I just have a little while before I have to go get dressed so that I can take the dog to Markleville to the Dog Groomer to have his fleas abolished (and possibly all of his hair shaved). But . . . I was thinking about "coping mechanisms." I found myself perturbed by the mentioning of the words and the "lack there of" again this morning.

"I can't deal with this, Rachel."

I've heard the claim often of late. Meanwhile, I've just been trucking along, coping and dealing my ass off (hence, my perturbed-ness). This is just a quick attempt at being philosophical, but it has been my experience that we humans are awesomely adaptable creatures, and we are capable of coping and dealing quite nicely - at least when we remain in the moment and don't step outside of ourselves and into our frazzled minds to create reasons as to why we cannot. Things move forward. Days pass regardless. Best you can do is move on through. My mother suffered through twenty plus years of work in a hard hat and rubber boots at a stinky poultry factory and never touched alcohol or even cigarettes. Sure, she cried herself to sleep some nights, but her coping mechanisms were good. Of course, some may say that now she's gone loopy . . . (another coping mechanism?)

And why do horrible copers/dealers always want to tell me how they can't deal with shit? They should know by now that I just sort of flick that shit off my shoulder (like a nasty beetle maybe?). I guess that's the reason - I'd rather just tell them to shut-up and that is just what they need (?). BUT it turns into something nastier. It becomes this thing like: "Then save me, Rachel." Then I get worse - I get pissed when people - even the people I love the most - expect me to save them. I become a snob. I want to save them, but I just get frustrated and my opinion of the person turns into "must you be so god damn weak?" (of course, I don't say that) or, some times, the little speeches that I attempt to make for them just end up re-inspiring myself, and I leave the job of saving someone else half-finished. So, it's a good thing, I suppose, that I never went into psychiatry as a career.

At the concert Saturday night, I kept taking in the time and place - loving the fact that I was surrounded by hundreds of people, getting to watch them clap and whoop and dance, getting to watch them stumble over each other and slur the songs (drunk or stoned out of their gourds), getting to watch the superstars on the flaming stage create amazing music from their simple tools or with their voices (Joe Cocker and Steve Miller's harmonica player were the best). I could drop my head back and there sat the Big Dipper perfectly above my head. The breeze occasionally lilted tufts of cigar and pot smoke into my nose. Meanwhile, behind me there was tension (while I danced and danced - bare feet in the grass): Matt was worrying how long it would take us to get out of the parking lot, worrying when the rain was going to show up, worrying if we'd spent too much money on his concert T-shirt ($40) and the nachos and pretzels (2 pretzels, 1 nachos, three drinks, a bottled water and a cup of cheese = $37), worrying that he would have to kick someone's ass if another stoner bumped into him.

This morning, he was stressed to the hilt about having to go into work again alone (while his new boss is recovering from a quadruple by-pass); he's so stressed that he's considering taking his old shitty job back, falling back down into some sort of safety net. We talked about the rising cost of gas (of course) and he wants to be taken off the grid; he wants to go solar - start a commune even. And last week, one of my friends, suspecting her children of snagging and snorting her Hydrocordone, found solstice in her beer, certain that she was unable to confront her stupid kids about it (claiming it was all her fault any way). She told me that I was a bitch who didn't put up with anything (and this was a complement) and she asked me how I did it. And, for some reason, I was perturbed by her assumption. I get walked on too - a lot. And I don't want to have to hold anybody up - nobody holds me up (so does that mean that I have better coping mechanisms? isn't writing one?). But, then, I could be dangerous assuming that I stand on my own two feet. Maybe they're stiff selves ARE holding me up . . . keeping me safe while I ramble and dream . . . Overt caution drives me nuts, but then again, perhaps my little flick-you-off-my-shoulder action is merely an act of preservation. The worst kind: excuse me, while I save myself.

That's my deep thought session for the day. I had a little revelation in there. Now, I'm off to shave (save) the dog. ;)