Bad Choices

My friend N watched the movie Secretary...



with her Dad.

Scary

So my friend OSB's brother-in-law was stuck in a hotel in New Orleans during Katrina. He got out yesterday, with some other guys, in the back of a security guard's pickup truck. Apparently they had to gun it quite a bit to get through the flood waters so they didn't stall out-- or get possibly set upon by the masses of angry people who weren't so fortunate to find a ride to safety. They were yelling and jeering at him. He saw bodies in the water as well, apparently. When you've got a stable life it's easy to forget how brutish life can be for people, brutish from birth right on through death, with occasional breaks of abject horror.

Finally

I am getting some respect in the job world. I went to a placement agency today and they didn't make me take any tests! Yee-HAW, I say, Yee-HAW! They balked a bit at the amount an hour I was asking but they can come relatively close to it. And they may have full-time work for me at the salary I requested. And they didn't balk at all the different jobs I've had. I'm not the typical career girl but this does not mean I am not valuable. I have finally realized this. Somewhere in the last year and a half of working I have found my mojo. And I love it. Go, mojo, go!

For all my fellow CCL's (crazy cat ladies)

Kitties in sinks

Kitten War

Mew mew mew!

Smellorama

While grocery shopping this morning I came across a pile of clearance Scent Stories discs. Scent Stories is the latest in home fragrance -- you buy this cd-playeresque machine, which plays these discs that have a variety of scents on them, with a common theme. For example, there's one called Exploring a Mountain Path, and it has smells like "A Stroll Through the Firs" or "By the Babbling Brook."

I thought up my own Scent Stories disc theme. I think I'm going to submit it to Febreze. I call it "A Jog Through The City in August in Oppressive Humidity."

1. "Hey, is that Throw-Up?"
2. "Nope. It's a Big Pile of Dookies."
3. "Mmmm, Now that's Throw-Up."
4. "Look, Mommy, that Man is Going Pee."
5. "Boy, that's A Lot of Maggots."

Day Two, or, The Return of Avoidy Girl

I'm beginning my first full week of joblessness. I've got this big long list of contact people for networking and there's even a posting less than a week old looking for an elearning content developer on CraigsList and it was all I could do today to call the employment agency back that contacted me last week. I am a bit nervous about going to an agency, mainly because I bristle at the idea of making money for someone else when I could make it for myself. Also they're like the real estate agent who shows you all the shitty houses first, hoping you'll bite, only the employment agency offers you shitty jobs. But I am meeting a very salesy-sounding woman in Burlington at 1 pm on Wednesday. If they make me take a proofreading test, or, God help me, a typing test, I don't know what I'll do.

One nice side effect of being an Avoidy Girl is that sometimes I avoid certain tasks by doing others, like running six and a half miles in disgusting humidity, and washing three big loads of laundry. And refolding all of my tshirts. And reading all the sections of the Sunday NYT.

As it is now after five p.m. and I will not be able to get ahold of anyone, Avoidy Girl's new job will be to avoid putting away all the shit that is cluttering up my apartment. I've begun the Avoiding by phoning my friend OSB to tell her Oprah was talking about poop today on her show (seriously! and she had real colons, both healthy and unhealthy, for all to see. I loved it! Fiber is good for you, people. So are s-shaped dookies that slide into the terlet like a skin diver.) but she wasn't home. I wanted to tell SOMEONE about the poOprah show but everyone I know is working.

Beefy

Another tale from the files of Dr. Moo:

Dr. Moo was called out at five o'clock in the morning for a prolapsed uterus. When a cow has a prolapsed uterus, the cure is to stuff the uterus back inside of the cow. She did this. Then the farmers offered her breakfast. She said sure, and went inside. They were having BLT's, to use up some of the tomatoes from their garden. Dr. Moo politely declined the BLT's, saying she didn't feel like bacon that day, and ate cereal instead.

Dr. Moo is a vegetarian and has been one since she was nine years old. I asked her why she didn't tell the farmers this. She told me that these farmers raised beef cattle and for her to tell them she didn't eat meat was like telling people who shop at the Gap that you hate jeans. It's just rude.

