BEFORE:



































AFTER:


(yes, I do believe there is a hint of "pissed" behind those lovely brown eyes)

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. ;)

Here I am taking a moment to reflect while things for Issue #01 "process" and "save" and "load." I must be insane. I'm running on three hours of sleep. Not sure why I stayed up so late. I just want my weekend (a trip to the drive-in tonight to see Wall-E, maybe? Saturday is all Steve Miller Band - FREE tickets!!!). As of today, I am a cranky, bra-less, determined bitch.

I was awakened at 9AM (after staying up til daylight) to find that the dog had shit beside the bed (NO, I didn't step in it - but I had to clean it up PRE-coffee). It must have been that taco I fed him last night . . . This morning is more Work. Work. Work. No feedback. I am taking way too huge of a risk (hence, the certain insanity). All that I've ingested is coffee and a banana since 7PM last night. My house is a wreck. The dog is chewing all of his hair off thanks to those wicked southern fleas, and he's left little black tufts all over the fucking place. I did finally take the trash out, but not before it had spawned gnats. I've got my three year old playing dress-up games on the computer (she's pretty good, actually). My little nephew has been absorbed into the p.o.v. of an alien who sounds like Jack Nicholson: "Destroy All Humans" (X-box). My husband keeps calling stressed about his work because being the new guy to a two man office - the other guy suffered a heart attack yesterday (surprise!). Matt doesn't even have an office key let alone does he know half of what he's doing. He is alone in Indy airport sprawl office hell. I am waiting on him to come running home with his tail between his legs (he could easily say never mind and come home jobless - we're still young, sorta'), but so far so good. He's a determined character too. So, he's called me a couple of times this morning, and we've bitched into each other's ears.

Ya' know, it's pretty presumptuous of me to put so much work into something . . . I keep assuming that so many will care or that so many are watching. But it's more likely that only a few will look it over (and they won't come close to seeing all of it), and they'll likely just shrug and move on. At least this is what I am telling myself to get me through this afternoon. Must get through this afternoon. Then, when and if Matt gets home, I will nap.

The kicker: I just smoked my last cigarette.

I still have to upload the whole new site to siteground and pray that it goes smoothly. Let's all join hands and pray to the virtual beings that may/may not exist and be watching over such things. Shall we encircle the laptop? Praise be the wireless connection. I've still got it, but, still, I've lost other vital things (e.g., my mind).

Here I sit. 3AM. I'm finally takin' a breather from Issue #01. I've finally got the InDesign Layout down to where I'm afraid to tweek it any longer. I've spellchecked the hell out of it. 'Makes me wonder what little boo-boo's will end up getting through - because I won't be having time to wait on the "editorial response" of my "support" gang. ha ha (joke intended). Oh well, I suppose when you take the reigns, you've really got to take the reigns. And I did. No looking back now. Nobody could read my mind any way. They had no idea how incredibly awesome this could look. ;)

So for the last two wee hours I've been working on to the website (the facelifted wedsite that looks oh-so-cool . . . I think), cranking out these little pop-up pages per individual texts. I think I'll run a survey - ask readers how they'd like to see the work - either on ISSUU or on the site. Doing both forever hereafter will be my death. I still have some work to do with Flash - and working in Flash is NOT like riding a bike. If you don't mess with it every day, you have to reteach yourself the basics every time you open the thing back up.

In the midst of all this, my new laptop is AWESOME. I am even kinda' liking Vista (shhhh!). The only sucky thing is that my trial version of Office ran out . . . but I have an old version on CD. I've been putting off installing it and using the generic rich text editor instead. It's all working out.

So . . . now, I'm getting the heeby-jeebies. This is going live soon. Live to the world. Other countries. China. Canada. Worse - New York. Eek. And to tell ya' the truth, I have no idea what they'll do with it once it's up. I think NewPages reviews these things. I don't know about other places. Geez, I don't even have that an e-mail list done yet. So, once it's live - then the work goes into announcing the hell out of the thing, keeping my fingers crossed. We'll see what happens and then I'll get to show my face at AWP. I think I'll be ready.

