Blat Report

Just what does it mean to be self-absorbed, and is it a bad thing? It seems to me that in this life we can seek answers to all kinds of questions, and why wouldn't delving into your own self be just as valid a pursuit as delving into others'?

...

I like men, as long as they keep their distance. Men don't deserve to get close to me. I haven't met one yet that's been worth the trouble. I've been too nice to them, I've given them the benefit of the doubt. But now, that is OVER!

...

Kayti, who is now 10, and I had a great laugh last evening. She and Rex and I were sitting at the kitchen table, which is now in the living room, eating dinner, which consisted of tortilla chips and a couple of hot dips Rex had concocted. I read the promo at the top of the tortilla-chip bag, something about tortilla chips being "fun to share."

I was skeptical. Nice to share, sure, but "fun" to share? "They're overdoing the fun aspect," I said.

Kayti handed me a chip. "Here, Mom!" she said in a bright, fun voice. "Have a tortilla chip!"

"Oh, thank you for sharing this!" I beamed. "This is so much fun! I don't know WHEN I've had more fun!"

I grabbed a chip and held it out to her. "Here! Here's one for YOU! Isn't this FUN?"

We carried on this way until we were laughing so hard tears coursed down our faces.

Rex, meanwhile, was laughing, too. But not with us. At us. Which was OK, too.

...


The reason this post is called the Blat Report is that I started out thinking I would explain my latest theory on "Why Debbi Can't Play Her Trombone."

I think it's because I may have had at least one episode of Bell's palsy a number of years ago. Or maybe I've had some of those little strokes that you don't notice. Bell's palsy affects only the facial muscles -- it's when Cranial Nerve No. 7 gets pinched thanks to an infection of some sort. Herpes simplex (the cold sore virus) can cause it.

If you have a very mild attack, you might not recognize Bell's palsy for what it is. But it will weaken if not paralyze your facial muscles for at least a couple of months. It can be overcome, but to avoid long-lasting effects you have to treat it. If I did have one or more episodes, I didn't know it, so I didn't seek treatment. And that would explain why no matter how much I practice, and I do practice almost every day, my control just doesn't improve.

There you have it. I hope I remember to present this theory when I have my annual physical next month. I'm playing in a concert band right now, but I can't say it's doing the band any good. ....

Dodging Bullets

One of my ex-fiances introduced me to the term "dodging a bullet" following a conversation that could have, but didn't, "go south," another term to which he introduced me. The biggest bullet we dodged was staying together, since our relationship was, well, I'll say tempestuous, although it's a severe understatement.

But the bullet I am talking about today is that of simply being young. I walked in on one of my young co-workers recently and discovered him having an apparently very serious telephone conversation. I backed out. When he had to come ask me a question later on, I thought his eyes looked a tad red around the rims.

I remember those days of angst, the days of the sturm-und-drang roller-coaster existence. And I don't miss them one little titchy, snoz-boggling bit.

When I think about the stupid boys and men who drove me to crying in my beer, even when I was too young to drink beer, I just want to hurl. I want to conjure up myself at a tenderer age and shake myself by the shoulders. "Buck up!" I want to shout. "They're jerks!"

But it's too late now. Somehow, I managed to survive them all. That's not to say there aren't scars, and embarrassing memories that I could never in a million years put into print for public consumption. But at least I don't have to worry about creating MORE scars and mortifying memories.

So to all the young people who are trying to navigate the roiling waters of relationships, I advise you to be of good cheer. If I can make it, maybe you can too. It gets better. It gets easier. Be strong, and try not to be needy. Life is more fun that way.

Bob's Your Uncle

I had a long talk with my horse today.

He stood in front of me, not moving a muscle, as I'd commanded him to do. I was sitting on the three-step mounting block (next stop, a crane).

I was dejected. "What the hell good are you?" I said. My voice was soft. I wasn't yelling. I felt dejected. "You have heaves. You can't pull a cart. I'm afraid you'll buck me off. You're spooky on trails. I can't give pony rides on you." The list went on. He actually had the grace to look sad.

"What am I going to do with you?" I wondered. "You aren't even a good companion horse!"