Gobble, Gobble

Dr. Moo came to visit this weekend. We walked a fair amount Saturday, from my place in Somerville out to Harvard Square, and then we roamed the fancy neighborhoods of Cambridge as we meandered our way back. She shared some new stories with me, some of which are too disgusting even to mention. But this one isn't:

Dr. Moo was out on a run when she saw some clumps of feathers off by the side of the road. Further along, she saw a turkey that was sort of shuffling along, all lopsided. It was missing chunks of itself, and had a big gash in its head. Something had beaten the crap out of it, apparently. Dr. Moo inspected the bird from a safe distance and decided that it was probably not going to live. So she went back to her apartment and called a friend and asked her how to euthanize a bird. The friend recommended stabbing a needle with (I think) sodium pentathol in the bird's heart. Dr. Moo grabbed a needle and some meds out of the vet truck, and then headed out to find the turkey. She was able to catch the turkey relatively easily; it was, she said, neurologically damaged. It made a kind of croaky sound when she picked it up. She injected it with the sodium pentathol and it died peacefully. Then she tossed the turkey into the woods.

When she told this story to her fellow cow vets, they were pissed. Why the hell hadn't she eaten the turkey, they asked? Apparently what she should have done was to swing it around by its head to break its neck, then bring it home and roast it in the oven.

Also there was the off chance that some dumb redneck would pick the sodium pentatholated turkey up off the side of the road, take it home, eat it, and then die a dumb redneck death.

I think Dr. Moo did the right thing. I came upon a baby turkey laying in the middle of the road, peeping when I was running one day. Cars kept running over it. I picked the little guy up and carried him back to my parents' house; he died in my hands. I didn't feel so bad because at least he didn't die alone.

Day One, Redux

So my fancy French dinner did not end up being free. I thought when someone said they were taking you out to dinner it meant that they were paying for it. I ended up having to cover a bit for someone else as well, just a couple of dollars, but still, ugh. Then we were going to get treated to a movie but ended up paying 12.75 (with a coffee) to see 2 and a half hours of a bizarro Chinese film. This was followed by drinks (soda water for me) at an irritatingly trendy bar where I was hit on by a couple of very drunk 23 year olds. I told them to go away. They said I was "abrasive" as opposed to a "bitch," which says to me that they went to Harvard.

Oh, and the heel on one of my stilettos started coming unglued and this was the first night I wore them.

Boo.

Day One

Day one of the unemployment, or as I am calling it, fabulous vacation, went well. I updated my resume and sent it out to someone in the morning, cleaned a little, went for a 7 mile run, came home, cleaned some more, ate lunch, took a nap with my cat, then more cleaning (apartment is a pigsty). Now I am going to hop on the bus in my four-inch stiletto heels and head out to meet friends for free dinner at a fancy French restaurant.

A girl could get used to this!

Okay, that LAST post...

...needs to be tempered with this one:

I had my yearly physical yesterday. I was laying on the table in my beautiful pink and purple paper towel outfit (a short-sleeved shirt up top with what amounts to a giant pastel napkin down below) talking to the doctor when the napkin blew off and there was my bidness, out in the open for all to see. I covered her with one hand while doc picked the napkin up off the floor. It's weird that I was uncomfortable because shortly thereafter I assumed the position that one needs to assume when one is a lady having her physical, and suffice to say one is open for bidness when one is in said position.

I think the real problem is that I just think it's the DIRTIEST thing in the world to be wearing a shirt but no pants or underpants. I don't why this skeeves me out so much, but it does.

I feel like...

...I want to live my life right. I don't want to waste time. I don't want to fuck it up too much but at the same time I don't want to be afraid to fuck up because hey, from thence comes the learnin'.

But sometimes I worry that in all of my thinking and worrying and brooding that I forget that this, this right here in front of me, this is my life and I have to remember to just live.

Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz

This is quite the gift.

Does nobody in this frickin' town have a job?

