I spoke up

See this dog? Imagine a dog that looks like this, that's as tall as your waist. Imagine he weighs about 150 pounds. Now imagine riding your bike down your own road early one fine morning, on the last day of June, in fact, while being chased within an inch of your tires and barked at by FOUR of them. Plus a Schipperke! All while their elderly owner, in an orange nightgown and carrying not a single leash, stands by the side of the road yelling, "Come back! Come back!"

This is a scenario I no longer have to imagine, because I lived it. Our neighbor (the lady in the nightgown) has made a habit of walking these enormous dogs off-leash down our road for years. They wander into our yard, leaving enormous piles of you-know-what and causing our dogs – safely restrained within the confines of our securely fenced back yard – to go completely apeshit. It causes Mr. A to go a little apeshit too. He hates the dogs, and the woman, and every time they go by our dogs freak out and Mr. A gets mad all over again.

Until today, I've responded by defending them. "Aw, she's just a little old lady, and they're really nice dogs – Newfoundlands are known for their gentleness!* It's probably one of the only pleasures she has left in her old age! She's just a nice old lady who wants to take her dogs for a walk. Etc. etc.!"

"No she isn't," he is likely to respond. "She's an asshole and she needs to get those dogs on a *@$& leash or keep them at home."

Well, today I joined him in his opinion. Not only that, I confronted her about it! When the dogs kept chasing and chasing and chasing me, I finally turned around and rode back toward her. They followed me, of course, and as I rode up I could see she thought I was just doing her a favor by bringing her her dogs back.

"You need to control these dogs," I said. "They just chased me halfway down the street! They're supposed to be on leash – it's a county law."

"They're under voice control!" she replied.

[I have read in dog columns and magazines about people who say this when their out-of-control dogs do something they're not supposed to do, but this is the first time I've ever actually heard it myself. Unbelievable!]

"No they're not!" I said, incredulously. "They just chased me fifty yards down the road while you stood here shouting for them to come back! They're not under your control at all."

"Well, we're almost home," she said.

"Listen to me," I interrupted. "Your dogs are not allowed to chase people. I see you out here all the time with these dogs off leash and out of control, and I don't want to see it again. You need to keep them on a leash, or keep them at home." (Thanks, Mr. A, for supplying a ready-made script for a moment in which I surely would otherwise have thought of the right thing to say only hours later, after it was too late.)

She keeps protesting, while trying to gather the dogs around her – the dogs are all excited now and don't want to be corralled – and I rode off, saying, "That was totally uncool, what just happened. Next time I see you out here with these dogs off-leash, I'm calling animal control."

That was kind of a stupid thing to say, especially since I already know animal control won't do anything. What I should have done, had I thought of it, was take a picture of her and all five dogs out in the middle of the road with no leashes and no help, as proof that she's creating a public menace. I had the camera right in my bag and everything! Next time I will be prepared.

So yeah, I'm all full of adrenalin this morning. Not that I ever felt like I was in any real danger. They're not very well socialized dogs, but I didn't have the impression they were vicious or wanting to seriously attack me – they were probably just excited to have something fast to chase for a change. Then again, you never really know what dogs will do when they get all pumped up with the hunting instinct – I've seen even my darling, gentle Taterman turn into a totally different kind of animal when a fight erupts at the dog park. My normally shy, retiring friend gets all stiff and rigid in his legs and shoulders, his hair stands straight up along his spine, his lips pull back to expose ferocious fangs like that creature in Alien, and he starts jockeying for position along the edge of the fray. It's a terrible sight to behold!

FYI, when that happens, what you're supposed to do is walk up behind your dog and grab him firmly by the base of the tail, right next to his body, and drag him away from the group. Don't grab further up the tail, or you could break it – also, the farther away from his body you get, the easier it is for him to turn around and bite you. If your hand is right next to his body, he can't curl around enough to get at you. Anyway, that's what my book said, and it worked for me that day at the dog park.

Urgh. Irresponsible people like this neighbor are the reason why responsible people like me are not allowed to bring dogs to so many places these days. Maybe I need to write an article about this (I am currently working on a series about how to encourage people to ride bikes instead of driving). But the irresponsible people don't care about what they read in the paper – if they even read the paper at all. If they cared, they wouldn't be doing all that stuff in the first place.

Anyway, I'm fine, I didn't get bitten, I wasn't even anxious about it until afterwards, and I'm proud of myself for speaking my mind to that lady instead of just riding away. I'm also going to go ahead and call animal control, just to see what they recommend. I don't want to repeat this experience.

*As a bonus to anyone who's read this far, looking for the asterisk – did you know that Newfoundlands are closely related to Saint Bernards? Yeah, I'm talking about CUJO! This is what I'm up against in my neck of the woods. Click the picture to see a full-size photo of the monster himself, in all his drooly glory (plus a hot illustration featuring Dee Wallace's thigh!).

Technical question

I need to find a new registrar and CHEAP hosting service for several URLs I own and/or manage. Requirements:

1. Must be secure. I don't want any of these domains to be stolen or sold out from under me or my clients.

2. Must be cheap. The current one is around $25 a year for domain registration and a basic hosting package. Most of the sites are only a few pages of basic old-skool HTML (the only kind I know), with no shopping carts or any other fancy stuff, so I don't need much storage space or any complicated software.

3. The management interface must be Mac-compatible. This is my biggest complaint with my current registrar – none of their online help tools or WSYWIG editors work if you're coming in from a Mac.