The sun felt really good. Some bug pestered Sox in the the mild spring air. I sat there for about 20 minutes, looking at Sox and remembering the other horses we had to get rid of for their own good, because Sox was mean to them. I miss those other horses. They were good, useful horses. Well, two of them were.

Sox seemed to sense my despair. Some people say horses are telepathic. I do hope this is the case. I hope Sox is even now chewing on my words out in the pasture. I hope he comes to the conclusion that he's either got to become a kinder, gentler horse, or find himself a slab on a platter 3000 miles away with a Japanese dad sharpening a knife over him.

Inconvenience

There's a sign in the women's restroom at the Westbrook Hannaford grocery store. The sign, stuck on the front of the tampon dispenser, says, in handwritten letters, "Out of order. Sorry for the inconvenience."

Sorry for the INCONVENIENCE? Talk about understatement!!!!! A man must have written that sign! If a woman had written it, it would say, "So sorry and definitely feeling your pain for the disaster when your current sanitary item fails and you lope out of the store hoping no one misinterprets your predicament and calls 911!"

Men have almost no equivalent to this potential for embarrassment. I said "almost no," and I think we all know the one exception, and unless a guy is an adolescent, he can probably psyche himself out of it. Women cannot psyche themselves out of having periods, and so must live in not only physical and mental discomfort on a regular basis, but in fear and worry.

It took me forever to learn how to get comfortable and relatively secure about this phenomenon, and then, just when I got the hang of it, I stopped experiencing it.

I was kind of mad about that, but I've gotten over it.

I thought this anecdote would be a good springboard for a well-reasoned discussion about convenience, and how convenience is more of a god than God to many, many people.

Unfortunately, I find myself squeezed for time to get to my band rehearsal, so I won't be able to share my insights with you. But you've probably already heard quite enough! Right?

Ouch

Three shih-tzus watch carefully so as
to time their movement to coincide
with mine. Shih tzus contributed
to a number of falls I took this
winter.







Kayti said to me the other day, "Mom! You made it through winter without breaking any bones!"

It is indeed a miracle, considering that I fell down at least once a day. I wish I had videos of all the spills I've taken -- they would make an exceptionally funny montage.

Here are all the ways I've fallen since last fall:

1. Bucked off a horse.

2. Cross-country skis got ahead of me.

3. Slipped in mud.

4. Slipped on ice (about 100 times)

5. Tripped on 2x4 on porch.

6. Missed rung on ladder.

7. Misjudged number of stairs.

8. Tripped by a dog.

9. Crocs slipped on wet floor.

10. Ground-teaching horse to jump, I tripped on jump.

11. Fell off a pallet in a dark cellar.

12. Unexpectedly stepped into hole on uneven "lawn."


At least I have reasons for all these falls. Before surgery, my right ankle used to roll me onto the ground without so much as a fare-thee-well.

I may not have broken any bones, but I'm not tempting fate. I won't be getting on the horse this year until we are signed up for MaineCare.

The $600 Wart

This is why people with no insurance avoid going to the doctor:

Visit to doctor: $90

First lab bill: $80

Second lab bill: $210.00

Third lab bill: $175.00

Is there no way to test the wartiness of a growth without having to test for every other possibility under the sun? How many more labs are involved? How many more of these bills should I expect?

After taking the wart sample, the doctor told me the growth is probably a) just a wart; or b) a kind of skin cancer that usually goes away by itself.

I think, with that kind of information, and knowing what my lab bill(s) would add up to, I might have said, OK, skip the lab work.


Note: I confess, the picture does not show the infamous wart that was on my leg, but a mushroom that was on my lawn last year.

Still Ambulatory After All These Years

Sometimes I just don't want to write about myself. But if I don't, what can I write about?

Yesterday's 8.6 mile walk from Limerick to Cornish had some extremely boring stretches. Ironically, I noticed on one of the most boring ones that someone had built an observation deck overlooking the boring landscape. There must be times of the year that the view becomes interesting. It's a swampy area, so I'm guessing that red-winged blackbirds abound in the spring and summer. There's excitement for you. Red-winged blackbirds in a swamp.

