S-U-C-C-E-SS. Success!

I've been out of college for five years.  That means I've been out of high school for nine.  Next year I could possibly attend a ten year high school reunion, and that is incredibly....overwhelming. 

I pay my bills.  I have money to buy things I want.  I spend most of my time doing things I enjoy, but I'm a nanny.  A nanny is not a career.  It's only remarkable when the mom is dead and you take her place when the dad falls in love with you.  But when it's not The Sound of Music, it's just a job.  A job that makes me feel like I should still be in school. 

So why if I enjoy the life I have, if  I have enough money and spare time to keep me happy, why does it feel like I'm still a failure.  What will success feel like?

Open arms v. Prison cells

   Fear is an interesting thing.  I perused Wikipedia’s list of phobias today, before I started writing this story, in the hopes that some one at some point had named my irrational fear, but the closest I could find was: Haphephobia – fear of being touched which is not exactly the case.  I suffered for five years with a mostly irrational fear of hugs.  And like most irrational fears it grew out of one particularly horrifying experience that will be forever embedded in my memory.  

      When I was fifteen I worked at the coffee shop that my brother owned, and like most fifteen year old girls I was super awkward and extremely insecure.  All these circumstances are integral to the traumatic event I experienced.  I often let my friends come behind the counter, especially one particular friend that I had a hard time saying no to most of the time.  He was probably three years older than me, and might very well have been the first guy that ever told me I was attractive.  He would walk behind the counter and get himself a coffee, and I wouldn’t stop him.  But then one day, I was coming out of the bathroom, and walking to the front of the counter, and he was walking towards me with his arms reaching out in both directions.  This was I knew the universal pre-hug gesture, but as he got closer and I wrapped my arms around him, waiting for him to do the same.  I looked up at him, looking down on me and the look on his face was the most horrible thing in the world.  It wasn’t a smile, but more of a confused half laugh.  I looked over to wear his right arm was still stretched out over the trash can and saw a piece of plastic wrap fall from his hand into the garbage.  I unwrapped my hands from his torso and looked nervously to his other hand where he had just grabbed his coffee from the counter.  I took a step backward waiting for him to say something “what was that?” he said and looked at me almost laughing.  I wanted to run and hide.  I shrugged it off, and tried to explain to him what I had seen as he reached out in both directions for all the wrong reasons, but I didn’t realize how badly I was traumatized until a year later.

      A year later, I had for a strange number of reasons a whole new set of friends, and one friend that perhaps wanted to be more, always hugged me good bye when I would leave.  After a few weeks of this behavior, he finally let me know that he thought I was a horrible hugger.  “what?”  I gasped, sure that a person could not be bad at hugging.  He told me it never seemed like I committed to the hug, like I was always just waiting to be released.  I thought for a short time that it was just him, that maybe I didn’t like him hugging me, but soon I realized he was right.

The two events fed off each other in my mind, and I started to have a very strong aversion to hugs.  I didn’t want to be criticised or mortified so I avoided them at all costs.  It wasn’t until three years later that I confronted my issues.  I had driven to St. Louis to see a concert, this concert like most events in my life has a long back story as well, but we’ll skip it for now.  I had made good time and had plenty of time to sit and wait in line for the doors to open.  In line I met a girl named Destiny.  Destiny loved hugs.  We were probably waiting for at least an hour so we had plenty of time to talk, and after the concert I told her that I would drive her home because what is fifteen minutes on top of eight hours anyway?  She was after all a 16 year old girl and I was 20 so I didn’t really see her as a threat in anyway.  But before we left she insisted on giving every band member she could find a hug.  I might have been averse to hugging them souly because they were drenched in sweat, but when i thought about it, it didn’t bother me as much as the idea that I would do it wrong.  I knew now that I was a bad hugger and the last thing I needed was the lead singer of my favorite band to tell me that.  But Destiny thought I was insane for avoiding all these hugs even after I explained to her the traumatic events I had experienced.  because I knew that Mike had been right.  I never fully committed to the hug, I was always trying to back out in case I learned that the situation had changed.  So before we left she discussed with Sam Means, that I was a bad hugger.  She asked him if he would please grade my hugging on a scale from one to ten.  I think he gave me a 6.  That was better than I had hoped so my confidence was very faintly renewed.  

