They took my meds away and surrounded me with pit bulls
This is the new window in progress. I was just wondering if I shouldn't keep mum about my windows until they are done so as to make more of an impact on anyone who might be reading my blog.
But one of the things I particularly enjoy in life is seeing things come together. I like the process more than the finished thing. It's all a part of being a curious human being. I want to know how people get from point A to point B. I want to know if they eat ketchup secretly. I want to know how often archeologists brush their teeth while on a dig and do they have to do it in a river, and if they spit their toothpaste in the river, does that mean someone else downstream is going to get some Colgate in their soup? I'm an inquiring mind who wants to know.I'm making a kind of paper quilt with all kinds of messages on it like: "Only three drinks before caroling this year, OK?" and "Spread cheer until you really feel it" and "Let 'Peace On Earth' really mean something this year" and "Stuff your stocking". Directives for the festive crowd. Too bossy? Too political? This paper quilt will hang behind the current display of stocking stuffers on the laundry line. If I'm going down in a ball of fire, I'm doing it meaningfully.
Not that I'm going down in a ball of fire.
About the meds and pit bulls...that was my dream last night. I was at someone's house and they had a pack of pit bulls and Chick joined up with them and suddenly looked more Pit than Lab and scrambled around like a happy little wild dog. Amazing thing? I wasn't the least bit scared. Unfortunately for me, I had an in-house nurse visit to renew my prescriptions to my meds and the nurse informed me that I could continue taking Paxil for another eighteen months and then they would have to cut me off. As though I was some kind of crack addict. And then I behaved like a crack addict who just found out that no one is making it in their basements anymore: I started explaining desperately to them how if they take the Paxil away I will become an awful mess of panic attacks, how I will cut my hand off in the Cuisinart, and will scare the populace with my unfiltered thoughts...and still they shook their heads and told me it was time.
I'm a little surprised I didn't start clawing at the walls or something. I kept trying to explain to them how mental illness doesn't just go away in eighteen months because you stop taking meds. I tried to explain all the years I had survived without them and how hard it was and how facing the rest of my life without them was unthinkable...they shook their heads and I woke up completely worried that it was all true.
Oh yes, and there were skunks in the yard with all the pit bulls and I tried to corral the dogs into a seperate area so as to avoid a huge stink and I knew I was dreaming at that point because they were all so well behaved and did exactly as I told them to.
About American Bull Terriers versus Pit Bulls; now, I know they are seperate breeds of dog technically, but somewhere along the line I got the impression that both those breeds were created as fierce fighting dogs. So why is it OK to have an "American Bull Terrier" but it's not OK to have a Pit Bull? Are Bull Terriers not aggressive? I really wish drug dealers and other nasty pieces of work would stop adopting and breeding Pit Bulls and treating them bad and encouraging them in all of their most dangerous tendencies. This whole prejudice against that breed has gone too far. I have never met a mean Pit Bull yet (luckily) but until I met Chelsea's old Black Lab named Lady, I had never met a nice Black Lab in my entire life and have been threatened and chased by them on more than one occasion.
I like Pit Bulls. I would never approach one I didn't know if it's people weren't right there. Our new neighbors across the street have a Pit Bull named Pepper and she's the cutest dog ever. She is so sweet and playful and non-menacing. Though, to be honest, I wouldn't try to come into her yard without her people there until I know her better and know if she's protective of her turf. Which most dogs are. Chick's Pit Bull and Bull Mastif genes are what makes her beautiful in my opinion. Her head is more wide and square than her mom's. She is stockier and more densely muscled than pure bred black labs are. (Her mother is a papered pure bred black lab.)
Has anyone else noticed how I started off capitalizing all the breed names and then suddenly stopped? I got tired.
Dogs Dogs Dogs...I'm not even a dog person. I don't love dogs the way some people do. I don't love how much like children they are. I don't know if I will ever get another one. But I have to confess that when it's cold as the north pole in your living room because your wall heater broke after emitting an awful burning plastic smell, and you're shivering in your layers, it sure is wonderful to have a dog who can't imagine a heaven more complete than draping herself across your lap for hours on end. That's a pretty sweet compensation for all the flying fur drifts, the constant need for exercise and walks, the chewing up of anything handy that you will need five minutes after it's been destroyed, and the constant appetite. I do love my dog.
Evidence of snow is scattered around in little left over clumps but the world here is just cold now. Which is fine. I love cold weather. I love walking in it. I love wrapping myself up against it. I love drinking coffee on a freezing morning. Well, I love drinking coffee every morning, but it's especially wonderful when it warms bones that are chattering. This reminds me that I meant to take a bath last night and instead drank beer and watched the Gilmore Girls again.