I'm home today because I have a doctor's appointment and also because there is no more work. I am updating my resume at the moment. Okay, I am really blogging at this very moment, but still.

My downstairs neighbor is listening to irritating Turkish music that I can hear through the floorboards. She's also stomping around a lot. One next-door neighbor is out washing his truck while talking to some woman in a t-shirt and shorts.

Don't these people work?

FYI

Sometimes Salon (www.salon.com)does an interesting article or two. Today it was pictures. They aren't really for the faint of heart. Okay, they aren't for the faint of heart at ALL -- they're pretty gory shots of the war in Iraq. I always wondered what happened to a suicide bomber. There's a picture of that. It pretty much makes sense -- there's a severed head, eyes opened, laying on top of a pile of insides with a leg and an arm sticking out. Like his middle exploded and his head and arms and legs fell to the ground.

On some level looking at pictures like that is for me the rubbernecking syndrome. On another level it is about realizing what war and what is happening in Iraq is really all about. Which is how Salon positions it -- it's a very liberal take on things (and I'm a liberal) -- the whole human face of war thing -- and I do think that it's important on some level to have unsanitized pictures like these available. But I don't know that I agree entirely with couching it in this sort of language: "The grim reality of Iraq rarely appears in the American press. This photo gallery reveals the war's horrible human toll." I agree that the gallery does this. I also think it stirs up controversy which increases site visits which increases advertising. And I think Salon has to be aware of this.

I read an interesting bit awhile back about a j-school prof who wasn't sure how much about what journalism has shifted towards now -- profits above all else -- he should tell his students. At some level nearly everything in the US is a commodity, something to be bought and sold, yes? I just wish we could all be a little more up front about that.

Get On the Bus

I was stuck between two couples loudly making out while waiting for the bus to come tonight. Lots of mmmmmmmmmm and lip smacking and slurping and other getaroom behavior. This isn't the first time this has happened. I've been near other noisy neckers.

The bus stop is smelly and dirty and loud. There's bird poo and spit and gum and god-knows-what on the ground. There's lots of random people everywhere. It doesn't make me horny. But it apparently has quite the effect on some folks. Maybe the bus stop is the new Viagra.

Belly

Spent much of Saturday with the quite-pregnant friend-formerly-known-as-H-bomb. Formerly-known-as because I've decided not to associate her with a big bad evil weapon. I wish I could refer to her as Pregnantasaurus Rex but that's not too nice either so I'll just call her OSB, for Owner of StinkyButt (her kitty with a smelly bumbalum).

So OSB and I went a-shoppin on Newbury Street. I was especially excited for this shopping trip because I have been waiting for MONTHS to try on the fake pregnant belly they provide for you at maternity stores so you can see how the clothes will fit you when you are further along. Of course, I am not very far along myself, seeing as how I am not pregnant and have not had sex in more than a year.

Buuuuuuuuut, I got really obsessed with this fake belly thing. I built it up in my head as being this nude-colored hefty thing complete with bigger breasts that fit over your shoulders and tied in the back. And OSB made me wait until she was pretty far along before I got to accompany her to the maternity store, so my ideal only grew.

And then deflated instantly when we got to the store. We were in A Pea in the Pod, a very tony maternity shop in a very tony area of the city and there was no nude colored tummy. There was a dirty roundish lumpy pillow that velcroed around your waist. I was quite disappointed.

But, at OSB's urging, I did try the belly on, and put on a nice hoodie pregnant lady sweater over it. And while it did not give me much of an idea of what I will look like pregnant (save for that the lump in front balances out my big Polish ass quite nicely) it DID give me an idea of what I will look like should I ever get a tumor.

Thanks again, Mumsy

In the last couple of months my mother has suggested that I date:

1)VB (virgin boy) from the Howie Carr show. He's now a reporter on the local Fox affiliate. I don't think I can convey how unsuited VB is for me in words, so you'll just have to trust me.

