Groundhog Syndrome?

Is it Spring yet? Can I come out of the hole I've been hunkering down in for the last quarter of a year, consuming mass amounts of carbohydrates?

I've been having this internal conversation lately, about whether I should continue to blog or not. It certainly is more creative than playing Vampire Wars in Facebook, but let's not poke that bear quite yet. I kind of felt that I was becoming stale in what I was posting, that it ran in a cyclical format. Post about my life, my kids, the cats, drinking on a Sunday, and the ubiquitous photo -op post when all words had dried up and blown away. These are all things I am interested in, but are they things worth writing about, and more saliently, self-publishing? I don't have the kind of egocentric personality to think, unquestioningly, "Why yes, they are! Who doesn't want to read about ME?" Rather, I shrink inwardly, thinking of the exposed, winter-white underbelly I'm exposing. Granted, my ego is unrealistic enough to have thought, at the outset of blogging, that I would become a famous celebrity blogger, doing talk shows, writing a book, and somehow transcending the mundane.

Yeah, not so much, and most of the time that's okay with me. I don't really want to be accountable to thousands of readers, who are going to take issue with me every time I take a stance on something. There is less pressure in knowing that virtually no one will read this, but it does raise the question of why do it at all, and I don't really have an answer for that right now, because I'm waffling as it is.

I'm disappointed with myself, and a little angry as well. I start projects only to never finish them, and the biggest unfinished project I have is Who Am I? At 47 years old you would think I'd have that answer, but nope - nopety, nope - I'm clueless. I'd like to be able to place the blame elsewhere, but ultimately it's all on my head.

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It's been a busy period, despite the self-imposed hibernation: I took in another stray cat I found wandering the streets during a snow storm. I thought she might be terminally ill, with something horribly contagious like Leukemia or FIV, but upon observing her I discovered she couldn't chew the dry food that the neighbors had left out for her. she would bolt it whole and then vomit it back up, which was causing her to dehydrate and slowly starve. I took her in, fed her soft food, and kept an eye on her. She was covered in fleas, even in January, so I bathed her. The water ran so red I thought I had opened a wound on her body somewhere, but it was only from the flea castings. When I took her down to see Doc after about two weeks, she was stable but still fragile. He told me that she had suffered a broken pelvis and jaw, and was anemic from the flea infestation, but other than that was healthy and disease-free. And that is how Miss Willow came to be among the chosen few here at the Temple of Bast.

But wait, there's more: I discovered on Monday that Pooh Bear, named for his prodigious eating habits, had an abcess on the side of his face. I cleaned it, dosed him with Amoxicillan and put him in solitary to rest. When I checked on him later I discovered he had another abcess a little further down his neck. Apparently he was bitten by one of the feral and intact males who roam our neighborhood. Luckily, he has had his shots, and I am an old hand at abcesses, so two days later, he's looking much better.

On the family front, my son, The Professor, came down with Strep for the very first time, at 12 and a half. It was the damnedest thing I've ever seen. He came home from school on a Friday, complaining of a sore throat and a headache. Saturday morning I looked in his mouth and there were the tell-tale pustules on his tonsils. We decided to wait and go to his regular doctor on Monday, since I don't trust the doc-in-the-box and he wasn't that severe, symptomatically speaking. Sunday morning, his throat had less white lesions, but it still hurt a bit. By Monday morning he had a clear throat, albeit a bit red and puffy. I took him to the doctor, he tested positive for Strep and he started his antibiotics. He's fine now, but I wonder: would he have recovered from the strep without any antibiotics? I've never seen anyone come down with Strep and two days later, be on the mend, but it sure looked like that was the case with him. I just wish I could bounce back like that!

A Tale Told By A Nine Year Old

...Full of sound and fury, and the occasional political snippet. I present to you, my son the Bohemian's turkey saga:

One Thanksgiving Turkey

One particular Thanksgiving a very special turkey was on my table. This is the unusual story of that turkey and how he came to be there.

