I've been going over a speech in my head for the past 36 hours but I am not ready yet to spout it out. Actually, I wanted to yesterday because I ended up staying at work until 6:45pm while waiting for CEO to open an email I sent to him on the road... but as it were, he does not possess the skills required to open attachments, especially not on someone else's computer, so my extra time was all for naught. Ok, I'm whining, yes, and it's not getting me anywhere. I think that maybe today I will ask him and the mother to "meet with me for a few minutes whenever possible." That's the first baby step. If I ask today there is a 99.99% chance that we won't sit down and talk until sometime late next week. But I am prepping myself, I must continue my own pep rally, with Maggie as my biggest fan.

In the meantime... there is SO MUCH going on. There is no such thing as Free Time in my life right now. Every minute expires way too quickly. Kind of like my cell phone plan. Some of it is actually getting what I have been wishing for--freelance. I have one client that has requested at least 1 ad to be designed every 2 weeks and they are so easy to work with it makes me drool. Then there's my old buddies from Zany Brainy who started their own toy development company in January and have finally rung me up with an assignment: to sketch some doll designs by next Thursday. Yay! It's a small project for now, but it could lead to more exciting things in the future. And then there's the neverending landscaper project... when I started designing our friend's site he gave me a camera card full of landscaping images that he took on the job. Well, somehow I managed to erase the disk completely of its contents the moment I touched it. Great. So last month I took the card to a Mac guru who was able to recover all 75 of the images. Yay! But now I have to add them to the site. That's alot of work, especially when there is so little time to spread around. And then and then and then... I have a big secret project going on whose feisty beans I will refrain from spilling until I know it's a go.

And THEN, well I've just received so many great inspirational emails from great people in the past few weeks that I owed it to them and myself to act on some of their wisdom. I emailed a <few people whom I hold in high regards and asked for some mentoring or other motivation. Happily I received replies and more almost instantly. Suzanne Falter-Barns, author of one of my favorite books, How Much Joy Can You Stand, replied so quickly I blinked twice at my inbox. She kindly responded to my plea for some personal creative coaching with regrets that she does not offer one-on-one coaching, but instead offered me a complimentary copy of her latest book, Living Your Joy. She said that this book would answer many of burning questions about finding time and money to "live the dream." Of course I told her that it wasn't necessary to send me a free copy, that I'd gladly pay for it, but 2 days later I opened my snail mail box to find a big padded envelope with the book glowing from inside. She even personalized it for me. On the title page she wrote:

"Hey Kate--
Get to it!
S Falter B"

Alright alright, Suzanne, I'm on it. I've read Chapter 1: Why You Have More Time Than You Think You Do, and I'm on Chapter 2: Keep Writer's Hours... Even If You're Not A Writer. So far so good. It's such a pretty little book, the perfect size to stuff in my tote bag for instant access during those elusive free seconds of the day. Her writing style is so I'm-Your-Friend-So-Listen-To-Me-Because-I-Want-To-Help-You, which is just so perfect because I believe her. Unlike a writer who resembles the voice of a nagging parent or a know-it-all.

(See, I promised I'd do a little marketing for you when you offered me the book, have I done a good job?)

The other reply I received was from Christine Miller, creator of Swirly Girl. I emailed her because I think her business model--product design and graphics, greeting cards and licensing--might be a good one to follow. I need to go now so I can reply to her reply. One of the hardest things for me is following up in a timely manner to just about anything. I'm trying to change that.

Finally, Maggie has requested her own photo journal in honor of her 9 Week Birthday. She says that there are just too many beautiful pictures of her highness for one measly little penguin's journal. Two new rolls still wait to be developed. Plus she'd like her own room for commentary, after all she is a Gifted Beagle and has alot to say. And oh my gawd she is growing so fast. I bet if she would sit still long enough I could see her legs growing. I think she's grown at least 3 inches since we picked her up 2 weeks ago. Sometimes she looks larger when we wake up in the morning than she did when we went to sleep. I need a growth chart for her. Wouldn't that be cute? Maybe with some little illos of puppies, puppy toys, and so on...

I have a dilemma. I saw my art therapist last night for the first time in several weeks. I called her after I had my "episode" on Thursday and we scheduled an appointment. Reluctantly leaving Maggie at home again, I drove in the rain to the group's office to tell her about my worst day ever. Once I spouted out all the details I could muster, all the evil words and inflections of Mr. CEO, the fainting spell that he ignored and the consequent tension at work, I waited for her sympathy to come pouring out and comfort me. Surely she could understand how tortured I am, how horrible my job is, and how unfair it is that I am stuck there until it seems like forever? After all, she did study art.

On the contrary, her response was instructional rather than theraputic. She saw this as a call for action. Her suggestion: to confront CEO and set some "boundaries." Tell him like it is--that "I will only work 8 hours a day and I will take an hour lunch and I will leave at 6pm. This is what I need to do. This is what I was hired to do. While I am here I will put forth my best effort to accomplish the work you give me. But I have priorities after work that I need to tend to, and I'm sorry if those priorities don't agree with you but they are important to me."