I had an idea in my sleepy stupor . . . I think I'll post a "preview" jpg image of the "facelifted" CRT site for you lucky few (and I do mean few) who, on occasion, decide to peek in on me. What you see below is stuff that my co-editor hasn't even seen (mostly because our schedules never mesh). Of course, this isn't the whole page - there's more - and this is only the main page. And you'll have to imagine it without the Promo Issue in there on the player. The actual Issue #01 page has a slightly different layout. The little ferris wheel has a flickering neon sign over it and the cars light up as links. The little gears turn. :)

Ah, my weekend . . . We got up at 7AM on Saturday and drove four hours to Southern Indiana, my homeland, to visit my sister and her family. We didn't tell any other family that we were coming so that we wouldn't have to do the usual routines of running around visiting as many houses in one day as is physically possible (and having to keep in mind the time shifts between counties - "well, is that your time or my time?" note: imagine this asked repeatedly in a typical southern Indiana, VERY near Kentucky, twang). I had hoped that Matt would warm up to the idea of spending the night down there because I practically had to beat on his head to convince him that it was very important to me and I REALLY wanted to go and I REALLY wanted him to go with me, but I had to drop the idea on him once we got down there. I've been homesick for a while . . . and I really needed a night to get drunk with my sister.

And so it came to be as was. Amaretto Sours make for horrible hang overs (of course, I've had worse). But the little bar that we walked up to, just up the road from her big two-story house-in-slow-progress-of-being-refurbished, was a near-to-being creepy "walk down memory lane." It was one of the first local bars that I had found (and liked) after turning 21 (more than ten years ago - the difference between 21 and 33 is monumental). The Bob Inn (which is a clever name really). I remembered dragging my sister in with me on occasion way back when. I used to challenge the bartenders and order drinks like "Pearl Divers" and "Screaming Orgasms" and "Brain Hemorrhages." And it hadn't changed much at all aside from the added super-loud Karaoke set-up and the changed faces. I mean they were different faces - no one I recognized - But had they changed all that much? No, not really. Still a few trampy girls with bad tattoos who shouldn't be wearing short shorts (and definitely shouldn't have been given the Karaoke mic, ever); still men with ponytails and crusty workin-man tans who got louder as it got later; still a few chubby wives who showed up just to keep an eye on those husbands; still old men with faces lost to deep wrinkles who sat at the bar and chain smoked and just stared . . . BUT there were a few very familiar faces. There was family.

My favorite uncle (my father's brother) showed up around 10PM to sit with us and sip sweet tea and tell dirty jokes (he even shuffled back home once to bring us back an old black and white snapshot of himself, a cowboy at the World Fair in 1960). There were long lost cousins who I had to reintroduce myself to. There was "Dusty" - an old man who had permanently lost his driver's license so had been pulled over one too many times for driving his riding lawn mower home, drunk. He left the place on his little buzzing mopede, drunk. He kept telling me over and over, "I never knew Ron had TWO daughters." This sort of made me feel like an ass. An invisible little ass or some POW MIA maybe.

But the Karaoke machine was like magic. Hank Williams Jr., Loretta Lynn, Garth Brooks, CCR - all have cosmic binding powers in little bars like this. The whole room would pulse and wave in familiar song. The clapping and cheering got louder and louder. I'm not sure if the singing got worse or better. Strange . . . but so fucking cool - especially when you're drunk.

My sister bugged the piss out of Matt trying to get him drunk enough to sing and trying to build his confidence ("listen to them! they suck!"), but Matt stopped drinking early (having already been buzzed on pre-mixed TGIF pina coladas when we left the house) and there was no way he was singing to THIS bunch of strangers. I think he was afraid of getting shot - an odd man among the tribes. I danced a little, but drinking gives me a quick headache (why do I always forget this???). At 3AM I was in my sister's fucked-up bathroom (plaster and dry wall all over the floor) puking red Amaretto Sour leftovers. The whole evening is sort of a blur, too much a blur than I would like for it be.

