"No, you cannot ride ma dawg."

Today I feel apprehensive. I feel like my boss is suspecting things. He had a look in his eye that is familiar to me, a sort of, "I'm suspecting things" look. I get that look. I know it well. I think he may have been snooping around my work area after I left last night.

I have been very careful not to leave anything personal around my desk, but sometimes I slip. Like last night before I left, I printed out a cute-as-heck little card (above) for my friend Dave who just had back surgery, featuring his and Megan's dog Otter. I scanned and printed it at work because I don't have a scanner at home right now and I am currently out of "Light Magenta" ink in my printer. I was going to see Dave last night so I had to print it yesterday. I did one goof up copy before getting it right and centered. I left the goof up in my paper tray, and I stuck it it under a stack of paper (I think).

When I got in this morning the goof up card was sitting on top of said stack of paper. This would not bother me if CEO wasn't an infamous snooper. I was once told (by a girl that got fired suddenly without warning or explanation after 10 years of dedicated service) "If you ever want him to see something, just leave it on your desk. He'll find it." No need to tell him about it, in fact it will get more attention on my desk than if I said, "Hey, could you come look at this?"

Anyway, so I am feeling uneasy and queasy and not at all easy breezey, and I am watching the clock and every moment seems like an hour. Maybe I am subconciously putting these suspicious looks on his face because I feel guilty. I made some good progress in dream work last night. I feel sneaky.

Right now I just want to go home and paint more doggies.

Poor Otter ©2004 Catherine Erin Hamilton. Watercolor.

Do you believe in monsters? Do you really? Rhya does. And yes, so do I.

I have been asked to describe art therapy. Sit back with a cup of coffee and enjoy. I cannot accomplish this in a short post!

Ok. So. Being an artist already, I was pretty curious about how it would work for me. I know that art therapy is often used to help children open up and express their fears, problems, etc. in a safe, familiar way. I know that art therapy is used to help disabled people and elderly people express themselves. How does art therapy help an artist?

I have been in and out of therapy since 1999. That was the year that I broke up with a long-term boyfriend of 6 years and I felt I needed help staying out of that relationship once I ended it. I needed to learn how to say "no, no more" to this person, who was very persistent in trying to win me back. So I started seeing a social worker for therapy once a week. Little did I know how deep my problems ran; they were far more complicated than a bad breakup. This relationship had been a symptom of sorts. Once the relationship ended symptoms started to pop up in other mysterious places. I continued to see this therapist, plus a psychiatrist for 2 years. In the meantime I fell in love (for real this time, god, how different it felt) and married my now husband. :)

I took a break from therapy up until about 6 months ago when the symptoms became unbearably disruptive again. I was also referred to a psychaitrist for medication to help "lessen the hurt." This has been very helpful in some ways, and aggravating in others. But it does help me see a bit more clearly so I can make better progress.

My last therapist referred me to my current art therapist (we'll call her S). She is essentially a therapist who is trained in all the traditional methods of therapy, plus she knows how to use art as a theraputic medium. In my first session I gave her the super-abridged history of Kate (I practically have it memorized now, this being my umpteenth recital) and she bounced back some immediate reactions and ideas. Every therapist is different, there is always a new perspective, at least at first. Then, based upon my story and the data in her files, she gave me a project to do at home.

The project was to take 20 minutes, no longer than 30 minutes. Not long enough to allow myself to get involved in the rules of perspective, light source or rendering. Just long enough to evoke an emotion, and allow the right side of my brain to express it. The subject and the assignment were essentially very simple in theory. But it was hard to put pencil to paper and just do it. I put it off for a whole week until the day of my next session, and I did it in a restaurant on my lunch break. I bought a separate sketch book for these assignments because these are definitely separate from my usual fuzzy, whimsical, child-oriented work. I chose to use a woodless graphite pencil... a tool I haven't used since college. Far less colorful than my usual watercolors. This may have been symbolic in some way. S had said that she was interested in what medium I would choose. She also had said that if I sat for 20 minutes and couldn't do anything, not to worry, that has its own implications as well. If the project is not fun for me, then she is probably on the right track. It should not be easy. Crap.

