisters.

With only a little arm-twisting, Rex helped me build the arbor. (Okay, I assisted. I mostly handed him tools, and i did do all the staining.) I went to Home Depot and got the biggest wisteria they had. I planted it in the light of the full moon, dancing naked and chanting around it for good luck. (Luckily for me, the arbor is inside a privacy fence.)

It seemed to grow well, and then winter came. I watched anxiously as it lost all its leaves and became just a few gnarled brown twigs. When spring strolled around, I held my breath, waiting to see if my beloved had indeed survived a Tennessee winter.

Lo and behold.... it sprung green once more. It grew and grew.... but it did not blossom. Imagine my dismay to research wisteria online and find that they may take anywhere from five to ten years to bloom. If ever.

I've been praying and crossing my fingers for six (?) years now, and while the wisteria continues to grow like gangbusters, it has not yet bloomed. I'm still hopeful.

It has grown so well it's begun to invade a nearby tree. For a year or two, I pulled the invading vines out of the tree, coaxing the tendrils back into the arbor. Then for another few years, I decided, to hell with it. If it wants to take the tree, I don't care. The tree is ugly anyway. Let the wisteria run free! Let it run rampant over the whole neighborhood! Run, wisteria, run!

But alas, the storms of the last week knocked a large bastard of a branch out of the tree and onto the arbor. A branch of nearly four inches diameter managed to wedge itself into the slats of the roof, and no amount of pulling and pushing would free it.

So, i spent this afternoon perched precariously on a ladder, with telescoping branch cutters, hacking at both the tree and my beloved wisteria until I was able to free the wretched branch.

I know my beloved will recover, and probably needed the pruning, but it still hurt my heart to cut any of it. Not to mention the pain of my upper arms, which I will probably not be able to lift tomorrow.

Now, if i can just find a lumberjack who'll trade taking down that damned tree for monkees, paintings or sexual favors.

Detroit, Canada and the Crash

Written April 14, 2010

Note: It's been five days without a cigarette, and this is the first time I've tried to write anything. When I write, I chain smoke, so this is killing me. All I can think of is "I would drown kittens for a cigarette."

THURSDAY NIGHT:
When we stopped in Louisville, KY on the first night, we fell in love... with a hotel. Our room, specifically, at the Hyatt Place hotel. It's not that I haven't stayed in nice hotels before, but never one so brand-spanking new, with a radically different layout from the common hotel room, which is basically one/two beds across from a desk and a... oh, hell, you know exactly what I mean because they all look pretty much alike.

This was so clean, sleek and modern in design, yet comfortable. I mean, I took my first photos of the hotel room, for heaven's sake. Because of the way it was designed, with a wide open floor plan, it seemed gigantic. The beds were fabulously comfy.

I could live happily in that hotel suite. It's all the space I really need. I could use another bookshelf, and maybe a larger desk, but that's about it. As I closed the door one last time and went to checkout, I whispered: "I will always love you...."

FRIDAY, SATURDAY, SUNDAY MORNING:
Detroit went okay, though in reality we never actually got to Detroit. Having spent 12 miserable days in the Motor City back in December 2000, I counted it a small loss. Rex's conference was actually in Romulus.

The hotel had apparently gone through a recent sale and was now called the Metropolis or Metropolitan, some unfamiliar name on a vinyl sign that struck fear in hearts when we first saw it in what looked like the middle of nothing but airport car parks. The hotel "restaurant" was really a bar that served nothing but bar-food in front of wide-screen tvs playing sports. Food nearby was in such short supply we actually ate two meals in the same restaurant... and the other two meals in another restaurant.

One was a decent local Italian place, the other a diner called "Coney Island," where we experienced the Detroit version of the chili dog, which, strangely, has a layer of ground beef on the bottom. This is referred to as "loose" as in: "Give me one loose," while a standard chili dog is referred to as "one-up." I have no idea why. But Yankees have many strange and unfamiliar customs. (And why do people find it weird that I put ketchup on hot dogs?)

The waitress, bless her, slipped me a cigarette when my jailers weren't looking. When we returned for the great breakfast special on Sunday morning, her daughter waited on us. I did not, however, try to hit her up for a smoke. I hit up a smoking fellow customer. Can you believe it? There's STILL a smoking section in a restaurant?)

And yes, food is the focal point of my life, so why should a trip being any different? Of course, I'm now sick to death of fast food. But I digress.