Before the trip to the Bob Inn, we had spent all day at the "New Lake" swimming for free at their homemade beach. The little kids chased Blue Gill fish and caught mosquito larvae in the water and the older kids swam out to the dock to just "hang" and look cool. We had a pic-nic (ordered 40 pieces of fried chicken from the grocery store) and all got wicked sunburns. Still, only a few familiar faces. No one I didn't want to see, no ex-lovers (which is always the spawn of tension when I travel south). The poor little lake has the coal mines seething and shifting ground just behind the tree lines. They say that the coal mines have bought the land and will soon plow it all over, but they reassure us that they'll put it all back in place (just give it fifty years or so - trees take time to grow). It will be a sad thing when it's gone.

I came home with two less kids. Justin and Erin decided to stay until the Fourth of July, when we travel back down to camp for the holiday weekend. It will be interesting to see what they may be exposed to . . . I'm hoping Meth or Pot won't be on the list (because they're the local illegal escapes -- those who keep it legal seek alcohol, of course). I have faith in my sister and in my kids. They're smart. I brought home one of my sister's kids - my youngest nephew - who came home with us because he knows we have video games, lots of video games. I worry that he'll be bored out of his mind. Oh, and the dog brought home a lovely bunch of nasty fleas.

I keep thinking I am challenging the odds here. On of these visits home, my kids are bound to run into something life-altering. Their fathers are down there (somewhere . . . ) - men who they have not seen or known since they were babies. I know this. They know this.

I cleaned house all afternoon yesterday, because there is a chance that I will actually have a friend drop by this afternoon. I discovered something in the process: I am a really shitty "housekeeper." I am not sure how so much dust accumulates on the bookshelves, etc. I am blaming the air ducts. We really should have our air ducts cleaned. Oh, and I am also blaming the teenagers. Ya' know, you can blame everything on teenagers when you have them. I know that they are totally responsible for the monster pile of laundry that never shrinks, but in all actuality (I'm not just making things up here), teenagers are slobs. This week, I bought a box of freezie pops and everywhere - all over the fucking house - I am finding those stupid little plastic wrappers. I am starting to have nightmares about ant invasions.

This morning I have two teenagers sleeping in the living room (one is NOT mine). I also woke up to a three year old who has once again peed the bed.

But, I'm also floating on the idea that I am likely going to make to the AWP conference in February in Chicago. We're going to split a table with Dogzplot. I am still in shock. Now, I need money. Lots of money.

Meanwhile, my goal for Thursday is to keep chippin' away at the new website and Issue #01 page. I can't finish the InDesign layout until my friend brings me the PDF (that I lost in the meltdown). Yesterday, I had a strange experience. I had an artist who sent me a quick note asking if he could withdraw his submissions - submissions that I liked and had already accepted and worked into the layout. I freaked out on it, thinking that surely this is the first sign of our deteriorating rep (before we'd even got to establish one firmly). I wrote him back to ask him why. Turns out he was just having an anxiety attack as well (or something). He said his reasonings had been personal and feared they would sound stupid if he tried formulating them into words. Then he said never mind since we were so far along in layout design etc. (and we are); I could go ahead and use them. I wonder if he isn't scared of too many people seeing them. Sometimes coming out as an artist can be just be just as scary as coming out as gay - Maybe? It reminded me of myself, however, and the nervousness (okay my hands actually shake) that lingers in my head every time I go to publish something. There are a few people out there I suppose whom I would rather not expose myself to ever again. And then, of course, there are those who will find me, then ask me things like "Do you still have old collective chapbooks from undergrad? You know, those meant a lot to us?" I feel like such a loser and a thief. I've had them in a box for five years now and I tell myself repeatedly about once every three months that THIS WEEK I will take them up to the post office and mail them back with a "Please forgive me" note . . . Honestly, I never meant to keep them so long. Exposure means revelation - as in "reveal."

