Tear Down That Wall

Inspirational song: Our House (Madness)

I can usually tell when I am totally focused on some topic right before I go to bed. I managed to bring forth one of my favorite recurring dreams, that of having just purchased a house, and discovering all of its secrets as I walk through it. This morning, as I was reluctant to wake and lose the story in my head, I dreamed of buying a house in the mountains. If I remember it correctly, we had bought it for its location primarily, but I thought the curb appeal was so severely lacking I pondered knocking it down for a complete rebuild (it's always so nice to have an unlimited budget, as you do in dreams). This house dream went like so many of them do, as I walked through the house and it got bigger and bigger, as hallways led to rooms, which unfolded into suites, and neat vintage furniture was tucked away in room after room. After the part of the dream where I realized that the kitchen had been partially stripped, with cabinets and stove parts missing (and I decided it was actually an opportunity for a complete remodel, to make it exactly like I wanted), I finally had to give up and face the day. I can't express how disappointing it was to realize I will never actually get my hands on that house. It was fantastic (in the literal sense of the word, too).

The lingering desire to start a dramatic remodel of a house had me sneaking in a few remodel shows on television as I went about my day. I saw one where they knocked down several walls, and created one massive great room with a completely open kitchen, massive reclaimed wood round table, kid study space, and a family room area. It got me thinking about how much things have changed over the centuries. A thousand or so years ago, communities shared a giant space, sleeping in one massive room, with a fire in the middle of the structure, to keep the whole group warm and fed. Privacy was unheard of, and there were fewer walls chopping up interior spaces. As the classes stratified, more walls went up. I've toured fancy Renaissance and Enlightenment era homes that had lots of rooms, but oddly few corridors. There was a growing distinct line between public rooms and family rooms, and increasing complexity within those divisions. Eventually you could even find middle class houses with separate staircases for the home owners and their staff. I started wondering about the mindset that craved that separation. Was it a Victorian era status symbol, to have your home cut up into as many tiny rooms as possible? The more interior walls, the better off you were? They didn't seem to mind that the rooms were small, as long as they were able to be closed off.

People don't live that way anymore. Tell me the last time you went to a party where you didn't walk into the host's kitchen at least once. Everyone wants to congregate in kitchens, but for decades, we made them so small and closed off that was unfeasible. I will never again consciously choose a house with an isolated kitchen. I would rather sacrifice upper cabinets all day long for a dearth of walls between the kitchen and living areas. And that was the part of the dream where I woke up--right as I was pointing out the wall that I was going to tear out. It left me feeling interrupted, and so all day, all I have wanted to do was swing that sledgehammer, and tear down that wall that blocked the view from the stove to the living room, in a house that doesn't actually exist. I need a new project, and I need it soon. Else I may start picking apart things here that are best left alone.

Little Things

Inspirational song: Heigh Ho (Snow White & the Seven Dwarfs)

It has been lovely, having the man almost entirely to myself for a month. I had to share him a little bit, with that Jeep that is in sand-blasted pieces about fifteen miles from here, but other than that, I got to see him for more hours in any given day than I have in years, even when he was living here, before the overseas job kicked in. But all good things end, and today he went back to work, back to repetitive computer training that he has hated for years, and departments that never run as efficiently as he would like. Some things never change, certainly not over a short year and a half while he was on assignment.

I learned one thing very quickly by the end of the day. Murray is not to be left outside, out of his wheelchair, for the entire time the man is gone. I let him out with the other dogs mid-morning, and by late afternoon, he had worn his little rear end raw bouncing all over the Park. He was also filthy, and had to come in and be carried straight up to a bath once the man got home. I now spend many hours in a day wondering how we can arrange to move into a home with direct access to a patio, level with the yard, from a room that also has a convenient three-quarter bath adjacent to it. When I pondered that out loud, waiting for the man to finish drying off Murray, he added, "With a harness and lift over the shower, to hold the dog." Quite so. Perhaps it is time to consult with our realtor.

We already think it's time to pack up our more vulnerable belongings, in anticipation of a move. A certain tabby cat has forced me to move and hide my pottery and other breakables. Yesterday, I moved my greatest masterpiece, the masque "Buddha of the Americas," up to my bedroom where she rarely goes. The next house will have a built-in curio cabinet, with glass shelves and a lockable door to keep her out, even if I have to build it myself. Even now, I am serenaded by the sound of crashing from the piano bar part of the house. After she tried to walk on top of one of my stepfather's paintings today, spinning it on the wall, and knocking down photos and other art, I threatened to glue concrete blocks to each of Zoe's feet. I fear then she would just stomp around the house like a clumsy Godzilla, entirely unfazed by my attempts to curb her destruction.