     St. Louis had been so much fun, that I pooled all of my resources and flew to Las Vegas to see the last show on the tour.  I should have known better.  After the show everyone was hugging everyone.  I was by myself trying to meet up with a few fans I knew were as super dorky as I was.  I ended up spending a good deal of time talking to Heather but everyone she talked to would hug her as they left, and just for being there they’d hug me too.  They were sweaty and lovely, and didn’t give me time to misunderstand what their open arms might mean, and there was no time to dwell over the quality of the hug that I provided.  It was a whirlwind of hugs, not in the way that most trips to Vegas are, but for me it was worth it.  When that lead singer did finally give me a hug, I was almost completely confident in my skills.  But well, now I guess I am. 

stains

I don't know why, but it's always easiest to change my sheets in my underwear.  It's probably because it's easiest to change my sheets when I've just gotten out of the shower, that idea of being so clean, so fresh, with new clean sheets and a new clean self.  It's the perfect way to go to bed, even if your hair is still wet.
But today I'm only changing one of my sheets.  The flat sheet to the blue flannel set I wanted to put on got ripped in the dryer and I've only had them a month, so it's pretty lousy, but as they are solid colored, they will be easier to replace.  The fitted sheet that was on my bed, got pissed on.  Not because I was so retarded drunk that I pissed my own bed, like I've known many drunk people to do, but because my dog slept in a little too late this morning.  Yeah my dog pissed my bed.  And I didn't think to pretreat with my  Spray & Wash stick, because I didn't think it would stain, but I should know by now, that everything stains one way or another, either its all over your sheets or it's forever fixed in your memory.  And either way, it sucks.

on journalism....

    The first article I ever wrote for my journalism class in college was about eating healthy on campus. I let my roommate read it and she said she was surprised at how good it was.  She said it was funny and clever and informative.  She was older than me and normally one of my harshest critics so I was excited to turn it in and see what my professor thought.  I ended up getting a C, which was utterly disappointing.  She said that is was well written but lacked any real investigative reporting.  She said the information I provided was not new or interesting but merely stuff that most people on campus already knew.
     I was bummed, but have since learned that to really write something worth reading you need to dig for some good information, so imagine my disappointment when every time I read an article lately about eating healthy or going green I feel like I could have written the same exact one without any research at all.  Why does Laura Turner Seydel get to write articles about going green, when she is obviously already wealthy and I could do it much better? Why does Gigi Stewart get to write about going gluten free, when she couldn't tell me anything I didn't already know, and I still feel like I could tell her some things.  I don't even have a gluten allergy.  I don't think InTown Atlanta is that great of a newspaper, but if you think I didn't volunteer myself to write articles for them, for free already and get turned down, then you're wrong.  
     I have lots of opinions.  I'm full of useful information.  I'm not particularly good at spelling.  Why can't someone pay me to write things?

The 10 best songs you've never heard

1) Swans- the format

2) Exeter, Rhode Island- Jennifer O'Connor

3) Get Around-Pablo

4) Gone, Gone, Gone- John Ralston

5) Til It's Done to Death- John Nolan

6) Around the Bend-The Asteroids Galaxy Tour

7) People Have a Way- Matt Pond PA

8) Honk and Wave- Limbeck

9) The Sad Waltzes of Pietro Crespi- Owen

10) Kill Monsters in the Rain- Steel Train

brett

He drives a blue pick up truck.  It's not a Ford or a Chevy; it's a Nissan, and its bright blue, like the color of a gem you'd wear on a necklace.  It's a truck your brother would call gay, and your niece would call it a baby.  He doesn't remember the time you drove it though, so when he starts to tell you what it looks like to describe his house, you remind him.  And he still doesn't remember.