The hotel, of course, did not measure up to our previous love affair. While the beds were nice, it took three calls and one annoyed visit to the front desk to get more towels. This place also had the most freakishly small elevators I've ever seen.

I mention the beds because sleep is the second most important aspect of my life. And while I adore Rex, and he's the best bed companion ever (now that he has a CPAP) -- an excellent cuddler, but not smothering, prone to an affectionate pat or rub or kiss if you should stir in the middle of the night -- the double bed was annoying. i am accustomed to having a queen all to myself most of the time. It wouldn't be so bad if you could detach an arm.

Sunday afternoon, it was onward to Canada. We excitedly oohed and ahhed over the enormous stretch of Lake Erie (a really great lake!) as stupidly as any other yokel tourist. Having been raised on the coast, I'm used to see great expanses of water, but never at the edge of a city full of high rises, never without a beach.

When we saw a lighthouse on the shore of Lake Erie, we desperately wanted to take a photo. Rex is, after all, a professional photographer. But to our dismay, the lighthouse was on the Coast Guard base, behind a locked fence. Patti brazenly pressed the button of the call box and asked if we could come in. To our surprise, they said they would send someone to escort us.

The female officer was polite but seemed completely ignorant of everything except the pair of geese on the path to the lighthouse. She urged us to veer away from the increasingly agitated male honking at us, and the sleeping female on her nest a few feet away.

But she didn't know what the little round building about a half mile out on the lake was, nor did she know when they stopped using the lighthouse. No, she wasn't sure if the gigantic ship with missile launchers around the bend was an actual Navy vessel still in use. She didn't even know that name or location of any kind of restaurant in the area. We took our pictures and trudged back to the car.

I suppose I should mention this was my first experience with a GPS. It is an astonishing device -- and while i understand how it operates, it is still both amazing and eerie how it always knew exactly where we were, directing turns at just the right moment.

The GPS is, however, downright annoying at times. In the middle of a conversation, "she" butts in with instructions to continue down the road you've been on for fifty miles and will remain on for the next sixty. I have named the GPS after my mother; she knows exactly where you should go, she is always right, and when you get it wrong, she just keeps telling you to make a u-turn until you finally get it right.

The road we took was plagued by construction, and even with the GPS, we kept making turns that led us down into nerve-wracking cattle-shoots of concrete and orange barrels, only to end up going the wrong way, with the GPS constantly telling us to make a U-turn. We could see the gates of the border up ahead, so tantalizingly close and yet so apparently inaccessible. Our laughter teetered on the edges of hysteria.

Finally we see a sign that says: "Follow signs not GPS." Oh, now you tell us.

And there it was: CANADA.

What is about being faced by people in uniform that makes even the most innocent person feel like a criminal? "Where have you come from? Where are you going? For what purpose? How long are you staying? Are you carrying any drugs, firearms, farm animals or firewood?"

They asked us to open the trunk. I can only imagine that the officer took one look at the jam-packed mass of suitcases, tote bags, camera bags and cosmetic cases crammed into ever possible inch of space and thought to himself: "Oh, fuck it. I'm not to move all this stuff. Let them smuggle a few logs into Canada, I don't care."

I was crushed to learn that they do not stamp your passport unless you come into the country by plane. I still have a virgin passport, untouched by any official proof that I have, indeed, left American soil.

Almost sunset, we arrived at Niagra Falls. And my mouth fell open.

It was the most God-awful rabbit-warren of neon crassness since Gatlinburg. It was, in many ways, indistinguishable from Gatlinburg, or any other over-crowded, plastic toy town aimed at sucking the wallets of bleary-eyed tourists. It even boasts a Ripley's Believe-It-Or-Not.

What on earth is the point of traveling to another town, let alone another country, to find yourself parking behind a Dave and Buster's, across the street from a Hard Rock Cafe? Everywhere I looked, I saw the same chain names I left in Nashville. The only non-chain establishment we saw as a closed restaurant.

We made our way down the walkway to the Falls. There it was.... the Mighty Niagra.

And it was totally underwhelming.

I don't mean to dis the falls. They are perfectly nice falls, bigger than any I've ever seen in person. Maybe it was the towering mass of casinos and hotels we'd just passed through that made it seem smaller than I'd imagined, the glare of neon that made it seem dim and ordinary. Leave it to humans to surround a natural wonder with crap and ruin the whole damned thing.

We were going to go to our hotel and come back in the morning, but decided it really wasn't worth it. That was our first mistake.