This is my latest flash. I submitted it to Barrelhouse, but looking at it now, I can guess as to why they won't accept it. In fact, what I've posted here is a version that I've edited even more since I submitted it. The title is . . . uh . . . I was trying to make the link to Anne Margaret (if I remember correctly . . . ) which really wasn't a well-thought connection (I can't remember what happens in the movie . . . ) and the connections I am making with Mr. Dick aren't too obvious, unless of course, the world is aware of my own sucky memory. It's kinda drab. I am trying too hard again. I get too "fleshy" with words and intention or something (although I've been trying REALLY hard to contain myself) . . . it isn't dark enough - or is it? . . . so, here, I'll just post it here and be done with it. The story was inspired by non-fiction. Matt's uncle - suffering Alzheimer's - actually did this (disappeared from north of Indy to wind up near Dayton at 2AM), so it almost feels like cheating. When my nonfiction workshop picks up in the Fall, I'll be digging deeper . . . Things might get sticky. If anybody is reading, feel free to scrutinize, as have I.



Bye Bye Birdie


Dick had once been a Baptist preacher, but he had started calling the cocker spaniel Anne Margaret. Now, he slipped on mismatched sneakers.

It was a sunny Saturday morning, warm and pleasing, and Dick’s wife, Barbara, from her rosy leisure chair, her tired ankles propped on the ottoman, reminded him to use the weed whacker.

Dick found the weed whacker hanging on two long carpenter nails on a wall inside his shed. He had wiped all the green plastic clean last weekend. Now, it shined. Now, he thought he might give the weed whacker a whole new line but didn’t recall how he’d done that all those other times.

Dick moved mysteriously through lawn and fences and ended up in his S-10 Chevy pick-up, happily driving towards, perhaps, a mower repair shop in Noblesville, just south of his brick two-story ranch home in Cicero, just north of Indy. He made his way through intersections, parking lots, housing developments, and exits. Turning circles upon circles, Dick made it all the way to I-70, heading east.

What had they done with his Highway 19? Someone had stolen all the road signs. Semis had no reason to whoosh past him like rockets. Someone had spent too much tax money making a simple road so wide and lengthy.

Hours vanished. Cradled in the S-10 Chevy cab’s vinyl, Dick floated by mile after mile of corn and soybean. He peddled up subtle hills and coasted past insignificant towns and over invented lines.

He rolled and sailed. He put on his Navy suit and cap, freed his calves inside his bell-bottoms. The waves were low. The wind blew painlessly. Behind him, the sun sat in an ocean of orange gelatin. By the grace of God, he mumbled, should I find Hawaii?

The headlights of passing cars began to twinkle. He would have to do whatever he had intended to do tomorrow or in the dark, and Barb would have to put up with it.

An Ohio state trooper pulled Dick over – twelve hours after he was seen leaving – for failing to dim his brights to oncoming traffic.

Dick’s little truck had been creeping along in the dark just outside of Dayton. Barbara had reported him missing. A picture – taken three years ago of Dick smiling nicely in a dark neck tie and behind his pulpit – had been spot-lighted on every Midwest local news hour.

The trooper blinded Dick with his flashlight and asked if he was lost. Dick tugged on his long left earlobe, then pointed a shaky finger to the dark road ahead, to the vanishing point on the horizon, black and absent. He told the officer, Absolutely not. His destination was just there. Didn’t he see it?

"A mutual hatred of beets isn't enough to base a relationship on."
~ the blond on Scrubs


The blond got me thinking. Oh, Scrubs. So funny, and then you have your routine meaningful moments. That music starts. Face soften. So then . . . what is enough?

