Under Pressure

"When in panic, or in doubt, run in circles, scream and shout." -- R. Heinlein

Today was a day-long conference to work on realigning our English curriculum. I was so exhausted at the end of it that I could hear the humming dullness inside my own skull. I stopped meaningfully processing information a full hour before the meeting ground to a halt.

What we were doing was both important and valuable, but I thought I would go crazy before I could get away. I am excited that we are making changes in our curriculum, but I am so stressed out right now, that I can hardly bear the touch of a feather.

I have three sets of AP papers ungraded and four sets of regular papers that have to be graded. I haven't entered lesson plans in what seems like a hundred years. I got a message from the teacher support team leader that says I have to remediate, document, and meet about every student who was failing my class at semester.

I wanted to curl into a little ball under my desk and cry. How can we be expected to keep all these balls in the air? In fact, we've gone way past just juggling balls...they've added swords, flaming brands, and big fish. (Perhaps, an odd choice, but that's the image that sprang to mind.)

Once again, I talked with my mom and she brought me chicken strips and strawberry cobbler, five-year-old soul medicine, and I feel better. Tomorrow, I'll just work until I get it done. I might need more cobbler tomorrow, though....

Recovery

Diseases of the soul are more dangerous and more numerous than those of the body. ~Cicero

Today, I have a voice. It's the first day since Wednesday that I don't have moments of fade out or whisper. I haven't been sick like this in years, I think. I really can't remember the last time I had laryngitis.

The medicines the doctor gave me to "clean everything out" included a dose pack of steroids. I hate them. He gave me the painful horse dose in the hip before I left, and then prescribed these oral doses as well. Now, I am awake at absurd hours watching bad movies from the 80s, listening to music in celebration on Mozart's birthday, and feverishly crafting or shopping eBay.

Last night, I designed, cut, foiled, and soldered a stained-glass suncatcher of Psyche. I finished her about 3:30 a.m., and I am going to have to go back to it and touch up. Looking at it this morning, I can't even remember all the steps. I remember this period of incredible, almost humming, energy pouring through me after taking that last "bedtime" dose of those pills, but other parts of the process are a blur.

I am also healing from losing Britta. There are those, I have no doubt, who will question whether or not the loss of a dog, especially one who had not been a part of the family very long, could cause long-term pain.

Just today for the first time I could walk around and fill my birdfeeders without looking for her. Just today, filling out an application to start the process of seeking a pit bull to adopt didn't make me want to cry. I still miss her, but I think the worst of the darkness that has surrounded me since she died is starting to dissipate. I am hoping that this soul-sickness will give way to the golden keeping of the good and the sharing of the love she gave me with another needy dog.

I still find it hard to talk about the accident. I still can't easily accept the consolations of others. As is so often when the topic is something that hurts so much, I don't want to talk about it. I don't know how to explain it. I suppose the easiest way to think of it is that it's still too near, too sacred for me to be able to talk about with anything other than pain. I can only hope that this, too, will be something I can recover from in time.

Now, I am going to try to go get some sleep. The rain outside should help lull me. Tomorrow will be a new day, and I will get up, get dressed, and face whatever comes. I might even have a voice with which to address those issues. I don't know when the full recovery will come, but I am grateful for the progress that has been made.

Silent

Yesterday I was hoarse. Today, I have completely lost my voice. I went to the doctor after school, and the doctor told me to come home and be quiet for two days.

It's odd how many important conversations spring to mind when you're told not to talk. It's also ironic how many people suddenly want to have long talks.

I hate the fact that I'm going to have to miss two days of school. I know this is a quack, quack deal, and I need to just enjoy it, but I am still irked at getting even farther behind with Hamlet. Granted, most of one of my AP classes was going to be gone tomorrow anyway, but still...

I guess it just feels like cheating to me somehow. I always feel like if I can get up in the morning without visible means of life support, I should be at school working. I know the building isn't going to fall in, and my kids won't be any worse than they'd be for anybody else's sub, but it's a part of my Type-A personality. For two days, my private domain is going to be out of my control. It's not an easy thing to accept.

Still, today showed me that I can't just force myself through it. I should have stayed home today, but my formal evaluation was supposed to have happened today. It didn't for various reasons, but all day long, I was sucking down hot green tea and eating Halls trying to get even a Mickey Mouse voice to come out. I lectured and had a good class for both my APs. My regular tenth graders were writing today, anyway, so I didn't have to talk much. By the end of the day, I was exhausted from the effort at getting out little bits of sound, and, of course, all the wild pantomime that was a part of getting any message across.