Aah, simple, right?



Wrong.

Of course my mind goes right to CEO's inevitible response--the shock and horror, the anger and frustration, the demands and verbal warfare and refusal to accept my boundaries. I imagine the scene right down to the way he'll say, "Ni-ni-ni-ni-ni-ni-ni-ni--no. We need to get these drawings done before the 2nd no matter what. How can you ask me something like this now? Don't you know how much pressure there is on me to get this done? Do you realize that my business is at stake here? My 75 year old mother stays as late as I need her to, so should you. I don't pay you $00000 a year to just leave when you want for your DOG."



At which point I will be dumbfounded by the sheer volume and intensity of his tantrum and my lower lip will be pulled down in a trembling frown and my eyes will blur up with tears and I will try to hold in my own tantrum as long as I can until I inevitably burst into a sobbing slobbering sniffling mess, apologizing for my apparent wrongdoing.

This, my friends, is not what I expected my therapist to suggest. Why didn't she just write a note stating that I was mentally unstable and unfit to perform my job therefore allowing me a Temporary Disability excuse and a nice 30 day vacation, free from the risk of losing my paycheck, yet allowing me to stay home with dear Maggie every day?



Alright alright, so that would be the easy way out and would require no growth on my part. I would be regressing into a behavior I learned long ago called Avoidance. Why face an uncomfortable confrontation when you can avoid it!? The key word there is "uncomfortable." Every inspirational artist's book I've read in the past 2 years has mentioned that we all have our personal comfort zones, our safe havens where we take no risks and make no progress. The only way to grow is to step out of the zone. Right now there is a big old mossy plastered and patched up stone wall protecting my comfort zone. But poor Snowbird isn't getting any sunlight stuck in here with me, and she really needs to get out. Any inner child would panic if forced to stay in such a stale, dark place. Inner children hate comfort zones. Which I think explains my episode last week. I think that it may have been Snowbird who drained the blood right out of my brain until I doubled over in a hyperventilating heap, unable to stand one more moment in that prison, in that so-called comfort zone. She had her own tantrum.



I need a few days to think this one out. I need to write things down.

A list of happy things by Maggie.


I love to lay on long laps and take short naps.

1. Everybody loves me wherever I go.
2. My life is very simple: Sleep, wake, pee, eat, poo, play, pee, play, pee, eat, poo, sleep--repeated 4 times a day.
3. I have lots of toys and flip flops to attack and chew.
4. I never have to clean up after myself, someone follows me around constantly picking up my messes.
5. Everything is new. What's this? What's this? A flower? Is a toy? If I chew it, will it squeek? Is it food? Will it bite back?
6. Belly rubs. Mmmm belly rubs. I love belly rubs so much I bite the hand that rubs me.
7. My ducky. Oh how I love my ducky. We play "kill the ducky," then I cuddle up to him in my cave when I nap.
8. Ice cubes! How fascinating.
9. I get treats for doing simple things like sitting, running, and being quiet, which is essentially doing nothing at all.
10. My daddy didn't want me to be a "couch dog" until he fell in love with me and couldn't resist scooping me up to be with him.


Andrew holds me on our first weekend together. Aren't I cute?

... for your supportive emails. More Maggie pictures next post!

I had a panic attack at work last night. It was brought on by CEO refusing to let me leave work when I had to, then scolding me for not getting done what I never knew needed to get done because of his lack of direction an organization, I spent the whole day drawing the wrong thing and he didn't say a word til 5pm, and I had to leave at 6 because Andrew would be at school all night and I had to get home to Maggie, and when 6:20 came I asked if I could leave because I had to get home to the puppy and this was just not acceptable to him, he had to get these drawings fed exed to our vendor, and after scolding me, yelling that he couldn't tolerate this anymore, the leaving for the kitchen problems, the dog, the long lunches, it is ridiculous and I can't expect him to let me leave for a dog when he needs to get a fed ex out and on and on in his bitchy man whine. After he was done I explained that my drawings could easily be emailed rather than fed exed and would probably be preferable that way for the vendor. Once he reluctantly accepted this he kept me there with stupid, stupid questions about did I think the handles should be one inch each, did I think? Or 7/8's? Or an inch and an eighth? And while he was doing this, taking his time, knowing I had to leave, I started to lose my hearing... I breathed deeply as my head clouded up and felt all hot and prickly, my body began to sweat and then I lost control of my breathing and I hyperventilated and heaved and felt dizzy and needed to sit down immediately. I wandered over to the next room and sat down in my chair and tried to compose myself, and after what seemed like hours but was only minutes I stopped hyperventilating and just sobbed. I tried to call Andrew but he was in school without his phone. CEO's mom came over to me and pat my back and offered me water and tried to calm me down. I could hear CEO in the next room saying, "Mom, Mom. I need to get these things done. I gotta..." I As soon as I was able to stand I gathered up my things and said, "I have to go now, I'm sorry." CEO's Mom didn't want me to drive but there was no way I could stand another minute in the office. I drove home sobbing then called a friend who calmed me down while I drove, then scooped Maggie up and loved her with all my might as soon as I got home.