When I brought my drawing in to my session that night (feeling rather guilty for putting it off until that day), I sat down and we small talked a bit and out of nowhere S said, "Ok, did you do your assignment? Let's see it." Bam. Um... ok then. No introduction, just show it. She looked at it for a few moments during which I became very nervous in my stomach and then she said that it was "a very powerful drawing, don't yout think?" She stood it up on her desk so it was staring back at me. I didn't like to look at it. I didn't want it looking at me. The whole thing felt uncomfortably yucky. We talked about why I chose to make certain things smaller, larger, closer, further, darker, lighter, etc. This led into tangent conversations about the emotions and stories attached to it. At the end of the session (45 minutes, way too short!) she asked how I felt about doing the assignment. A bit ashamed, I told her I had put it off until lunch that day. How I did not want to do it at home in my studio. She said this was typical and perfectly ok. Procrastination is acceptable if not welcome with her projects. "Whew! How refreshing!" I thought out loud. So different from the deadline oriented world of graphic design and illustration. Of course, that's the only real refreshing thing about it.

I've had one session since then, and was given a seemingly less disturbing assignment. Yet, it was even harder to get myself to do it, which was disappointing because it sounded like so much fun. I ended up doing it while working on something else at work, kind of off to the side, again on the day of my next session. I wasn't happy with the result. I felt it was weak. And really, that makes sense. That is important. She had asked me to draw myself as the person I want to be. She said it can be difficult to strive to be a better "you" if you cannot visualize what that "you" is. Putting it onto paper should help. It sounded simple. But if you are a perfectionist prone to super-mega-realism and you only have 20 minutes, it can be very intimidating to even start. I was afraid that I would sell myself short. How do I draw me happy, healthy, successful, free of all the things that are weighing me down? No wonder it was hard to do. I have alot of difficulty imagining that it will ever really happen.

This week I have to elaborate on last week's drawing. I had drawn myself floating up into a warm, inviting light source. If you saw it you might think that my goal was to be an angel or a fairy princess. Over, done.

S wants to know what that light is. What's in it. What does it mean. "Draw it." Oh dear.

We rented Lost in Translation last night. I did not cry. Not once.

This would not bother me had I not expected to be driven to tears, especially after reading that other bloggers cried. I guess I didn't feel empathy so much as pity, and maybe this has something to do with the happiness of my marriage. Or my more dramatic experiences in past bad relationships. I don't know. Maybe I had gotten myself all geared up for a real tear-jerker, so much so that it could not meet my expectations. Regardless, I felt disappointed at the end of that film. Like I was cheated on some real growth or risk-taking on the part of the main characters. Did it seem anti-climactic only in comparison to the exaggerated melodrama of most modern films, littered with graphic sex and violence? Maybe I should have replayed the last few moments and turned up the volume so I could understand what he muttered in her ear. Did anyone do this? What did he say? Did I miss something?

Well anyway it is Monday which is anti-climactic in itself. But I am going to experiment with intentional optimism, positive affirmations; self-enforced cognitive therapy this week.
Things I have going for me:
1. One of our breeder's beagles is "definitely" pregnant and her litter is due at the end of March.
2. I have made progress in designing a new identity and website for a landscape designer friend who is going to install our beagle's fence, plus a deck and patio for us.
3. Ideas for creative collaboration fill my brain and keep getting louder.
4. Penguins.
5. Little freelance "maybes" popping up here and there.
6. The SCBWI NY illustration conference at the end of April.
7. I've taken on the volunteer position of Editor of the SCBWI Eastern PA Newsletter. God help me.
8. My store, in progress.
9. Art therapy, very interesting.
10. My husband, dear little pookie, love of my life, and his undying support.

Happy Monday.

I am sitting on the couch with Meggie my sexy youngest sister and MOH, and her adorable boyfriend Billy who is getting his ass kicked by Andrew in Madden 2003. It is funny, we had a wonderful dinner and now we are wondering what to do with ourselves sitting here kind of like weird. When I was 18 I was not alllowed out this late.

Here, Meggie would like to say...

Hello. Too much pressure. Sorry.