           He doesn't remember calling you frantically that night at 3 in the morning and leaving you a long message about how he was scared and cold, and needed a ride, or the text message he sent you that read "HELP ME!!!."  He sent it to you 4 times, before you called him back.  By that time he had found a ride and was waiting for some anti-drunk driving service that was willing to drive him and his truck to his house for more than your weekly paycheck.  You offered to go pick him up, so he'd stop complaining about the cold and so maybe you could get some sleep even if it wasn't in your own bed.
           You called him back on the way, so he could give you directions.  He wasn't very helpful, but you mostly knew where you were going.  He told you about his conversation with his other ride, the one he had to cancel.  They had already started in his direction when he called, now they'd have to turn around, all because of you.  He told them that he had a beautiful girl coming to pick him up instead, and they said "Lucky you," but weren't actually happy for him.  He probably doesn't remember calling you beautiful.  He probably didn't mean to do it, but it was pretty flattering at the time.
           When you got there he was waiting in his truck, playing music you had never heard before, some jam band, so loud that the bass made you think your phone might be vibrating, but no one else would call you at this hour.  He was parked in a shopping center, a dry cleaners and a sandwich shop that wouldn't open again for the next 5 hours.  There was no one else around, and all the store fronts were dark without their neon lights.  You understood why he was scared.  He didn't want to leave his truck there overnight, his beloved truck, with more than your cars blue book value in stereo equipment.  So you left your car there instead.  Your little Volvo 240 would be safe, where he was not.

You drove him and his truck to his house, where you had been just once before, but you found your way with little help from him.  The first time he called you and asked you to come over and snuggle was about a month after you met him.  A month after you lied to him at a bar and told him your name was Eden, because you were 19, and that is what your fake ID said.  You let him call you Eden for over a week before you told him you had lied.  It seemed so sketchy; you're still surprised he talked to you after that.  You're still saved in his phone as Ed, but he knows that's not your name.

He was the first boy you ever kissed who owned a house.  It was small and quaint, blue with darker blue shutters.  His living room then had just a couch and a TV, now it has another love seat and a chair, a fish tank in the corner.  He has two goldfish, but they don't have names.

When you got to his house this second time he wanted to listen to more Wide Spread Panic.  You went with him to his bedroom and got in bed. You took off your jeans but kept on everything else.  You got under his clean white sheets, under his thick fleece blanket.  It was five in the morning.  He told you what it was like to trip on acid, something you had never wondered about before then.  He told you how all his senses were heightened and when you started to run your fingers up and down his chest you thought he might explode with pleasure, but he didn't.  He just told you not to stop.  So you let your hand wander aimlessly over his body.  It was the least sexual touching you've ever done to a naked man.  He's still the smoothest boy you've ever known.

He was so happy you were there.  He told you so many times.  Every night you were there, all three of them, it was like he had been alone his whole life, like he hadn't touched a woman in years.  He seemed so happy to have you there that second night, it made you wonder why you never went back, not for a whole year.  He must have forgotten how good you felt between his sheets, just like he forgot calling you beautiful, and forgot you driving his truck.

You've seen him a few times in between but you never talked when you ran into each other at a bar.  He was with a girl sometimes, so you let left him alone.  So most of the time he just sent you a message when he was drunk, sometimes you would respond, and sometimes you wouldn't.   And you feel like such a booty call, but you never sleep with him, even though you want to, and he wants to.   But he never has a condom and you don't tell him that there is one in your purse, because you can't sleep with someone who only talks to you when he's been drinking.  Who you only really see twice a year.

And the last time you were there it was great.  You had a bad night and a bottle of cheap wine and then he sent you a message:  "Come over," so you did.  And he told you what his truck looks like, and gave you directions to his house.  The same house that you know just where is, and think of every time you pass his exit on your way to the airport.