I am going to try to focus on the fact that I have two days to get caught up with things both school-related and otherwise and not worry about what's going on at school. For better or worse, it will still be there when I get back, after all...

Week End

Clocks slay time... time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life.
William Faulkner

I survived another week of secondary education, and I am now comfortably ensconced in my rocking chair watching sitcom reruns.

I am about to luxuriate in my weekend. The school week is so hectic with grading, preparation, and all the ridiculous crap that floats in unexpectedly.

I have big plans. I am going to read a book or two, watch some old movies, play with my dog, and generally do nothing. I'll come back and blog about it later. :) Won't you be on pins and needles waiting for *that* post.

Wherever you are, gentle readers, I hope you enjoy the end of your week, too.

Cameos

Discoveries of archaeological sites in Italy and Egypt renewed an interest in the classics that influenced cameos of the Victorian Era. Motifs included gods and goddesses from mythology and other subjects related to them, such as Bacchante maidens adorned with grape leaves in their hair, the Three Graces, who were the daughters of Zeus, and Leda, a woman shown feeding Zeus and more.
from the website http://www.victorianbazaar.com/cameos.html

I have become interested in cameos lately. I don't think realized that there was a symbolism to most of them. I am not sure that I ever noticed that they were anything but little portraits of women in old-fashioned garb.

My interest started when I was researching the myth of Cupid and Psyche. Some source or another stated that the Victorians used the myth as a decoration for cameos, symbolizing love triumphant. Intrigued, I went to eBay and started exploring.

I noticed that Psyche wasn't the only mythological figure that appeared. Daphne was there along with Athena, Diana, Ceres, Eros, Venus, the Maenads (Bacchantes), Hebe and Zeus....the list is practically endless. Each of these figures had a meaning for the Victorians. A woman wearing a Bacchante was very subtly advertising herself as a "wild" woman since the Bacchantes were devotees of wine, passion, and song.

I wonder how long it took a Victorian lady to dress everyday when practically every piece of clothing had a symbolism. What if you had an off day, got dressed quickly, and threw on something inadvertently lascivious? I don't think I would have done well in that world. I'm not nearly careful enough about clothing.

That being said, I do enjoy the "hidden meanings" behind these ubiquitous pieces of jewelry. A 1970's resin Three Graces my parents gave me for Christmas is a nice symbol for good cheer, beauty, and festivity. I have managed to get a nice shell Diana for myself (protector of animals, goddess of the moon, etc.), obtained a very nice Terpsichore (muse of Music) for my mother, and just today won an auction for a Psyche (the soul).

This will probably end my collecting. They are beautiful, but my LORD, they are costly on a school teacher's budget. Psyche is the one who started this quest, anyway. I will enjoy being able to wear her image, she who represents the soul, and I'll know, even if nobody else does, what she means.

Rain

Let the rain kiss you. Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops. Let the rain sing you a lullaby. ~Langston Hughes

Early this morning, long before dawn, it started raining. I struggled awake and, stupefied by sleep, started to get up to put the pans down in my bathroom to catch what I not-so-fondly call "the waterfall."

How nice it was to roll over, pull the covers back up to my ears (disgruntling cats along the way), and simply enjoy the sound of rain on the tin roof of the back part of the house. There were no leaks, no rivers, no pots to catch the drips. Rain has become an outdoor issue once again, and the peace I felt was absurdly transcendent.

It's such a relief not to have to arrange a barrier of towels and dishpans whenever clouds dot the sky. I can go away from the house with the sort of confidence one is supposed to have when one lives indoors. It's a small victory, surely, but it's one that's been a long time coming for me.

Total Chaos

I am sitting in my usual blogging spot, a rocking chair in my living room, and my refridgerator is almost close enough to touch. My dining chair currently serves as a cat perch at my shoulder, and I spent most of the day breaking down and emptying my bedroom closet. Life has GOT to get back to normal soon.

The man who is doing the repairs on the house is wonderful. I feel so confident now. Apparently, the whole thing was about to fall down. He's put in beams and insulation and floors. There are no longer crazy slopes to my kitchen floor or living room. It's a nice feeling.