Ok, so back to me. Andrew is possibly going to lose the Madden game after all in a quick change of luck. Who knows, will it be the 31 year old PlayStation addict, or the young, 18 year old youthful guy who has a life and spends it out of doors doing real things? We shall see.

I have had a little wine and beer and cocktails, can you tell?

I wish I was young enough to wear Meggie's very cute skirt from Express, but I am not. Got some 30 year old hips and Express doesn't make skirts for 30 year old hips. Bleh.

Happy Friday night. :)

1. First, let's get some energy flowing through our bodies.
2. Next we need to let out our aggression in a fun and harmless way.
3. Finally, let's take a long nap. Sweet dreams.

Dance Fever ©2004 Catherine Erin Hamilton.

September Snowy Egret, ©2003 Catherine Erin Hamilton. Easily recognizable by their spindly black legs, schoolbus yellow feet (or "lures") and their signature dance, Snowy Egrets do a quirky ballet in shallow marshes to kick up their meals from the mud. Pure birding entertainment.

Today I am on the verge of tears. I need to go to the shore. Right now. I love the beach. I love the marsh. I love the bay. I love the quiet peace down there during winter. Avalon is like a ghost town from October through May. I haven't been there since September and I miss it madly.

Andrew's parents have a house on the bay. Right now it is a big empty house where we can go and be completely alone. Barely a soul drives down the streets or has their pancakes at the local waffle house which is usually packed to the gills during the peak season. The shore in winter is not about tanning, partying, sweating or sucking my tummy in. It is about observation. Contemplation. Escape. Perspective. Peace.

That's why we got married down the shore. In October 2001 we were married in an a big echoing church, had pictures taken on the beach with our wedding party, spent a half hour alone driving through town in Andrew's dad's convertible, had our reception at a yacht club overlooking the bay at sunset. Birds everywhere. Peace and love. A tinge of sadness left over from 9/11. A gorgeous, emotional toast from our best man.

As Spring approaches there is a shift in birds there, just as at my house. But the birds are different. Mysterious. Webbed. Herons and egrets stalk their prey like lions, subsequently posing for my camera. Sanderlings chase the waves and peck at miniature clams on the beach. Gulls cackle loudly in groups, but bask quietly when alone. I have an infamous talent: I can summon the gulls. My voice can reach the most trill notes of a gaggle of seagulls gathering and hovering over a free feast. It drives my husband bananas.

These are things that the shore stirs up in my heart, just thinking about it. Happy celebration. Peace. Joy. Love. Escape. Birds. All the things I really really need RIGHT NOW.

And a puppy.

If you haven't noticed it yet, listen for it tomorrow morning. Unless you're in the tundras you should hear a bird or two tweeting outside at dawn. It is a very welcome sign for me that Spring really is coming.

There are a variety of neato birds in my yard all year long. In their constant quest to fill their puffy tummies many of my favorite birds migrate to other zones in autumn. Some varieties stay nearby all winter long to feast on free bird seed and trees full of holly berries. Then there are the migrant birds who consider my snow-crusted lawn a tropical resort (silly Canadians) (Sorry Mel! You're a not true Canadian anyway, eh?). The birds come and go in shifts. There is a predictable pattern to their movements and contrary to popular opinion it has little to do with the weather conditions. They need to stay fed so they can have babies again in Spring, and so they follow the food.

Late winter is time of year that the "perennial" birds in my area choose to go house hunting. They look for ideal little nurseries for their future families, safe from the elements and out of harm's way. It is also time for them to start speaking up. Little by little the birds begin to elaborate in their songs in order to woo prospective mates or old spouses. You may not really notice it until it becomes intolerable, when Spring finally arrives and the birds are in a mating frenzy. The songs, hoots and cackles grow louder, longer, and begin increasingly earlier in the morning. Some buggers (Mockingbirds, Robins) shake it all night long.

It is not very unlike a seedy afterhours nightclub, come to think of it. As the music gets louder the outfits get really creative. Birds that were perfectly grey and black during winter are now sporting a neon shade of canary yellow or a rather daring red hat. The feathers are fluffed, the bling bling flaunted, all in order to attract the ladies. And as in any jumpin' club there are likely to be brawls as the guys get rowdy. Some lovebirds will just keep in the shadows and whisper soft nothings... while some just go on and get busy.

