To Spring or Not to Spring

Last week I went around telling people that early Spring is by far the Absolute Best Time of Year. My decision was based on multiple factors; the air, for one, is so fresh and filled with the scent of blooming forsythia that I would stand out in the sun, taking long, intoxicating breaths from 7 in the morning until 7 at night if life would just let me.

Another plus is the not-too-cold-but-not-too-hot temperature that lets me make all my own clothing related decisions for once. Am I feeling self-conscious today? Do I want to cover myself up with a bulky sweater? I can do that. Or, maybe I want to wear that cute little v-neck with the short puffy sleeves? I can do that, too! Options, people, they're very important to me, because I live life on an emotional whim.

But the number one reason I gave for loving early Spring? It was because the bugs are at a minimum. To know me is to know that I shiver at the sight of a fruit fly and I run in the opposite direct of anything that buzzes, and last week I didn't have to run from anything. I thought, this is my time of year, because the air smells marvelous, the sun is warm on my bare skin, and I don't have to be on constant watch for something that is going to sting me. I deserve to be outside, and the bugs aren't going to convince me otherwise!

Of course, that was before a spider fell in my lap on the way into work Friday morning, and before I was held captive in my own home by an army of vigilante bumble bees on Saturday. And on Sunday, after spotting the return of the monster moths that are attracted to the bright porch light, I finally remembered what this time of year really is; this is the time year when every scream is followed by my husband cocking his head to the side and telling me in his condescending tone, "Grow up. If you didn't like bugs you shouldn't have picked a house in the woods."

Yep, he's got my number, and just for the fun of it, when he gets home from work, I'm going to introduce him to Coco:

It took an unbelieveable amount of courage to get this photo but I figured what are the chances that I would be writing a blog in which I'm complaining about insects, when I discover something like this? Although, I don't know if Coco should be considered an insect...I think she's more like a small dog.

Nucking Futs

Well, originally I was going to tell you about how my iPod's name is Eleanor and that she's a feisty little wench whose sole purpose in her trivial electronic life is to drive me absolutely insane. She refuses to play songs that I actually want to listen to half the time, she is completely smitten with Billy Corgan, and she has this thing with playing particular songs at certain intervals during my commute; like Death Cab for Cutie's Soul Meets Body as I cross over Route 303, or Tori Amos' rendition of Losing My Religion at the intersection of Prospect and Royalton Road--it's happened THREE times this week and I'm beyond believing in coincidences. They're fabulous songs, but still. I think it's just her way of reminding me who wears the pants in our relationship.

So, when I got over the need to vent to you about Eleanor I decided I'd tell you a story about Macy, the other alpha female in my life, and how she keeps taking her toys outside. Jon and I grab them by arm fulls and bring them in to be washed and dried, and she is continually sneaking them back out, one by one, and moving them around, dropping one then picking up another to move it to a different place in the yard. This whole time I've been chalking it up to her being abandoned and carrying more baggage than either of us can understand, but then I realized what she was doing today as she strategically placed a few more stuffed animals--she's cultivating them! She believes that if she finds the perfect place for each of her toys they will multiply, growing into something so tall and massive they will rival the old tulip trees and drop dozens of stuffed Snoopy dolls and plush teddy bears like leaves. I haven't had the heart to tell her this won't happen, that her beloved toys will become dirty and grow mold and disappear into a 32 gallon trash bag before the tiniest of buds can break through the soil and she'll be left with nothing.

But before I could write a post about either of those things I did something silly and reckless and I'm still not entirely sure how I feel about it so I can't quite find the words to describe it. I've decided to give you a photo instead, and maybe you can help me stop banging my head against the wall.



On the bright side, it's going to take all of 5 minutes to blow dry each morning. On the not so bright side, my first thought when the stylist spun my chair around and I caught a glimpse of my bangs doing a half curl across my forward was: Oh shit! I look like an extra chunky Ben Gibbard.

In any case, I'm sure I'll love it in a month.

In Case You Thought I was Easy to Live With

This is every non-holiday decorative accessory that I own.