I have a hankering for a hot bath with salts. I also have a hankering for a tea-bath. We have a formula borrowed from an old herb book that has herbal recipes from the middle ages through more recent times. This one recipe is based on an herbal bath used by a famous courtesan who lived to be eighty, which in the seventeen hundreds is like living to be five hundred. Supposedly she remained dewy and gorgeous her whole life. (I'm assuming she managed to keep many of her teeth, which leads to the question of how she managed to do that at a time when dentistry was a new, mostly mocked, art?) She was also french. Damn her.
I have a recipe box now and I'm really excited about it. Mostly I'm excited to say to Philip: "Put on your damn apron, man, and make me some grub! You'll find instructions in the metal box." I was writing some recipes out while drinking beer and watching the Gilmore Girls. While not taking a bath. One of my other missed professions, incidentally, is being an Apothecary. That's right. Back when I had my first apartment in San Francisco without room mates I had a lot of alone time. I was nineteen years old and that apartment is where I first learned to bake bread, cook more than just split pea soup, and where I made potions. It's not surprising, really. My mom has a certificate in herbology. She's been interested in herbs and teas my whole life. I bought a book that had recipes for shampoo and other cool things. I had so much fun.
I'm a full disclosure type of chick, so I think you should all be aware that I also wrote notes to the many cockroaches that failed to be killed by the noxious fumigating the bug-men applied to my building frequently. They creeped the shit out of me, yet after a while I felt like I wasn't really living alone, since I really shared my space with the roaches. So in the end, because I was in need of meds long before this, I spent time communicating with them with notes writ large on colorful construction paper. I didn't have a lot of visitors while I lived there, which may be because I generally forgot to take the notes down. That may have scared a few people off. That also may explain how come I didn't have a boyfriend or any dates.
I really don't understand boredom. My sister is very annoyed with me over this issue. She has been bored many times in her life, I can't remember any times in my life when there weren't fifty things I wanted to do. I'm not trying to be a smug bastard about this. It's just that I have a hard time believing that boredom is anything more than an atrophying mind. If your mind is alive, doesn't it automatically want to know more than it already does? I don't expect everyone to want to do the same things I want to do, but there are hundreds of millions of things out there I'm not especially interested in that other people are completely excited about. So go find them. Explore. I just don't get it. I guess this is how Born Again Christians feel about me and I should try to see it from that perspective. I just don't feel worried about hell and it makes serious, earnest, Christians crazy.
It's time to get on with the day. I am toying with the idea of making myself a dress. But here's the question, do I go ahead and adorn my super-fat-ass with joyous unashamed flower and polka dot prints, or do I cloth myself in black? It's a dress much like the peasanty one from Threads. (I'd put a link to it here if I knew how to do it). I will look like a big flowery boat, but isn't it better to cheer the masses (myself included) than to try to hide my own masses? I know, I've already talked about this. I'm sorry to get dull on you. I'm going to look fat, so the question isn't how to pretend I'm not, the question is a little more like: do I flaunt it or try to hide? I'm leaning towards wearing the cheerful prints. It will give skinny girls a real boost to see me float by in my colorful bounty, and why not? Why shouldn't they feel good about themselves? At least if I wear the colorful prints I will look down and enjoy the dress.
You all have a super good morning!
I'm a little surprised I didn't start clawing at the walls or something. I kept trying to explain to them how mental illness doesn't just go away in eighteen months because you stop taking meds. I tried to explain all the years I had survived without them and how hard it was and how facing the rest of my life without them was unthinkable...they shook their heads and I woke up completely worried that it was all true.
Oh yes, and there were skunks in the yard with all the pit bulls and I tried to corral the dogs into a seperate area so as to avoid a huge stink and I knew I was dreaming at that point because they were all so well behaved and did exactly as I told them to.
About American Bull Terriers versus Pit Bulls; now, I know they are seperate breeds of dog technically, but somewhere along the line I got the impression that both those breeds were created as fierce fighting dogs. So why is it OK to have an "American Bull Terrier" but it's not OK to have a Pit Bull? Are Bull Terriers not aggressive? I really wish drug dealers and other nasty pieces of work would stop adopting and breeding Pit Bulls and treating them bad and encouraging them in all of their most dangerous tendencies. This whole prejudice against that breed has gone too far. I have never met a mean Pit Bull yet (luckily) but until I met Chelsea's old Black Lab named Lady, I had never met a nice Black Lab in my entire life and have been threatened and chased by them on more than one occasion.