The past few mornings have been peppered with short, sweet notes piping above my neighborhood. The early birds are doing their thing. Maybe they are not really into the whole club scene. I can relate. The summer after we moved into our house an itty bitty little Wren couple also moved in unnoticed. They liked the copper roofed birdhouse that Andrew bought me from Smith and Hawken. The birds were sweet and almost timid at first, but things changed quickly when the two officially moved in together. Talk about noisy neighbors. That daddy was very quick to say, "Don't you be comin' anywhere near my house!" every time I stepped outside the front door. Actually, the feisty House Wren's song has been equated to follow the intonations of the following (perhaps insinuating?) song:

"if-i-sees-one-i-will-seize-one-and-i'll-squeeze-one-til-it-squirts!"
"if-i-sees-one-i-will-seize-one-and-i'll-squeeze-one-til-it-squirts!"
"if-i-sees-one-i-will-seize-one-and-i'll-squeeze-one-til-it-squirts!"

Such melodies will be my alarm clock from May until August. Too bad I can't set them to a reasonable, more humane time...

If you have never put out a nest box for wild birds on your property, I suggest that you try it this year. I have loved birds since childhood and have fed them regularly but never put out a house until 2 years ago. This year I will invest in a few more. I know that the birdies will appreciate it. The Cornell Lab of Ornithology can tell you which houses attract which birds (yes, they are picky house hunters). Due to housing developments in rural and suburban areas most birds have been robbed of their natural breeding cavities in old trees and thickets. Many neato colorful birds take readily to any hospitality you offer. I don't know why I didn't do it sooner myself.

Roosting Swallows ©2004 Catherine Erin Hamilton

I'm never excited about life on Mondays. It is truly the worst day of the week. Especially when I've slept until noon all weekend, which included Friday when I called out sick. The dark reality of Monday starts creeping in on Sunday evening, each hour increasingly saturated with impending doom. This morning I could have sworn that it was only 3am when the alarm went off at 7:30. I awoke as usual, in a puddle of damp sweat, and snoozed until 8:00. As I shuffled over to the shower, goosebumps in full force, I recited over and over, "I do NOT want to go to work today. I do NOT want to go to work today."

This is no way to live a fulfilling life, now is it. Every day should not be met with dread. Every day should be embraced and completely lived in. I do not want to live for the weekends. The weekends are over way too fast. And often the weekends give me little to reminisce about when I spend so much of my precious down time trying to erase the stress of the week before. My tummy has begun to frown. "Too many cosmos, lady. I bloat. Slow down."

So this week I am going to resist the 6:30pm "happy" hour cravings (how ironic) and get right to work on my dream job. This mind erasing is not getting me anywhere but hung over... or worse yet, increasing my tolerance. No good. Especially with my Irish genes.

Besides, I have so much to do. And the longer I procrastinate the longer my list gets. "Overdues" begin to appear. I have 2 websites in progress (one of which is my own), 3 business card designs to complete (hey I need a business card too...), new illustrations to produce, clients to keep in touch with. I have an illustration conference quickly approaching at the end of April that will require my website, logo, cards and portfolio to be in tip top shape and ready to sell me to all those people whose job it is to buy me. Not some shell of me whose last drop of creative energy has been signed over to the crazymaking devil.

So if anyone feels inclined to email me this week, please send me a virtual nagging. A sweet, supportive, action-inspiring nudging. A short little, "Why are you reading this email? Get to work!" Thanks.

Andy's 21st Valentine ©2004 Catherine Erin Hamilton

Do I look like the happiest Polish girl in the world or WHAT!



Clockwise from top left:
-Me and my darling husband Andrew who organized a great surprise party,
-Me and Brian's fiancée Lindsay (who sent me these photos--thanks Lindsay!),
-Andrew's brother Brian and me,
-Me and my other future sister-in-law Jen, who is marrying Andrew's brother Paul.

Yes, I was very happy. I loved EVERYONE and I let them know. I told them each and every one, "I LOVE YOU!" And yes, I was a bit woozy.