Canada was, well...not that different really. Mainly it was flat. Flat, flat and more flat. Nothing but far-flung farms, and yet not a single cow or horse in sight. Yet minor differences made it seem like we'd traveled through some vortex to a parallel universe. Flag poles sported the big red maple leaf, not the Stars and Stripes. Road signs were amusingly unfamiliar: "Fatigue kills. Take a break." Kilometers, not miles, on speed markers ("Maximum Speed: 100 km.") Gasoline prices of 94.9 shocking, until you remember they are talking liters. Signs in both English and French.

(No Spanish anywhere. Not a Hispanic person, either. We wondered who did the yard work. A dearth of Mexican and Chinese restaurants. We saw no black people. Only one possible Indian woman at the A&W. Not even in Detroit. I mean, Romulus.)

Funniest t-shirt spotted: "What is a Canadian? An unarmed American with health care."

Oddest food difference: something called "poutine" on the menu of an A&W stand. French fries, cheese and gravy. Um... okay.

Another hotel, on yet another shore of a Great Lake -- still Lake Erie. Always Lake Erie. Miles and miles of Lake Erie. We're not sure, but we think that our hotel was the only one on the Grand Island. We arrived in the dark, weaving down a twisting road of residential lake houses, wondering if the GPS was screwing with us. At one point we got sidetracked down a dead end under a bridge. It looked just like one of those places where the Law and Order detectives pull bloated bodies from the river.

The hotel was nice, a convention center, but the beds were hard... Thanks to the Netbook, Rex and Patti managed to keep swashbuckling on the high seas. I collected a few rents in My Town.

MONDAY MORNING:
The hotel offers no breakfast, so we are on the road again, looking for someplace to eat. We detour through a little town in New York called Hamburg. This is our second mistake.

Working our way down a two lane of lovely homes, we realize we are still finding nothing to eat, and attempt to turn around.

We are sitting there, fully stopped, and the SUV behind us (that has already honked rudely at us for driving too slow) also comes to a full stop behind us. The blinker tick..tick...ticks as we wait for traffic to pass.

Then the loud screeching of rubber, the involuntary cringe of wondering what terrible thing has happened behind us, but a split second of thinking we are well ahead of it. And then... WHAM. The horrible crunch of metal, the violent jerk forward and back, the car moving forward without our permission. I hear Rex first, then Patti, say, "F*ck!"

I am first aware that my head has hit the back of the seat. It hurts. I reach back instinctively, and am relieved to find no blood or hunks of hair. My back feels wrenched somehow.

We get out of the car. Patti looks at the rear of the first new car she has ever owned, not even a year old, and I know she wants to cry.

The two women inside the SUV are sitting still stunned. One of them begins to cry.

Then we see the cause of it all, a POS brownish-red pickup, the hood completely smashed with something running out if it. For a moment I worry that it might be gas, but it is only water from the radiator.

The police and two fire trucks are there quickly. Even the mayor of Hamburg responds to the call. A three-car crash is apparently a major event in this sleepy little hamlet.

I immediately fish in my purse for the single forbidden cigarette I've smuggled out of Detroit. I no longer care if Rex sees me smoking. I've waited two days, and I've had no coffee, no breakfast, and by God, I want that cigarette.

There are words with the women in the SUV, who still have not moved. The driver insists that she did not hit us. Patti informs her angrily that she did, having been pushed forward by the truck behind her. The crying woman is becoming hysterical, rubbing at her neck.

The paramedics end up taking both the women out on boards. Rex disagrees politely but firmly with one of the paramedics that no, we do not want to go to the hospital, but no, we will not sign anything.

The paramedic comes to me, questions me, takes my pulse. We find out we have the same birthday.

The police are questioning two witnesses. I need to pee, and trudge behind the nursery we're blocking to ask the owner if I can use his bathroom. He kindly obliges.

Traffic is being directly around us, lights are flashing, police and firemen and paramedics milling around, talking. It is a circus. I ask one of the officers directing traffic if he has a cigarette. He does not, but tells me to go ask the Chief, who does smoke. Rex hears me and tells me not to do it; I have a mini-temper tantrum-meltdown.

Finally everyone is gone but us, one cop -- Officer T. Brooks -- and the thirty-something construction worker who ruined our day. The crash-causing bastard is nice and easy until the police officer tells him he is being cited the accident, and held 100 percent at fault.

"How do you know it was my fault?" he asks, a little angrily. "You haven't even talked to me yet."