By the time I got to Cornish, if I'd had a bag with me, I would have collected $2.10 worth of returnable bottles. About half the bottles were in Limerick. I saw only one cigarette butt in the first six miles; then they proliferated. There were no coins whatsoever. The most interesting thing I saw was a dead crow half-buried in a snowbank.

I gave a lot of thought to the party I'd attended the day before. It was a reunion of USM music majors and faculty from the '60s and '70s. I can't believe how many people attended! Cars were parked along the road for a mile! The place was packed! Thank God I went, so I could rehash it instead of focusing on my aching knees.

I was reminded of when I worked at Moosehead Manufacturing for six weeks one summer between college years. The days just crawled if there was nothing interesting to think about, so I tried to go out drinking and dancing every night to give myself some thought fodder for the following day. Sure, I had horrible hangovers, but at least I wasn't bored!

Petty Politics

I've walked 8 miles in the past two days, both to get a decent cup of coffee and to get out into the warmer air and reassure myself that I am ambulatory.

Walking is great for pondering. Today I pondered what questions I would pose to town candidates at the election forum next week. I came up with two:

1) For the incumbents: Have you ever lied to your constituents in the course of your official duties; and for everybody: Do you think there are circumstances under which lying to your constituents is justified?

2) For the incumbents: Have you ever used your position as a town officer to try to force a wrong decision (by, say, the Planning Board of Appeals) on behalf of yourself, or your family, friends or neighbors? and for everyone: Do you consider such use of power to be ethical under any circumstances, and if not, will you take a pledge to avoid such conduct if you are elected?

My husband just snorted when I shared these with him. "You think anyone's going to answer those questions truthfully?"

I said, "Well, if I can follow up with another question, like, 'Did you pressure the Code Enforcement Officer to ignore so-and-so's noncompliance?' Only, of course, if I know the answer to that question is 'yes.' "

He rolled his eyes.

I doubt if I'd have the nerve to stand up and ask these questions myself, for the simple reason that this is a small town and I'm afraid of a backlash. My taxes would probably go up, the Code Enforcement Officer would probably be sent to inspect my house and told to not come back with fewer than 135 violations, and the town snowplowers would likely be ordered to bury the end of my driveway -- preferably, with me under the snow.

It's too bad, but that's small-town politics for you. One hand washes the other; it doesn't stand back and say, "Wow, are you dirty."

Hate at First Slight

I knew I shouldn't have played a game of Scrabble (actually, Lexulous) before heading off to my job this morning. But normally, a game of Lexulous relaxes me.

Here's the bizarre exchange during this morning's game with someone whose user name is "pazienza":

Pazienza played some short word to start off.

I bingoed off that word, spelling "basenji."

Pazienza countered with another bingo, which I was able to turn to my advantage by playing "zoa" on a triple word score.

I noticed pazienza had written something in the chat box. It said, "An obvious Scrabble bot."

I had no idea what pazienza was talking about, so I wrote, "?"

Pazienza responded, "you."

Well, I was flummoxed! My knee-jerk reaction was to write, "Basenji is SUCH a common word." But I paused to cool down, refused to let myself sink to pazienza's level, and wrote instead, "Yup, I guess I am."

That could have been the end of it, but THEN pazienza wrote, "Last time well play," which it took me a minute to figure out meant "It's the last time we'll play."

I should have adjourned right then! Players hate it when their opponent adjourns, as opposed to resigning, because nobody gets the rating points. Unfortunately, I didn't think of it. Suppressing an intense urge to use a very bad epithet, I wrote, "If that's what you want," hoping that pazienza could nonetheless infer the word I'd left off the end of the sentence.

What a jerk! The kicker is that when we were down to the last tiles, I was ahead by 50 points but ran out of time!

If anyone out there has any ideas how I can make pazienza's life absolutely miserable from now on, please let me know. I'm looking for something clever and untraceable.

The Horse Who Would Be Dog

Thanks to the horse pictured here, I almost would, instead of sitting here writing this, be lying unconscious and possibly dead out on the muddy ground.

I let him out and was treating him like a dog, running around and calling, "Here, Sox! Here boy!" He would thunder my way, wheel and thunder back. Sometimes he would kick up his heels.

It was one of the heel-kicks that nearly got me in the head. I could hear the wind from it, it was that close. Whew! Scary!