Hurry up weekend....! I need more fun times like this. Now.

Fig. 01


You know what I'm talking about, don't you? That one pair of socks you own, that pair that you leave in your drawer until all others are dirty, the uncomfortable pair that lost their elasticity long ago... the socks with the very thick stitching at the toe that doesn't stay in place... the shoes that are so cute but don't allow your foot to release itself of uncomfortable slouching and sagging. The inevitable result--Sock Piggy.

When I was a wee Snowbird, before learning how to buckle, unbuckle, dress or undress, my mommy would put my shoes and socks on for me. I had alot of those white nylon socks with lace on the cuff (see fig. 01). My shoes were hardly ever made of a flexible, natural material. Back in the day even babies wore stiff, high top white boots to prevent foot problems. Yeah well as far as I'm concerned Sock Piggy is a far worse offense than anything else a stiff shoe might prevent.

When mommy would slip on the socks I could tell right away that it was going to happen. If you don't have them pulled up tight then the slouching around the toe begins even before the shoe is on. With the application of the shoe the sock becomes an enemy far beyond reconciliation. The material shifts, scrunches, bunches and stuffs itself between the toes. Most commonly between the pinky toe and the ring toe. The moment this sensation crept up my limbs I became enraged. I believe that before I could really form sentences the term "Sock Piggy!" was coined. Picture little Snowbird sitting on the edge of the changing table, kicking her feet in a wild fury and not being able to communicate what was wrong. Mommy is no doubt frustrated and just getting clothes on her squirmy toddler in time to go to Church will be good enough for her.

"Sock, Mommy, Sock!" Snowbird whines.

"Just sit still Katie, Daddy's waiting for us out in the car."

The invasion of sock bunched up between little Snowbird's toes creates an uncontainable sense of anxiety. The tears begin.

"Mommy sock. Mommy, sock."

"Mommy SOCK."

"Mommy SOCK!!!" Tension mounts and yields to a melodramatic display.

"Mommieeeeeeee no! Sock. Mommy SOCK. Mommy SOCK! Piggy. Piggy PIGGIES Mommy! SOCK Mommy SOCK PIGGIEEEEE!" If the neighbors hear the high-pitched protest they'll call the police, suspecting foul play.

Mommy figures it out. "OOh, your sock is stuck between your piggies?" She would laugh later but right now she is in a rush and Snowbird is not making this easy. "Yes Mommy!" Snowbird wails, "Sock Piggieeeee..."

In a huff the shoes come off, the offending sock is picked from the aflicted toe, the shoe goes back on. Roughly.

"Nooooo! No! Mommy no!!! SOCK PIGGY!"

Exasperated, mommy repeats the process until Snowbird's violent screams quiet down to an exhausted little sniffle. The trip to Church is not a happy one.

I share this with you for a reason. Right now I have Sock Piggy. I've had it since I got dressed this morning and have tried multiple times to fix it. It's these socks and these boots, a deadly combination. I am going go buy some less offensive socks at lunch. I cannot, will not, shall not stand it. I hate, hate, HATE Sock Piggy. If there's one way to annoy me into a violent kicking mess, intentional Sock Piggy will do it. It is the worst feeling in the world.

The Symptoms of Sock Piggy ©2004 Catherine Erin Hamilton

Another rough day, but not without its perks.



I have some big plans a brewin.' Thank you Katrina for suggesting that I offer to sell my art on my web site. I had toyed with the idea before, but never really made any concrete steps to put a plan into action until last month. Now that I've seriously started planning it I cannot stop. The store is creating itself. It is also taking turns that I hadn't thought of on my own.

Some non-profit opportunties have surfaced. Back in August 2003 I sent a painting to Boulders Beach Guest House outside Cape Town, South Africa. I had contacted them regarding rates and menus because it suddenly became possible that Andrew and I would be attending a wedding in South Africa. There was no way that I would travel to Cape Town without paying a visit to Boulders, for the sole enjoyment of witnessing thousands of penguins in their natural habitat. Swimming in the same waters as me. Nesting outside the windows of the guest house. Sally, marketing director at Boulders, visited my website after receiving my email. She then asked if I would be interested in donating a penguin painting for auction at the annual Penguin Festival, proceeds of which benefit SANCCOB. SANCCOB is a non-profit organization based in Cape Town, South Africa, that cares for indigenous injured, ill and oiled seabirds. Including--you guessed it--penguins.