"We've got two witnesses who both said you caused the wreck," T. Brooks explains.

"But you didn't ask me what happened!"

"You're not exactly objective," T. Brooks says. He then tells Mr. Bastard that he will, in all likely hood be sued by the women in the SUV.

Finally beginning to calm down and regain ourselves, Patti, Rex and I realize that it could have been so much worse. We could have been seriously hurt, or pushed into the path of an oncoming vehicle; the car could have been damaged more, rendered undriveable and leaving us stranded in New York State.

Finally... we find breakfast. Three Grand Slams at Denny's. I defiantly eat pancakes.

More driving... another hotel. That night we go to a place called Mimi's Cafe -- a chain, but still rather good -- for dinner. We are ignored by the wait staff until someone tracks down our waitress, who apologizes profusely for the mixup.

Our meal is very nice, and we have completely forgiven our waitress who turns out to be excellent, but as a final apology she brings us four complimentary HUGE muffins. We leave her a nice tip.

And more driving... driving... driving.....

Not much more to say. I'm sore, headachey, sick of the car, sick of eating, glad to see my cat and eager to get to my own bed.

Conversations with a Ninja Kitty

I often think that if i could have one wish, it would be to be able to have a real conversation with my cat, Doolittle. I think it might go something like this:

Me: Hey, Doo.
Doo: (blink)
Me: Doo.... Doo-kitty....
Doo: (licking paw)
Me: DOO!
Doo: me heared you, momma-woman.
Me: Then why do you make me call you three times?
Doo: Me a cat.
Me: You do understand that I own you, right?
Doo: Oh, be serious.
Me: Come on, I put a roof over your head, I brush you, feed you --
Doo: Yick. day affer day, same dry crunchy stuff.
Me: But you gobble enough for three cats! You're telling me you don't like it?
Doo: It look like gerbil doo-doo.
Me: Do you like the canned stuff?
Doo: (blink)
Me: Come on, you practically knock me down the minute I open that cabinet....
Doo: it not bad. Not swkewrl, but not yick.
Me: Then why don't you eat it?
Doo: Me prefer to lick it.
Me: It's expensive, that stuff in the can.
Doo: Don't look at me, human. Me got no money. No pockets.
Me: I ought to make you get a job, but no one would hire a cat.
Doo: Me could be kitty porn star.
Me: Yeah, right. You don't even have any balls.
Doo: That's sumthing me would like to talk to YOU about — (hard stare)
Me: Hey, I didn't do that. You were fixed when I took you in.
Doo: And you wunder why i got attitude.
Me: I see your point.
Doo: And why you so stingy with YOUR food, huh?
Me: I try to give you something, you sniff at it like I'm trying to poison you!
Doo: You try to give me weird stuff. You nebber let me lick steak.
Me: That's not true. I give you a slice of your own to lick.
Doo: Your piece more juicy.
Me: And while we're on the subject of food, keep your face out of my cereal bowl.
Doo: Me like the milk.
Me: I thought cats were lactose intolerant.
Doo: What stoopid human told you dat?
Me: The vet.
Doo: Oh, like he know. He same basturd that took me balls.
Me: It was for your own good. You can't be wondering the streets knocking up every strange pussy in the neighborhood.
Doo: You nebber let me go out! Me cat. Me like to go outside.
Me: Why? Don't I give you everything you need?
Doo: Me don go outside, me can no eat grass. If me can eat no grass, me cant barf on carpet.
Me: That's not exactly a motivation for me.
Doo: This serious. Part of me duty as cat. Let me go outside. Pleaz. Union fine me for not barfing enuff.
Me: Cats have a union?
Doo: Crap. Dat secret. Not suppose to tell you.
Me: I don't believe you have a union. That's ridiculous.
Doo: How you think we catz got such a kooshy job?
Me: Okay, that actually makes sense—
Doo: Let me go outside. Pleaz. Me want a skwerl.
Me: It's dangerous for you outside, stupid cat!
Doo: Naw. Me got ninja skillz. Besidez, me big cat. Nobody mess wid me.
Me: The vet says you're too fat.
Doo: That guy again. (eye roll) Me just big-boned.
Me: Come on, when you lay in my lap, my legs go to sleep.
Doo: You could lose a few pounz yourself.
Me: Hey, I'm trying—
Doo: Dat why you sit in big chair all day, staring at dat big box?
Me: I'm not just watching tv. I'm always working on something.
Doo: You jus playing with silly socks.
Me: Those silly socks help buy your food right now. I'm unemployed, in case you haven't noticed that I'm staying home all day.
Doo: Ohhh. Me thought you just wanted nap. Me was proud of you. You sleepin almost much as me now.
Me: How can you sleep so much?
Doo: Me savin strength for ninja attack.
Me: What is it with you and the bare ankles?
Doo: Dey taste good. Besides, it fun fer me. No fun fer you?
Me: I wouldn't scream when you do it, if i thought it was fun.
Doo: Ohhh. Me get it now.
Me: So you'll stop it?
Doo: No. It still fun fer me.
Me: Stop it, I'm serious.
Doo: Den give me mouse to chase.
Me: I give you catnip toys.
Doo: Pfft. They no run. Me cant chase.
Me: What about the one on the stick? I waggle it in front of you, you just look at it.
Doo: Me know it just you wigglin stick. Me not stoopid.
Me: Right. That's why your english is so terrible. It's embarrassing. Bubba Cat speaks much better English.
Doo: Hey, English hard. Too many words. Cat talk easier. Only one word. Meow. Mean everything depending on how you say it.
Me: Okay, then, could you at least stop rubbing yourself all over my face? You get hair in my mouth.
Doo: Me got no choice! You wont lick me! Me cant lick own face!
Me: Humans don't lick each other.
Doo: Dat not true. Me see you licking dat Rex-man.
Me: That's another thing. Stop watching us.
Doo: No. It too entertaining. Make me laugh.