4. The customer service must be responsive. The problem I'm having now is not a complicated one, but I can't get anyone to answer my desperate pleas for help – I'm not even sure they're receiving them. The support desk software is just one more of the many features of their service that does not appear to work with a Mac.

Any suggestions, anyone? I need to make this happen within the next couple of days.

[shudders ] This kind of thing makes me realize I really don't want to be dealing with other people's websites at all anymore. I don't even want to deal with my own, other than posting a little update here every once in awhile. I love the Internet, but I don't want to "make the Internet happen." This is a great example of a situation in which I would rather be a consumer than a creator. Let other people troubleshoot and problem solve and fix the glitches – I just want it to work! Is that too much to ask?

Yikes. One too many Thai iced teas this afternoon, apparently. I'm all hopped up!

Happy birthday to me

As of today I can no longer officially (or at least truthfully) say, "I just turned 40." Now I have to say, "I'm in my early 40s." Anyway. It's my birthday. Thanks to all who've gotten in touch to wish me well.

Moving on:


Above is the basic plan for the front of the infamous building. Click the image for a BIG picture, including questions at the bottom.

To respond to various comments:

1. Robin, hi! Great to hear from you.

2. I'll just post on my progress here. No name yet, though there are a few I'm considering. I might do a separate website at some point too if I end up producing any interesting work out of it.

3. I will definitely check out Reuse and Restore – thanks for the info! Urban Ore IS pretty pricey, for a salvage yard.

4. Nice talking to you this morning, Beans – I will be going over these plans with Dad & would love to have you guys come out and help nail it together, if you have the time!

5. About the toenail fungus – my black toe incident was sixteen years ago, but you're on the right track with the toe injury theory – MY toenail fungus issues started right after an ingrown toenail got smashed by a falling cinderblock. Yee-ow!

6. About permits – the nice lady at the county assured me I don't need one, as long as the building does not exceed 120 square feet. So that's why it's going to be 10x12.

I'm doing framing sketches now so I can put together my shopping list. I'm also considering something several people have suggested – that I draw up a plan for what I have, and have the Tuff Shed people build it for me as a frame kit, or hire someone local to do the whole thing. Part of me says, YES! No slaving away in the hot sun cutting and hammering all summer – the sooner the building is done, the sooner I can get to work on all my other ideas. But a bigger part of me really wants the experience of building it myself. Everyone in my family builds houses. I grew up in a series of three houses that were constantly under construction; with the last two my parents designed them and supervised the construction themselves. I've built fences, arbors, chicken coops, dog houses and room additions ... This is just a tiny little 120 square foot shed – I don't think it's going to be all that hard to put together. Exacting and time-consuming, yes, especially since it's my first actual human-size building – but not hard.

Yikes. Doth I protest too much? The truth is I know this is going to be a lot of work for one person, and it's important to me that it be perfect. Also, Sunday morning I had an especially disturbing nightmare that alerted me to the fact that this project holds some major symbolic significance to me – it's more than just a shed to draw and play and do yoga in. So I'm going to need to spend a little time with some of those issues before I get too much further into it.

Anyway – here's the south wall. Just one door, no windows. The facing wall on the north side will have one or two windows. The front wall is ten feet, sloping down to eight feet at the back. The back wall backs up into trees and may have a shallow row of windows just under the roofline, or a door, or maybe just all shelves.

Both of these drawings are pretty much exactly to scale, by the way. Of course it will eventually become all gnarly and weathered, with all kinds of vines and plants growing up all over everything. I'm envisioning it staying pretty rustic. Kind of like the photo at the top of Rozanne's blog, actually! I've been drawing and collecting photos of this type of building since before I started college, so it was cool to find a picture right here in my own personal blogosphere where it is convenient to direct those curious about my vision of the "after." Thanks, friend!

Building plans

Mr. A put up the tent last night because it was too hot to sleep in the house. This morning I got up early and got several hours of work done before it got too hot to be in the sun; I drank almost two gallons of water between 8 and 5 and I'm still feeling kind of parched.

Most of the afternoon I spent sitting on the patio in front of fan, sketching out pictures of this mythological building that is purported to be in the early stages of planning.... I got out the graph paper and the tape measure and now have it more or less figured out, except for the exact measurements of windows and doors, which will have to wait until after I actually buy them (see below). I also have some technical questions about what sizes and kinds of lumber to use, and where I should use framing connectors (those metal bracket things) and where nailing or toenailing will be okay. Actually, I think we're going to use mostly screws – not nails. And Mr. A likes to use those brackets on all major joints, which I don't necessarily mind, but then again – I'm trying to keep this as simple as possible. On the other hand, I also want it to be sturdy, safe and durable.

So, about the site: I had a flash of inspiration the other night and realized that if I just turn the whole thing about 80 degrees counterclockwise and move it back about five feet, I can nestle it into a sweet little niche between the apple, redwood and eucalyptus trees – a spot that feels much more private and protected and still has a pretty nice view of the east end of the yard. I want to get the tree guy back here to check out the trees before I start building, because I'm still a little nervous about putting anything so close to such large and brittle species of trees. The redwood has one nine-inch side trunk I want to have removed, and we already had the eucalyptus cut way back after a huge branch broke out of the top of it during the New Year's storm last winter.

In anticipation of the green light, though, I went ahead and got the spot cleared today. This involved moving a huge pile of branches Mr. A pruned from the apple trees this spring, which we have not got around to chipping yet, and raking up all the detritus and chopping down seedlings that have sprouted under the trees – six baby oak trees, a couple of different kinds of pine trees, three baby coyote bushes, and a madrone that's about six feet tall that I decided to just trim, since it's a slow-growing tree, and very pretty, and it's almost five feet from where the wall is going to be, so maybe I can enjoy it for some years before it gets so big it has to go.