Within a few weeks I completed "Preening Time," (above), scanned it, packed it up with great care and expressed it to Boulders as soon as possible. I hoped it would raise a good sum of money. I found out later that the painting did not arrive at Boulders in time for the auction. Three to four business days just doesn't cut it when you're mailing something to the southern tip of Africa. When finally received Sally offered the painting to SANCCOB to keep, sell, or hold onto for the 2004 Penguin Festival auction.

Last month I contacted SANCCOB to find out if they did indeed have my painting. I wanted to know how they liked it. I wanted to know if my rendering of a "Jackass" Penguin was accurate. I received a response from the CEO of SANCCOB who graciously complimented my work and confirmed that my depiction was very accurate. He said that the painting was in their office, and that they planned to offer it up for auction in this year's Penguin Festival.

All this back-and-forth gave me an idea. I've always wanted to donate time or money to the rehabilitation of penguins, but I am a little short on excess income and availability. But what I could do is sell my artwork from my website and donate a portion of the profits to SANCCOB. In fact, I could sell prints of "Preening Time," and adopt a penguin with my first sale. I could also ask a few friends to do renditions of penguins too. After that--who knows how much it could grow. I get many, many visitors to my website who find me by searching for "Penguin Art" in search engines. I know there are many penguin collectors out there. What better way for us all to collaborate and help those silly little birds in return for the joy they selflessly provide, just by being penguins.

So today I received an email from the head of donations and marketing at SANCCOB. She responded favorably to my ideas about sales and donations and cross-marketing. In return for my offer, she has offered me a penguin. A complimentary adopt-a-penguin. A rehabilitated penguin for me to name and sponsor. A real live penguin, swimming out there in the deep green seas of the opposite hemisphere, busy doing what penguins do best--being a penguin.

Ok, so now I have no choice, I have to make this happen. I am involved. Yes, I am scared. There is a lot of room for failure here. But what do I really have to lose? Painting penguins is a joy to me. Even if no one buys the prints I will still have lots of penguins to hang on my walls and smile at.

Regarding the wedding in South Africa: As far as I know we are not going to make it. Not enough money, not enough time to make money, not enough of anything. It makes me terribly sad because I got all excited talking to all these great penguin people. But at least I know now how much it does cost, how to fly from here to there, where to stay and what sites to visit. It doesn't seem like an impossible dream that will never happen. It is possible, and it will.

Preening Time ©2003 Catherine Erin Hamilton, original watercolor currently residing in South Africa with real penguins.

Reasons I want to totally flip out right now kick a certain someone in the shins:
1. He is laughing at his mother and telling her she is stupid.
2. He is raising his voice as she tries to defend herself so that she can't get a word in.
3. He keeps walking past my "office," peering over to see what I'm doing.
4. He says, "Now, we gotta be really careful about this," when he means, "I want you to do it my way. My way! Even if my way sucks!"
5. He whispers loudly in the hallway so that you know he is talking about you but you can't hear what he's saying.
6. He will undoubtedly invade my personal space regularly throughout the day, squeezing into my tiny work area so he can get behind my shoulder and see what's on the screen of this tiny little imac.
7. He trusts no one. He eavesdrops over every conversation, hiding behind a wall or door thinking that no one can see him.
8. No one can trust him. He screws people out of money by finding loopholes and claiming this is a start-up company and therefore we cannot afford to pay little people like freelancers.
9. Name dropping games.
10. He pretended to know more about penguins than me on Friday.

Reasons I should not completely flip out right now kick that certain someone in the shins:
1. The mortgage. Gotta pay the mortgage.
2. I think it's probably illegal.
3. He would probably sue me for harassment.
4. His wife could kick my ass.
5. I don't really want to touch him. The evilness may rub off on me.
6. If I turn up my radio really loud I can drown out his mocking ego.
7. I am not the violent sort.
8. If I respond at all to his behavior I will then be involved.
9. I would ruin my chances at unemployment compensation.
10. I have a future beyond these walls.