Why I'm a Cyber-Farmer

It has come to my attention that some people find the games on FB annoying. "I don't care if you just bought a dairy barn... or lost a cow.... or adopted a bandicoot," they say. "Stop sending me fig trees and quiche. I'm not playing!"

I can certainly understand that. I've never been a computer gamer. I mean, if you don't count Free Cell, 'cause honestly, is there anyone with a computer who hasn't played Free Cell or some other form of Solitaire? I've had friends virtually lost in World of Warcraft and the like, and I always felt a little sorry for them. Poor slobs, bless their hearts. Get a life.

Then at a party one night, I heard two friends talking animatedly about crops and barns, and I knew they weren't farmers. WTF?

"Farm Town," they told me. "On Facebook. It's a game."

"A game?" I asked, incredulous. "About... farming? You're kidding. Seriously?" Snicker.

Out of curiosity, I took a look the next time i logged into FB. It looked... interesting.

What could it hurt? I would just try it. Just to see what it was like. All my friends, it seemed, were doing it.

It seemed harmless enough. Someone sent me a sheep. It was so cute, so adorable. It went "baaaaaahhhh" and walked around. And you can't just have one sheep, it would get lonely, wouldn't it? If you got a few sheep, you might as well have a cow. Ooh, and a chicken!

When the pig fell over and went to sleep, snoring softly, I was utterly charmed. "Gotta have a pig," I thought. "Maybe three or four."

As my farm filled up with crops and animals and buildings, the lust for more land grew. I had to expand! More land! More crops! More cows!

My carpel tunnel began to flare up from nights spent clicking, clicking, clicking. I walked through the produce section at Kroger and felt the strangest urge to click on the piles of corn, as if I could harvest them. I would drive down the road, see a field and think, "I'd put a tree right there."

Still, I thought, "I can stop any time."

Then one night, it was three a.m. and I was actually contemplating buying more coins with a credit card because I really, really, really wanted that mansion and I was a mere thousand experience points from Level 32.

One night, I left my boyfriend in bed so I could go harvest my crops. That should have been a warning sign.

I did the math to figure out which crops had the best payoff to growing time ratio -- and I haven't voluntarily done math in more than 25 years.

When the game went down the night I had an entire crop of pineapples (the biggest money crop at the time) coming in, I hyperventilated, banged my fists on the computer and finally sobbed in frustration. When the game came back up in time to harvest, I experienced something akin to the ecstasy of Old Testament saints.

That's when I realized I had a problem. I needed an intervention. But not until I got to the next level.

And just when I thought I had mastered the game -- I had the biggest farm possible, and the mansion, and all the other neat stuff and animals -- the bastards added new stuff and new levels. Like Michael Corleone, just when I thought I was out, they pulled me back in.

I've tried other farming games, but I love Farm Town the best. It's the most interactive because you can work harvesting for other farmers, too; of course, that's also the most damnably addicting aspect as well, because you could work Farm Town literally around the clock if you had enough coffee. (In Farmville, the graphics are higher quality, but once you plant your crops, all you can do is wait for them to mature.)