You sat on the same couch and talked until he said he was tired.  His house was cold in early fall because his heater was broken.  He considered giving you a pair of his pajama pants when he noticed how cold you looked, but decided out loud that the less clothes you had on, the better.  So you got in his bed and under the covers with him to get warm, without your jeans and without your sweater.  You waited for him to get close, and your lips met his in a way that seemed so familiar, like you could have been lovers for years.  He told you he loved it when you bit his lip, and he peeled more and more clothes off until you were both naked with nothing to do.

Because you can't sleep with him until he meets your dog.  Not because you believe your dog is this wonderful judge of character, but because you have met his dogs.  All three of them and you know all of their names.  Charlie, Houser, and Trout.  Houser was just a puppy that first time you were there, and now he's big, or at least as big as a Basset Hound gets.  But he still thinks you have a Great Dane.  If he ever came over to your house, he would meet your dog, he'd know you had some sort of pointer mix, but he won't.  Because that would be him showing an interest in something other than your body, your face, your lips, and if he did that he might be worth sleeping with, but he won't.  So you don't have to worry.
           

oh NaNo...

Hannah was sleeping soundly in her bedroom at midnight of August 23^rd 2008.  She slept on the bottom bunk in the corner of her blue room.  She was snuggled deep into the covers, and she pulled them up to her ears, so her face was barely visible.  She did this because she had felt a cold breeze, and then almost as if it had been an alarm clock she woke up.  She sat perched on the edge of her bed and waited.  She didn’t have to wait very long, the cold breeze had been the beginning of what she knew must be coming.  And slowly the breeze got stronger, making what looked like a tiny little tornado in her room, but without moving any of her belongings or even moving her long brown hair.  Suddenly the wind stopped and a man appeared out of thin air into her bedroom.  He had on a mask, but Hannah could still tell that he was startled to see her waiting for him.  He was dressed all in black and had a number of funny gadgets that Hannah had never seen before.  “what are you doing up so late, Hannah?” 

Hannah didn’t seem surprised that he knew her name.  “I have to stop you.”   

The man seemed even more startled now, and he looked at Hannah through the tiny holes in his mask, like she was the most fearsome thing in the universe.  He stepped back from her, and she started to cry. 

“You can’t kill my father, you just can’t,” she said while sobbing. 

The man stared at her for only a moment, before he ran out of her bedroom door.    

bad writing....

....I promise there will be a good story in here somewhere.


Jessica woke up on Sunday morning confused.  The previous night was a blur of sipping and spilling drinks. As she opened her eyes she struggled decide at whose apartment she must have past out.  Her head was surprisingly ache free and she assumed she must still be drunk, but as she looked around the room she realized where she was.  She was not on a friend’s couch but instead in her old bedroom at her parents house.  She was horrified. How obnoxiously drunk must she have been for her friends to drop her off with her parents of all people at some ungodly hour of the morning?  She laid in bed thinking for awhile before she even noticed the calender.  

It had all started a few weeks back when Jessica ran into Trevor.  Trevor had been one of her many love interests in college, but it had never panned out the way it should have.  He was always going abroad or seeing someone else, and Jessica did her fair share of the same, but they both seemed to know it eventually would happen.  But it didn’t ever happen, and when she ran into Trevor just 17 days ago there was a sense of regret she had not expected.  Especially since it was the day after her long time boyfriend had proposed to her.  She was so excited to finally start her life with him, to see Trevor felt like a punch in the stomach.  He was nice, and just like she remembered and she tried so hard to suppress the feelings she felt rising up inside her.  She knew she couldn’t move forward in her life without at least entertaining the idea that she could be happy with Trevor, but no self respecting man, especially not her fiance would wait around for her to figure things out.  