My analytics seem to be up and running, since I installed the updated code. It's very satisfying to see that my readership has jumped -- are you ready? -- 2,475%! There was nowhere to go but up, since the program hadn't been working so it looked like I hadn't had a visitor for a month. Average time on-site is currently 1.46 minutes, which, sadly, does not mean people are spending more time on my blog. It just means that ONE person spent 43 minutes! Thanks, whoever you were!

Rex and Kayti have been in Florida since last Tuesday. It hardly seems like they've been gone at all, because they call me at least four or five times a day. They won't leave me alone.

Kayti even sent me on a Valentine's mission last night. She wanted me to anonymously deliver a rose to a classmate. So I bought a Dove chocolate rose, got into my cat-burglar outfit (black pants, black cape, black boots, black gloves, goofy feather mask and goofy red hat), drove to said classmate's house, and walked up to the door. I was going to knock if the dog barked, but no one seemed to know I was there -- the shades were all drawn -- so I left the rose on the porch railing and scurried away.

Can you imagine? I do the most bizarre things. I really liked being in disguise and sneaking up to someone's house. I wish stalking weren't a crime!

Nothin' Could be Finah

I'm just back from four days in North Carolina, visiting my 88-year-old widowed Aunt Louise. She doesn't have a computer, and even if she did, she wouldn't be online, so I had little opportunity to add to my blog. I apologize to those who made the trip to mylittlefarm in vain.

My aunt had a wonderful marriage to my Uncle Carlton. They absolutely adored each other for the whole 54 years they were together. He was six years younger than her. They met at a dance in ... I want to say Bangor, but I'm not sure. It was one of those deals where he spotted her and decided then and there that she was the woman for him. She says she was in her thirties when that happened.

With that in mind, I made an impulse buy at Target yesterday, Saturday -- "When Harry Met Sally." The previous night we'd watched "Narnia" and she fiddled with the volume all through it, driving me almost insane, and she didn't follow the plot very well, either. I thought we'd have greater success with "Harry/Sally." I thought she would really relate to those aging happy couples interspersed throughout the movie.

Alas, the show had barely begun when she fell asleep. She only woke up if a telephone rang in the movie; she thought it was her own phone. Then she'd watch for a couple of minutes, the volume zooming up and back down like a little boat on ocean swells (and I'm not exaggerating when I say it made me slightly seasick). The next thing I'd know, she'd be fast asleep again.

It wasn't the most exciting four days of my life, but we both got a lot of rest and we enjoyed comparing pills (hers are mostly medications; mine are mostly vitamins). I made a cool birthday cake for her son, my cousin Kevin, who turned 48, and he never even came over to pick it up. I told her she should call up a few of her friends and invite them to share it with us. The hell with Kevin! But she said Kevin told her to box it and freeze it and he'd come over next week. Hmmmm. I'll believe it when I see it. But I helped her stow it for the day hell freezes over.

I wish I had a picture of that cake to put on here. It was shaped like a fish and had M&Ms for scales. It was supposed to have NECCO wafers, but who sells those any more? Nobody in Wake Forest, N.C., I can tell you that!

Aunt Louise jokes a lot about having CRS -- "can't remember s---" -- but it clearly frustrates her. She's a pretty smart lady, and has a great sense of humor, but she is bummed that her mind doesn't work so well now. It was hard for me, too, for example, when she'd try to remember where her doctor's office is -- all I can say is, it's a good thing we left the house 45 minutes early!

And the Dog Barks at Dawn

Rex and I are sleep-deprived today. It's all because the hay is making the horse cough. I can't sleep when the horse coughs. Every hack and wheeze reverberates all through my body. It doesn't help to turn on the radio or wear earplugs or clap a pillow over my head. I can still feel him coughing.

Meanwhile, Zoe, the 16-year-old border collie cross, is doing her usual 2 a.m. pacing around the downstairs, toenails clicking on the wood floor, around and around the living room. Rex has taken to sleeping in the Barc-0-lounger so he can let her out when necessary without having to climb down the ladder from the loft. This happens at least three times between midnight and 5 a.m.