2) a novitiate (I think this is the term) priest who was visiting her parish. Every weekend I went home this summer she'd try to get me to go to church. "He's kinda cute! And he's not 100 percent priest yet! You could change his mind!"

Jaysus.

MS + MV 4-EVA

I figured out today why my love life has sucked for the last year and a half. It's clearly because I am supposed to marry Michael Vartan from Alias. He speaka the French and he has delicious little bags under his eyes and my friend amy can get me on the Alias set this January. I found this out from her on a coffee date this afternoon -- she was in town from San Francisco over the weekend, and we were catching up. She's friends with an ABC attorney who was recently promoted to VP and they apparently often film Alias right outside his office.

So, CLEARLY, the reason why I have not met Mr. Right yet is because the universe was waiting until the stars aligned for me and the faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaabulous MV.

California, here I come!

sighhhhhhhhhh

It's happened again.

I had a conversation maybe a week ago with someone from work who said that it was possible that my contract might not be renewed and that there would be no more work by the end of August but that really they would most likely have something for me to write that would take me through September and then maybe something in October and by then they would be sure to have some new deliverable. Then I got an email inviting me to some training that only permanent people were going to. And I was supposed to have a meeting on Friday with big boss ostensibly to talk about my future.

So I was feeling pretty good about the whole situation, feeling like I was going to get offered a permanent position.

And then in our team meeting this morning big boss tells everyone that this is my last team meeting and oh thanks for all your hard work, McPolack, and maybe we'll see you again soon. The team meeting is weekly which means I will be gone in one week. Um, what?

So I had to act all smiley and say oh hasn't it been great because I don't want to burn bridges, and it wasn't his job to tell him, it was someone else's job to, and I confronted her about this and she was very apologetic but what could she do, really? I mean, the job was tentative all along, but still they kept dangling this carrot of full time work in front of me, and the work was so intense it left little time for anything else. It's still intense. Until some yet unnamed date next week when it ceases to be.

I haven't had a decent full time job with benefits in almost three years now.

I know I am whining and I just don't care. I'm exhausted. Looking for work is soul-sucking and exhausting. I can't do it again. I just can't. So clearly the perfect job is going to present itself to me within the next month. Because I cannot spend my 32nd birthday alone and unemployed.

*&^%%$$&^

Oh, godddddddddddddddddddddd do I hate my downstairs neighbor. He never shovels the driveway or takes the trash to the curb (claims he has a bad back) yet overloads the trash bins and leaves random shit out there on a regular basis. He doesn't pick up all of his mail -- he sifts through what's in the common box and leaves all the junk pieces, that asshole. When he went away for two months this summer which, let me tell you, dear reader, was a treat as tasty as an ice cream cone on a hot summers' day, he did not bother to have his mail stopped and so I had to pile it by his door, every day.

He has never said thank you for this or for the many times I shoveled out the entire fucking driveway including his car and walkway. He's never thanked me for anything. He's married to this sweet, shy Turkish girl because I am sure no self-respecting stateside woman would have anything to do with him. He's a history prof and apparently spent some time with an Afghan war lord this summer. Well, yipty-freaking-do. You're still an asshole. Every time he sees me he says "Hi neighbor" and bobs his head back and forth in an irritating manner not unlike the UPS guy character from Mad TV. He says I'm welcome to come sit on his porch anytime and that I should stop by when he's having a barbecue. Um, no thanks, dinkus.

Ooooooooooooooo, does he ever piss me off.

But I will never tell him because that wouldn't be neighborly.

Avoidy Girl

If I were a reverse superheroine, my name would be Avoidy Girl and my special power would be Avoiding Things. Just this week I have successfully avoided cleaning out the catbox, paying any one of 8 different bills, and checking for job leads on the off chance that my current gig doesn't work out. In the past I have also avoided returning library books (some of which I still have, YEARS later), phone calls, and, unfortunately, sample products valued at a hundred dollars or so from an old job that I borrowed to test and then moved and never gave them back. Here's a special peek at the inner workings of my Avoidy Girl brain:

I think "I should do x."
I do not do x.
I do not do x.
I do not do x.
I do not do x times, let's say, 150
I feel guilty for not doing x. I think "I should do x but it's been such a long time that I now feel horribly guilty. I will avoid this feeling utterly by putting off doing x until later."
I do not do x
I do not do x
I do not do x
I do not do x
Lather, Rinse, and Repeat

It's a delightful shame cycle, really. You'd think I'd be sick of it by now but I am in my fourth decade on this earth and I haven't given up yet.