She reached for her phone on her bedside table and was surprised to see it plugged in and charging.    She felt momentarily proud of her drunken for thought, but that feeling quickly evaporated as the confusion of why her phone had morphed from an iphone to an old nokia.  She picked up the phone; struggling to remember how to use it, she searched through her recent calls and text messages.  None of her friends from the night before showed up.  She searched through her contacts looking for someone to answer the questions racing through her head now.  She did not want to go talk to her parents with no recollection of the night before or how she ended up there.  But she seemed to be missing most of her friends from her contact list.  A feeling of dread sunk in as she noticed her most recent call was to Trevor at 11pm.  

Just then her mother knocked on the door, and pushed it open slightly.  “Jessica, It’s time to get up.  The race is in 45 minutes.”  “What race?”  She replied not even taking into account the fact that her mom didn’t seem at all surprised to see her.  “the turkey trot.  you know the one we go to every thanksgiving since you were about 10.”   Jessica stared at her blankly not putting any of the pieces together.  “I think you had too much to drink last night, I know the night before thanksgiving is the best night to go out and see your friends but you should have maybe had a few less.  I think you’re still drunk.  who drove you home last night?”  Jessica thought her mom was right about still being drunk but she also thought she must not be understanding her correctly.  “It’s thanksgiving?” was all she came up with.  “yes It’s thanksgiving.   hurry up and get dressed so we can run this race.  I’ll even let you go back to bed afterwards.”  Her mom left and shut the door behind her, leaving her more confused than ever.  She looked at her phone and remembered in college how she had one just like it.  She got up and out from under the covers and realized she was in her favorite pajama bottoms and a long sleeve t-shirt she got from a race in high school.  She searched her bedroom for her clothes from the night before.  She had been wearing striped shorts and a tank top.  She had carried her new pink lesportsac.  She couldn’t find any of it.  She looked at her phone again.  It said the date was Thursday November 28th.  She turned to the calender above her desk, where her laptop sat covered in stickers.  It showed the picture for October but the year was 2007.  
She had no idea what was going on but as her mother yelled again to hurry up, she grabbed a sports bra and shorts from her closet and got dressed to run the turkey trot.  

The race seemed like a dream to her.  She saw all the same people she always saw on thanksgiving day, but they seemed more familiar than ever.  her eyes were drawn to Mr. Blake’s large hat that was shaped like a turkey, and as soon as she saw it she thought “not again” but everyone else seemed to be seeing it for the first time.  She ran the race, determined to finish as soon as possible so she could go back to bed, but her legs seemed to refuse her.  She still got third place in her age group.   

Her mom lectured her on the way home, “I know you’re tired, but I don’t really get your attitude right now?”  “I’m sorry, mom”  “you know when you go back to school,”  Jessica imagined she was a dog and her ears perked up.  she had graduated several years ago, was she talking about grad school? “if you want your dad to keep putting five hundred in a month, I think you need to act a little more like we’re your parents.”  Jessica just stared blankly back at her mother.  She hadn’t gotten an allowance since junior year.  

old friends

When I was in high school I told people that if they stopped being friends with me they would get fat.  I don't remember what friend it was that did this, or who I threatened with this power the most.  But I remember the theory now because, in the past two years all of the people that fall out of friendship with me seem to gain a lot of weight.  And in high school when I claimed it as my power, it was a means of revenge.  But now I just feel guilty.

I guess that something's got to happen soon....

....Because I know I can't keep living in this dead or dying dream.

Normally around spring time every year, when I see congratulations banners in neighbors front lawns, and hear about graduating seniors every which way, I feel a sad sense of nostalgia.  It was over three years ago now, that I graduated, and sometime before that I realized that not much was going to change when I did.  I always imagined growing up that I would have a job right out of college.  I don't know if I am supposed to blame tv, my parents, or just my silly naivety, but that obviously is not what happened. 

I haven't felt down about it in a long time.  Even though friends of mine, with more targeted majors, have gone on and gotten real jobs where they use their degrees and get paid more money than me.  Somehow I had been avoiding the feeling of doom when you realize your life is not going quite as planned. 