Two days from now is the opening of the final Hobbit movie. I didn't see any reaction from the man until this weekend, when he suddenly couldn't take his eyes off of a trailer for it. Yesterday we bought our tickets for Wednesday night, and started watching the first two movies again in anticipation. I'm enjoying the antics of dwarves and elves much more in the comfort of my living room than I did in a theater, with no pause button, and a bathroom much farther away than mine is now.

Waiting for Change

Inspirational song: Wonderful Christmastime (Paul McCartney)

It was warm again today. Too warm to really feel like the shopping we were doing today was for Christmas. It was only as a concession to public expectation that the man wore a shirt today, or so he claimed. I regretted my long sleeves, but I wanted to pretend that it was less than a week from the start of winter. The sun was so bright and warm, I just couldn't do it. But I am pleased to report I'm miles ahead of last year, in feeling a festive, giving mood. I've bought a handful of gifts, and gotten a few still in the planning stages. I have to hope that the little elves at Amazon are light on their feet and have nimble packing fingers. Else I may be printing out pictures of what's coming, to put under the tree. That would pair nicely with the photographs of snow that my friends are showing me, so that I can remember what winter looks like.

While I am starting to feel the festive spirit of the month, the Pride seems to think the honeymoon is over. They are starting to engage Zoe much more actively, for better or for worse. She has been chased by an enormously poofed out Jack, a swatty Alfred, and an arch-backed Athena all weekend. To an untrained eye, this might appear that our household is at war. On the contrary, I think this is progress. It shows they are not indifferent to her presence. I'm fairly certain Athena is about to cross over from confrontation to play, very soon. She's the most interested, and Zoe pounces back at her more than the others. I predict that before the forsythias bloom, they will be cuddling and grooming each other. That is, if the house survives that long. Zoe is actively trying to push the whole place to the ground. I had no idea the end of the world would come in such an adorable package.

Hay Bale Holiday

Inspirational song: All I Want for Christmas Is a Real Good Tan (Kenny Chesney)

Four or five Christmases ago, I decided I absolutely needed a kitschy Christmas tree. I went to the big evil superstore that shall remain nameless (it was the best we had in the tiny New Mexico town where we lived) and "splurged" on a super-fake white artificial tree. I loved it. Mister Man was gone that year, as he often was, so my younger daughter and I had the freedom to be as silly as we wanted in our decorating without him being a wet blanket about it. The white tree hasn't gone up every year, just a couple times. Two years ago, it was on the front porch, with all red, white, and blue decorations. Last year, in my lonely funk, it stayed packed in the garage. Thus it was a surprise when the man announced that he had assembled my "straw-colored tree" on the porch, and it was now my turn to decorate it. Apparently thirty bucks doesn't buy you a lifetime of kitsch, but only a few years' worth. The now-golden tree was oddly mesmerizing in the afternoon light, so I went with it. I covered it in multi-colored lights and multi-colored tinsel, and hung a half dozen ornaments on it. I'll hang a few more when I figure out where my wire hooks are. I think it looks pretty good, even with discolored plastic needles.

For about as long as I've had the formerly white tree, we have been buying fresh wreaths from an old friend of ours in Maine, to support her kids' scout troop. They arrived yesterday, and we hung one inside and one out, covered in lights. The man also draped lights around the bushes and trees in the front. I am fairly certain this is the full extent of our decorating this year. Between me being sick at the end of November, and us going out of town earlier this month we had very little time to decorate. I don't see a point in doing more, for just the last two weeks of the month. And the man is barely able to find his winter holiday spirit when decorating in December means hanging up lights outside wearing shorts and no shirt.

We are not entirely without seasonal spirit. The man suggested today would be a great day to make a pot of mulled wine (which turned out to be an excellent way to poach pears for dessert as well), and we are pretending it's a lot colder than it is, with a roaring fire. I'm even starting to enjoy the idea of presents this year. I probably need to move a little faster on those, if I'm going to have them ready to give out on time. It feels good to want to play the game, for the first time in a long time. Another cold snap would help keep the holiday mood going. I don't have much hope for Christmas snow, but a little chill in the air would be nice.

Rock It

Inspirational song: Hips Don't Lie (Shakira feat. Wyclef Jean)

Earlier today, I had some sort of inspiration for this evening's episode. Try as I might, I now only have difficult to grasp, misty impressions of what it might have been that I was thinking. I just have a picture in my mind, of a dress my mother made for me when I was a sophomore in college. It was made of a slick, jacquard-woven, black fabric, in what I suppose would be considered a "mermaid" shape. It was really lovely, body-hugging, and it flared out in a long ruffle from just above the knees to the ground. For all that it was sexy as hell, I was so desperately body conscious, I never wore it in public, even though I had asked her to make it from a pattern I had chosen. I was in the best shape of my life that year, maybe 15-20 pounds over dead center of the outdated insurance weight charts for my height, but enough of it was muscle that I looked so much better than I ever knew. I think the memory was sparked by channel surfing, when I caught a few minutes of an Alicia Keys video. She was wearing something that hugged her curves, absolutely confident in her sex appeal. If I could go back in time and shake some sense into that self-loathing 19 year old, I would do it. I would force her to rock that mermaid dress, at the band banquet or Valentine's Day dance, or whatever it was I got it for. How could I not have known the problem was all in my head, not in my hips?