Matt and I had an awesome date on Friday. We had Mediterranean Cuisine at The Nile (no Belly Dancer - she only comes out on Saturdays), and we shared a horrible, albeit amusing, experience at the theater (when The Happening happened). Thank god we both hated the movie and loved the food. If he had liked the movie even a little, I would've felt betrayed. We do pretty good on mutual hatreds and loves. But, after the date, we came home to the crazy house and just went our separate ways. I do keep waiting on him to come away from the video games. I'm not sure, but I think he's been obsessed with this new "farmer" game (I've seen fields and bales of hay and tractors - maybe? - over his shoulder as he sits there at his desk with his back to me) . . . The game is oddly overly pixelated. Not his usual thing, but then he's too anti-social of late for WOW. He's still miserable with work - even given the new job. He comes home, eats supper, hangs out a little, plays his games, goes to bed. I know he's hardly a "customs broker" type person. He is happiest when he's learning and reading, and he loves this thing he calls "justice." He's an INFJ. I keep throwing all of this advice at him, but, of course, I'm only coming across like a pig. Yet, there is this part of him that likes being gloomy. When I finally get a chance to drag him out of this house (my advice is usually let's go do something!), he gives me the sigh and these angled brows and sad eyes and makes me feel like I'm some sort of sadist: surely, I get a kick out of torturing him and imposing such extreme cruelty.

Yet, here is me. I am an INFP. Still going to school, racking up the student loans and degrees that I may never need. Just one more workshop. Writing and creating MUST be a part of my career, my life being. No awesome jobs have fallen at my feet any way. The loan checks ARE nice. Having less than a full time job gives me more time for the kids. But the fact that I'm pursuing a dream is just plain out mean while he's keying shipments and memorizing codes there under the roaring of jet planes near the airport, more than an hour's drive away every morning. Since we bought the house, he's been duped out of alternatives.

Here is the difference: When I'm out for a day (class, assistantship work, etc.), I stop for Vanilla Frappucinos. I've tried out every restaurant in Muncie. I relax, and I seek new landscapes (I've visited all the parks too). I chat with strangers. I think I'm self-indulgent. He skips lunch. He may take a million smoke breaks a day, but he doesn't dare leave his work premises. On occasion, he'll take a box of Pop-Tarts with him for the week (which is why I've been trying to keep them in stock). If he can't drink sweet tea, he won't drink anything. With the long drives there and back, he flies along in his routine lanes. He listens to his audio books over and over again. God, I hate the thought of him being miserable. Now, that I've got all of this time off (sorta'), I worry about things festering and fizzling.

When Josie turns 18, we'll be greeting our fifties. That's young enough to do some traveling right? He wants to see Venice and Greece. I want to see everything, even the places that aren't so pretty (although I've heard Venice has a problem with rats). Meanwhile, here we sit in the years in between (and that's how it feels - like we're "waiting" for something greater - which stinks). He needs something besides me and his "job" or he's going to hit mid-life crisis hard. I may still hit mid-life crisis hard - even when I've put in all of this god damn effort. I think we'll pull each other through things, however. We are best friends. Mutual hatreds can carry a lot of meaning (funny how they lead to love, eh, JD?). That's how we met - both fresh out of divorce and sharing a mutual hatred of the unfair world in general. The difference is that mine has dissolved. He remains suspicious.

This is my last evening of leisure. Next week, I'll be dealing with the kids - ALL of them - while I try to play catch up for CRT as well as with the laundry (the gargantuan pile in the garage will be sprouting mushrooms soon). I actually played a few little games online and watched Shallow Hal tonight. Great movie, but ya' gotta' wonder if Hal tries to find the big-headed man from the elevator later to turn Rosie back into Gweneth Paltrow.

I found a trial download for Fireworks. Stupid Adobe won't let me have it until June 25th (even though they advertised it as being a part of Creative Suite CS3). Luckily, I can now properly open and edit my .png files. Now it's all just Git-R-Done . . . ;)