This year fall brought with it the doom I had been avoiding for so long.  It maybe creeped up on me slowly throughout the spring and summer, and maybe its only August and fall is still two months away.  But the kids are back in school now, and I am back where I was six years ago, except for the one small difference being my bachelors degree.  So changes have to be made.  Dreams have to be realized.  Wisdom teeth should probably get pulled.  But looking back, this is not what this blog was supposed to be about. 

a wishlist of sorts.

"Sometimes all I want is a job, and a god, and a wife." ....it plays in my head regularly. 

I was thinking on my walk today that all I want is a house.  As I passed lovely stone, brick, stucko houses with yards blooming with sunflowers, petunias, tomatoes, i really thought all I want is a house and a lawn.  But that's not quite true.

All I want is a living space where I can have room to garden.  I want rows of tomato plants, and jalapenos, cayenne peppers, and cucumbers.  I want giant sunflowers close to the house reaching just over the gutters and shorter ones clustered closer to the road.  I want a small herb garden I can move into the greenhouse or put in a sunny window during the winter.  I want to be able to let the dogs out to potty late at night and not worry they'll get hit by cars.  Jameson can hold it forever now but that won't always be the case.  I want to be prepared.  And I want to have enough space and nice enough neighbors to have a few birds to lay eggs in case Spiderman wants to eat an egg.  I'd be ok with just one but I think she would get lonely.  I think two or three will do, chickens or ducks.  I'm not that picky. 

the weather is nice today

Today the bitter cold weather reflects my mood perfectly
and I thank mother nature for being so accommodating.
It is something, not much,
but something to be happy about. 
I've spent the last week constantly on the verge of tears but they never fall.
They stay,
keeping the pressure high in my head,
creating a constant head ache
and heavy weight I feel on my chest
with every breath I take. 

practice

Everything I read about writing tells me in order to be good at it I need to do it everyday.  I'm finding that particularly difficult, because I don't always have something to say.  I understand the concept, practice makes perfect, but lately I can only write anything worth reading when I am feeling particularly ripe with emotion. 

I don't hate Hollywood for my distorted body image.  I don't hate Hollywood for making me think that at 118 I'd still look a lot better if I lost five pounds.  I think beauty should be something worth striving towards constantly.  It should be hard to obtain and always slightly out of reach.  I think if all the models and actresses looked just like me they would have no right to be famous and wealthy, and partly that's true either way. 

But what I really hate Hollywood for is making me feel unsuccessful.  I'm 24 and I have a college degree and I am not horribly discontent with my life, but Hollywood makes me feel a lot more like a failure.  In shows like Ally Mcbeal people my age drive brand new Saabs and make six figures.  In movies people always get married when they're my age and have a house and kid two years later, all the while maintaining their lovely careers that they got right out of college.   I know a house and kid aren't in my near future and I'm ok with that.  Why do shows and movies have to make me feel bad about?

Dear Officer Peterson,

Dear Officer Peterson,

A month ago when you pulled me over, you were pleasant and I appreciated that.  I had a car filled with children and you did your best to help me calm down.  When you wrote me a ticket for an expired tag, I didn't immediately hate you.  I thanked you even, when you told me that if I got my vehicle registered soon the judge would probably reduce the fine or dismiss my ticket.  It was nice of you also to mention that I should keep the ticket in my car so if I got pulled over for the same expired tag, the next officer would be less likely to give me a second ticket.
When I went to court today after having my car re-registered within 24 hours of receiving that ticket I felt confident based on the wonderful experience I had being pulled over.  Surely court could not be the worst part of any ordeal involving police and tickets.  But Dekalb County Recorders Court is probably the closest I have come to hell on earth.  It sits among rows of what looked like abandoned buildings, along side animal control, and the dump.  I had to pay five dollars just to park, so I could sit in court and be treated like a petty criminal.  The judge did not care that I had registered my vehicle so soon after learning my tag had expired.  The fact that I was driving an unregistered vehicle was all that mattered.  And I probably could have dealt with handing over all of the money I made over the weekend running my ass off waiting tables, but on top of that to have to sit in court and waste another three hours of my life, and then have to pay for parking and another five dollars in ATM fees just to get out of there without having to go on probation.  All of that was too much.