Next steps – in way more detail than you ever wanted to know:

1. Build the platform. This will be a 10x12-foot platform built on a grid of 20 pier blocks sunk in holes about 6" and infilled with gravel or possibly cement, with 4x6's going lengthwise, and 2x6 joists on top of that, and a floor of either hand-dyed plywood or 2x4's. Before I start this I need to figure out the best way to secure the pier blocks in the ground (have decided against using sonotubes because it's just too hard to dig a decent hole in our super rocky soil – the property was a quarry for 50 years before Mr. A's uncle bought it; that's why he got such a great deal), and the best way to attach the 4x6's to the pier blocks, and whether I really need to use joist hangers, and if so, what kind. Keep in mind this entire house was built and has been standing firm for more than 30 years with no framing connectors at all, except the ones holding the trusses together. Also: are 4x6's overkill? Could I build the whole deck with 2x6's? It's only a 120-square-foot building!

2. Buy doors and windows. My current plan calls for one regular door, one set of French doors, and seven to ten windows of various sizes. And possibly one more door, if I decide to do a back door that would open out from the back wall into the shady cool space under the redwood tree. I know the basic sizes that can work for my plan and will just pick the best ones I can find from whatever's in stock at Urban Ore when we get there.

3. Finish my drawings for framing, based on the measurements of the doors and windows.

4. Figure out how many pieces of each size and kind of lumber I'm going to need, and how many cuts, and what angles, and put together a shopping list for the lumber store. Create a staging area where I can store, cut and label all the various pieces.

5. Add to the shopping list all boxes of nails and screws, hinges, doorknobs, window screening, tubes of caulk, saw blades, drill bits, and all other miscellaneous things you need when you're building something, that you always forget until you're right in the middle of the mess and can't stop to make a run to the store.

6. Also add: roofing. Probably this will be just that corrugated galvanized metal over plywood. Simple, classic, reasonably cheap.

7. Thrift a pair of boots to work in. My last pair accidentally got left outside all winter (not by me!) in a sludge of water at the bottom of an upside-down dog kennel, and was discovered a few weeks ago wearing a heavy coat of hideous mold ... I've been doing everything so far in my old sandals, but I need something more sturdy to actually work in. Last time I did something like this in substandard footwear, all my toenails turned black from stress!

8. Buy lumber, hardware, etc. etc. Bring it home, cut it, label it, and stack it up in an orderly way so I can find the pieces I need when I need them. Possibly I may abandon this plan and end up just cutting each piece as I need it ... Probably not, though. I think this is getting complicated enough without going all random.

9. Take a few moments to freak out about how much money I've just spent.

10. Lay out cut pieces for each wall on the platform/floor, and nail together the frames. Need to figure out whether it's better to attach doors now & adjust them later, or just hang them in the doorframe after the walls are up. Fixed windows will be installed now; other windows will be removable (according to my own ingenious design).

11. Assemble walls.

12. Build the roof on top of the walls – framing and supports, and plywood, and roofing (whatever that ends up being – I'm not finished researching this part yet).

13. Attach trim around windows and doors.

14. Clean up.

15. Celebrate.

I'm excited and nervous to get started with this. A pricing trip to the lumber yard the other day was kind of a rude awakening ... enough to make me want to consider doing it in stages – the platform and a rudimentary shade structure kind of frame this year, filling in the frame and adding windows, doors and siding next year. But none of these materials will be getting any cheaper and if I'm really going to do it, there's really nothing to do but just DO IT. Right?

I may post some of my sketches, if I start feeling brave again. Writing it all down like that just now has made me a little queasy, however. It's been a long time since I took on a project this big. And it isn't even all that big!

Well, one step at a time. It isn't a race – the only reason I'm doing it at all is for my own pleasure. And I do know people I can call if I run into trouble.

All this is making me remember the summer of 1990, when I ripped out and refinished the entire interior of a house I was renting in Utah ... I was staying with my sister until I got it ready to move into, and I would wake up every morning with my back aching and my head pounding and my hands so sore they were paralyzed in this horrible claw-like posture from gripping hammers and pliers all day (I pulled about ten million rusted staples out of the floor by hand!), and I would lie there not even wanting to open my eyes, willing myself to go back to sleep, thinking, "I can't go back there today. I just can't." But then I would get up and go, and work all day, and eventually it was done and it turned out great.

After that experience I swore I would never put that much work into anything else ever again unless I owned it. And now here I am, ready to finally build my own house with my own hands ... It isn't anything like the houses my parents and brothers and sisters have built. But ... well, it's what I can do, right now. More than that, it's what I want. A 120-square-foot house is just right for who I am, where I live, what I want.

And really, it isn't officially a "house" anyway. It's supposed to be a studio. Or, to satisfy the county, a "detatched agricultural structure." And it does look kind of like a chicken coop.

If I wear it every day, does that make it art?

One of my loyal readers, understanding my love of wearing the same thing every day, sent me a link to this website all about this woman in Seattle who's doing a year-long performance project by wearing the same brown dress every day for a year.

I was intrigued enough to spend the better part of a morning reading every page of the site. Because it's late and I have work to do, or maybe just as a special treat for those who've been missing the long, convoluted and seemingly meaningless entries I used to write on my earlier blogs, today I present – in lieu of an actual entry – the complete and only lightly edited notes I wrote to myself while devouring the Brown Dress Project website.

