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The ramblings of a Siouxsie-loving short person...

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Silly people...

There are times when my shows at the Cafe are busy, productive, and profitable.   Today has not been one of those times.   So, I'm going to listen to Poison on the jukebox (somebody's got a fun sense of music tonight; from "Another Brick in the Wall" to this), and document some of the questions I get asked, and what I sometimes wish I could say in return. Just for the hell of it.   Question: "What have you got here?" What I say: "Handmade jewelry." What I'd like to say: "Papayas, fishing tackle, and old socks. Oh, and the gnomes that I'm babysitting. Watch your ankles; they bite."   Question: "Do you make all of this yourself?" What I say: "Yes, I do." What I'd like to say: "No, I'm just carrying it for a friend. You know, like 9 1/2 months pregnant women who get asked if they're going to have a baby."   Question: "Is this stuff real?" What I say: "Do you mean precious metal and gemstones? Yes, it is." What I'd like to say: "No, it's all created by a prototype hologenerator. Like Star Trek. Either that, or you're having a very strange hallucination. Let me know if Hunter S. shows up, okay?"   Question: "Why are you here?" What I say: "Because I've known the owner of the Cafe for years now, and it's a convenient place to set up." What I'd like to say: "Because it's my turn to babysit the gnomes, and do you know how much amusement park tickets cost these days?"   Question: "Do you do tattoos?" What I say: "No, I don't." What I'd like to say: "Well, I've got a planishing hammer, a pearl reamer, and a Sharpie. Hold still..."   Question: "Don't you have any guy's jewelry?" What I say: "Many of my designs are made to be unisex; it's just a matter of finding something that you like in the right size. And several of the antique reproduction rings are men's rings." What I'd like to say: "Giant snarling wolves, skulls with Viking helmets, and demons, right? Bar-fight rings, in other words. There are lots of large-scale manufacturers doing that with varying degrees of success; what part of original design and antique reproduction did you misunderstand?"   Question: "Can you make me something in brass, with like, rivets 'n stuff?, 'Cause it'd be, like, industrial and kewl." What I say: "I only work in precious metals; otherwise, I'd have to buy a whole new set of tools to avoid cross-contamination." What I'd like to say: "And you wouldn't want to pay for the labor anyway."   Question: "Your prices aren't exactly competitive. Can't people go to (insert name of import store) and find exactly the same thing? " What I say: ::launches into Canned Explanation of cost of silver, cost of labor, use of genuine stones, the fact that much of the silver jewelry comes from countries that don't enforce standards of metal purity, and many pieces are outright counterfeits; that I purchase raw materials directly from refineries and manufacturers in countries that enforce karat standards and do all of the work myself -- so, "no":: * What I'd like to say: "Someone's stepping on my copyrights? Sweet! Filing a lawsuit is a lot less work than busting my hump over the workbench, and usually more profitable."   *(this usually results in a blank look and a response of "uh, no, I guess they can't, then...")   Question: "Don't you have anything more Dark and Gothick?" (pretentious spelling and capitalization added deliberately) What I say: *points to various bats and replicas of jewelry originally owned by people who are now quite thoroughly dead* What I'd like to say: "It costs extra to make the earrings recite Poe. Double for Bram Stoker. However, the originals that the replicas are made from are haunted, if that helps."       If there was one thing I learned from Jim, my Old Goat, it's that a sense of humor is a valuable addition to an independent jeweler's skill set.       (Note to whoever's running the jukebox tonight: this cover of "Marianne" is disturbing. Instead of Andrew Eldritch's basso drone, it has calypso guitar and breathy-voiced girl channeling every French chanteuse who's ever lived. The effect is discordantly perky. Isn't she paying any attention to the lyrics?)
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...more GSSS stuff. Plus assorted nattering