So thank you Officer Peterson for giving me the opportunity to see how shitty my life really could be.

Thanks,
Gillian

depression hurts....

Dear Strangers that may or may not read this,

I am deeply sorry that I do not write more often.  I should.  I can never become a writer writing so infrequently.  I am also sorry that whenever I do write it is rarely to inform you of positive news. 

I am depressed.  At least I think that I might have some symptoms, similar to what a doctor could diagnose as depression.  And that in and of itself makes me sad.  A close friend once said "Gillian, how come you never get depressed?"  And I didn't know how to respond because I was unaware at the time that I was supposed to be getting depressed now and then, but now being depressed the whole thing just sucks. 

I blame the weather.   It's been raining for at least five days now, and when I tried to go plant flowers (which is my new hobby to pull me out of my "would be" depression) I think I accidentally cut seven worms in half trying to dig three 1" holes.  That just made me depressed.  Those poor worms, even if I didn't kill them, being cut in half sucks, trying to regrow your other half?  that sounds exhausting.  I can't even imagine. 

So I've given up gardening until the weather is a little nicer, and the worms go back into their proper places, deep in the soil.  But I feel the need to make not just my apartment beautiful, but the whole building because my upstairs neighbor who used to do that, she died.  It's possible that I have no right to be sad about this, but I am.  I saw her daily.  I am not sure what her name was but her dog was named Gigi.  I found out that Gigi was going to go live out in the country, with her former dog sitter, and that just made me sad.  It shouldn't, it seems like a good life for a dog.  But thinking about the life of a dog after the life of it's owner that is pretty sad.  I struggle to think of my life without Jameson.  I think his life without me would be pretty upsetting too.

But also the idea that someone who was a part of my life, be it a very small part of my life, is gone, forever is horribly depressing.  I won't ever hear her pull out the hose and start watering the flowers, or see her walking the dog.  I won't ever have her complain about my trash can staying on the street too long, or hear her loud jeep pull up to the parking spot right outside my window.  Maybe I wouldn't have missed those things normally. But now I will.  It wasn't long ago at all that she came and knocked on my door wondering if we had received her package by mistake.  I wonder what it was?  i wonder if she got to enjoy it before she went to the hospital with pneumonia.  I wonder if she'd be proud of how pretty I made the front steps with flowers and greens, if she hadn't gotten that blood clot...

things i like....

Lately everything I write is angry, venting rants.  And while it does feel nice to let it all out I thought I would try something different.

The weather has taken a turn for the nice, and it's odd how suddenly I love my life.  I have been able to go on long walks with Jameson in Keegan everyday since the weather had been nice.  We take pictures of things that are weird, and we walk for hours in the beautiful weather.  Some people get to do that on weekends (not me) but the fact that I get to sleep until 10 and get up and enjoy the beautiful weather "makes me, Amber Atkins proud to be an american," no scratch that just happy.
I also love my car in the early spring (or February?).  When the weather is nice I can open my sunroof and listen to kevin devine with the windows all down.  It's lovely.  And my car is clean so I love it even more than normal right now.  I know a lot of people love their cars, but I think I am one of few people (even fewer people with my income) that are close to owning their dream car.  Nigel is my dream car.  He is all I could ever really want.  I can fit 3 sets of golf clubs in my trunk, or 2 car seats and a 40lb bag of dog food.  I have non-leather heated seats.  I get 20 miles per gallon in town, which would suck if I had just bought my car, although I think 20mpg still counts as good if its an SUV, but my car is 21 years old.  He's perfect.  Except not really.  He's rusty and he needs new ball joints and lower control arms.  But I think he'll make it.  We'll replace each part slowly and carefully and then when his suspension isn't deteriorating anymore we can give him a shiny new paint job (maybe with glitter too) and he will be my dream car.  So close....

continued again....