In addition, every time a snowflake flutters to the ground, or the horse coughs, the shih tzus wake up, race through the doggie door and begin barking in stereo. This sometimes wakes up the roosters, who crow enthusiastically even in the dead of night. Rex calls the shih tzus in, blocks the doggie door, goes back to the b-o-lounger. The shih tzus then start slamming themselves rhythmically against the gate that keeps them in the kitchen.

Rex puts the shih tzus in their crate and latches the door. Everything seems peaceful and calm, and I almost dare to try to go back to sleep. Then, in the stillness, Zoe gives a short, sharp bark from the porch, signaling she wants to come back in. She'll bark like this at measured intervals until Rex gets up and lets her in.

He'll settle down again, and then a cat starts scratching in the litter box. Our cats really get into this activity, sometimes for a half-hour straight. It drives Rex insane.

By now I'm about to line up every animal we have here and mow them down with an AK-47. I'm sure Rex is, too.

I think if we can just find some hay that doesn't make the horse cough (we've changed his name, btw, to Mr. Coughee), I can sleep though all this other stuff. If not, at least you'll now know why I'm looking hung over all the time these days.

No, We're Not Eating Our Shoes -- Yet

We had the great pleasure of meeting up with our Seattle friends Sean and Finn the other day (while my chickens were getting murdered, it turns out) in Portland at the Children's Museum.

We were supposed to bring a bag lunch, but the only bag I had in my hand when we arrived was a plastic bag with Kayti's and my shoes in it.

Spotting the bag, Sean said, "You can put your lunch in the refrigerator downstairs."

I said, "That's not our lunch! That's our shoes!"

"Oh," he said, grinning evilly. "Now you're eating your shoes? I smell another NPR essay coming -- 'First, we moved into the cellar to save on heat. Now we're eating our shoes!' "

Sean has always been the person I count on to make me laugh. Within 3 minutes of getting to the museum, I was already weak with laughter. I had to hold onto a pole to keep from falling on the floor.


Later on, after lunch (Sean's sister Cherie generously shared her chicken salad-with-walnuts-and-cranberries sandwiches, since I hadn't had time to stop to get lunch for myself and Kayti), we followed Kayti and Finn into the little theater. People were standing around, but no one was on stage. Sean and I cannot resist an empty stage. We hopped up and announced we were doing a "Robin Hood" sketch.

I said, "I'm Maid Marian." I turned to Sean. "Robin Hood! You must flee! The Sheriff of Nottingham is coming to capture you!"

Sean said, "Here, get on my horse. He's very strong." A not-so-subtle reference to my weight. "Let's go!" People were laughing, of course.

I said, "No, no -- I have to ride sidesaddle!"

So we galloped around the stage, Sean facing forward, I facing sideways, scooching and doing a kind of two-footed hopping.

Can you believe it? We're both over 50!!!!!!

Some things never change. We get together, and we're both 15 again. This friendship is the only reason I'm glad I moved to Dover-Foxcroft. Can't imagine life without Sean!

Photos: Top, a clown shoe that might make a good entree. Inset: Finn prepares for a lifetime of probably goofy performance.

Black Day at the Stick Farm

Sure, it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day. As my daughter exclaimed, "Martin Luther King was black!"

But that's not the black we're talking about here. We're talking about death -- the death of nine fine chickens at the teeth of a scruffy, mangy, fox.

The roll: Sophie, Cupid, Vanilla, Comet, Glen, Little Pumpkin, Fudge (or daughter of Fudge, depending who you talk to), and two young cochin roosters who never even had names.

The good news is that the fox did not survive to kill again. He was in the henhouse when Rex came home. Rex shut him in, borrowed a pistol, and shot him -- twice, for good measure.

The irony is that I had seen the fox earlier in the day. He was no bigger than a large cat, and he had almost no fur on his tail. I chased him under the cabin, then, because we were not going to be home, I shut the chickens in the henhouse -- so they would be SAFE! Instead, the fox ripped through the roof of the side pen, went in the little side-pen entrance to the coop, and the chickens were there for the picking. Sitting ducks, so to speak.

There is a kind of funny side to this. A neighbor kid visiting Kayti, upon hearing of the massacre, said, "Our dog killed a couple of your chickens." Upon closer questioning, he said his father "buried one of them." This must have happened back when the ground was soft. Thanks, neighbor, for letting us know!