As nice as it is to see these changes happening, I wish I could wake up tomorrow and not see my washer and dryer in my living room. Normalcy needs to return. Maybe by weeks end, I'll have linoleum and everything can move back to its usual place.

Shattered, Broken, Gone

"Playing in the fields of the Lord" -- epitaph on Britta's grave marker

I haven't written at all this week. In fact, I have just been going through the necessary motions with day-to-day life this week. On Monday, Britta was killed by a car.

I had been to Wal-Mart to pick up yet another big bag of dog food and I got home after dark. No graceful beast bounded across the yard to welcome me. At that moment, I knew. I called, hoping that she was off in the woods, although she was always waiting for me after dark. I listened, hoping against hope to hear that tiny musical jingle of her vaccination tag, but the only sound was that of the wind through the dead January tree limbs.

I got a flashlight, drove my car down to the road so I would have the headlights to see by, and started looking. I checked the ditches and the edge of the woods, but I didn't see anything, and for a few minutes, I started to hope. I even hoped that maybe somebody had taken her. At least that way, she'd be alive somewhere.

I called Mom and Dad who came down to help me. We looked and called and walked for about thirty minutes, and Dad found her. She'd been hit and was beside the road in a spot I had missed. They wouldn't let me see her until they'd wrapped her in a towel, but Mom was able to offer me the cold comfort that at least her death must have been quick.

She must have followed me to the road when I left for work. There's no other reason why she'd have been there. She never went to the road unless I was there, either leaving or coming in. She didn't chase cars; she was afraid of them.

My heart is broken. I know I only had her for a few short months, an accumulation of weeks, but I feel as though all the joy in my life has been shattered along with her poor brave body. Every time I look out the door, I expect to see her quizzical look. Today, I went about my Saturday routine, filling birdfeeders and tidying up the yard, and I had to sit down. Last weekend, I did the same thing with her playing and nuzzling me every step of the way. Today, the sky was the same bright blue, but there was no Britta to enliven me.

There's no more to say. She's buried out near the barn, and Mom made her a marker from an old metal barrel lid. I couldn't go out there until Thursday afternoon. When I saw the inscription, it was perfect. That is the way I am going to try to remember her, in full bound, racing across the yard...pure joy personified.

Mythology

I'm very taken by mythology. I read it at a very early age and kept on reading it.
Roger Zelazny

One of the first books I remember checking out of the library was a beautifully illustrated book about ancient Egypt. I can still remember the drawings. I was immediately hooked. I spent most of my summers reading about the gods and goddesses, learning how to write truly pitiful looking hieroglyphics, and dreaming of going to see the pyramids.

My early fascination with mythology never went away. Instead, it expanded to include other cultures. I love Greek and Roman mythology. Not as much as the Egyptians, but I have really enjoyed rediscovering the details of the myths as I have been teaching my AP students this year. My recent trip to Ireland got me digging into Celtic mythos. When I lived in Japan, I read book after book about Shinto gods and their folklore.

My favorite characters are spread among all these groups. I have always liked Thoth, the Egyptian god of magic and writing. The combination of those two areas under one deity intrigues me. I like the idea that writing is a form of magic. Another favorite comes from the Celts. I am intrigued by the Morrigan, the Battle Raven, the goddess of war and passionate love.

There are three Greco-Roman goddesses I find appealing: Diana, Athena, and Psyche. Diana, chaste goddess of the moon, protector of animals, is a figure I can identify with. I admire Athena, goddess of wisdom who burst from fully clad in armor from her father Zeus's head. The story of Psyche and her quest for true love with the god of love is probably my favorite myth.

I don't know what it is about these tales that draws me. Maybe it's the magic. Maybe it's the fact that cultures long gone and drastically different from my own had the same problems and the same quest to understand the world around them. In any case, I, like countless others before me, enjoy dusting off these old tales and exploring them in these modern times.

Two Collars, A Harness, and a Fitting

Today was hectic. I got to school for our work day and Mom called to say the builders were here and that Britta had to be chained. She came down to take care of it, and I told her that if Britta slipped the collar, she should call me and I'd come try to do something. Thirty minutes later, I got a call. Not only had Britta slipped the regular collar, she'd also slipped the choke chain.