D. has been accepted for the fellowship competition at OSU. Let the twitchy anticipation begin as the bidding war (hopefully) starts between the various schools.   He also finds the fact that I've named my ring mandrel "Mr. Poundy" to be extremely amusing.     Other than that, my chosen sister has talked me into a Shopping Accident at Gypsy Moon. I'm getting a pre-Raphaelite / Artistic style wrap jacket in bluish-grey silk velvet with tea-dyed lace trim.   I have no place to wear it, but it'll look fantastic with the black silk charmeuse blouse that she and D. already got me for my birthday. (It arrived the day before I had to leave, back in January. He couldn't wait until March to show it to me.)       Other than that, I'm seriously debating whether or not I'm going to do my usual Friday show today. Granted, the Cafe is only a couple of blocks away, but it means hauling stuff up there in sub-freezing temperatures and fresh snow, and hauling it back in sub-zero cold. One of two things is going to happen; either people are going to be stir-crazy beyond belief and come out in droves, or they're going to turn into hibernating bears. There's no telling which is going to happen until later, so I may just call the Cafe and ask whoever is tending bar what they think is going to be the most likely situation.   After all, if it's dead quiet, I'll just be hanging out on LJ and the Forum via my laptop, and I can do that just as easily from the comfort of my living room -- and not have to deal with their WiFi security system time-outs, or the blast of frigid air every time someone goes out to the patio for a cigarette.
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Silly people, part the second

Most of the time, what I say and what I want to say remain separate things. Most of the time, that it. Sometimes, something happens at one of my shows that strains my self-restraint past the breaking point. Like tonight.   There's a particular variety of Passionate Young Person that I've come to avoid, as I used to belong to an artist's co-op studio and gallery full of them. They're rarely older than mid-20s, and full of the cleansing fire of their convictions. They either mellow out as they get older, or the fire gets banked and they turn into the kind of nanny-state left-wingers that strike me as being neo-cons in Birkenstocks. The ones at the co-op were the cause of me losing my lunch more than once; they were all either strict vegetarian or vegan, I am not, and there were several times when I went looking for my brown bag in the communal fridge, only to be told that my horrible carnivore poison had been thrown away, as it was polluting their vegetarian atmosphere. That's a verbatim quote, by the way. The girls in the co-op viewed every male as a potential rapist, unless said male could provide two notarized statements and a doctor's testimonial to prove that they were gay; even then, they were suspect. Everything was a !Cause!; there was no issue too trivial or obscure that it didn't warrant a three-hour debate, art had no purpose whatsoever unless it served a political or social end, and Lord help you if you disagreed with them about any of this.   It was the most humorless bunch of people I've ever been around. Needless to say, I didn't last long.   A few weeks ago, a young woman of this type came in to the Cafe during the time I was set up. She looked over my display, and commented that I didn't have any import silver. I confirmed that no, I didn't, but before I could explain about my concern over metal purity (and the fact that I can't solder on a lot of the imported stuff without it falling apart), she proceeded to rake me over the coals about how I wasn't supporting indigenous tribes in their attempts to become self-sufficient, and how I had no social conscience, and I was thieving food from infants in the third world. She then whirled around, exited, and left me to pick my jaw up off the floor.   She came back in tonight. Once again, she looked at my work, satisfied herself that I had not repented of my evil ways, and said (you'll have to imagine the disgusted look on her face) "So, I see you're still stealing food from children in economically challenged countries."   I don't know what she expected me to do. Cry? Apologize? Be too stunned to answer? I was once, but not this time.   I smiled my best evil smile at her and replied "Well, yes; but you'll be pleased to know that I've added taking candy from underprivileged urban babies to my daily routine. They don't need the sugar, with the rates of early-onset diabetes on the rise; and besides, all this heartless capitalism gives me a sweet tooth."   She left. Bewildered.   Sometimes, you just have to fight fire with sarcasm.     Edited to add:   I think I just got the most completely obnoxious comment to date.   "So, you're the owner but not the jeweler."   My hackles went up. Usually, it's "do you make this?", which is fundamentally different.   I told him that I was, in fact, the jeweler; he gave me the skeptical "you are", and I offered to show him the scars from cuts and acid burns if he needed more proof than my word.   He suddenly looked uncomfortable and changed the subject. It's not the first time I've run into "you're a girl; you can't possibly do all this", but it's the most blatant example in a long while.   Jeezus fucking H. Christ. The stupid; it burrrns, Precioussss.
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Huh?