Notes on the Brown Dress Project website

So this woman wears the same brown dress every day for a year, and makes business cards and puts up a website and calls it a "project" - well, it actually IS a project, but still - and takes a photo every day and posts about the experience ... and it's called art.

At first I thought she was going to wear ONLY the dress, but looking at the photos it's clear she mixes it up A LOT. Even more than I do!

I've been living like this for YEARS! Nobody's ever thought of it as art but me. I always thought I was the only one who thought of myself as an artist. Other people think I'm just lacking fashion imagination.

She was worrying about a stain on the pocket - I would suggest she embroider something on top of it.

She talks about how this project started out in part as an exploration of the way other people live, the poor people in the world who truly have Only One Thing To Wear, and how she's now embarrassed she thought she could make any real comment on that. That seems wise, to recognize that. She also mentions people seen on the street in Seattle or Mexico or in National Geographic, the way they wear the same thing every day ... I've always thought those multi-layered outfits worn by poor people in the high mountains in Asia or South America (for example) were totally cool. So many shapes, colors, textures ... and no pressure to change it up just to entertain or appease the people around you.

She also mentions the idea of wearing the same thing until it falls apart and can no longer be repaired, like during the Great Depression. I love this. I've done this since I was a little kid. I remember my favorite red t-shirt with the white stars. A certain pair of denim shorts I held onto until they fell off my body. A levi jacket I picked up at DI that I repaired and embellished with square chrome studs. A long wool coat, also from DI, that had a huge rip up the back (which I repaired flawlessly) and that I finally got rid of just a few years ago – a mistake I regret to this day. All those old army fatigues I just sent to the dump. I hate letting them go.

She mentions, "I saw a great book recently with photos of babies from traditional cultures around the world and the amazing traditional magical garments they wear, with bells and animal horns to disguise them from evil spirits, and tiny makeup designs painted on their faces to enhance their health and beauty." I need to find out what book that is, and take a look at it. I love magical garments too, and symbols and designs etc. painted on the body (like tattoos!). Maybe my love of this kind of thing at least partly grew out of the fact that I grew up in a religion where in order to be considered full members of the community, adults must wear a sort of magical garment every single day, during pretty much every activity that is done wearing clothes. They wear it under their clothes, so it's more private than this project, and the culture carries many legends of how its use has prevented harm and injury to the wearer under seemingly impossible circumstances, or has in some other way brought protection and good luck. The most recent story I know comes from my mom, whose friend's son was killed in the Pentagon on September 11, and who says they were able to identify his body only because of his garment. I have also read that the wearing of "magical garments" - and the recognition of them as such - was much more commonplace during the early 19th century, when Joseph Smith was putting together the new religion. Hmm.

This happens to me a lot - I hear someone talking about some insight or idea or practice they've just had or thought about or started doing or whatever - and people start talking about it as if it's important and fabulous and totally amazing - and I think to myself, "Hmm. I've been doing that or thinking that or living that way for a very long time now, and nobody ever made a big fuss over ME." A little jealousy ensues. The difference is that I never make a point of getting out there to tell everyone what I've discovered or thought or done. I don't like people looking at me and bugging me and calling me all the time .... so I specifically try to stay out of the spotlight, for the most part. But I do like the IDEA of people flocking to me to praise my ideas.

She talks about mending, and how she never used to mend things until now, and how sewing on a new button feels like a chore ... I love mending. I love patching things, especially. With embroidery, too. I love the idea of something that is loved or needed so deeply that you will make a special effort to take care of it and help it last as long as it possibly can.

I know it's just stuff. It isn't who you are. But it seems important, or at least I find it very satisfying, to take my stuff personally. Not to have a lot of stuff, but to really enjoy the stuff I have. To be responsible for it. To also be very strict about not allowing anything into my life that I don't really, really love. This is a source of some stress in my life with Mr. A because I don't always love all of his stuff, and he doesn't always love all of mine.

I felt inferior to her because she was wearing the exact same dress for a year, and while I wear the exact same shirt all the time, I do have a few copies of it that I rotate through, so my experience seemed to me somehow less pure. Then I found out she actually had TWO of the dress. Harrumph!

Why do I always feel like other people's efforts and ideas are somehow more "valid" than mine? Not that exactly - I feel like they're SEEN as more valid, by other people. Like if I called myself an artist in public I would be attacked as a poser, because I've never shown anything in a gallery. Bleah.

Why do I feel like her project somehow validates me as an artist? I didn't do a project. I only wore the same clothes every day.

She says wearing the same thing every day pushes people's buttons: "By calling into question the wisdom of following the rules (the basic societal rule I am breaking is "thou shalt not wear what you wore yesterday"), eventually the doors fly wide open and all rules can potentially be broken." That basically hits the nail on the head. I've had that experience too. It's a wonderful feeling to live from your own heart, but it does seem to piss certain people off, in direct proportion to how much of themselves they're suppressing in order to live by rules they don't really believe in. It always amazes me how many people seem to feel like, "Well, if I have to suffer (wear a necktie, pantyhose, whatever), then so should everyone else."

She asks, "How would you dress if you'd never heard of fashion?" That is my ultimate goal: to dress as if I've never heard of fashion, just wearing what I'm drawn to, what feels good, what I like. I actually kind of already do that, come to think of it.

Happy feet

Like a lot of women I have body-image issues. Too much hair here, not enough there ... too fat (really) ... not as firm overall as I used to be ... actually, that's about it. Mostly I'm pretty happy with myself, even though I'm constantly suspecting everyone around me of thinking I have no right to be. To quote the poet, I dote on myself – there is a lot of me, and all so luscious!