In Farm Town, you go to the "marketplace" (which is really a chat room) and try to get a job. Or you just hang out and whine about how long you've been stuck at Level 24, or how you're scared of the big mutant turkeys that are twice the size of the horses.

If you see someone with a really big farm, and a crop of say, pineapples, almost ready to harvest, you chat them up, ask them to be your neighbor, negotiate trades. But it's not all about the game, you actually talk to other living beings. I've made friends (of a sort) in Australia, Canada, California, England.... seriously. We visit each other's farms, admiring new acquisitions. "Ooh... how'd you make that waterfall?" (There's actually a tutorial on You Tube.)

I even reconnected with friends from high school and college. It was kinda funny that I would be trading harvests with the former football player I was afraid to talk to in high school.

But what I love most about Farm Town is the chance to play God. To create a world in which I have complete and total control. "I will put a pond here... and the meadow here. This looks like a good spot for a windmill." I build orchards and fields, plant elaborate gardens and hedges and entire rivers. True, it takes a bit more than seven days, but what the hell. I have the time.

It appeals to the artist in me, and the apparent completion compulsion I didn't know I had. In real life, I am out of work and broke, but in the cyber world, I am billionaire farming tycoon, living in a mansion amid gently rolling hills and valleys. Life is good.

Unlike life, the rules of the game are clear. You do the work, you get the rewards. You know where you are and how you're doing because you have coins, and points, and levels.

I've dallied with other games: Sorority Life (a horrible, horrible game built on shameless material acquisition with an inordinate amount of face-slapping) and Mafia Wars, but I much prefer the building games. In Cafe World, you build a little diner -- though I am more about decorating the restaurant than cooking the food. I've started and abandoned some games --- such as Social City -- because they are so ridiculously slow.

My current obsession? My Town. Again, I'm building my own little world. And I like it there. I like it a lot.

So don't judge me too harshly when I post about my new amphitheater or parking garage. It makes me ridiculously happy to have something I can control. Something I can win at, when I can't seem to bend real life to my wants and needs.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go collect my rents and see if I am any closer to buying that big honking shopping mall.

I Love my Doctor

March 25, 2010

Today I went for my six-week (?) or is it eight? I can't remember... anyway, it was a followup on George, that pesky SOB. Which meant I had to drag my butt out of bed at 7:30, no coffee or breakfast, and fight the rain-impaired drivers of Nashville. I was in such a foul mood I had a pop a Xanax before I crashed into someone, yanked them out of their car and beat them to death with my shoe.

I complain here a lot, about many things, and I thought that today I should mention something I do like, my primary care doctor, John E. Anderson at the Frist Clinic.

When I first went to him -- good grief, was it 15 years ago? Or twenty? He looked more like Doogie Howser than Marcus Welby, and I was a little skeptical. I don't know how young he was, maybe he just has one of those faces who looks much younger than he actually is, but I was tempted to ask to see his license, just to be sure he had actually graduated.

(Hey, I once changed OB/GYNs because the guy was just too good looking; I know it's crazy, but I just didn't want him seeing me naked with my feet in the stirrups. That's not a situation where you want to be thinking how sexy your doctor is. Makes the breast exam really awkward. For me, that is. I'm sure that for him, it's just another pair of hooters in a day of female genitalia. But I digress.)

Over the years, Dr. Anderson has grown into a more "doctorly" appearance. (Rather attractive, actually, which is why even though he's offered to do my yearly pap smear to save me time and money, I just say, uh, no thanks. That's okay. Really.)

But in all these years, what hasn't changed is the care he shows. He's personable, but not in the superficial way of many doctors I've seen over the years. He never makes you feel like he's in a hurry -- and THAT is truly remarkable, in my experience. The last other doctor I saw, a dermatologist, diagnosed me before he'd taken two steps into the room, and was gone faster than you could say "tylenol."

Anderson asks a lot of questions and listens when you ramble through a litany of symptoms and dumb questions. He doesn't sneer derisively when you mention you read something on WebMD and just want to make sure you don't have mesothelioma or malaria.

He doesn't seem to overbook as ridiculously as most other doctors do, because I never spend an inordinate amount of time waiting. (I am, however, mourning the departure of his head blood-sucker. I can't remember her name, only that she was a superstar, the Tiger Woods of blood-drawing. I never ever even felt the needle. The new girl's not bad, but she ain't Tiger.)