And since I don't have a get out of jail free card I have to make my own. So I am going to start selling some prints on ebay to see if I can raise some cash to put in the bank for a freelance safety net. I have to get out of here.

Are there any paintings on my site that might sell well as prints? Can you help me? I am still in panic mode so things are difficult to plan rationally. Suggestions are welcome. Email me at mystudio at penguinart dot com. Please.

Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, there was a beautiful little princess who needed a castle.


"At long last, we meet again!" says the fairy godmother, who wisks away the Princess Maggie on a long journey.


During her travels the beautiful princess takes a nap. She makes some new friends there.


But upon her grand arrival in Ye Olde Havertown, she becomes smitten with a duck.


"Please, can't you see we're busy?" she declares to her loyal subjects.


The duck woos the princess and they fall madly in love.


They marry and live happily ever after.

The beginning...

***

Today when I go home I will have to get a shot of Maggie's latest feat--climbing the stairs. It started with one clumsy step 2 days ago, then yesterday she showed us that she figured it out, perhaps in her sleep, that if she just keeps herself in hop-step-hop-step motion she can make it to the second floor in a matter of seconds. As adorable as it is to watch this tiny little 4 pound monkey somehow managing to mount steps taller than herself, it is also kind of scary. She doesn't know how to go down. She's rolled down a step or two but we don't want that now do we. Maggie doesn't care though, she gets right up and goes at it again. The second floor has not been puppy-proofed yet, in fact, we weren't planning on that for at least a month. I mean, she's just so darned small. Who would have thunk she'd be such an acrobat? Now not only is she gifted in the brain area, but she is also bound to be quite an athlete. There's those "Champion Bloodlines" pumping through her tiny little veins again.

Maggie had a big day today. She had her first trip to the vet. New puppies need to be double checked for all kinds of anomalities that I've never heard of, things with horrible names and descriptions like heartworms, tapeworms, roundworms, kennel cough... well of course I knew that my Maggie couldn't possibly have any of these horrid things but we had better go check anyway so it would be official that she is The Most Perfect Living Creature To Ever Grace The Planet. The trip to the vet was rather smooth, she whimpered in her crate in the back seat for the short 5 minute drive, but was very good when we got inside so I let her out to do a little roaming around the waiting room. That's when the nurses spotted her. "OOOOOOOO MY GAAAAAAAAWWWDDDDDD!!!" "Oh Tracy LOOK at the PUPPY!" "Oh give me that little fuzzball, what's her name?" "My goodness yes, yes you are so beautiful, yes you are, you have just made my day little Maggie, I was pretty grumpy until I met you..." You would think that these girls had never ever seen a puppy in their entire lives. They held her and stroked her and lavished her with compliments and you could just see it in Maggie's eyes, "Oh yes, oh yes I know. Yes I am beautiful. Yes I am. Don't I know it." She was deemed the cutest puppy any of them had ever seen, and I think that says it all.

When it was time for her exam we went into the examination room and she was weighed. Just under four pounds. She was fondled and handled and checked for this and that, and when it was all over I received her report card, an A+. The doctor said she was the most perfect puppy he had ever seen. Well then. Didn't I tell you?

The ride home was less than pleasant, Maggie told me quite clearly with her wailing. She has three levels of crying. One: the Whimper. A high pitched puppy whimper, exactly as you would expect it to be. Two: the Super Whimper, with Vibrato. Take the whimper and add a trilling extended high note to each sound. And then three... and this one kills me every time: the Wail. The wail does not sound canine. It's part baby human, part baby cow. She's doing it now! "Mrumm...Mrumm... Nrlrummm!" I cannot help but laugh, it is precious.

Ok, she is getting really pathetic down there, I must go rescue her from her cave. I will have some pictures later today, so check back soon!

Oh.

My.

God.

There is nothing more perfect in the world than a bouncy flouncy pouncy bubbly little baby Beagle puppy named Maggie. Yes, Maggie. This girl is a Maggie, she was a Maggie right from the minute she was handed to me at 10:15 on Saturday morning. Once liberated from the kennel full of rambunctious brother Beagles, she showered me with gratitude. She looked right up at me and licked my nose, my cheeks, my lips, my ears, my eyelids... oh boy, is she a kisser. I lingered a bit outside her brothers' kennel to allow her to say goodbye, but it was more like, "nanny nanny boo boo, I'm going fir-irst!" leaving the boys whimpering with jealousy. Another family was there to pick up their pup whom they named "Homey." Once they retrieved their pup, all six of us--Andrew, our breeder, the other puppy picker-uppers and me--went inside to sign papers and whatnot and I sat on the floor, and my pup came running right up to me to lick my face again, despite all the chaos. That was the first time I called her by name. "Hello my Maggie!" just came out without thinking about it. And so she is Maggie.