The older I get, the less self-conscious I get about appearance, but I still have a few lingering hangups. I should be well past the age that I feel like I have to compete based solely on appearance. I am comfortable in my own skin, but I still feel the pressures of a culture that worships youth and thinness as the most important currency a woman should have at her disposal. I love fashion, and want to wear things that are modern or classic, to drape myself in beautiful colors and textures. After all these years, I still let myself focus sometimes on numbers and sizes, rather than only on how I feel in my clothes. I know better. I really do. One of these days I will win this battle with my self. I am already determined to be "that" old lady, and wear whatever the hell I want to. I need to practice my fashion confidence now. No reason I can't get a head start at it. I wish I still had that mermaid dress.

It's a Living

Inspirational song: Too Much Heaven (The Bee Gees)

I hit that same brick wall today. It took the shape of a blank page of paper on the computer screen. I promised myself I would start working on more fiction again, but oddly, it hasn't started flowing like the non-fiction has. I got two excellent short stories out a week ago, and then I stumbled. Today I had to force myself to write the opening couple paragraphs of a story I have had simmering for almost fifteen years. I think it is time to get that one (or three, actually, all connected) out. It's just a matter of trying until it becomes easy.

I started investigating what it would take to self-publish in the Kindle store, until I get a more impressive resume. It seems like it would be fairly easy, and the percentage left for me after Amazon gets its commission actually sounds reasonable. I am not sure what to do about cover art, but that's a bridge I can cross once I actually have something to publish. I feel like I have simultaneously moved closer to my goal of being a professional writer, and infinitely farther away from ever having a finished product that is worth paying money to read. The more I want to take it to the next level, the harder that leap feels to me.

It's not easy facing the starving artist mindset, and expecting to beat it. I don't know whether I will ever win. My stepfather has been running up against that same challenge for his whole life, and it's an ugly battle to fight. He is an incredibly talented painter, and he is as prolific as he is creative. He had an opening to a one-man show this evening, and he has been invited to display his art in several new galleries and spaces this last year and the next. But sales have been traditionally difficult to come by, and even the increased exposure isn't making that problem disappear. Social media has gotten his name out far better than before. How do you convince the world that not everything on the internet is actually free?

(To that end, seriously, y'all, consider original art for your Christmas presents, or for your own home. The man is a national treasure. www.gaarart.com. Your loved ones will thank you.)

Calming

Inspirational song: Push (Feelin' Good on a Wednesday) (Sia)

I haven't been shy with the details that come with caring for a handicapped dog. It has really been winding me up, trying to keep up with the extra mess and smell, and whining has been just about the only way I can keep from developing an ulcer. Yesterday, Mr Smith-Park opened the mail that collected during our vacation, and I was proven correct. Our electricity and water bills have indeed skyrocketed from washing Murray's bedding and all the towels used to bathe him nearly daily. Before I got sick, I had made one prototype for a pair of hot pants for him, which didn't fit at all. Today I freely admitted the next one is staying on the drawing board indefinitely, so we took Murray to Petsmart to get one off the shelf, to use with the liners I already had. He doesn't seem to mind that I got him the kind meant for female dogs, and they appear to be working well so far. I have already calmed down so much, and my relationship with the new dog is greatly improved because of it. There have been no major accidents all day, and I think he can tell we are happier with him. At least he could, until his daddy decided to try the wrist braces again, and put the Cone of Shame on him to make sure he doesn't try to gnaw off the braces. There was much dramatic flopping and flailing immediately after that, enough to persuade me that the cone was not a good idea. I'm not winning that argument yet, however.

This last vacation was the first time I got my act together enough to bring the original dogs' beds with them when I dropped them off to board. I think I know now why I never did it before. The stress of being away from home, even in the camp they love so much, led to a little destructive behavior. Elsa's blanket has some shreds in the middle, and they handed me Bump's bed in a black trash bag. The ensuing trip to Petsmart ended up being spendy, but lucky for me there was a Christmas sale on big, cheap dog beds. I intend to add some eggcrate foam to them for heft, but these new ones will work in the short term.

For the first time, I am feeling like we are all settling in together. Alfred and Zoe just sniffed noses, and no one hissed. The man is lying on the floor, between a dozing Bump and a relaxed Murray. The house is fairly quiet (other than my basketball game on the internet radio). The first Christmas lights have come out, and I have most of my presents planned for this year (and for the first time in years, I am enjoying that part of it). Yeah, yeah, yeah, it's a good Wednesday.