I hastily left school, drove to the local Wal-Mart, bought two harnesses, and sped home. Britta and Mom were waiting when I got home. We had a three little bears moment (this harness is too small...this harness is to big... etc.), and I strapped her in. When I left, she was fussing and leaping about four feet straight up in the air.

This, apparently, was a strategy to loosen the buckles on the harness. Mom called right after I got back to my classroom to tell me Britta had slipped out of the new harness twice.

Now, the websites all warned me that pit bulls are escape artists. They are determined to the point of obsession. When they focus on something, they do whatever is necessary to obtain it. She, apparently, decided that being on the end of a chain wasn't on her agenda for the day. It was amazing. It had to have hurt. She ran the length of the chain and threw herself into the air to get out of this stuff.

Even though the construction crew eventually was okay with her being out, I have to have some way to restrain her just in case. Our local pet supply store has really great, knowledgeable people who work there, so I came home, loaded up Britta, and drove in to the store. She now has a very "bad dog" looking black leather harness which, in theory, she can't get out of. We'll see.

It was just tiring. Having to run back and forth between town and home all day wore me out. I did manage to get most of my preps for the week done, but, as usual, I have a hundred other things to get done.

This probably isn't very coherent, but I've been up 18 hours so far. I am going to go to bed, I think. Tomorrow, the kids return....

The New Year

If you're running a 26-mile marathon, remember that every mile is run one step at a time. If you are writing a book, do it one page at a time. If you're trying to master a new language, try it one word at a time. There are 365 days in the average year. Divide any project by 365 and you'll find that no job is all that intimidating.
~ Charles ( Chuck ) R. Swindoll

I can hardly believe this is the beginning of a new year. Where do the days go? Every Christmas and New Year, it always feels as though the days between have been a featureless blur. I can hardly believe that during the past year I went to the UK and Ireland, started teaching AP English, began renovation on the house, and got a really big dog. So much has happened.

I wonder what the year ahead will hold. Last night, as I waited for the end of the old year and the birth of the new, I heard the sound of exuberant fireworks all around me. In all the years I've lived here, I've never heard any fireworks. It made me feel like a part of a community, like I was not alone, even though I was in my pajamas in my livingroom and it was a foggy midnight outside. The sound filled me with a hopeful optimism that I haven't felt in a long, long time.

Another part of that optimism may be the fact that I just bought the missing supplies and tools to begin doing stained glass again. For those of you who don't know me well, during my undergrad years, I worked in a professional stained glass studio as an "apprentice." That time was the fulfillment of a fascination I'd had with stained glass since I was old enough to notice the stained glass window in the baptistry of our church. It's been years since I was able to do any work with glass, so I'm sure I'll have a lot to remember. I'm just excited that I have finally decided to step forward and begin.

For too long now, I've been saying "someday" to lots of things in my life. Some of them are small things; some of them are hobbies like the stained glass work. Some of them, however, are things that never should have been allowed to go by the wayside. I realized that I had not sent a single birthday card this year. I have everyone's birthday written in a calendar, but I never take the time to send the card. That may seem trivial to some, but it is just another symptom of how little contact I have had with my friends in the past year. Every other thing has taken that time, and this year, I want that to change.

I don't believe in formal resolutions. To me, making a statement like that is just like begging for failure. However, at this traditional time of reflection, I have found several areas I want to look at. I don't know if I'll be able to be successful, but perhaps the main thing is just to try.

Bottle Tree

Once a common site in the Southern landscape, the bottle tree is now an increasing rarity as ancient folk beliefs and customs fall from common usage.

From the website http://www.steberphoto.com/gallery/bottle.htm

I made a bottle tree today. If you are unfamiliar with this, you can check the website listed above to learn about their history or click here to see color pictures of a modern reinterpretation. Most of the modern ones I see on the web have been made of rebar or a piece of 4X4X6 timber with dowels or PVC inserted into drilled holes.

I wanted something a little closer to the original concept. I took branches from some of the piles and piles of storm damage in the edges of the woods and lashed a couple together. I "planted" it in a defunct flower bed in my backyard and put the bottles on. It is a work in progress, but I like it.

I guess I became fascinated by them when I saw the one at the Mississippi Agriculture and Forestry Museum in Jackson. Maybe I'd seen them in old pictures before, but I'd never really paid much attention to them. I liked the fact that it was a way to reuse the glass, and I love the colors as sunlight filters through the bottles. It's like outside stained glass.