We took her home in our SUV. Andrew drove while I sat in the back seat with my girl, her crate and her toys. She whimpered a bit in my arms at first, as each new sound was oh so frightening. Soon enough she saw the crate on the seat beside us and started towards it. I opened the door, she went inside, snuggled up with her new toys and fell asleep.

Homecoming was probably scarier for me than it was for her, as we arrived I felt a sudden pang of "oh my gawd. I have a dawg. What do I do now?" I've read books and websites and collected advice from a dozen people, but the slight panic was still there. Maggie's experience could be described more accurately as Beagle Sensory Overload. Her nose never stops investigating, her mouth makes contact with everything in her line of sight. Her line of site, by the way, is very low to the ground, and she has found all kinds of things that in our pitiful "puppy proofing" sessions we failed to eliminate. Dust bunnies. Crumbs. Dirt. Corn silk. Maple tree seeds. Feathers. Soot. Her seek and find skills have given me a whole new awareness of my poor my housecleaning skills.

Right now it is time for lunch and time to go home to my baby and Andrew. He's got the day off today, I stay home tomorrow. But CEO has made sure that I have plenty of work to take home and do in between "Chop chop!" (time to pee!) and "Maggie, come--good girl!" (which she's learned already, let me tell ya, my dawg is Gifted. Do they have obedience classes for Gifted Dawgs?). So I must leave it at that for today, get pictures developed and downloaded tomorrow, and return with more details when Maggie is asleep.

Oh, did I mention that she has completely taken to her crate already too, and she is paper trained (well, to a point)! Genius, I tell you! I guess this is what they mean by "Champion Bloodlines." I hope I can keep up.

This morning I awoke reluctantly from a great dream. I dreamt that my husband and I were featured on Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, but they also included me on it, along with a few girl friends. All I remember is walking into this huge closet full of clothes that had been selected specifically for me by Carson. They were crazy, outlandish outfits, from full leather body suits to sequined gowns with netting and tafetta, and they were all fabulous. Stuff I would never imagine myself in, but here it was, custom selected and laid out for me, guaranteed to look spectacular on me and fit perfectly. I also received a fantastic new hairdo and a complete makeover. Maybe reality tv is getting to me--or maybe it's all symbolic in some way. Maybe both. All I know is that when I was awakened by the urge to use the facilities I didn't want to get up, I wanted to go back into the dream. And when I got back into bed, I most certainly did return to my fashion fantasy.

Last night the "Chicks Networking" event was pretty neat. It was held in a small vintage-homemade-cheeky clothing boutique, owned by one of the "chicks." There were a few handbag designers, a fashion website owner, 1 life coach, 2 personal errand-runners, 2 organizational specialists, 1 holistic healer, 1 tai chi instructor, a spa content designer, a furniture refinisher and of course the store owner. And more. All women between the ages of 21 and 50 I'd say, all looking eager, joyous, nervous, exuberant in their own ways. The store itself was fabulous with all kinds of reasonably priced goodies that I have to buy when I have the cash. I didn't do much chatting but rather observed how the whole networking thing worked with these girls. I had my wine and snacks and stuck by Sabrina most of the time.

After an hour or so we were all asked to quiet down and form a circle to individually introduce ourselves to the group as a whole. Each woman said her name and described her dream, whether it was just in the planning stages or fully operational. Some were shy, some were boisterous and some just couldn't stop talking. I fear public speaking. I stumble and clamor over my words when I feel eyes on me. But when it was my turn I projected my voice and declared, "My name is Kate Hamilton, and I am a Creative Person. I am an illustrator, graphic designer, and product developer. I design logos, business cards, websites, I illustrate books and I like penguins. That's why there's a penguin on my business card. (laughs) So if you need a logo or help establishing your brand, give me a call!" It came out effortlessly and painlessly as if, I don't know, it was Truth itself. It felt good to say it, to make a declaration of my creativity in a public forum. There was a powerful positive energy shared amongst everyone as we all shared our dreams, because we were all being authentic and appreciating each others' authenticity. We each left our business cards on a table by the door so that everyone could collect them before they left. I think I took one of each, some I took two. I don't know but I think people also took mine. I received one voicemail on my cell phone this morning and one email in my inbox from girls at the event. Now I need to follow up. I want to follow up with every one of them. Hi, I'm Kate. I'm the Creative Girl Who Likes Penguins. This is my website, this is my journal, let me know if I can help you in any way. I'll give you the Chick Discount.

Meanwhile, there exactly 20 hours and 55 minutes between me and my union with my little sunshine, my little puppy. I am STOKED.