My sister called at 9PM to remind me to call my father. With another storm rolling through, I had forgotten - or maybe I had subconsciously pushed it out of my mind. I sound like such an ass blaming the storm. My avoidance tactics are exhausted. When I mentioned hopefully getting down there before the month is up, he said, "All you can do is care for your own. Take care of your family. Keep food on the table." So sincere, yet something is dark in there . . . like he suspects that we're surely doing horrible being so young and stupid with all of these kids (or maybe I'm being presumptuous of his disappointment). I suppose he suspects such things because I keep bitching about my excuses as to why we don't get there as often as we should (big one this summer: the price of gas, of course). Doesn't he suspect such things? He said they might drive up in July. When I hear this, I worry about how disappointed he will be with the shitty condition of my once-lovely back yard. The dog has destroyed the grass and the fence. I can see him shaking his head now . . . and then he'll give some advice as to how to fix it and I'll nod and dutifully take note. I try so hard to play "good daughter." Why do I seek to impress the hell out of this man when I think he'd like me better if I had never even gotten my GED and still lived in a trailer?

to anyone reading . . . Do NOT waste time and money on The Happening . . . unless you're in the mood to throw popcorn at the screen and then bitch for hours on end afterwards. R.I.P. - Your career, Mr. Night. If the shitty writing and acting doesn't kill your career, all the shots that let the boom show surely will. Wow. I had to ask Matt mid-movie is this was supposed to be a satire . . . I kept squirming in my seat because I really, really wanted to walk out. Actually, I find it quite offensive when a writer/director doesn't take the time to edit out the little black mic hanging above the heads of the actors (especially in those scenes that are supposed to be making you gag with sentiment). Horrible. Horrible. If I had a movie poster in front of me right now, I would spit on it.

At least dinner at The Nile was yummy. Feta cheese redeemed my evening. :)

By tomorrow at this time, I will have completed my little two week summer seminar on Literary Biography, and I will have gained an entire 3 credits! This is a big accomplishment in two weeks. Although it's been a lot of work - immersive fer sure - it was worth it. Today, I was giddy. I know that my paper will come together easily (I've already got the draft drafted). I'm going to play a recording of Sexton reading "Little Girl" while all those black and white photos of her roll in the background - BUT not before I set the poem up as defined by its contemporary audience of the day and then I get to say, "This is what her audience in the late 60's took from the poem (anti-war, tender, generational, loving, etc.) . . . Now, let me introduce you to Anne." Boom. Biography shakes the foundations - especially in regards to the memories resurrected by Linda in Middlebrook's biography. I told the whole class that I would bring them donuts in the morning for our own little (less dark) "celebration." Let's hope I don't forget. I picked the right author, I think. Anne Sexton made Literary Biography a breeze . . . she is of the
"confessional" school (bio? hello). And she was someone I had been meaning to read more of, so I didn't hate it.

I'm celebrating other things too . . . On a whim, I checked my department mailbox today (thinking that I wouldn't be back on campus to check it in a while) and all alone there in my piny little box sat a check. I thought it would likely belong to the mysterious chic that I share the box with (Chen Yu Something maybe?) - she always has checks in there and I've seen them linger in the box for weeks at a time. But, nope, this one was for me! Another assistantship check. I thought I had already received my last one! Cool, eh? I am thinking that when I received my loan check, I forgot about the last check . . . So on the way home I had to talk myself out of buying a cool entertainment center fairly cheap at a yard sale. Instead, we went grocery shopping and bought things like chips and yogurt and freezie pops and fresh fruit and popcorn shrimp. Dinner is served.

In spite of the celebrations, I am still flustered by my dead laptop. It is hard to fathom the fact that I've lost so much. It is even harder to fathom the fact that my InDesign layout - the final version of CRT so close to being complete - is all gone. I'm almost back to square one. I feel like a big idiot - especially for letting five whole days pass without backing everything up. I swear to god, I was telling myself that I would back it up in the morning and then that very morning, it was dead. Hard drive gone - not even being detected as existing. Recovery would cost too much money. I am hoping that everyone who was watching - and all of those awesome writers who had submitted -- will be patient and that this won't screw up any reputation that I was attempting to put in place. Chances are: yes, it will. I can only hope that the final outcome will be good enough to sway any of those who have swayed against me, lost faith or simply forgotten.