The fact that it's also talismanic adds another level of enjoyment for me. I have always been interested in good luck or protective symbols. I collect them when I travel. Since this is an element of Southern culture, albeit a fading one, I thought it was appropriate to have in my yard.

After making the tree (with considerable "help" from the dogs), I simply sat and watched the light shine through. It may fall apart tonight. I may have to rebuild the whole thing in two weeks. Today, though, it glowed blue, green, and brown in an abnormally-warm December day, and I felt strangely peaceful.

Rereading Narnia

A young man who wishes to remain a sound atheist cannot be too careful of his reading.
C. S. Lewis

I want to go see The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe over the holidays, so I sat down last night and reread the first of the Chronicles of Narnia. It was such a good book. It had been far too long since I took the pleasure of reading it.

I had forgotten so much of it. I had forgotten how quickly it moves along. I had forgotten the power of the words and the symbolism within. So much truth is wrapped inside a story that was written for a college professor's goddaughter.

Whether I am seeing it in a cartoon form or reading the book, I always cry over Aslan, and I can never stop the chills that run up my spine when the resolution of that crisis happens. As you may be able to tell, I'm trying not to "spoil" it.

All I can say is that you should read it if you haven't. It won't take long, and I don't think you'll ever be sorry that you did.

Christmas

God grant you the light in Christmas, which is faith; the warmth of Christmas, which is love; the radiance of Christmas, which is purity; the righteousness of Christmas, which is justice; the belief in Christmas, which is truth; the all of Christmas, which is Christ.
--Wilda English

Christmas for me this year was wonderful. I hope the same can be said for each of you who read this. It wasn't about what I got or gave. It was about finally having a family Christmas.

For several years now, my family has been scattered or unfocused. I don't know how to explain it. The holidays have been more or less just another day. There are many reasons for this, and all of them have been valid, but I can't say it wasn't a disappointment to me. Our last few Christmases have consisted of all of us sitting in front of the TV with very little being said.

I love the holidays. Actually, I love almost all holidays. I love the decorations, I love the special purpose behind the holidays, and I love the idea that there are some days in which we honor God, our families, love, being Irish, or whatever. I believe some days should be special to refocus us on the important things of life. Those special days, those holidays, help us carry on through the day-to-day grind.

It's almost like a booster shot to my spirit. I am the only teacher on my hall to hang little pumpkin lights at Halloween, twinkle lights and garland at Christmas, and shiny red and pink garland at Valentine's Day. I long for a set of plastic turkey lights.
I need those twinkle lights. I need those tiny illuminated pumpkins to inoculate myself from the bad things that seem to build up sometimes.

Coming back to Christmas, though, this year we all got together after church on Sunday morning, and I made brunch casserole. We ate and talked and never once was the TV turned on. It was a good family time. I hope it's the start of a new tradition for us.

After Mom and Dad went home, I turned on the Christmas music and just watched the lights on the tree for awhile. The weather outside was bad, so I eventually watched a movie. Just before I went to bed, I turned out all the lights except the one directly over my piano and the string of lights that illuminates my nativity scene collection. I sat down and played all my favorite Christmas hymns one last time for the year. "Silent Night," "O Holy Night," "We Three Kings," and "What Child Is This" are all favorites of mine. It was a very peaceful way to end a good day.

When I finally went to bed, I felt like the day had been a special one. It wasn't like the big family holidays we used to have when I was a child, but I hope that it is the start of a new and wonderful tradition for my adult life.

The Ruins of Shearwater

I went to the websites of the museum and family businesses of my favorite artists, the Andersons of Ocean Springs. There I found decimation and despair. Shearwater is gone.

For those of you who never had the privilege to drive down that twisting, shaded lane and catch glimpses of a life dedicated to art and family, this may not be comprehensible. However, anybody who ever really looked at any of the natural curves of the pottery at Shearwater or sorted through the stacks of prints at Realizations knows what has been lost. That wonderful gifted family had their past, their present, and their future pulled out from under them by a force of nature from which no one could protect themselves.

As I look at the damage, I just cry and cry. Why does this move me more than the other images I've seen? I don't know these people. My short sojurns to Ocean Springs are not enough to tie me to them in any real way. That being said, I feel this loss very personally. Looking at those photos of destruction and reading John Anderson's essay about what has been taken makes me feel as if I were looking at one of Walter Anderson's watercolors of a drowned seabird. The grace of that lifestyle has been shattered, and now lies waterlogged.