We now have two roosters and six hens. And plans to create a bigger, stronger, safer environment for them!

The Big Day!

Hallelujah! After Tuesday, Bush is no longer president!

And hooray, a smart person is actually taking over!

I still have to pinch myself to realize I didn't dream that the American people who sent that asshole Bush to the White House not once, but twice, elected Obama! Every time I hear Obama speak, I am simply overcome with joy that someone with a BRAIN will be in charge!

Is it too late to coordinate a nationwide ringing of church bells as soon as Obama is sworn in? Shouldn't there be dancing in the streets, and throwing of great snowstorms of confetti, and shaking of timbrels and blowing of horns and drinking of champagne and people making a very loud, very public joyful noise?

We should be throwing inaugural balls of our own, in every nook and cranny of this country. I'm embarrassed that I didn't think of it sooner, or I would have!

10:30 a.m., Sunday

Only 10:30, and it's already been an exciting day here on the Stick Farm. Thank God for my husband Rex. I never would have had the stomach to clean up dog vomit at 7 a.m., even though I was the one who gave them Kayti's uneaten (and two days out of the fridge) turkey sandwich about 15 minutes earlier.

I woke up at about 6 a.m. A lone rooster was crowing. I got out of bed. Kayti rolled over, asked in a half-asleep voice, "What was that hideous noise that woke me up?" and burrowed back under the covers. (Last night she said to a shih tzu that was sitting up begging for food: "Be off with you!" Think she's watching too much "Robin Hood"?)

OK, this may not seem that exciting to you. But compare it to this:

A few days ago I was listening to public radio on my way in to work, and the classical-music show was just beginning. (Classical music shows are always just beginning on MPBN. There is too much classical music on MPBN. MPBN, are you listening?) Anyway, the announcer exclaimed, "This is a very exciting day for us here at MPBN!" I was on the edge of my seat. Big grant from a rich foundation? Programming overhaul? Pulitzer Prize for a news story?

"This is the 100th anniversary of (something obscure about somebody obscure)," she exulted.

Talk about feeling cheated! I think dealing with dog vomit beats that, so don't give me any flak about leading you on.

Is Anybody Out There?

I'm thinking maybe there's something wrong with my Analytics tracker. How could I not have a single visitor since before Christmas? Or has the world actually ended without my noticing it?

So please, if you visit, leave a comment, even if it's just, "I was here" by Anonymous. Thanks.

The End of the World

I read the other day that our galaxy and the Andromeda galaxy are going to crash into each other a lot sooner than expected. Instead of 10 billion years, the timetable is now two billion to five billion years.

Think of it. Imagine you're around for it. Imagine it happening tomorrow. The first clue: We'd get a call at 6 a.m. that school was cancelled. Kayti would be delighted. That's worth the end of the world right there.

I'd have to have coffee before turning on the tube. Even the end of the world doesn't change that. "Good God, Rex," I'd yell. "Come look at this!"

We'd sit on the edges of our chairs, watching talking heads on TV bringing us updates on how close we are to annihiliation.

"This just in," says one, turning to Camera B. "Pluto has collided with Androcles II, glanced off and is heading for Neptune. Andromeda planet Nebuchudnezzar just whizzed by Earth, and its gravitational pull has caused a tidal wave that has engulfed Asia." She looks into the lens. "I guess it's bye-bye, China," she says, with a highly inappropriate laugh. She tidies her papers. "And now, sports cancellations with Phil."

All we can do is sit there and keep our fingers crossed that nothing slams directly into Earth or pulls a Nebuchudnezzar anywhere near the Western Hemisphere.

In a way, it would be kind of fun to say, when your kid spills her orange juice and starts crying, "Oh, honey, it's the end of the world." Or your husband experiences ED, you don't try to make him feel better -- you turn over and say, huffily, "Yes it IS the end of the world."

And if something does hit Earth, or our place on it, spot on, will it be an instant death, or will we suffer through mayhem and destruction before freezing to death or suffocating in the thick blanket of space dust enveloping the Earth? Keep those cyanide capsules handy!