Ok my peeps, just keep on sending me illustrator and website links. Gotta stay focused on something more pleasant.

There's no place like home...

Yesterday I was online for many hours exploring illustrators' websites. Here are a few that blew my socks off and so I'd like to share.

Peter de Séve (Amazing!)
Keith Baker (Requires Flash and you should have that by now anyway.)
Jody Hewgill (Very harmonious.)

I was searching for websites that had alot if impact and professionalism to apsire to. I'm working on redesigning my site and it's a big scary task, but it has to be done. The hardest part is categorizing everything so that it makes sense. Illustration (three different styles), design, photography, sketches, bio, penguins, journal... how do you show consistency when you've done so many different kinds of things?

If anyone has some suggestions for artists' or illustrators' websites that they love--not just for the art, but also for the design of the site and its functionality--then please share them. Also, when the time comes for relaunch I'll be sending out email alerts. If you want to join my mailing list please send an email with "subscribe me!" in the subject line to birdmail at penguinart dot com.

Saturday. Aaaaaah. Sleep til 10, stumble down and make waffles, drink coffee and watch Andrew play playstation as I read through journals and relax. What shall I do today?

I have been working on some ideas for e-commerce. Andrew and I discussed it at length last night. It was one of those conversations that I love, where I share my ideas, he adds to them, we get all excited then we both look at each other and say, "That's a great idea!" Andrew is a great person to bounce ideas off of. If he's in a receptive mood he can be quite a big ball of rubber and ideas start richocheting from me to him, up to the ceiling and off the walls.

So maybe I'll work on fleshing out these ideas today. If I can just get myself started who knows what I'll get done. Plus, we've finally hooked up the DSL to my computer (wirelessly) so I can get to work right from the comfort of the living room sofa.

I want to go home, curl up in bed with my imaginary puppy and fall asleep. It's just one of those days.

Thank you all who offered your words of consolation. I actually do feel better about it today. Andrew also put it nicely for me, "Our dog is up there, he's just not ready to come down yet. We wouldn't want to get the wrong one. Our dog is coming." I hope he's right. I have been in contact with another Beagle breeder who just had a litter born on last week. She sent an adorable photo of the happy mom with her 1 day old pups having a meal together. This breeder is a very serious breeder who prefers to place her pups in "show homes." If there are any non-show quality pups in a litter she then sells them to people like us who just want a healthy nutured pet. Her pups cost $500 more than the other breeders' hardy hunting pups. It's too much.

Soooooo... blah. I guess we'll just keep preparing for the day, whenever it comes, that our dog is ready to join us.

On the bright side this extends my deadline for leaving my day job and working from home. Maybe my dog knows that I need more time. Maybe my dog is forcing me to step back and reevaluate the situation. Maybe my dog wants to spend a little more time with Max, Rusty and Socks who all know me so well from our years together. Maybe my dog is just not ready herself. She might be just like me... a little nervous, a little scared, and therefore overpreparing for the job. Doing all the research she can on Kate and Andrew. Reading Kate and Andrew books and figuring out the best way to be a good dog for us. Gathering tips from the pros.

There we go. A little imagination can soften just about any problem. Whether it's angels bowling in heaven or clapping erasers as you shiver under the covers during a thunderstorm, it helps. Heaven has that imaginative, theraputic sort of affect, doesn't it?

Speaking of therapy, tonight I start art therapy. It sounds interesting. I don't know what to expect, but I am a little pessimistic about it. Can art therapy work for an artist? Will I be able to let go of all the rules of good composition and color harmony and let my Self get through? Will Snowbird make an appearance?

In January we had put a deposit on an upcoming litter from this pretty girl:



But last night I found out, to my dismay, that this dog never was really pregnant, and instead had a False Pregnancy. I had called the breeder last night because the puppies were due on January 27th and I hadn't heard from her in several weeks. And of course she was very apologetic when she told me her dog "had a miss." She said this is the first time this has happened in her 15 years of breeding. If only she could have told me this on the day her vet informed her of the suspected false pregnancy (at least a week or two ago), I might not feel this tinge of anger and distrust along with my sadness.