Did the board just eat the great big entry that I just posted? 'Cause it isn't showing up.   I'll deal with it later. Grr arrgh...
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From the desk of Grad Student Support Staff

For those just tuning in, read the entry directly below this one first for the sake of clarity.   So, earlier today, D. calls and asks if I’ve had a chance to check my e-mail. (Again, unexpected; we had talked for almost three hours last night.) Umm, no; so I pulled out my trusty little iBook and logged into the house network.   University of Colorado Health Sciences Center sent him a “we want you to come look at our PhD program!” invitation.   Again, more background is needed: a well-known university back east whose name I will not mention (but which rhymes with Rons Bopkins) sent a very similar “let us wine and dine you so we can see if we’re mutually compatible” invitation to him two years ago. After wining, dining, and forming what seemed to be a mutually good impression, they said “thanks, but no thanks”. I had a front-row seat for that particular emotional roller coaster; he had many reasons for wanting to go there, starting with the fact that it’s a damned good school, and he would have been entering directly in to their PhD program. The other reasons were equally valid, but intensely personal, so I won’t mention them here; just take it as given that the rejection letter was equal to a well-aimed gut punch, and leave it at that.   Two years and a really traumatic move later (did I mention that he had a broken leg at the time?), he gets this invitation from a school that he could have applied to two years ago, and saved a whole lot of heartache.   For the record, that’s essentially a transcription of him being Gloomy and Russian; the views expressed by the Grad Student do not necessarily reflect the opinions of this blogger, et cetera. The bioinformatics program at University of Colorado was in its infancy two years ago; he could not have gotten the education that he felt he needed from the program at that point, and I supported his decision to go somewhere that would best serve his needs. Whether that was Baltimore or Minneapolis, it didn’t matter; the CU-HSC was not where he needed to be, and that was that.   The program really appears to have gotten its collective act together in the intervening span; they’ve got a good balance of faculty, and the curriculum seems to be reasonably sound. And again, he has reasons to find the idea of a PhD bearing the name University of Colorado rather appealing -- personal ones, but very real.   There are several things to consider, though, that have nothing to do with wants and wishes; hard, cold, practical matters that won’t allow themselves to be ignored. Moving is expensive, to start with; moving up there was costly, moving back would be no less so, and make it borderline impossible to buy property. (Of course, this would probably apply to anywhere other than Minneapolis or Chicago; Columbus is just far enough away to make U-Haul look like a nightmare.) CU’s program has come along way, but it’s still not as well established as the other schools to which he has applied. There’s the issue of how much of a stipend they’re willing to free up, and what they would require as far as TA and RA duties.   On the other hand, Denver is Home, and this place has been calling him back ever since he left. He has never stopped being homesick for the place where the streets know his name. When he got out of the Air Force, he moved back and was determined to never leave again, but life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans. He has contacts in both the math and computer science departments who could probably be counted on to put in a good word for him. And there’s the obvious appeal of spending a two or three more years in the rodina before taking up the life of the academic gypsy.   On the third hand (he commented that he needs as many hands as Kali for this discussion, at which I told him to get out of my brain, because I was thinking the same thing) ...he really doesn’t want to leave Minneapolis. It’s a good school, and even when he’s whining about the work load, he admits that he is getting the education that he wanted from it. He loves the city -- not in the same way as Denver; Denver is Home, but Minneapolis could become a home -- and he knows that I have come to love it as well. Financially, Minneapolis makes the most sense; moving expenses would largely be limited to a small truck, beer and other beverages, and pizza for those who were helping out. The housing market is starting to come down a bit, we have a good support network, and did I mention the fact that we both really like the city?   Plus, there’s the uncomfortable feeling that he’s backtracking. He could have applied to CU two years ago and avoided a lot of grief, or so those insidious little voices that make introspective people’s lives uncomfortable keep telling him. He wasted time. He’s backtracking. Things like that. I, of course, could not allow that to go unaddressed, and said “if you go to the grocery and buy a piece of fruit that you like, but it’s not ripe yet, it isn’t backtracking to put it on the counter for a couple of days until it’s ready.” He liked that analogy, and countered “And, in the meantime, you still have to eat something.” I don’t expect the ugly little voice to shut up quite this quickly, but at least I could get to to pipe down for a while.   All in all, though ...Minneapolis. It’s a good place, and one where we both feel very at home. Of course, it isn’t up to him; it’s up to the Admissions Committee, and the fact that the professor for whom he works is on the committee doesn’t make a difference. His professor is not That Kind of Guy. D's application will be given no more favorable consideration than anyone else's -- laudable in principle, but kind of annoying in practice. And since I'm not the sort of person to send off e-mails saying things like "do you know how many hours he spent coding on that ^$ project of yours yesterday?", we're pretty much stuck with crossing our fingers and gritting our teeth.   However, all of this falls under the heading of “long term planning”; today’s issue was far more immediate. Logistics for the CU-HSC recruitment thing.   His proposal was that I fly up just before he had to come down for the interview weekend, take care of Maggie Waggy, stay until Spring Break, and the two of us (three, if you count the pup) drive back down to Denver -- which translates to him driving and me handling Maggie, as well as food and beverage distribution. Map wrangling isn't necessary; he's made the trip many times before, and it's impossible to get lost in Nebraska. There's nowhere to go.   It sounds like a wonderful idea; however, my id and superego are about to come to blows over it, while my ego stands there going “I am so not getting in the middle of that.” The reason for this emotional donnybrook is that there are a couple of craft shows that look like good prospects for me, and they fall right smack in the middle of this timeframe.   I managed to make a decent amount last year, despite the fractured nature of my schedule. I only did two shows that weren’t my usual Friday “set up at the Cafe and see what happens”. This tells me that I’m building some necessary momentum, and now is the time to get more aggressive about booking as many events as I can. I want to get my trademark, and my website, and be able to take my act on the road in a much broader sense. All of that requires money, though, and that means getting myself out to more events where people are going to be interested in spending it. Preferrably on me.   I know that I won’t be letting him down by telling him no, and he has already told me that I shouldn’t feel guilty about doing so if that’s what I feel is necessary. He knows me well enough to know that it's not going to work that way, but form requires us to say it to the other. It’s just that I dislike being pinned between desire and necessity. I want to spend the time with him. I always want to spend time with him; we’ve known one another for almost 20 years and have never tired of one another’s company. I just can’t be in two places at once, though, and it hurts that I have to choose between fulfilling an immediate want and doing what is best for my business, myself, and Us in the long run.   I know what I’m going to have to say, and I’m already disliking the saying of it.   Either way, we will see each other before the end of February, and either I’ll be flying up for break, or he’ll drive down. Or possibly, I’ll end up driving up, as I have not had the best of luck flying out of DIA lately.   Why can’t we just get to a point where the biggest decision that we have to make is whose turn it is to do the dishes?
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Dammit! Vanishing blog entries