True, he's still lecturing me on my smoking and aversion to exercise, but nobody's perfect. I think he took an oath or something that makes him legally bound to oppose the one and promote the other. Go figure.

When I told him about my recent calamities, he told me I could get my Metaformin at WalMart for $4 a month. He cleaned out his Cymbalta samples for me. And he assured me that his office would work with me to make sure I continued to deal effectively with George. Having just been dumped by my shrink, and obsessively worrying about my lack of insurance, it was good to feel like someone was in my corner.

He's proud of me for doing so well, and I am giddy as a schoolgirl getting a gold star. (Maybe bringing him my BS levels for the past two months on an Excel spreadsheet tickled him. ) I've lost a total of 16 pounds -- not miraculous, but a good steady downward.

Anyway.... all this rambling to say thanks, Dr. Anderson. You're a good guy, and I'm glad you're my doctor.

Up in the Air: Bad Movie Choices

Written: Thursday, March 11, 2010

Warning: the following post is probably not going to be very funny. It will, however, be soggy with tears, stinking of desperation and mired in a deeply morbid self-pity only nominally covered by sarcasm and failed attempts at humor.

I am a big movie fan, so I was looking forward to seeing "Up in the Air." But somehow, in all the stuff I'd read about it, I either didn't hear or blocked out one teensy, weensy pertinent detail: Clooney's character fires people for a living.

We're not just told what he does. No. Neither do we get just one scene to get the point across. No. There's scene after scene of ordinary people being terminated. Let go. Downsized. Devastated.

Someone in movie marketing actually promoted this movie as a "high-flying comedy." Sure, it has a few chuckles here and there. So did Sophie's Choice, but i wouldn't characterize it as a light-hearted romance.

It was a stroke of genius on the part of the director not to have these terminated people played by stars or even recognizable character actors. He chose instead people who look like someone you might have passed on the way to the copy machine. We don't even get the safety buffer of long shots or medium shots (to use camera angle jargon) but head-on in the terrible intimacy of the close-up. Face full frame, talking directly to us, the audience, as if we are the bastard laying their world to waste.

Face after face, crumpling in tears, anger, terror, disbelief, shock. Whimpering, screaming, shouting, threatening suicide. People agonizing about their kids, their mortgages, their heating bills.

I squirmed in my seat, felt my stomach twisting into an origami crane, and even contemplated turning the damned movie off, because who the f*ck needs to see even fictional lives shattered when you know so intimately how it feels, when you've been that person not once or even twice but four times now...

Clooney's character has a line he likes to use on these pitiful wrecks of human beings: "Anybody who ever built an empire, or changed the world, sat where you are now. And it's *because* they sat there that they were able to do it."

The first time he said it, I smirked and said aloud, "Screw you." The second time, I would have thrown something heavy at the screen except that I knew I couldn't afford to replace either a television or an ashtray.

But when the guy in Detroit responded to that line with: "I'm 57 years old! Who's gonna hire me?" -- well, that's when I finally lost it.

I wrote a blog after my third termination about the stages of being fired, most of which included hysterical sobbing. I was actually rather pleased, in a strange sick way, that I skipped some of those stages on this, my fourth trip around the dead end of my brilliant career.

I only watered up at the moment of first realization, and quickly choked those tears down a painfully constricted throat because my supervisor was still saying things he expected me to reply to. True, I was leaking a bit as I packed up my desk, but held it together until I was alone in my car.

But as soon as I had the privacy to cry, I didn't. I thought maybe it was because I was just too numb, or because I really loathed that job anyway, or because I was just making progress in the fine art of not giving a shit. Maybe, I thought, I'm just toughening up and realizing that tears are a waste of time, body fluids, Kleenex and decongestants. Tears never change anything. (Except that ticket for not wearing my seat belt; hysterical sobbing did get me out of that one, but that was a total fluke.)

But tonight the flood gates opened. The dam broke. Hysterical sobbing, wailing, a whole box of Kleenex sacrificed on the altar of self-pity, despair and abject terror.

Before anyone rushes to tell me to buck up, that it will be okay, that I'm too smart and too talented to stay down for long, that this is all for the best, that i'll find another job that better suits me... yada yada yada -- understand that I appreciate your kindness, but I don't write this to elicit sympathy. I just need to belch these toxic fumes into the safety of an internet that cannot see the snot hanging from my nose. And frankly, I'm too despondent and terrified right now for anything anyone says to matter.