Yeesh.

Period Monster

Dr. Moo and I at some point after the onset of menstruation came up with a term to describe the various and sundry beasties associated with that beloved monthly visitor, Aunt Flo. The term is Period Monster. And this is what I have been for the better part of three days now.

The Monster started on Saturday afternoon. I was enjoying a day by the sea with good friends, one of whom told me "I'm in love." Then she started text messaging her beau. Period Monster grumbled why don't I have a boyfriend? Friend with beau tried to reassure me but P.M. was having none of it. "There must be something the matter with me!" raged P.M. "I now know NOBODY who is single."

"I am single," announced friend at beach No. 2.

"Rahhhhhhhhhhrrrrrrrrr! You are having sex currently with not one but two men! You are not single! Only I am single! I am the only single woman left on the face of the planet. THERE MUST BE SOMETHING WRONG WITH ME!"

At this point Period Monster compels me to eat several chocolate mint cookies in succession. Then I announced that I had to go back to Boston, because I was in a foul mood. "You have to at least stay for dinner," one friend replied. To which P.M. said quietly "Why are you not begging me to stay?"

I was able to quash the P.M. for most of the rest of the night, though it did prevent me from attending a friend's going away party ("RAHHHHHHR! You will know noone there and will be miserable!" shouted P.M. "Also you are fat!") The next day wasn't so good and then today I was snippy yet again.
I must think of a way to calm the Beast.

Let's Go to the Beach!

Bathing suit...check
Towel...check
Apply self-tanner to many pale spots on body...check
Sunscreen...check
Trashy mags...check
Trashy snacks...check
Floppy hat...check
Wax bikini line by ones self with peel-off strips whilst sitting with spread legs on bathroom floor...YEE-OUCH!
And on the TMI front, blondes are the hairiest of them all.

Bits

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa

It’s deadline time again so I’ll be brief.

Going to Portsmouth again this weekend to visit some friends. On our last trip together one friend took a photo of my ass with her cell phone as I was bent over trying to get into a pair of pants. I will not make the mistake of being around her while my buns are out twice.

On Sunday I may head to Peterborough for medal day at the MacDowell Colony. MacDowell is like a happy farm for artists. They hide out in the woods and create things of all sorts. I used to jog the boundaries of their land, and sometimes you’d see an artist or two, just a glimpse, through the trees. They’re like deer. I’ve been to medal day once before; they were honoring a choreographer named Merce Cunningham, I think. And this lady came on with red hair all done up in tiny braids and she sang a weird-ass song. But everyone was highfalutin’ and pretended like it was the most wonderful thing they’d ever heard. Um, it wasn’t. It wasn’t high art. It was just kind of, well, stupid. It was an Emperor’s New Clothes moment if I ever saw one.

But you got to meet the artists and I had some interesting conversations with writers, saw a documentary film, and some other neato stuff. Also I ate a lot of cheese. So overall it was a great day.

White Girl Can't Dance

So I went with a friend from work to an African dance class tonight. Lots of footwork that looked simple but wasn't, and arm waving. I banged into people a couple of times. I was born without the rhythm gene, but I tried my best. I really loved the rhythm of the drums and the hot, primal energy of it all. There's no ac in the studio; it's very city -- grungy, smelly. And great!

Also the drummers a H-O-T hot. Damn. They don't wear shirts and they sweat.

We dance in lines, five people to a line, two lines at a time, one after the other. I am nowhere near being ready to be at the front of the line. But I tried my best. It was a better experience than the modern dance class I took where we were told to shut our eyes and feel and dance anger. I danced myself, hard, right into a wall.