Still, I'm not going to race back to working over the weekend. I can't. I have to take a breather. I have to get out into the fresh air. I have to lay in the grass or pick flowers or something . . . maybe put my feet in a trickling stream.

Last night, I brought an entourage of children to a farmhouse in Markleville. I picked them up at the park because school had let out early and they wanted to "hang." They were told by school authorities that anyone caught participating in "shaving cream wars" would be arrested. At the park, the June Jamboree buzzed nearby and little Fall Creek raged right beside it - transformed into a smelly, raging mud river due to all of the recent storms. The park seemed sadly quiet (considering previous years when it became transformed into somewhat of a snowy, shaving creamy dream).

So, I picked up my daughters along with their friends. They piled into my dirty soccer-mom Windstar and I took them to the farm (driving through some high water -rather daringly- that covered spots here and there along the county roads). Ashleigh had her boyfriend stuck to her side and her best friend, Jenna, had acquired a new boyfriend - one with a long ponytail and excessive chin hair. The farm is actually Jenna's home. We were going there so that Jenna's mother (once a professional hair-stylist) might put blond high-lights and blue streaks on the hair of my younger daughter, Erin (this is her birthday present). When Jenna's father saw the new boy that she had taken up so quickly, he introduced himself with a shot gun in his grips, pointed almost at the young boy's nose. He gave him a couple of "warnings" and pulled out his knife - suggesting the boy get rid of the pony tail now. I think the boy merely blushed.

When we left the farm, the blond highlights were spotted and poorly done (we'll be returning today for more blond and to add the blue). AND Ashleigh's young, stout loverboy, age 17, had gone rebel with a bleached mohawk. I imagined this boy's father being highly pissed. When I dropped the kid off at 10:30PM, I practically shoved him out of the car, then drove quickly away. I kept waiting on my cell phone to ring and bitching to come through the invisible wires. Only after he was half way into the process, did the kid tell me that the next day he was getting his picture taken for his driver's license. I shouldn't have let the little shit get it done on my time. Ashleigh was ticked by his decision and his change of appearance but more so his choice to get his hair done instead of hang-out with her close on the living room couch, and she refused to kiss him good-bye.

Where is my role in all of this? Shameless instigator perhaps . . . Horrible mother, regardless. I can say that I did not drink one beer nor utter the f-bomb (as the hair-stylist does).

I had to come home to stack of papers for this morning's class. They were good papers - on the "craft" of biography rather than boring shit like "history." Friday is midterm. Yippee.

Holy shit. This Lit Biography class has left me terrified. of course, I have not read Middlebrook's bio of Anne Sexton yet . . . I was too busy trying to get my premiere issue of my lit journal out (for the most part, single-handedly). This evening, I had to research alternate Sexton bios (found a cool one comparing Anne and Sylvia) and then read three fat articles about the objectivity of biography (I feel I know this already so I am scanning - and of course, I've already Barthes - all kill the authors!).

So I'm awake at 1AM and I've slipped over to my blog because, well, frankly, I needed a moment or two to spat before I crawled off to bed (where my alarm clock will be buzzing in my ear four and a half hours from now). These next two weeks promise to be hell. This is a horrible week. Erin's birthday was today. I had to cook her stir-fry for supper. I had to go buy a new printer. The kids' last day of school is Wednesday. The June Jamboree is on at the park. Erin wants a party on Friday night. I have a paper due on FRIDAY. Geez.

I did manage to compose a rough (boring) draft of a site for Neely. I do not, however, have a hugely long list of e-mails to give him, like I thought I did. I'd only covered the websites of a couple of colleges. I do hope that he'll let me linger a little in my work . . . This may require a personal conversation in which I may have to employ tears.

Work. Messy house. Whiny, bitchy children. I couldn't even hold a conversation with my mother this evening when she called. I was too distracted. I am an asshole.

I am relating to the Plath/Sexton motherly/rebellion/pissed off/kill-myself motif. Why couldn't the gods grant me a little neuroticism and the freedom to have a mental breakdown and some time alone in a mental hospital to write???