Joe Turkey was born on a turkey farm, just like other turkeys, and he lived in a pen with his brother turkeys. He looked like all the other turkeys but Joe was different. He was smarter than the other turkeys, and he didn’t want to end up as someone’s dinner. Every day he wondered, would today be his turn? Would he end up being killed to make a nice Thanksgiving dinner? One day, at last, he found out it was his turn! He had to find a way to not get killed, but how? He had no time to think of a plan. Suddenly the pen gate opened. One of the turkey farmers came in to get another turkey. Joe ran out as fast as his turkey drumstick legs could carry him!

Although he was scared, Joe kept running. He didn’t want to get killed! A man jumped out from behind Joe and grabbed him. Joe sunk his talons into the man’s face, and he kept running. “Get that turkey!” a man shouted. Joe ran into a barn to hide. As he was looking for something to disguise himself with, he heard a sound behind him. It was Joe Biden, the soon to be new Vice President of the United States. He had given a long speech to the turkey farmers earlier that day and was taking a nap in the barn.

Wham! The barn doors slammed as the turkey farmers came into the barn. They were holding axes, and pitchforks. “Hey!” yelled Joe Biden. “What are you doing in here with those?” One turkey farmer spoke, “We’re here to kill that turkey!” There was Joe, and Joe Biden. Joe Biden licked his lips. “Looks like dinner to me, let me tell you some thing about Joe Biden, Joe Biden likes a good turkey dinner.” One turkey farmer said “get that turkey!” Joe flew out of the barn skylight. The farmers stabbed the ground.

Then Joe fell down out of the sky. He must hide. Slash! An ax fell next to him. It was Joe Biden! Away the hobbling turkey ran. But Joe was snatched by a turkey farmer. A boy held him on the block and, slash! Joe’s bloody head fell in a bucket. Then Joe’s headless body was plucked and papered (prepared, dammit - I missed this one in the editing!). Later my mom bought his body at the store. Joe‘s body was roasted with a delicious stuffing. And that is the story of how he came to be on my table, on this special Thanksgiving day.

This, I feel, is a story destined to be a classic, right up there with the Story of The Mince - an old family favorite (What? You've never heard of a Mince? The small, badger-like creature that was originally the contents of the now-famous pie? Come on...really? Sheesh...!)

Happy Turkey Day to all!

I have an inner restlessness lately, I just can't shake. All my projects are in stasis, for one reason or another. I made a batch of cookie dough, but I don't feel like baking it. The women in my painting stare sightlessly out at me, waiting for definition; for life, but I stare right back at them, equally blind.

Is it the weather? Maybe - its been kind of gray for several days now. We need the rain, and I love it when it rains in the spring, but the pervasive damp and the perpetual gray push me ever closer to the mental edge. You know, the edge where I burst out in tears over a damn lame joke, like last week (and again, Ray - mea culpa, man). Yeah, that's not good.

I think a part of it is school. The field trips and projects due have ramped up recently, and both require more of my personal time. The Bohemian, who was doing so well with the reading, has slumped again, so every night we're taking extra time to have him read to us. It doesn't leave much time for grown-up interaction, which makes both myself and the hub-man cranky. We still have a month and a half left before summer vacation; we're at the end of the tunnel, but damn, this last 7 weeks feels like pure torture. I love my kids, and they're really pretty good guys, but Oh My God, they have turned into Essence of Pure Boy, and some days, it just pushes me to the Dark Side, making manicures, teased hair, and fluffy pink shit look almost inviting (Noooooooo!)

I've sat down to write but nothing is really flowing, except discontent. I could get lost in painting, finding faces for those women, but my schedule is all chopped up with school related shtuff, so my mind is equally chummed and unable to focus in on minutiae.

You know what? I think its time for the guys to take a weekend trip to visit the grandparents and give Mom a couple of days of absolute silence, so I can reboot my brain.

Of course, that won't work this weekend, because there's a damn field trip to Winston-Salem on Friday that won't be back until after 5 PM. Did I mention that I loathe school?