This makes the second blog entry in a week that has disappeared into the ether. Last night's addition posted, then vanished overnight -- just like the last one that went *poof*   Is anyone else noticing this phenomenon, or am I just special in the riding-the-short-bus-to-school way??
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Acceptable Nightgown Quest, phase I

...can now be listed as "accomplished"!   I decided to make another dent in the Macy's store credit card this afternoon. (Yes, Mom got the original receipts to me, and I was able to make Macy's take back the lace-arsed beige pants.) I found three very nice screen-printed long-sleeve t-shirts, but no boots. *sigh* On a whim, I went up to the lingerie department, but wasn't expecting much; the last time I checked, I couldn't even find a brassiere in the right size that didn't look as though it could be worn on-stage for a performance of Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries".   This time, though, several items had gone on sale, and a very good one at that. Take another 40% off of something that has already been discounted by 25%? Thank you; don't mind if I do. And among the various gowns was the one that found its way into my shopping bag.   It's not quite the style that I wanted; I was hoping for something more tailored and slip-like. I was imagining something that positively reeks of Jean Harlow-esque glamor (think this one or this.) I didn't find anything like those, but what I did find was an unconstructed chemise style (no fitted bust, in other words); medium-weight satin, ankle length, wider straps, subtly embellished neckline, and a gorgeous shade of silvery seafoam green.   It makes my eyes look almost like emeralds.   For the moment, I'm wearing my flannel brocade-and-skull print PJ bottoms and an old t-shirt. Soon enough, though, I'll have an excuse to wear something slinky and elegant. I don't get enough chances to display my Inner Courtesan, and I intend to fully take advantage while I can.
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Another GSSS entry...