I have decided to participate in a networking event. I'm going to a "Chicks Networking" get together this evening with a friend I used to work with at Zany Brainy. She, Sabrina, just opened her own bridal salon where she sells secondhand bridal gowns for half the price on a consignment basis. Vera Wangs, Amsales, all the way down to David's Bridals. It's a great idea and a great little store and I think she could do brilliantly with it. She found out about this networking night a few weeks ago and invited a bunch of us. I'm the only one that responded, so it's just me and her and an unknown number of unknown women from the Philadelphia area who want to network with each other over drinks and eats. I don't know what to expect. I almost declined the invite--for fear of the unknown--and tried really hard to come up with a creative excuse as to why it would not do me any good to go. My excuses just weren't creative enough and strangely enough nothing else came up. So I've got a fistfull of business cards and bookmarks with my digits on them, hoping that maybe something good will come of it. If there are a bunch of women like Sabrina--smart, entrepreneurial businesswomen--then maybe I could come back with a fistfull of business cards from potential new clients. Clients that could, perhaps, maybe, give me jobs that would pay money enough to build a little nest egg to crack open when that one, fateful day comes... maybe sooner than later... that I can start my dream career. Whatever that dream may be (it seems to morph a little from day to day, but it always has to do with working from home).

Last night I had a dream about these herons that I see in the summer at my in-law's shore house. I haven't seen them yet this year but hope to soon. I have a rough draft of a storybook written about them that I've been sitting on and incubating. The night before that I had a dream about a story I was asked to illustrate about a house, and in my dream I built a model of this house and painted little shutters on it. But I kept running out of paint and I couldn't finish it, and I was going to be graded on it for an illustration class. Then I paged through the book and realized that I didn't illustrate it at all; an ex-friend of mine had already done it.

What will I dream tonight?

I've been drawing turtles at work for the past few days... turtles for a turtle bench and a turtle raingauge. I've been looking at turtle pictures for reference and studying my turtle at home (I have an Eastern Box Turtle that I bought 7+ years ago) for turtle characteristics. Ever try to draw a turtle? Let me tell you--it is challenging. The turtle shell is not your straightforward dome shape that you think it is. It is asymmetrical, organic, detailed, sharp in parts and soft in others. It is alive. You can see how it's grown in the turtle's first few decades of life. The turtle's head is particulary vexing. It is oblong, squarish and roundish, flexible and strong. The beak--unlike any other beak. Turtles have been on my brain and just as I think I am almost finished with my turtle project--

CEO finds a turtle on his way to work. A middle aged Eastern Box Turtle, gorgeous, heavy and strong. Clear glassy eyes, smooth moist skin and glamourous shell. She's sitting in a wide galvanized steel wine cooler at my feet. Well, not sitting really. Trying desperately to get out.

Knowing as much as I do about turtles (from both observations of my own turtle and doing turtle research online and in books), I know that this little gal will not rest until she is back where she was when CEO scooped her up. To his credit, he probably did save the girl's life. She was trying to cross a very windy road where the speed limit is 25 but cars zoom down it at 50+ miles per hour. He managed to see it, stop, get out, and pick it up. When I got in to work he showed it to me and we both agreed how uncanny it was for him to find it on his way in today, me drawing turtle benches and all. He also said that the first small container he put the turtle in did not keep her enclosed for long... as soon as he left the room she escaped and he found her hiding under my desk.

Now, I wasn't sure why I felt inclined to tell this turtle tale until I started writing this, and I guess I find it a bit too familiar. CEO scoops her up, claims to have saved her life, then decides to keep her pent up in this office for the rest of the day. By that time this turtle is going to be exhausted from her continuous attempts to scale the slick steel walls of her current jail. She needs to be let go before then. Actually, I want to take her back and put her on the road where she was found... just on the opposite side, the side she was trying to reach in the first place. Unfortunately I don't know where that is. Now I need to try to convince CEO of the cruelty of keeping her hostage for the sake of a few drawings. I can take her picture and let her little turtle soul go. No need to make her feel like she's stuck in an abyss without knowing her fate.

Sometimes I have nightmares about my own turtle. I dream that he is very angry with me for keeping him hostage. I've called zoos and aquariums asking if I could set my turtle loose, but because he's been in captivity for so long and at such a young age, they said he "wouldn't make it" on his own. After observing this wild relative of his I believe I agree. This wild girl has a certain worldliness about her... a gouge in her plastron, muscular limbs, a disgruntled hiss... that my little guy could never know without growing up a wild turtle. He is domesticated. It is my responsibility to keep him as content as a captive turtle can be. I hope that I'm doing a good job of being his caretaker. I hope that I have a lot of caretaking in me. I'm going to need do draw on it pretty deeply in just two days.

Update
So you don't go on worrying about the turtle (whom I named Hope), CEO has taken her back to her place of origin to help her cross the road. I think he was frustrated with how much attention I gave her instead of doing my work. I must say, Hope was a great distraction. Turtle on, girl.