This is a blank slate.

I haven't got shit to decorate it with.

Someday I’ll Laugh About This

There she is in all her glory--all 356 pages, 218,965 words of depressing teenage angst. Some entries clear as day, some so cryptic even I can't tell what I was talking about almost ten years ago.

Someday I'll Laugh About This is nearly two and a half years worth of journal entries written from May 1998 through August 2000, a time in which I was determined to discover myself while lost in a world I couldn't and wouldn't understand. I was hell bent on writing about everything, not for documentary purposes, but because I saw it as a release, as my only chance of figuring myself out and escaping the deep, dark hole my high school years buried me in. Every entry is full of self-analysis, how I felt, and reasons why I may have I felt that way, and sometimes, even an ill-planned attempt at figuring out how I could stop myself from feeling that way should I have to. They almost never worked.

I chose the title back in 1998 for its irony. I never thought I would actually laugh about any of it, but in reading it for the first time since writing, I'm finding the title is actually quite fitting. I may not be laughing at all of it, some of it still gives me that empty feeling in the pit of my stomach and can bring me to tears, but my cynicism always has me laughing out loud. I grumbled about having to wear a dress for my older sister's wedding. The title for December 31, 1999's entry was "The Last Entry of the Century". I freaked out when it was discovered that Jon had a crush on me. I wrote about everything, including how my parents just didn't understand.

I've spent the last two months re-configuring and editing all of it in a Word document, printing and hole-punching each page, and wrapping it all up in a three-ring binder, and I'm not sure why. I have no intentions of attempting to publish it. Some morbid part of me is tempted to use it as my new coffee table book. I figure maybe that way I can hand it to my family and say "Here is that girl you never understood." The problem is I still don't think they will. I don't even understand her. Instead, the attractive binder will remain on my office shelves as a reminder of who I was and who I am for years to come, although I won't complain should it someday become reference material for the next Reviving Ophelia.

And now, after all that teasing, I leave you with a sample:

I AM A WRITER

Unfortunately, only in my head. I think up some of the most amazing thoughts in my head, ready myself for a journal entry, and in the midst of rewording and twisting everything around so that it makes sense to everyone else, it's too distorted to become anything near what it originally was. It was always the same thing with my poetry. I'd have nearly the entire poem written out in my head, but once I began to place those words on paper or a computer screen, I kept rephrasing and changing it until it was horrible and I couldn't remember the words that kept the poem running beautifully in the first place. If only people could hear my thoughts, then they'd know just what kind of talent I have.

I AM A COWARD

I can't stand my ground when it comes to anything, even the things that I believe in most. If I'm given a problem I'll either continuously tell you that I am undecided until you forget about it, find someone else to take care of it, or cry until everyone takes pity on me. If I'm hurt I won't fess up to it, I'll let it roll around in my head until I'm able to twist and turn you into one of the most insensitive people I've ever met. I don't know how to stand up for myself, explain myself, or come anywhere close to justifying myself. I'm afraid of my own basement because of my silly imagination. I can't sleep without my TV on because my house makes far too much noise in the silence. I can't sit in a dark room while the closet door is open. I can't drive. Heh, I can't even go to school.

I AM A THINKER

My mind loves playing tricks on me. How else would you expect me to live with a job that consists of a bunch of people who hardly even consider me staff because of my position? Where noisy little children are screaming across the room, and where I'm looking at numbers and letters for eight hours a day? I think. I think about all of my problems, about my life, about anything that happens to pop into my head because of some title of a book that I just shelved. I think about how lonely I am, about how weak and tired I am. I think about what I'm going to do when I get home and how I'm going to deal with it when I do. I even analyze poetry sometimes, working the words to fit my own current and personal mood. Yeah, that's my way of analyzing poetry. I think of ways to solve the world's problems, or what I would do in certain, unfortunate situations. I can think about anything if you just let me, but I'm warning you, it's hazardous.