I believe that the coast can and will recover. I believe that Shearwater and the lifestyle it represents must recover. While I know that much has been lost, I pray that there will be enough help, enough support for all the Andersons to allow them to save Walter Anderson's works and begin to produce the works of their own talented hands once again. Even though it's just a tiny corner of the Mississippi Gulf Coast, if Shearwater is lost, some measure of light will be lost. If you love it like I love it, please go to the website above and find out what you might be able to do to help them recover.

Todd Agnew

"I need a little more patience in the middle of stress/ I need a little more beauty in the middle of this mess/ Need a little more substance in the middle of this emptiness...."
-- Todd Agnew "In the Middle of Me"

I have found another musician to add to my list of favorites, Todd Agnew. I suppose I am coming to him late, but I think the time he came out with his first album was about the time I was in Japan or in transition from Japan. Regardless of that, I'm glad I found him now.

You can go to this page and hear some of his stuff. I like the actual sound of the music a lot, prone as I am to all things bluesy, but to me, the best part of his music is the intense personal feeling I get from his lyrics. I can hear in them a man who has known darkness and can appreciate God's light.

There is nothing saccharine or trite about this album. Nowhere does it lapse into the expected or the cute. I appreciate that. It is rare to find something so genuine. For that alone, I would have bought it. Agnew's lyrics have the same quality I associate with really good poetry: the exposing of things not always comfortable for healing, for confession, and for letting others know that they are not alone.

Works like this always make me wish I could get to know the artist. There are a select few that I'd love to just sit down in the living room with and talk to. If the opportunity presented itself, I'd probably just turn shy and stupid, but to be able to share with somebody who can be that honest with himself would be a great privilege.

I strongly recommend you check out Todd Agnew's stuff. Maybe someday he'll come close enough to Podunk, my humble hometown, that I can go see him live. I bet it's a great show.

Pit Bull?!

If there was a manual describing ideal Pit Bull temperament, it would probably read something like this: "The Pit Bull is goofily friendly towards people--family, friends, and strangers alike. Known for its sound character, strong nerve, and great intelligence, the breed makes an ideal companion for households with children, while remaining strong and vigilant enough to protect its loved ones if need be."
From the website The Real Pit Bull

I took Britta to the vet this morning (with Dad's help), and it turns out that she's not boxer at all. She's a pure blooded pit bull. I have to admit that I was somewhat nervous about that. I asked the vet about a million questions. I told him that all I'd ever heard about pit bulls was that they snapped and attacked people. He said that it wasn't the dog that went crazy. It was the owner that made them go crazy. He told me that they actually make very good pets.

I felt better after that and resolved to come home and look up everything I could about pit bulls on the internet. I found a really good website and learned a lot. Some of the things concern me....her aggressive tendencies toward my other dog may not go away...but others were very settling. Basically, I should only have to worry about her being aggressive to other animals, not to people.

She was fairly good in the vet's office. She showed some aggression (mild) to other big dogs in the office, but I was able to hold her collar and tell her no. Now that I've read the website, I realize that I got off LUCKY there. She also seemed to react only to the other female dogs. The website said that pit bulls seem to react for strongly to their own gender. She pretty much ignored the two or three big male dogs that strolled through.

I'm going to have to do some obedience training with her. I've never done that before, so I'm a little worried about "getting it wrong", etc. I ordered a recommended book and will start over our Christmas break.

Health-wise, she's more or less okay. No mange, but she's got basic outdoor dog worms. The biggest concern is that she tested positive for heartworms. That tore me up, but the vet said as young as she is (about a year or year and a half), she should be able to take the full treatment and be cured.

It's all a little overwhelming, but I think it's going to work out okay. I'm going to make it work, anyway. As long as I can get her and Yelldo to at least tolerate one another, everything else will take care of itself. If push comes to shove (literally) there, I'll probably grant Yelldo his fondest wish and make him an "in-the-house" dog.

Oh well, if it weren't for the high maintenance animals in my life, what would I do with all my "free time?"