I keep going in and out of this little common cold of mine, passed on from the generous husband in one of his kisses or less endearing sneezes of the last week or so. See what I get for calling out sick?

Actually, I do believe that my immunity is on vacation. It’s like, “alright Kate, I can’t handle that day job of yours any longer. I’m outta here. Good luck on your own.” Pimples are rising, rashes are itching, sniffers are sniffling and I am just so darned tired. I have also noticed an inexplicable peak in appetite in the last month. I am absolutely ravenous. (That’s a great word, isn’t it? Ravenous. I am like Raven. Ca-caw! Ca-caw!) I stuff myself to the gills every time I eat. And then I want more. Last night I enjoyed linguini with meatballs (those great frozen ones that come 50 to a bag, yummers!). Seven meatballs. Well they are small. But I found myself wishing for more to appear when they were gone. I told Andrew this and he gave me a worried look. My gym membership expired in April. Hey wait, maybe that’s why my immunity is on the fritz? I mean, far as I was from being a gym buff, my single visit per week must have done something good. I may not have any convincing evidence of my body building on the surface but there must have been some positive effects to the lifting and sweating. Could this be it? Immunity? But what about the eating...

My other explanation, of course, is that my body thinks I am pregnant from all the motherly feelings I’ve had of late due to the pending arrival of our dog baby. Perhaps I am nesting like a good Beagle mom would do… preparing the landing pad, eating for 10, all the while completely hormonally stimulated by the slightest resemblance of a puppy dog’s eyes. I’ve been scanning baby names online, reading up on crate training and properly enclosing the breed best known for its nose’s wanderlust. Beagle games, Beagle toys, Beagle books, Beagle food, Beagle this and that. I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up with four white paws, long floppy ears and a newly sprouted tail. My ears always were on the floppier side.

Not to mention that I dreamt I was in labor last night. See now, if I wasn’t very chemically careful not to become pregnant then and only then would I suspect the possibility. But I’ve got that under control. Perhaps there is truth in something my friend Megan once exclaimed: “Oh, that adorable child just makes my womb ache!” Maybe, just maybe my womb is aching and the effect is a sort of “false pregnancy,” not unlike the one that occurred to our first expecting Beagle mother in February. Lucky for me, we're adopting. No lactation for me.

Unlucky for me, CEO is giving me a hard time about taking off a day next week for puppy vet visit and home orientation. I think he sees the puppy as a potential threat... a threat to his control over my time, my mood, my schedule. Between you and me, I think he's right. (I did write down in the dream book that I wanted to be working from home by the time the puppy arrived... will it happen? Will he fire me?)

...until the puppy stork and her husband drive 90 miles one way to pick up their itty bitty wittle puppy. The puppy, once agreed to be named Ginny, is as of yet unnamed, as the name Maggie has been circulating around the Hamilton household for the past 72 hours. Ginny. Maggie. Maggie. Ginny. Who shall she be? Well I must say that Maggie is a lovely name and could be short for Magpie which is a western bird related to the Crow, not a very romantic bird but a bird nonetheless. Andrew is more attached to The Simpsons reference to the name. Maggie is decidely a cuter name for a girl than one of Andrew's original suggestions, "Homie."

Over the weekend we did a little dawgie shopping for practical things such as puppy beauty products: a hair brush, toothbrush and toothpaste, and the tiniest hot pink nylon collar. I was going for the purple one but Andrew--Andrew the non-dog person, the "but I wanted a boy dog" man's man, the "you're not going to turn into one of those Dog People now, are you?" husband of mine--insisted on the hot "Barbie" pink accessory. He also went around picking out toy after toy on our invisible dog's "purely functional and practical" shopping trip. It is truly infectious, this dog eat dog world. Like right now as I look for the toys we bought on the Petsmart site, I find things that weren't in the store that I have to have. I mean... that Ginny Maggie must have. Oh gawd, we're hopeless.

The girl already has a set of fine china that includes 1 Coach bowl, 2 little stainless steel puppy sized bowls, and a larger red and white splatterware enamel bowl for when she's bigger.

I have a theory on the addictiveness of all this pet pampering and on why it is the booming business it is, but to save my credibility I will hold back my hypothesis until I actually have a dog.

Firstly, thank you all who leave comments of encouragement for me, I visit my comments throughout the day at the day job, hoping someone will remind me again that I'm "too good for them." Maybe I know this already, but it sure doesn't hurt to read it over. and. over. One of these days it just might be the extra oomph I need to walk out the door. Then I will face the shocking reality of my new lack of income, but at least I'll feel free.