 I didn't sit on it because it seemed like it might break. 

Toys meet the elements.

A week of nice weather (continued)....

 I like these roots.

 I tried to get a picture of Jameson in the hollow log, but he wouldn't stay still.  Same with Keegan.

 If I could have gottena  picture of Keegan peing on it, that would have been better.

 This is one of my many dream houses. 

a week of nice weather...

  The picture doesn't do this house justice.  you have to cross a bridge from the driveway to get to it.

 some people have interesting valentine's day decorations

Why my dog is a better person than you are.

I like to think that I am a passionate person.  I care about many things very passionately; one of these things is sports.  i love sports.  I love watching them; I love playing them.  And on this particular Superbowl Sunday I tried so hard to not care at all, because I was tired of being disappointed in things over which I have no control.  So I really didn't care if the Packers beat the steelers of vice versa.  I wanted to care, I did, but I wasn't going to invest too much energy into it.
Some might say that you can't be that rational about the things you are passionate about, because really how many of the things in this world do we really have a say in?  Not that many.  But I like to think when I buy organic shade grown coffee from Nicaragua I am helping support the economy of one of the poorest nations in central america.  I like to think that by buying my books at Eagle Eye I am keeping some of my neighbors from loosing jobs, or even worse, maybe their house.
I feel passionately also, that people shouldn't eat meat. The idea of eating a dead rotting carcass is pretty disgusting to me and it's one I can't wrap my head around, and haven't been able to for the last 9 years of my life.  Every time I smell wings at work, and think maybe those would taste good, but I look at the bones sticking out from the smothered meat and think those are bones of an animal, bones of a once living, breathing, thinking, feeling animal.  It makes me not so hungry.  I don't have to think about all the horrible practices of a factory farm to make me lose my appetite for meat; I just have to think of an animal, any animal and think "would I eat that?"  But I still don't get how so many people can be so willing to ignore what is so obvious.  

I know not everyone is horrified by the idea of eating an animal.  People hunt, and they eat it and that makes sense...maybe...a  little bit, but not to me.  If I could chose to eat an apple or go kill a deer.  I would always chose the apple.  Even if those were my only two choices for the rest of my life. Every time I would chose the apple.  People will argue that we are meant to eat meat, because we are human and we are at the top of the food chain.  because we are smarter we should eat meat.  But I think because we're smarter doesn't that mean we shouldn't eat meat?  my dog can't make the connection that his food used to be a living animal.  he sees a squirrel and he chases it but he doesn't really understand why.  I don't chase a squirrel, I don't have that instinct.  or his teeth/jaw for that matter.  doesn't that mean I shouldn't be eating meat? 

People are always telling me they are just stupid animals, that they don't matter.  It is more important to have and taste bacon than to assume that a pig is actually a really intelligent animal, smarter than your three year old kid.  But where are they getting this?
One night when I was walking my dog, Jameson, we heard the squeal of an animal, probably a dog being stepped on accidentally in front of a neighbors house, and we continued walking.  My dog pulled so hard to go back to where we heard the noise, and for the next ten minutes once we arrived back home stood in the window looking out and howling.  he stopped only when I took him back out and walked to the neighbors house.  They were outside with a tiny new puppy.  Jameson saw the puppy we had heard, and when he saw it was ok he was fine and walked back home with me and went to sleep.
If my dog can care that much about a puppy he's never met, how can people tell me that we are better than the animals we eat.  Why are we so special that we get to decide which animals life is worth taking, based on taste? based on intelligence?   My dog has a clearer moral conscience than michael pollan.