The Christmas Shoes

Most drama in our lives is really rather squalid.
Tom Baker

I realize that I am probably going to hell for this, but I HATE the song "The Christmas Shoes." Every time I hear those first few piano cords, I change the channel on the radio. Sometimes I come in on those last few saccharine little kid words, and I shudder uncontrollably. I almost wrecked this morning trying to get to the channel selection buttons when they snuck it in on my while I was half asleep.

It's hard to put my finger on why a song most people regard as a staple of the Christmas holidays, a deeply moving and semi-religious experience, makes my teeth ache. Maybe it's the same thing I hate about really sad country songs. It's not that I doubt the original sentiment of the song. It's that I think it's crass to take that emotion and try to make a buck off it.

Yes, it's sad. It's impossibly sad. It disturbs me, though, that this type of thing always becomes so terribly popular. Are we all so hungry for a publicly-sanctioned form of catharsis that we have to take it in huge, artificially sweetened, heavy air-play rotation doses? To me, it cheapens the original sentiment that inspired the song. Seeing every woman in an entire beauty shop tearing up while turning the volume on the shop radio to maximum so it can be heard over the dryers is just somehow repulsive to me.

I know this isn't a world-shattering issue. Most people probably either disagree or don't care. I just hope that I can get through the rest of the holiday season without having to hear that melodramatic song again.

New Dog

Friday afternoon, just after dark, a large Ford vehicle pulled up near my mailbox. It was odd because they just kept sitting there. I got up and walked toward the door, and I suppose they saw my silhouette through the window because they pulled away. About ten minutes later, chaos erupted on my back porch.

I looked out to find a beautiful, honey-colored, mostly boxer dog. She was so hungry you could see her ribs, and she was looking through the glass door with the most adorable wrinkled brow. I think it was the wrinkled brow that caught me.

I opened the door carefully (strays are always an unknown entity, especially big ones), and poured a scoop full of food into Yelldo's dog dish. She ate it as though she hadn't seen food for a long time and might not ever see it again. She ate so fast she almost choked herself, and I felt an overwhelming sense of hate for anybody who would let an animal be that hungry.

Deciding to take a chance, I stuck a finger through the door. She sniffed and licked very politely. Feeling a little more confident, I put out my whole hand. When I raised it, she flinched and cowered. Again, I felt that anger. Not only had whomever had gutlessly thrown her out starved her, they'd hit her enough to make her shy away from a casual pat.

Four days later, she's got a collar and a name (Britta because she was pitched out on the Waters), she's stopped eating every morsel in the bowl, and she is a wonderful frisky critter with a huge bark and really, really big puppy energy. I still have to take her to the vet, but she's mine, regardless.

I can't believe the callous crappiness of people. Even if someone is having a problem dealing with an animal for some reason, what kind of person takes a defenseless animal and just throws it away? It may not be a kind thought, but I firmly believe there's a special section of Hell for people who abuse animals.

Britta has a home now, and I'll do the best I can by her. My other dog, Yelldo, is in shock. Britta is about three times as large as he is, and the poor baby is more than a little overwhelmed. I'm hoping we all normalize soon. Until then, I will continue to enjoy looking out whatever door I happen to be at and seeing her cute, curious expression peering back at me.

COLD!!

The heat in my house has been off for about a week. Right before Thanksgiving, some valve-thingy died and now I am very, very cold. Thank goodness I have gas space heaters on the walls. Unfortunately, you have to be very close to them to be warm.

Right now, I'm wearing three layers of clothes and have blue nails. My cats are sprawled on the floor in front of the space heater. They love it. They also love the extra blankets on the bed. We will all be glad when the heat comes back.

I hung Christmas lights Sunday. I also set up my Santa collection and my Nativity collection. Every year, it's like discovering every piece again. This year, I got to put my Waterford nativity out for the first time. I can't get over how it catches the light. I can sit here in my chair wrapped in a blanket or five and watch the light play on it. :)

In addition to heater problems, I also had to have the windshield in my car replaced. About two months ago, a rock from one of those enormous highway mowers dinged me, and one day when the weather got cold, the ding became a run. Yesterday, in the time it took me to drive from home to work, it grew by two inches. This morning, I was grateful I'd called Novus to get it replaced, because I actually SAW the run get longer. I almost drove into a ditch trying to get the defroster off.

Well, there's no organization to this. Maybe thought will return when Christmas break comes. Maybe not.... I'm off to shiver on the couch.