Out of all my wonderful parts, I especially love my feet. I even remember the exact moment I fell in love with them. I was about nine or ten years old, and on a green and glorious rainy summer afternoon a boy in our neighborhood, Joey King (I still remember his name!), happened to notice my bare feet and remark, "You have cute toes."

Such a tiny, apparently insignificant moment! And yet when I looked down to evaluate my toes for cuteness, it struck me that he was right. They were cute. Not only that, but my whole foot – both of them, my feet! – were adorable. I thought so then, and I still think so. They're the perfect size and proportion, in my opinion. Mr. A also has really beautiful feet, by the way. It's something I look for in a man.

My inordinate appreciation for my own feet has taken a bit of a blow lately via a strange-colored spot on my left big toenail my doctor diagnosed as onychomycosis – toenail fungus. I went to see him, already knowing what it was, and prepared to demand a prescription that would completely destroy it as quickly as possible. Instead of giving me the prescription, though, he showed me the literature describing its possible dangerous side effects, and also let me know that it costs several hundred dollars a month that my insurance would not cover. He also said he'd had only spotty success with it with his patients who'd decided to go ahead and try it, and recommended using Vick's Vapo-Rub® instead, or any of a number of over-the-counter anti-fungal products.

I consulted with the holistic pharmacy tech, who turned me on to their best-selling brand of anti-fungus product for toenails, Fungi-Nail®. I stood in the aisle of the pharmacy for twenty minutes staring at the shelves and reading the box over and over again, along with the boxes of all the other products ... and finally decided to go for it. It cost almost twenty bucks for a little tiny bottle of it.

[An aside: When I got it home I noticed something I had overlooked during my in-store inspection: a little note stating, "This product is not effective on the scalp or nails." Huh? So why is it called Fungi-NAIL? Further reading revealed that this disclaimer is required by the FDA as of a few years ago – probably not so coincidentally, right around the same time the new toenail fungus drugs entered the market – because somebody determined that the product did not actually penetrate the nail, or something ... even though it's been on the market for decades.]

I've been using it faithfully twice a day for almost two months and it seems to be working. Thank dawg! I have a friend who's in his 60s and his toenails are so infested with fungus they look like those dried up burnt Fritos you throw away when you get to the bottom of the bag. Ugh. And he's super healthy, too – teaches yoga, eats only raw food, rides a bike everywhere, etc. etc. etc. Maybe he doesn't mind having ugly feet because fungus is natural. But I would be so depressed if my toenails looked like that.

In any case, my feet are back on track and I'm very happy about that. Even happier is the fact that I just got some fabulous new sandals! I bought my first pair seven years ago and they're still going strong – super comfortable, rugged and versatile. They're so great that I don't really even need another pair. But I love them so much I wanted more! The only problem was, it's been several years since they've offered any new colors I liked.

Is this the most boring entry ever or what? Do I really have so little to talk about?

Well, yes. As a matter of fact, I really do. Have little to talk about. Well, little that I'm gonna talk about here.

To get back to the point: This year they came out with this über-caliente orange and red double-strapped version, and I am once again in lu-u-u-v. So cute! And since I'm under doctor's orders to give my toenails a rest from nail polish this summer, it's nice to have a little color going on down there.

Also, I don't know if I've ever mentioned this but I can't stand to have anything on my feet unless it's really, really cold. Socks are only for the coldest winter months, and regular shoes are out of the question from April through about October. So it makes me feel all giddy inside to have a new pair of happy orange sandals that I can wear anywhere – on the street, in the sand, under water, on a bike, over a mountain, with a dress, etc. – that are always comfortable, reliable, durable, and did I mention – they're orange!

In other news, we did get a site cleared for the studio last weekend, but the rest of the weekend was eaten up by a mega-monster expedition deep into the wilds of the Emeryville Ikea store and a Father's Day extravaganza at Mr. A's brother's house (both places are air-conditioned, so we spent a little more time with these activities than we usually do). And now I'm reconsidering the site as well. Actually, I feel pretty certain it's the best spot on the property in relation to everything else, but there are no trees on that side and it feels too exposed. Mr. A wants to just plant a couple of redwoods for privacy, since they grow fast and are beautiful, but I hesitate to do that because I don't think redwoods really belong in our microclimate (even though we already have several beautiful 30-year-old redwoods on the land) and I don't like the idea of planting a tree that will have to be removed at great expense 40 or 50 years from now, assuming it doesn't top out, fall over, or drop a huge branch on top of my studio before then.

The other site I'm looking at now is in a protected spot under existing mature trees, which presents other problems – primarily the necessity of removing a 20-foot-long branch that overhangs a large part of the back yard.

One of these days I'll write more about my philosophy of gardens, plants and trees. Not today, though. We're approaching our forecasted high of 109° F, and I must start drinking copious amounts of water now or I'm never gonna make it home.

Animal signs

This morning as I was leaving the house I saw a bluebird divebombing a squirrel that was trying to run away. It would zoom down and peck the squirrel on the back, then fly straight up into the air, turn around, and zoom down for another peck. They ran and flew for about twelve yards as I watched, then I rode past and lost sight of them.

About a quarter of a mile later I saw a really small turtle walking across the road toward the creek, something else I've never seen before. The only turtles I ever see around here are the great big ones that live in vineyard reservoirs. I suppose this little one was looking for some water, but there isn't any, anymore. The creek has completely dried up already.