Whine, whine, whine. I always was a whiner. I remember being scolded for it when I was young. The apple never falls far from the tree, so I probably did not invent whining, even if I was made to feel that way, and it must have been effective at least part of the time or else I would have resorted to much uglier behavior. I never was the kind of child who had temper tantrums; my tantrums were much more of the melodramatic variety. "Katie, it is NOT the end of the world!" was the response I most often garnered as I fell to the floor with my hands over my eyes and wailed woefully in the throes of my grief. Yes it is! For me it most certainly is the end of the world, I cried inside my trembling little Snowbird heart.



My theory is that melodrama is a very Firstborn Girl kind of trait. I have witnessed this familiar temperament in my firstborn nieces and cousins. I have also noted that Secondborn Girls are far spunkier, tougher-skinned and shorter-tempered than we firstborns. This is equally true amongst all the little girls I have observed in both in my extended family and in Andrew's. I see myself and my next youngest sister over and over again in these little chickadees as they play and interact with one another. It has been a gracious kind of observance for me. Seeing how completely harmless the elder girls' melodrama really is, I can come to terms with my own little weakness. As a young, melodramatic Snowbird I sometimes felt ashamed of this "defect," this crybaby whininess that I could not control. The more agitated my parents became, the closer I inched to the end of my world. All I really wanted was to be swept up into a comforting embrace, whispered reassuring words that everything would be ok, we still love you. Comforted. I wanted permission to feel these deep pangs of my heart. As exaggerated as they may have been, they truly did aflict me.

I see this familiar depth of feeling in my oldest niece and my cousin's oldest daughter and I realize that a gentle, intelligent form of compassion counterbalances our exaggerated sense of feeling; an affection that contrasts dramatically with the spunkier girls' independent, carefree attitudes. I find this uplifting.

"No one is perfect." No matter how many times I read, write and hear that truth, I continue on struggling to obtain perfection. It is a very unforgiving way to live. For as long as I remember, the pressure has always been there to change whatever it was that bothered someone else. So of course I never understood self-accptance, how could I accept myself if I wasn't accepted by everyone else? I wanted everyone to love me, but I had no idea how to do so myself. I am learning, just now I am learning.

I'll tell ya what--if I ever have a Firstborn Girl I will make every effort to comfort her when she teeters over the edge of her world. It's alright. It's ok. You have every right to feel this way. Your feelings are real. I think I'll practice now, on me. But in the meantime, I really appreciate the encouragement, whether you type it or just think it. This is my place in the circle of the support group. Let me know if you could really use some props too.

P.S. A little more content on the website today. Monday should be even better.

The End of Snowbird's World ©2004 Catherine Erin Hamilton

Well I didn't win the lottery. No no, that would make things too easy. I apparently need to learn a few more lessons before I'm dripping with riches and spreading them all around.

Currently a conversation echoes in the hall between CEO and CEO's mom. CEO is up on a soapbox about "evil" and "mean people." Internally I chuckle, then churn because here is a person who has hired agencies to put together entire 100+ page catalogs with spectacular photography after weeks of hard work, only to ignore the resulting invoices and blame the economy for his theft. Here is a person who does not understand, or, who chooses to ignore the evil in that. Here is a person who also has hired individual artists to sculpt beautiful figures to be used as molds for new statuary for his company. These artists never asked for royalties, they only required a fair flat fee. But again their invoices went ignored, because what are they going to do, sue him? Many of CEO's tactics rely heavily on the premise that any benefit an artist or a small company could recoup by suing him would be cancelled out by hefty legal fees.

I only know all these things because his mother tells me. Ok, does this not sound a little dysfunctional to you? I mean, why would I want to know, why would she want to tell me, and what good does it do me knowing these things about him? Does my awareness of your son's corruption help the company in any way? He is your son, not mine. Confessing these things does not make you any less guilty of enabling him.

"Here's a country that..." he goes on and on, and then somehow connects our current vendors into this evil plotting conversation, I'm not sure why. They're all nice people. Ah, that must mean they are secret agents like me, all in cahoots to destroy him.

One thing you can count on--the more paranoid a person is about the loyalty of his peers, the guiltier he is of being disloyal to them himself. In psychology it's called, "Projection."

Uh-oh, I hear the voices in the other room lower to a very ineffective whisper, and the words "she" mumble mumble "is she" mumble mumble "what is she..." mumble mumble echoes in the hall. They're talking about me.

"Why, Kate, why?!" you say. I know, I know. I should not be here. It's the mortgage, I tell you. The mortgage must be paid. It is a tough excuse to crack.

If we win the Powerball tonight, I promise to make it count. So...

Today is a nice day, I'm feeling good and thinking a lot about the joy of puppies. Only 10 more days til we take our little Ginny home. Yes, I think she shall be called Ginny. I think. It is the one name Andrew and I both agree on. This name also makes me gooey because it reminds me of a doll I had when I was 6 or 7, she was the "Oo la la Ginny" on rollerskates... rollerskates, how cool is that? Her wardrobe was all "Sasson" branded designer jeans, sweaters, bags and shoes. I can still remember the theme song on the commercial. Oo la la, Ginny. Oo la la, Sasson! And now after a week or two of singing it in my head and feeling rather nostalgic, all I want is that doll again. I need to have her after seeing her all over the place for sale and auction online, just as cute as I remember her. As soon as I get another freelance check I am going to order one from somewhere because I think nostalgia is good and inspiring.