What frightens me the most is my inability to come up with any serious plan of action. I look at job postings in my chosen field of graphic arts, and more and more I see that I'm just falling more and more behind in the required technology. I look at all the classes offered online and on campuses, financial aid information, yada yada yada, and feel more and more like a possum in the headlights. All I can do is curl into a ball and play dead. Seriously, I was reading on how to apply for a Pell Grant and I had a minor panic attack, the words on the screen didn't seem to be a recognizable language anymore....

I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.

Many of you have so kindly offered suggestions and I know, i really do, that you're trying to show your support, and I do appreciate it. I do.

But the truth is:

Yes, I am a very talented writer. But I have spent the last ten years writing and writing and trying to get my work out into the world and so far, no one wants it enough to pay me money for it. I am trying to find the energy to go looking for a new agent, on the chance that it's not my own lack of talent but my agent's.... But publishing is dying. I fear that the only way I'll ever get people to read the four unpublished novels in my computer will be to turn them into three-minute blurbs on YouTube.

I do all the freelance graphics I can get my hands on, but those jobs are hard to come by, and even harder to get paid for. I know more unemployed graphic artists (i.e. "freelancers") than you can shake a stick at.

Even if I wanted to teach, I would have to continue my education. I am terrified that I will make the sacrifices necessary to get that education -- going back into the debt that I finally got myself out of -- only to find out that what I suspect is true: I will hate teaching. I will get sued for striking a student. That I lack the patience and dedication to deal with the average ignorant, willfully stupid student without resorting to violence or foul language or alcohol addiction.

I'm terrified that I'm too old to do it. How old will I be by the time I could get my Masters? Could I manage a doctorate before senile dementia renders me incapable of remembering even my last name, let alone the fundamentals of pedagogy? Can I even learn anything anymore?

I already make as much art and crafts as I can physically make, but have yet to find a way to live on what little money I earn that way. Yes, there are still people who will spend money on the most mediocre of stuff, but I've not had much luck finding them. (And I won't go into my other parallel crisis of faith brought on by watching "Amadeus" again. I realized that I am Salieri, and that i will never be Mozart. Not even Chopin or Barry Manilow. I am so discouraged about my art right now, my inability to translate what I see in my head onto the canvas, it all just comes out as trite mediocrity.... i want to burn it all. I know it's not terrible, it's just not very good. And that's almost worse. Hello, my name is Mediocrity.)

I am terrified of trying to open a business of any kind in this economy. I'm lousy with money anyway, and I don't want to run a business. Payrolls, taxes, zoning, bookkeeping, oh dear god just shoot me.

If I were to chose a completely different "in-demand" career path, I don't know what in the hell to choose. Court reporting? Medical coding? Paralegal? I'm an artist in my heart and soul. There is nothing else I want to do, nothing else I can even begin to imagine that wouldn't suck me dry of my will to live.

Today, I talked to a woman at a company called Lee Hecht Harrison, one of my termination benefits provided by Hewlett Packard. This is the crap they actually sent me about their program:

Lee Hecht Harrison, we believe that when it comes to career transition, individuals benefit from a proven process. That’s where AIM comes in - AIM (Assess opportunity, Implement search, Manage transition) is our business process that combines personal support and productivity tools to help you identify and achieve your goals.

Oh, dear God. Let me guess. I'll get a Briggs-Meyer personality test which will tell me I am best suited for a career in art and design. Someone with an associate's degree from a community college will help me proof my resume for grammar and punctuation. I'll get tips on how to interview successfully, which will probably be about as helpful as the ones I've already read on Yahoo, Linked-In, CareerBuilder, Monster and Oprah's magazine.

I know, I know. I'm so fucking cheerful and positive about this. But this totally pointless exercise will require me to put on a dress, hose and heels to sit in a conference room for two hours next Tuesday. Then they want to send me to a two-day seminar. Do they really think I haven't been trying? I'm not a moron.

Did I mention that their offices are located in the same building as the second job that fired me?

Clooney's character may actually be right. "Anybody who ever built an empire, or changed the world, sat where you are now. And it's *because* they sat there that they were able to do it."

But I'm afraid. I am so deep-down to my bones afraid. All i can see are all the obstacles. I'm walled in on all sides by fear of failure and a paralyzing lack of faith. I know I need to move beyond this, I just don't have any idea how in the hell to do it.