I AM A LOVER

I am convinced that I always give too much of myself. I care too much, I worry too much, I listen too well, and sob over you way too many times. But mostly I don't mind. It's my nature to dive into someone the moment I'm given the okay and soak up all of the warmth I can so that I can return it times ten. I let you become my world as long as you say it's okay because I find pleasure in being able to love you so much. I love to hold and be held, to kiss and be kissed. I thrive on one on one time and feel empty when it's not there. I hurt myself when I hurt you and cry whenever you cry. I'm sensitive to anything you do, but maybe that's because I'm too open to you.

I AM A DREAMER

I hope that someday I'll be able to change. That at one point I'll be able to accept that everything will not work out as I wish, and probably come nowhere near what I would expect it to be. But, until then, I can only dream. I can only wish that I could write things down just as I thought of them so that people would actually find me remotely interesting. I can only hope that I'll learn how to speak up for myself and let everyone else know what is going on in my head before they all give up. I can beg for the chance to have something close to a happy thought or memory that didn't take place over a year ago. And I can lie myself down and give everything I have to imagining a relationship that doesn't feel so one-sided. But, of course I can always dream, it's just that sometimes it causes more pain than it does provide help.

You Can Teach an Old Dog New Tricks!

This young lady* has finally learned the meaning behind the bell!

It's been 7 long months of vigorous training. She has endured countless looks of disapproval, but she has finally overcome the language barrier between human and dog. She can now tell us when she has to get outdoors to pee. Macy May Keenan has proven that she is not only a pretty face; she is also well on her way to becoming a canine genius.

While her brother Jack has always preferred to swipe a paw at the jingle bells that hang from our back door (hence all of the scratches in the wood), Macy has a much more subtle technique. She quietly walks to the door with a cheerful swagger and ever so gently presses her little black nose against the bottom bell. This movement will emit the very faintest of jingles, but it's just enough noise to draw your attention in her direction. After ringing the bell she will look to us with a very firm plea to be let outside. And if for some reason we do not hear the initial chime (or maliciously choose to ignore it), she will resort to the bolder tactic of turning around and whacking the bell with her stub of a tail.

Thus far she has rung the bell five times; once to pee on the already wilting hostas, and four more times in an attempt to retrieve the dirty ball I will not let her bring in the house. I continue to look at each ring as progress; however, because she finally understands that ringing the bell is her ticket outside.

Well done, Macy! You have proven everyone wrong, and you can, in fact, teach an old dog new tricks!

*I would just like to note that I do understand that Macy is only a dog and not an actual lady.

The Bedroom Caper

Home alone on a Saturday afternoon. The laundry has been sorted and prepared for the short journey from bedroom to laundry room. As I'm reaching for the baskets I notice the unmade bed out of the corner of my eye. I decide to straighten the blankets and fluff the pillows before exiting. I take a moment to admire the precise fold in the recently purchased comforter and the inviting mound of pillows. Call me crazy, but I've got a thing for well made beds.

Fast forward to ten minutes later. The washing machine is thumping quietly and I'm back upstairs, rounding a corner in the hallway and just about to step into the bedroom when I'm confronted with this:

An obviously unmade bed.

First I delve into my unusually faulty memory to determine if I had, in fact, made the bed only ten minutes before, but I quickly come to an affirmative conclusion. This is followed by a very short moment of panic, because really, how does a bed unmake itself? Was there someone in the house with me? Had the mischievious gremlins who I continually blame for all misfortunes and missing objects truly come to life? Had some poor man with an uncanny sense of humor die during construction of our house in the 1960s and his ghost thought it comical to come back for one last prank?

I stand staring at the bed for what seems like hours when I notice a clue. A supiciously round lump has formed under the blanket near the end of the bed. I poke it.



At first the mysterious mass does not move so I poke it again. My stomach drops as the lump begins moving and reconfiguring itself. I force myself to gather all of my courage and slowly pull the blanket back, revealing that I did not have an intruder, an infestation of gremlins, or a problem with poltergeists.





Just a dog with low tolerance for central air and bright sunlight.