I remember wanting my mom to do my hair like my Ginny doll's. I remember the satiny feel of Ginny's ribbon belt with "Sasson" printed all around it. I remember taking off her white tennis shoes and putting them in my mouth while I helped her on with her tiny red rollerskates with yellow plastic wheels. Somehow I got to liking the rubbery chewiness of the tennis shoes and I would chew on them for the rest of the day. I wished for more Sasson outfits for my Ginny... there were oodles of them available... I may have had a poncho for her. I recall that the wheels on her skates at one point went missing, never to be found again. A year or so later I got my first Barbie and Ginny became Barbie's disproportinately larger headed daughter. Too bad they couldn't share outfits.

Well you know what this calls for? A list. A list of my favorite things when I was a 6 or 7 year old Snowbird. Think think think...
1. Rollerskating. There was a particularly smooth spot of blacktop at the end of our block that made for a spectacular roller rink where we would pretend to be Olympic figure skaters and judged each others' routines.
2. Doll clothes. Little shoes, bibs, hairbows and pajamas, church outfits, Christmas outfits, bathing suits, undies...
3. Hide and seek. My house had a few good closets for it and sometimes I have flashbacks in my dreams about them.
4. Dance Fever! My sister and I watched it religiously. We would create our own Dance Fever studio by laying the multicolored afghan over the avacado shag rug on the living room floor and dancing in our disco Snoopy bathing suits with our denim skirts over top. Instant disco fashion. (Little did I know until googling "Dance Fever" that there is a new version on ABC Family... the blessings of not having cable tv!)
5. Acting out the entire script of the Wizard of Oz with neighborhood friends in my backyard. I never got to be Dorothy though (the more aggressive one on the block always demanded the part).
6. Muppets and puppets. The Muppet Show rocked.
7. Collectible toys: Strawberry Shortcake, Care Bears, Smurfs, Dolly Pops, My Pretty Pony.
8. A few forgotten books that I read through and through as soon as I could read. I wish I could remember the authors and titles. One of them was about a Snowshoe Rabbit.
9. School yard games. Chinese jumprope, Chinese jacks, handclaps, jumprope songs, fortune telling with those folded paper things that you opened and closed with your fingers.
10. Sticker books. Oooo how I loved stickers. Especially those liquidy ones that were all oily inside and changed colors when you smooshed them. And scratch n' sniff... my favorite was watermelon.

How about you?



Chrometophobia
On other tangents, I opened a separate bank account today for my freelance work. Big baby step. I don't know why this has been a sort of scary thing for me to just go ahead and do... alright, ok, I do know. I hate dealing with money. Right now my husband takes care of all the bill paying and checkbook balancing and other things with digits and balances. I've never, ever ever been good with those check registers. Drove my Dad nuts. How could the firstborn of a bank treasurer and economics professor, otherwise so adept at math, english, science and art be so gawd-darned hopeless with money? Answer: I don't know. I am also helplessly butterfingered, dropping only the finest china and crystal on the most non-porous, unforgiving surfaces with such flair and such frequency that I am not permitted to wash the Waterford. (Hey, I have no problem with that. Go Andrew, go Andrew...) Could my fear of handling money be somehow connected to my clumsiness?

Anyhoo, it is done, I have a personal "business" account. Next step: IRA.

My website is going through some growing pains, but it is growing. Let's just say that it's in its awkward teenage stage right now. There's so much more in store. Such as... uh... a store?

I'm sick. *cough cough* Which is why I *cough cough* called out sick yesterday. I was not a secret agent with a secret mission somewhere up the turnpike *cough sniff cough* and I did not drive anywhere exciting, I just slept all day long, *sneeze* thank you, and so I have absolutely nothing to report but wildly detailed dreams. *sniff sniff*

So in this one dream *ahem* I drove miles and miles away to this crayon factory. I didn't get to go inside the crayon factory but I went to this colorful office space and met creative type people like me who make packaging for the crayons. *cough cough cough* and they were very nice people. Now, this crayon factory, like I said, was miles and miles away so it would really be unrealistic to drive there every day if they asked me to. *sniff* And moving closer to the crayons wasn't something that my husband and I were ready to do in this dream. *sneeze* But I felt that since these people were really nice and seemed to like me in this dream, then they might send me crayons at home to work with. *cough cough* That would be nice, wouldn't it?

So today, back at work after my long sleepy sick day, *sniff sniff* I feel a bit disoriented and out of sorts and even itchy in my skin and hoping for some more vivid dreams. *ahem* I think this week will be a dreamy one.

And I can't stop crying.