I realized last night, as I lay in bed, that I never relax.
Ok, for example – I have a really hard time going to sleep because my head is constantly swimming with thoughts. Last night as I lay in bed I thought about this:
- What to wear for my Lady Gaga Halloween outfit – all the make-up and accessories possibilities
- Calculated the hours I had put in for my job this week and how much I had left
- Contemplated what outfits to buy/wear for the Wicked Faire we’re going to in February
- Thought about going home next week & who I was going to see
- Where I'm going to get the OPI Russian Navy matte nail polish I've been lusting after
None of this is pressing. I cannot accomplish any of the above things while it’s that hour of the night. Yet I lay there and I think them and I can’t sleep.
A typical relaxation for others is not so for me. I can’t just SIT. The above happens. I plan and plot and organize and rearrange things mentally.
A lot of it has to do with this job thing. I need to just go downtown next week and go door to door, handing out packets of my work.
I saw The September Issue last night. It not only made me want to shop, but also to get back into the major publication mode. I miss the days of being editor-in-chief and of writing for the Weekender. I miss interviewing people and bringing out the best in the stories they had to tell. I miss deadlines.
I miss deadlines. What the eff is wrong with me?
I just miss it all.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
my cay.
I had dogs from the age of five until the age of eighteen. One after the other after the other. The first one was too big for a small kid like me. The second one was too mean. The third one was absolutely perfect and my favorite (Digger, a hot dog dachshund that got to be entirely too huge and broke his back jumping off our back porch). When he died it sent me into my first little bout of depression and sense of true loss ever. My parents saw this and the very next day I had a Dalmatian in my hands – a dog that became too mean after months of living with us and bit the neighbor’s daughter. Doggie number four was gone and replaced with doggie number five, a Jack Russell that promptly tore the house to bits. That dog was gone back to the farm we purchased her from in a flash.
Throughout all that, I had also acquired two turtles (one died, one set free to the river), two mice (who mated, had many babies, and all were sold), a guinea pig, and a bird, the only one in my life I ever loved and was not afraid of, that lived for thirteen years.
Then it all came to an abrupt halt. After the guinea pig ceased to live I was petless. It went on for four years until, at this time last year, I became hell-bent on acquiring two black mice and naming them Frank and Dean.
After finding out that black mice are scarce, two male mice in a cage are not the best idea in the world and most Petcos don’t carry two black females at a time, I settled on one little black mouse that I adopted, purely for the fact that he was a little runt that had scratches all over his body, no tail, and hairless spots due to a fight he got into with a much bigger mouse.
I named him Calix, the Greek name for “handsome” and he took a two hour trek home with me from Philadelphia, only to be nestled safely into my home back in NEPA. As the months went by he fattened up, his scratches never disappearing but only becoming more prominent as he grew a little wider. He had a wheel that squeaked that he came to love and run on at 3 AM every morning, without fail. He liked tiny colored pretzels as snacks. He never lost his skittish side, allowing Tony to pick him up only when he had nowhere else to go and he still always pooped in his hand out of fear.
When I moved to Philly I left him home and my mom and dad took care of him. It was always fun to come back and see my little guy growing, burrowing tunnels in his bedding and running in and out of the PVC pipe my dad cut him for a play thing.
I grew to love him. Everyone did, even though in the beginning they all joked about what an ugly mouse he was. He was the underdog that came shining through and stole my family and friend’s hearts. He was always in the corner of the living room and everyone continuously stopped to say hi before even talking to any of us.
Yesterday, Calix died.
He’d been scratching at himself for week, not sleeping in his purple igloo, not burrowing any more. He lay and he scratched and he shook. And finally, yesterday, he succumbed to whatever was ailing him.
I didn’t know how sad I’d be when this day came, as I haven’t been home the past five months to take constant care of him. But I cried when my mom told me, and quite a good deal.
A pet is a pet, no matter what, and to lose one is an awful thing. I will never forget Calix, my little mouse that could, and it makes me sad to think there will never be another quite like him.
I love you and miss you buddy.
Throughout all that, I had also acquired two turtles (one died, one set free to the river), two mice (who mated, had many babies, and all were sold), a guinea pig, and a bird, the only one in my life I ever loved and was not afraid of, that lived for thirteen years.
Then it all came to an abrupt halt. After the guinea pig ceased to live I was petless. It went on for four years until, at this time last year, I became hell-bent on acquiring two black mice and naming them Frank and Dean.
After finding out that black mice are scarce, two male mice in a cage are not the best idea in the world and most Petcos don’t carry two black females at a time, I settled on one little black mouse that I adopted, purely for the fact that he was a little runt that had scratches all over his body, no tail, and hairless spots due to a fight he got into with a much bigger mouse.
I named him Calix, the Greek name for “handsome” and he took a two hour trek home with me from Philadelphia, only to be nestled safely into my home back in NEPA. As the months went by he fattened up, his scratches never disappearing but only becoming more prominent as he grew a little wider. He had a wheel that squeaked that he came to love and run on at 3 AM every morning, without fail. He liked tiny colored pretzels as snacks. He never lost his skittish side, allowing Tony to pick him up only when he had nowhere else to go and he still always pooped in his hand out of fear.
When I moved to Philly I left him home and my mom and dad took care of him. It was always fun to come back and see my little guy growing, burrowing tunnels in his bedding and running in and out of the PVC pipe my dad cut him for a play thing.
I grew to love him. Everyone did, even though in the beginning they all joked about what an ugly mouse he was. He was the underdog that came shining through and stole my family and friend’s hearts. He was always in the corner of the living room and everyone continuously stopped to say hi before even talking to any of us.
Yesterday, Calix died.
He’d been scratching at himself for week, not sleeping in his purple igloo, not burrowing any more. He lay and he scratched and he shook. And finally, yesterday, he succumbed to whatever was ailing him.
I didn’t know how sad I’d be when this day came, as I haven’t been home the past five months to take constant care of him. But I cried when my mom told me, and quite a good deal.
A pet is a pet, no matter what, and to lose one is an awful thing. I will never forget Calix, my little mouse that could, and it makes me sad to think there will never be another quite like him.
I love you and miss you buddy.
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