I like Pit Bulls. I would never approach one I didn't know if it's people weren't right there. Our new neighbors across the street have a Pit Bull named Pepper and she's the cutest dog ever. She is so sweet and playful and non-menacing. Though, to be honest, I wouldn't try to come into her yard without her people there until I know her better and know if she's protective of her turf. Which most dogs are. Chick's Pit Bull and Bull Mastif genes are what makes her beautiful in my opinion. Her head is more wide and square than her mom's. She is stockier and more densely muscled than pure bred black labs are. (Her mother is a papered pure bred black lab.)
Has anyone else noticed how I started off capitalizing all the breed names and then suddenly stopped? I got tired.
Dogs Dogs Dogs...I'm not even a dog person. I don't love dogs the way some people do. I don't love how much like children they are. I don't know if I will ever get another one. But I have to confess that when it's cold as the north pole in your living room because your wall heater broke after emitting an awful burning plastic smell, and you're shivering in your layers, it sure is wonderful to have a dog who can't imagine a heaven more complete than draping herself across your lap for hours on end. That's a pretty sweet compensation for all the flying fur drifts, the constant need for exercise and walks, the chewing up of anything handy that you will need five minutes after it's been destroyed, and the constant appetite. I do love my dog.
Evidence of snow is scattered around in little left over clumps but the world here is just cold now. Which is fine. I love cold weather. I love walking in it. I love wrapping myself up against it. I love drinking coffee on a freezing morning. Well, I love drinking coffee every morning, but it's especially wonderful when it warms bones that are chattering. This reminds me that I meant to take a bath last night and instead drank beer and watched the Gilmore Girls again.
I have a hankering for a hot bath with salts. I also have a hankering for a tea-bath. We have a formula borrowed from an old herb book that has herbal recipes from the middle ages through more recent times. This one recipe is based on an herbal bath used by a famous courtesan who lived to be eighty, which in the seventeen hundreds is like living to be five hundred. Supposedly she remained dewy and gorgeous her whole life. (I'm assuming she managed to keep many of her teeth, which leads to the question of how she managed to do that at a time when dentistry was a new, mostly mocked, art?) She was also french. Damn her.
I have a recipe box now and I'm really excited about it. Mostly I'm excited to say to Philip: "Put on your damn apron, man, and make me some grub! You'll find instructions in the metal box." I was writing some recipes out while drinking beer and watching the Gilmore Girls. While not taking a bath. One of my other missed professions, incidentally, is being an Apothecary. That's right. Back when I had my first apartment in San Francisco without room mates I had a lot of alone time. I was nineteen years old and that apartment is where I first learned to bake bread, cook more than just split pea soup, and where I made potions. It's not surprising, really. My mom has a certificate in herbology. She's been interested in herbs and teas my whole life. I bought a book that had recipes for shampoo and other cool things. I had so much fun.
I'm a full disclosure type of chick, so I think you should all be aware that I also wrote notes to the many cockroaches that failed to be killed by the noxious fumigating the bug-men applied to my building frequently. They creeped the shit out of me, yet after a while I felt like I wasn't really living alone, since I really shared my space with the roaches. So in the end, because I was in need of meds long before this, I spent time communicating with them with notes writ large on colorful construction paper. I didn't have a lot of visitors while I lived there, which may be because I generally forgot to take the notes down. That may have scared a few people off. That also may explain how come I didn't have a boyfriend or any dates.
I really don't understand boredom. My sister is very annoyed with me over this issue. She has been bored many times in her life, I can't remember any times in my life when there weren't fifty things I wanted to do. I'm not trying to be a smug bastard about this. It's just that I have a hard time believing that boredom is anything more than an atrophying mind. If your mind is alive, doesn't it automatically want to know more than it already does? I don't expect everyone to want to do the same things I want to do, but there are hundreds of millions of things out there I'm not especially interested in that other people are completely excited about. So go find them. Explore. I just don't get it. I guess this is how Born Again Christians feel about me and I should try to see it from that perspective. I just don't feel worried about hell and it makes serious, earnest, Christians crazy.
It's time to get on with the day. I am toying with the idea of making myself a dress. But here's the question, do I go ahead and adorn my super-fat-ass with joyous unashamed flower and polka dot prints, or do I cloth myself in black? It's a dress much like the peasanty one from Threads. (I'd put a link to it here if I knew how to do it). I will look like a big flowery boat, but isn't it better to cheer the masses (myself included) than to try to hide my own masses? I know, I've already talked about this. I'm sorry to get dull on you. I'm going to look fat, so the question isn't how to pretend I'm not, the question is a little more like: do I flaunt it or try to hide? I'm leaning towards wearing the cheerful prints. It will give skinny girls a real boost to see me float by in my colorful bounty, and why not? Why shouldn't they feel good about themselves? At least if I wear the colorful prints I will look down and enjoy the dress.
You all have a super good morning!