RIP, PJ

One of my fonder childhood memories is of listening to the theme music from Wall Street Week in Review with Louis Rukeyser floating up from the downstairs tv set as I lay reading in bed. My mom made us go to bed at 7:30 every Friday night so she could watch it; it was followed by another commentary program on, I think, world news. When I went away to college -- and even today -- I wasn't allowed to call when the news was on. My mother watches the local and national broadcasts -- and the Daily Show. She reads two papers a day.

So when I saw at 7 a.m. that Peter Jennings had passed away, I immediately called my mom. Of course, she knew. She'd heard at 5 am and my dad had read whispers the night before on the Drudge Report.

My mother's father was a newspaperman; he founded a Sunday paper that's still around today, albeit in a slightly different form. Ben Bradlee worked with him as a young man. Her brother is a newspaperman now and her niece is being trained to take the helm as editor and publisher. I majored in journalism in college. My parents took an ad out in the yearbook that congratulated me and offered hope I'd take over one day for Eleanor Clift on the McLaughlin Group. While I'm not a reporter (nor, rats!, on the McLaughlin Group), I am a writer, and I have deep respect for the people who cover the world. It's a tough, tough business for all but a few.

And of course it wasn't tough for Peter Jennings. And he was on the tube as opposed to in print. But he was the last of the line for people my age, people who can't remember a time before he and Dan and Tom. I liked him. And I'm sad that he's gone.

The Day I Corrupted a Mormon

One of my officemates was laughing at me today over a story I told him about my wild youth. I mentioned how my friend K and I would trespass on an elementary school playground in the summers between school years, where we would eat pizza and go on the swings. Not exactly badass, I know. So I trotted out my Mormon tale.

The year was 1994. It was high summer. I flew into DC from Martha's Vineyard (my first time ever on a plane) for a journalism conference. I got into a cab with George the Mormon boy. He was also going to the conference. We chatted some and got lost trying to find our hotel. Later we met up with fellow journalism students; me with a friend who was to be business manager of the paper; he with a girl from his school.

That night he came to my hotel room where I was drinkin'. And by drinkin' I mean shots of tequila. George the Mormon boy had never even had a drink of coffee and I did not force any booze on him -- I think he was feeling the thrill of freedom in the big city. He had one shot and then another. And then one more. We hooked up with a couple of super geeky-boys who were heading to the Lincoln memorial at 2 in the morning to smoke fat cigars and play chess. George the Mormon boy was drunkenly pawing me in the back seat of the car. I was having none of it. I smoked a fat cigar with the chess guys while G the Mb puked in the bushes. Then we went home.

Turns out the girl that G the Mb was with was his girlfriend, which I didn't find out until the next day when I stopped by to visit him. He looked quite green. I felt badly. I did not mean to treat him in any sort of a terrible fashion. There is a picture of him and I on my bed (fully clothed, thank you very much) in sunglasses smiling at the camera earlier on in the evening, so I like to think that I showed him a good time whilst ruining his morals.

Anyway, my officemate was impressed with the story.

Hooking Up

Anyone been watching this show? It's on ABC; it's about online dating in NYC. I had a long day at work and was laying on my behind watching it when my mum called me. She was watching it too and wanted to know what I thought. Was I on match.com? Was I on eHarmony? What was it like? She also told me about how she read in People magazine (mum also reads the Times) about two people who got fired from their jobs for having blogs. I told my mum I thought...

Okay, quick aside, there's a 31 year old woman on the tv right now who looks like she's 40. And she's a yoga instructor! Damn, I look good for my age.

...that this whole firing thing was unfair. Mostly it worries me because who I am in terms of what I write at my job is markedly different from who I am in my writing elsewhere. And I don't think your employer should be able to dictate what you say outside of work.