Back at my other house, which backed up to a different creek, there was a deep spot that usually had water until the end of summer. When it started to dry up you would see crayfish marching around in the mud with their arms straight up in the air in front of them to ward off predators, or trudging away from their evaporated homes, through the languishing water weeds and over the little sand bars in search of a new pool. A new pool I knew did not exist!

Every August I would wait for the water to go down to an inch or so, then lift up the big piece of broken cement at the edge of the hole, gather up all the crayfish that were hiding there and drop them into a five-gallon enamel stock pot full of well water. Some years there were only five or six; the last time I did it, I got almost 30. Then I would put the stock pot in the car and drive them a half mile up to the creek to a place where there was water all year round, and dump them in.

I thought about stopping to grab that turtle, but I was already late for work and I was afraid it would bite me. Now that I think of it, I should've stopped. I could've dropped it into the big creek closer to my office without even slowing down.

I wonder where that turtle is right now. I sure hope it doesn't die.

Wha ...?

I just typed in the URL to this blog to see if I had any new comments (thanks, Kim!) and instead of the boring old fried hair graphic I was shocked to see this.

What is this "blogpot" thing, anyway? Some kind of creepy new kind of proselytizing tool? And what's with the fart button? What does that have to do with anything?

Not much new to relate today. Jebediah is back to his leaping, prancing normal self – snapping at the air for milkbones like a shark in the ocean and moving in the middle of the night from his bed on Mr. A's floor to his favorite spot just inside the doorway of my room. My theory is that now that his hearing is mostly gone, his strategy for protecting us has changed from one of constant vigilance and incessant barking to a simpler one that involves physically positioning himself for maximum likelihood of being awakened by intruders tripping over his back. Apparently he has decided that I need more middle-of-the-night protecting than Mr. A does, which is probably true, since Mr. A is only spending about half the night asleep these days anyway (and spending the second half commuting to work). Thanks, Jeeps!

Tater's eye is clearing up. The full body mohawk continues to enchant and beguile me. Tonight I will be trimming his tail to a more streamlined and elegant shape.

It's almost a hundred degrees here today. The ride in this morning (before it got hot) was lovely, even though I was beset by the hideous demons of PMS and self-loathing for almost the entire ride ... saying all the usual mean and terrible things I always say to myself at this time of the month, and trying very hard to find something to feel happy, positive, and grateful about. Finding a few things, and remembering a chant I learned from someone I admire and singing it to myself the rest of the way, and feeling somewhat better by the time I arrived.

At lunch time I was going to ride across town for a certain salad I really love that I thought would cheer me up, and noticed when I went in to hop on the bike that my rear tire is completely flat. I have a pump with me and am hoping the tire will hold enough air to get me home to a patch kit and/or a new tube.

When I get there we're going to consider whether to move the outdoor bathtub under the shade of the walnut tree or leave it where it is on the deck next to the giant speaker that looks like a flower pot. Then I'm going to take a bath, and then we're going to see a friend's band at the pub (there's only one).

Tomorrow I'm hoping to get the site cleared for the studio and start building the decking. Possibly the weekend will include a trip to the salvage yard for doors and windows, and most definitely it will include a visit to Mr. A's parents and a phonecall to mine, wishing a happy Father's Day to all. I have a little Father's Day surprise for Mr. A, too, from the dogs.

In other words, I am totally boring and bored and uninspired and am going to stop writing now before I decide to just can this whole thing and go back to feeling sorry for myself.

Blah!

Life blood

This is not my actual blood, of course. But I did donate blood again, finally! Last night I was walking into the market to do a little shopping for dinner, and happened to notice the giant green bloodmobile humming away at the other end of the parking lot. Thinking I would at least do the finger stick part, to see if my iron has come back up yet, I went in to ask how quickly they could get me in and out of there ... and 30 minutes later I was walking out with my purple bandage and my apple juice box and my little sticker that says, "Be nice to me! I gave blood today."

I love giving blood. I mean, I hate it – needles, etc. – but I love the idea that you can actually give part of your body to someone else to help them heal and be well. I have this little meditation I do to bless the blood as it goes into the bag.

This afternoon was another medical excursion as I took two hours off in the middle of the day to take Tater to have his eye checked out. As I had suspected, he has a scratch on his cornea – not sure if that's what was causing the irritation, or if he scratched it himself by pawing at his sore eye – but we left with some eyedrops that are supposed to help clear up the goop. We also got a heartworm test (negative) and another six months' worth of heartworm chews, a bottle of Rimadyl (anti-inflammatory for the arthritis in his messed up wrist), three shots (bordatella, distemper and corona), and the first in a series of Adequan injections, which are also supposed to help with his wrist. The grand total for all this was just under $200 – a number which actually caused me to gasp with relief, since it seems like I hardly ever get out of there for under half a grand.

Then again, there's always next week: he's going back to have his teeth cleaned and those lumps and warts removed, and possibly have a new x-ray of his wrist depending on what the orthopedist thinks when they go over his tests from last year.

The one bright spot is that they always shave his feet for free when he goes under, which is great because along with brushing his teeth, that's something he absolutely will not let me do. And if a "free" five hundred buck foot shave saves me from having to pay for foxtail removal once or twice this summer, it will have paid for itself.