Good news is that the breeder mated two other females in January and if they "took" they will be due in late March. That means puppies will be ready to come home in late May. Our original take-home date was March 31. There are other options but for now I am just highly disappointed. Waiting has been so hard already! Now another 2 months?



I did watch that show on PBS about dogs last night despite the bad news. It was really interesting. There was a narcoleptic Dachshund who would fall asleep at the excitement of a good treat or a good run. It made me laugh, albeit a quiet, tearful laugh. I wanted to love her up.

Sad Penguin ©2004 Catherine Erin Hamilton

Megan has the most adorable little nephew. He's around three I think. So his his "r" is still "aw" and his "a" is still "uh," but he's beginning to sound more like a boy than a baby. When Megan recalls the last brilliant thing Zachary has said for me it always cracks me up... not just what he said, but her retelling of it with his baby accent.

"Magun."

"Yes Zach?"

"Can I ride yaw dawg?"

"Um, no Zach. You can't ride the dog. It's not good for the dog. You might hurt her." The dog in question is Megan's very long Dachshund, aptly named Otter. I'm sure Otter looks like the perfect riding size to Zach.

A few hours go by and Otter has been played with but happily not ridden.

"Magun. Magun. Magun. Seriously Magun, listen."

"Yes, Zach?"

"Can I ride yaw dawg now?" The thought of riding that dog just won't let him go. It is beginning to really bother him.

"No Zach, you cannot ride Otter. She's just a baby!"

Sometime before the day is through Zach is caught sitting on Otter. Otter looks up at Megan helplessly and lifts her paw as she does when she says, "Please?" Otter is a Rescue dog and evidently, despite her troubled past, she is very patient with children.

I remember wanting to ride my dog. Not Max, our Beagle, but his successor, Rusty, who was a very large and very patient Golden Retriever mix that we saved from the SPCA. He looked to be the perfect size for riding. I think I may have sat on him at one time or another. Even better was draping a sheet over Rusty's entire body so he looked like a ghost. I thought that was the most hysterical sight ever. I loved watching him try to wrestle himself out of it. He seemed to enjoy it too... well, at least the first time.

Kids are great ones for stirring up sleeping memories.

P.S. Dogs and More Dogs
If you love dogs watch PBS tonight at 8pm. Times may vary depending on your location. There's a preview if you're not sure you want to watch it.
And a link I found on Melanie's page that I adore: The Daily Oliver. I'd love a Weimaraner any day.

Silly Rusty! ©2004 Catherine Erin Hamilton

Ok, I think I've had enough of winter now. Being a Snowbird I do enjoy the powdery highlights of the season but the short days and cold toes are starting to get to me. You know what I need? A new Martha Stewart Living. My subscription just ran out. There's always hints of Spring in the February and March issues. I remember reading a passage in one of these two years ago that has stuck with me; an observation of a gardener's anticipation of Spring. It went something like this:

"Even now you can almost feel the ground stirring with life beneath you."

That really brings forth a romantic image to me, plants and insects and animals and fungi all waking up out of a deep sleep, stretching and yawning and shivering just a little. The daffodil bulbs are already shooting up green spikes in my backyard, pushing through the crunchy snow from last week. I worry for them and their hastiness, it doesn't nearly seem like it's time. There are no bumble bees. Not even the gnats are ready to pollinate yet. But everything knows its time and wakes according to the inaudible whispers of the sun.

Spring is full of promises. Time for me to make some to myself.

Raspberry Nest sketch (above) done for the crazymaking day job. One of a few that I have enjoyed doing. ©2003.

"A Mr. Picassohead painting has been created for you to view online. Please visit this link to see my painting, cruise the Mr. Picassohead Gallery, or to make your very own Mr. (or Mrs.) Picassohead."

This was my Sunday evening procrastination distraction, in addition to the very long Pepsi ad and MTV video otherwise known as the Super Bowl. Enjoy... but be forewarned, it is horribly addictive.