Antisocial yet social

While I have trouble finding boyfriends, I have absolutely no trouble whatsoever finding friends. "Everyone wants to be your friend, McPolack" is what I am told by my friend H-bomb every time I mention that I have met someone new. I was actually not able to get much work done today due to visits by several pals. First I chatted with my officemate about our childhoods. Then intern S came in for a visit and asked if it was okay for her to wear jeans to the hiking trip I planned for 5 of my coworkers this coming Saturday. Then I got a call from one of the girls in the art department wanting to know where I'd been since I hadn't been to visit all week. I went to visit and I got a present -- some yummy snackage, and also a set of wee highlighters in a little plastic zippy bag. Then I chatted with dog-owning-video-department swell-dresser pal, then with Alison and her roommate. Then the britboy stopped by to say hi. Then intern S returned. She wanted me to go along with her and her cousin, a coworker and friend of mine, to a barbecue where I could perhaps meet even more new people. I am very very likable on the friend level. I get this from my pop, I think -- I have a gregarious, easy energy, and I am a good listener.

And I want to be there for people and to meet new people and I am REALLY grateful to know so many people and be liked by so many people. At the same time that I am making all of these new friends there is a part of me that just wants to be home, and alone, and in my own space. I didn't go to the barbecue tonight, ostensibly so I could vacuum, and clean the litterbox and bathroom since people will be traipsing through on Saturday. But really it meant the evening was somehow out of control -- I don't know what's going to happen on the evening out at the barbecue, versus knowing exactly what is going to happen if I stay home and eat ravioli and steamed vegetables and watch a DVD and clean my bathroom.

What it is a leftover from shit that happened in my past -- I had issues with food, big ones, and issues with booze as well. Oh, and panic disorder. All those issues ultimately boil down to being uncomfortable with not being in control. (well, ultimately I think all troubles boil down into fear versus love, but the control thing is certainly there on the way to fully boiled down. there's some brain chemistry stuff in there too.) I am in some ways still uncomfortable with not being in control to the level at which it affects my daily life. It doesn't affect me nearly as much as it used to, but it's still there. Which makes me wonder how rid of the issue I can ever ultimately be.

But then on another level is this great quote from Jung, via May Sarton's Journal of a Solitude:

"The serious problems in life are never fully solved. If ever they should appear to be so it is a sure sign that something has been lost. The meaning and purpose of a problem seem to lie not in its solution but in our working at it incessantly. This alone perserves us from stultification and petrefaction."

I don't know how wholeheartedly I agree with the This alone...petrefaction part of it but the rest is rather interesting.

When you're hiking the point is the journey up and down NOT the top, but the top is part of the journey.

And etc.
Okay, enough philosophizing.

Thunderbolts and lightning

very very frightening...at least for me, last night. We had a whoppah of a storm. Worst one I've seen in years and I've been around for quite some time, let me tell you.

Seriously though, the storm was big and bad and loud. My cat hid under the bed. I grabbed my trusty flashlight and sat by the (closed) window and watched. I was, I am ashamed to admit, a bit scared, and feeling a little alone. I ran through my list of people I could call who would potentially be up at midnight on a Monday evening...and then I remembered you can't use a telephone during an electrical storm. I do have a cordless but its safety level is a question I could never answer -- and I was asked to answer it professionally, so I've done some research.

When I was little I would line all my stuffed animals up along the perimeter of my bed during storms and I would talk to them about how we were all in this together. And I think we still are.

Scatalogical

It was another fun-filled family weekend at the McPolack homestead. Met Dr. Moo in Portsmouth after driving through godawful traffic; those fucking tourist, blecch! In their GIANT fucking cars. Oh how I hate them.

Dr. Moo told more tales of getting covered in all manner of goo; this time it was all about how her boot was filled to the brim with amniotic fluid -- while it was still on her foot, of course. She also is getting sent to all of the interesting farms by the guys she works with -- including the one run by the Naked Dairyman, who apparently for many years did all his farmin' in his shitkickers and absolutely nothing else. He has kids now so he wears shorts. But still.

Polack pappy had a tale to tell as well -- about how he had diarrhea. Then he spontaneously sang a song that he made up on the spot. It was all about diarrhea. It was pretty impressive.