I think the only thing that will survive the collision is the billing department at Central Maine Power Company. Worlds may implode, but CMP will go on overcharging us.

Old Men

At one point in my life, I was in love with a man who lived in a Toyota motor home. He was insanely insecure about our relationship. He once told me he wanted me to get really fat, so fat that I wouldn't be able to squeeze out the camper door and run away.

I think about that now, as I avoid the treadmill and beg my husband for yet another piece of chocolate (he keeps it hidden in the cellar). Would I now fit through the camper door? I think I would, despite these giant bazoombas that mushroomed in the course of 3.5 years of breast-feeding my child.

Anyway, I did squeeze through the door and run away, not because I didn't want to be with this man, but because he was, if you'll forgive the repetition, insanely insecure about our relationship. He said if I was drowning and he couldn't swim and he had no means of saving me, he would jump in the water and drown with me. (Apparently he couldn't envision life without me. So how's he been surviving these past 18 years? How come when I finally gave up on him, he didn't kill himself?)

There were so many puzzles in that relationship. He got angry with me for the weirdest reasons. One day, when I was in Savannah and he was in New York, he got mad at me because I wasn't home when he said he'd call. Woooooo, big sin! There's cause for punishment!

One day when he was railing at me because I didn't tell him often enough that I loved him, I said to him in exasperation, "Why don't we just consider it a given that we love each other?"

God, he drove me crazy. Literally. After I got away from him, it took me more than a decade to get past his negative, party-pooping influence. Now, had I only recognized right away that that's exactly what he was -- a party pooper -- maybe I could've saved myself years of sorrow.

As it was, I finally righted myself in one fell swoop. The magic letters: EMDR. I can't even remember what the letters stand for, but the procedure, which involves recalling bad experiences while listening to a rhythmic beeping, supposedly helps you properly "process" the experiences so you can put them on the shelf and be done with the emotions associated with them.

I was almost instantly relieved. I could once more see a Toyota camper approaching and not feel pure fright. I could reread this guy's letters and not feel like I should write back in a futile effort to explain myself. I stopped trying to "understand" his insecurity, and I stopped blaming myself for it. I could finally see him for the self-congratulatory, alternately mean and fawning viper he really is.

For the record, I am married to a man who has no such insecurity. I'm sure Rex would love it if I were model-thin and every man I passed was wading ankle-deep in a puddle of drool. He knows I'm happy with him.

What a relief!

Now if my parakeet would just shape up, life would be perfect.

Death by Parakeet

Well, it's Jan. 1, 2009, and this blogger is being quite neglected by her disloyal readers. The line showing visitors is flat since Dec. 22. What, Christmas is for your FAMILY or something? Get with the program! Enlightenment knows no vacation!

Speaking of Christmas, the whole tradition seemed superfluous this year. We went to bed Christmas Eve and I wondered what was so special about a few hours that we had to wait till Christmas morning to open presents. Kayti knows we are "Santa Claus," plus we buy presents all through the year, so it just seems dumb to observe the holiday. Do people really need the reminder to honor love, hope and charity? Of course not! People to whom love, hope and charity are important are honoring them all year round, and people who don't, well, they just don't! So why try to force them?

I love my family and friends and people in general (except anyone who has the audacity to move within 300 yards of my property). I don't need a stupid designated day to focus a little thought on them.

Bah, humbug.

Moving along, New Year's Eve is even stupider! It's just an excuse for a party, and I don't need an excuse for a party. If you want to drop in at my house any day of the year and party, I'm game!

...

My new parakeet has a very sharp beak.
I know this because if I give him the opportunity, he will sink it into whatever part of my body presents itself. He hangs on, too. It's not just a quick little nip. I have to pull his beak open to free myself.

I was holding him in front of me one day and the thought occurred to me that if he leaped up and bit my neck and hit the jugular vein, I might die! Jeez, I'm sorry, but that's almost as bad a thought as the fear I have of perishing by my head falling off. It's funny in a very morbid way, though, and if it should happen, I give you permission to laugh about it at my funeral (or wherever you happen to be; can't count on you folks to come to my funeral. You won't even come to my blog!).

May 2009 be your best year ever!

Love,

Debbi