All this makes me think of the dog we had when I was a kid – Gigi. When we talk about her now we mostly call her "the Jeej," which somehow now sounds a little disrespectful to me. She was the best-natured little charcoal-colored poodle in the world, and looking back on it now I can't believe the way we treated her. I mean, we loved her and played with her and kept her fed and safe and warm, but she never got to sleep in our beds with us (was instead relegated to a covered box full of blankets on the back porch), we didn't celebrate her birthday or give her gifts on holidays, and I don't remember ever taking her to the vet for anything – possibly not even for shots. When we went on vacation she stayed alone in the garage with a giant bowl of dog food and another giant bowl of water. Some neighbor kids were supposed to check on her while we were gone, but I don't know if they ever did.

Still, she never seemed to mind any of this, and she lived to be seventeen years old. My parents had her grandchild, Muffy (the Muff) until just a few years ago. Tater and Muffy spent two summer vacations together when Tater was just a baby, so I like to think that the legacy of the Jeej must have been transmitted, and lives on in the Taterman.

Lately the Jeeps (so many funny dog names!) is starting to have trouble getting up from his bed. Every time something changes with him I wonder: is this just another harmless sign of increasing age, or is this going to be the turning point from old age to rapid decline to the inevitable fresh little grave under the apple trees? I don't know exactly what we're going to do when he finally goes. I don't even like to think about it. But I feel like I kind of have to. We have some very big losses coming up in the next few years, and even though there's nothing we can do to prevent any of them – since nobody lives forever – I do think there must be some things we can do to be getting prepared.

Like giving blood! Recognizing that no life lasts forever, and doing what we can to celebrate and sustain life and health and happiness for as long as we're here, and pass it on to others.

P.S. Here's a great website about living with older dogs: The Senior Dogs Project.

Branjolina's baby's got nothing on the Taterman

I've been seeing babies with mohawks all over town this year, thanks largely to celebrity children's hairstylists. But Tater just turned eight and he's had a mohawk every summer for years! Yeah – before it was cool.

This is the latest version. It's not quite done yet – still needs some cleaning up around the back of the legs, and I haven't decided yet whether I'm going to do anything different with his tail. Last year we shaved it all the way to the end, leaving a fabulous sort of tassle like the kind lions have. This year I decided to leave it long, at least for now, and also to leave the luxuriously soft and silky fur around his throat and chest long – it's my favorite part of him to snuggle my face up into.

In this photo you can also see how much his right front paw is twisting. It's been bothering him more regularly now, to the point where he has to be extra careful jumping off the bed and will limp for a day after any kind of exertion, even just a run to the back of the property and back. We've been giving him glucosamine, which seems to help, but I really worry that the inability to exercise much will shorten his life. There will never be another dog like him, and I want him to live forever.

Right now he has some kind of infection or irritation that is making his left eye weepy and sore. I thought I had it cleared up last week, but yesterday he was scratching at it again so I'm taking him to the vet. I always worry when I have to take him in, because he hates it so much there and because I'm always afraid they're going to find something wrong with him. In addition to his weepy eye, he also has his messed up foot that's getting worse, and a couple of those little lumps that dogs get that they tell you not to worry about but how can you not (and which I will have removed next time he goes under anesthesia to have his teeth cleaned), and also this little weird skin thing kind of like a wart on his elbow, which I also want removed and analyzed.

Other than that, he's a wonderfully healthy, happy, sweet dog who seems to enjoy his life very much. And he loves his new haircut. We made up a whole new song about it: Tater With A Mohawk! (Sung to the tune of that old English Beat song, Mirror in the Bathroom.)

Pay attention to this!

Have you ever heard of the Communications Opportunity, Promotion and Enhancement Act? If not, now is the time to get informed – and then get mad. And then do something! COPE passed the House yesterday by more than two-thirds, and if it passes in the Senate, the Internet as we know it will die. And no, I don't think I'm exaggerating.

According to Amy Goodman of Democracy Now:

The bill would effectively end what is known as "net neutrality" which is the concept that that everyone, everywhere, should have free, universal and non-discriminatory access to the Internet. The bill would also cut back the obligation of cable TV companies to devote channels to public access and fund the facilities to run them. And the COPE bill would replace local cable franchises with national franchises.

Democratic Massachusetts Representative Ed Markey had proposed an amendment to the COPE bill that would have included stiff net neutrality regulations and prevented broadband providers from treating some Internet sites differently from others but the amendment was rejected. read more

I'm passionate about free access to information, and community media (like personal blogs, local radio and local newspapers) is one of the best ways to get information out there. It's how I make a living, and it's one of the ways I express myself politically and as an artist. The Internet is a truly democratic medium – you don't even have to own a computer to use it! Anyone with a library card can access the whole world – not just as a consumer, but as a contributor. I want every voice to be able to be heard! Let the people decide what we will and will not listen to – not Southern Bell.

This one is so important to me that I'm doing more than just listening to KPFA and fuming. I'm sending emails to everyone I can think of. During my lunch break, I'll be making some phone calls too.

A good introduction to media reform, from Free Press:

Why care about media?

The media play a huge role in our lives.

We spend countless hours exposed to television, radio, CDs, books, newspapers, magazines, billboards and the Internet. These media inform our ideas and opinions, our values and our beliefs. They reflect and influence our culture through arts and entertainment.

As such, they play a vital role in our democracy, shaping citizens' understanding of social and political issues and functioning as gatekeepers through which issues, people, and events must pass. No matter what you care about — gun rights or abortion rights, the environment or economics — the media influence the perceptions of citizens and policymakers, affecting the policies that touch us all.

Media must not be considered just another business: they are special institutions in our society. Information is the lifeblood of democracy — and when viewpoints are cut off and ideas cannot find an outlet, our democracy suffers. read more

Please get involved in this. Here are some links.

Free Press
Alliance for Community Media
Democracy Now
Save the Internet
Save Access

Or just Google "Internet neutrality." Do it now, while Google still exists.

[end rant]

Be grateful to everyone

All weekend I've been thinking about that little formula for determining whether to say something you're not sure you should say. First, three questions: Is it true? Is it kind? And is it necessary? Then, the formula: if it isn't at least two out of the three, then it probably doesn't need to be said.

Within an hour or so of sending that email to the ex, I started feeling crappy about it. I kept hearing the voice of Thumper (from my first favorite record, a version of Bambi narrated by Shirley Temple that my parents say I could recite from memory by the age of two): "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

So I've been torturing myself over it for several days now, feeling guilty, feeling mean, and all the while impatiently and sort of half-consciously brushing away this other feeling that kept fluttering around at the edge of my consciousness, which I have not had time to really pay attention to until today. Surprise! It's compassion and forgiveness, and a peaceful open-hearted hope that he really will be happy in his new life. It's the way I wanted to feel when he first told me, but couldn't because –

Well, why couldn't I? I think it's because maybe what I said to him the other day really was necessary after all – necessary for me – and I hadn't said it yet. I've never in my life said anything like that to anyone who's wronged me. I've always felt like the original wrong was bad enough, and that acknowledging it to the person who inflicted it would only make it worse – I would feel I'd been impolite by drawing attention to their bad behavior, and I'd also feel, in some weird way, even more humiliated.

In mulling this over I kept coming back to that idea that expressing anger or pain is a sign of weakness, and it finally clicked that I don't believe that anymore. It's not weak. It's just the truth, at least in the moment you feel it. Saying the words to the actual person, clearly and directly, could actually be an expression of strength. Hmm!

Of course there's still the possibility that showing an injury will be taken by the other person as an opportunity to kick you when you're down ... So I guess you need to consider who you're talking to. Also, just because it feels liberating to state the painful truth doesn't mean it's never going to feel painful again.

I've known for a long time that the residual feelings I have over my marriage and divorce are not about what he did or said, but about how I reacted and who I became when I failed to take care of myself. The fact that I did get out, eventually, is something to be grateful for. I think of the Christian nuts I saw on television the other night, waving signs demanding that divorce be made illegal, and I feel very grateful for second chances.

For myself, and for him, too. I do hope he's happy.

And I did write him a brief postscript today, which I will not be publishing here. With a satisfied sigh of relief I am pleased to be closing the book on that chapter of my life again. At least until the next time it comes up.

I hope over time I'll be able to instantly recognize these feelings as indications that there's something about my own self right now that I need to be looking at, instead of always interpreting them first as a re-opening of an old wound.

I ran across this the other day while looking for something on one of the logong slogans having to do with gratitude: "... all those who hurt me are worthy of gratitude since they are my companions and helpers for clearing away the obscurations of disturbing emotions ...."

The key words being "clearing away." Everyone has times of feeling obscured by disturbing emotions. This practice of experiencing and then clearing away some of those emotions probably has made me stronger. It feels that way to me today, anyway.

What I said

Yesterday, while I was waiting for Mr. A to check us out of the hotel, I decided to check my email. Bad idea. There at the top of the list was a message from my ex-husband, cheerfully announcing that he'd gotten married again a few weeks ago and was having a lot of fun getting used to being married again, doing fun things with his new kids, etc. etc.

I never did reply to the message he sent me in January. I couldn't think of anything nice to say, and didn't want to say anything I would regret. But I did feel strange about never answering.

Today I decided to stop analyzing everything and just say what I wanted to say. If he thinks I'm a sanctimonious bitch, so what?

To get right to the point: I didn't reply to the email I got from you in January because knowing you were getting married again made me angry all over again about some of the things you did when we were together. I don't know if I've ever actually said this to you, but you really need to know, especially now that you're married again, that being with you really fucked me up. I trusted you, and you betrayed me and lied to me over and over again. The way I responded to that was not good for me. It's taken me a long time and a lot of work to get my confidence back.

I know it's not good manners to send such a personal and emotional response, but at least when I knew you, it seemed like you never really understood how much your actions affected other people - or if you did, your behavior didn't show it. I hope you know it now, especially if you're going to be living with someone who trusts you to help raise her kids.

You have a kind, gentle and generous soul. I always believed you had it in you to be a good husband, or I never would have taken a chance on marrying you in the first place. I'm glad you've found someone to be with and I hope you'll be happy together. You have a chance now to have an honest relationship. Congratulations on that, and good luck.

Maybe in a few minutes I'll wish I'd said something else, but right now I don't care. He obviously wanted some response, or he wouldn't have made such a point of getting in touch even after I ignored his last email.

[pause]

Okay, so I played right into his hands. Again. By responding honestly I've allowed myself to be manipulated into giving him exactly what he wanted – proof that I really am too emotional, too self-righteous, too whatever – or at the very least, that he can still get a rise out of me. Once again, by indulging in the urge to push back when my buttons are pushed, I've given him power.

Maybe he'll show my email to his new wife as a way of explaining to her why his last marriage was such a train wreck.

Whatever. I've already spent way too much of my life dealing with all this. I won't be answering any future email from him.

I just wanted to give myself credit for and record, for my own future edification, the fact that I did finally answer the message that had been bothering me all these months, and that I spoke my mind even though I know it's not considered a strong move to reveal your emotions about such things. I don't need to be strong here. I have nothing to prove here. I don't even need to be here, at all. I'm done.

At this moment I feel completely free of ever having known him. Or possibly, like throwing up. Could go either way.