Well, as of yesterday, Pittsburgh appears to be in the running.   There's no official offer on the table yet, but after talking to the department chairman, the Grad Student is reasonably certain that there's an acceptance / admissions letter on the way. Downside is that said chairman hasn't actually looked at D's application, and therefore doesn't seem to realize that he will have two Masters degrees under his belt, should he chose to enroll there; one of which is in statistics. This makes a difference; Pittsburgh's first year PhD students are usually relegated to standard TA / RA positions, rather than the higher-level floating RA positions, so that they can pick up statistical experience. The RA rotation program has PhD students working on different research projects, much like a med student doing different department rotations during their internships. It also has PhD students taking on some teaching positions, which looks really good on the resume. Needless to say, this is the program option that D. wants; not only does it give him the experience that he needs, the pay is a bit better.   Upsides: good school (hey, he didn't apply to any that weren't), puts him in contact with the East Coast mathematical biology network, close to Baltimore and good friends there, interesting topography, and the housing market is such that we might be able to afford a decent-sized, non-fixer-upper, non-rental house.   Downsides: neither one of us knows anyone in Pittsburgh, neither of us has been there (I might have driven through a couple of times, but that does not count), moving two households to terra incognita would be a logistical nightmare, we have no idea which neighborhoods to look in (housing prices might be great in an area, until you figure in the cost for the Kevlar lining for the walls), we have no idea what the local arts community looks like, we would have no social network or safety net, and did I mention that neither of us has ever been to the city to have a first-hand opinion?   He still has confidence in U of M, and has a good feeling about the interview weekend with University of Colorado. CU-HSC's communications are along the lines of "let us sell ourselves to you", rather than the other way around, and he still has some contacts in CU-Denver's math and computer science departments. U of M hasn't been the most communicative about the review of PhD applications, but he hasn't gotten any feedback that gives him reason to be nervous about his chances.   One drawback is that I can't give him any preference for anywhere except Denver, LA, or Minneapolis, simply because I don't know the cities in question. Denver we both know like the backs of our hands, especially the Capitol Hill neighborhood; that is where the streets know our names, and it is Home. Minneapolis is a place that he really liked before moving there; he was there to visit Lexi and Michael often enough that he came to know the city, and after multiple visits, I know and love it as well. I've been to LA enough times to get something of a feel for the place. The rest? I have no idea.   I didn't mean to make him sad by saying this, but I've become rather resigned to the notion that I can't allow myself to fall in love with any location if I'm going to take up the life of an academic adjunct. A career in academia is much like having a career in the military; you are very unlikely to spend most, let alone all, of your career in a single location. He feels guilty about it, too, but I knew what I was letting myself in for. I was an Air Force brat, albeit part-time, so I know something about being a professional gypsy. Eyes wide open, and all that. I'm not saying that I'm thrilled by the prospect; if I were the type who liked moving around a lot, I wouldn't have so damned many books. Denver has been my home for 20 years. That being said, a certain amount of itinerancy is going to come with the package; I'm not particularly comfortable with the notion of packing up a house and a business every few years, but I have to look at the bigger picture. And that bigger picture is Us.   But still ...Pittsburgh.
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Ugh...

Dear Excolo, this has been a roller coaster of a day. Brace yourselves, dear friends; this is going to read like a novel.   First off, birthday greetings, which are always happily received. It's a bit ironic that the majority of them came from people here, most of whom I have not met face-to-face, in comparison with the ones that came in from those who I actually know here in Denver. They really, truly helped the day to go better.   I'm driving myself to distraction trying to get ready for Saturday. It isn't the fault of the people who are sponsoring it; they have been wonderfully communicative, and I have a really good feeling about how things will go. Perversely, this is exactly what's goading me to this frenzy; I want to make a good impression on them. Another show that I have inquired about, however, has not gotten back in contact with me, and I think that I'm going to put in another call to them tomorrow. That show is more established, and caters to a more monied crowd, but I'm less impressed with their coordinator. I have two other prospective events which I need to contact, and I have a sinking feeling that the person who does my casting has up and disappeared.   My mother called to wish me a happy birthday, and somehow managed to turn the conversation into an inquisition. I love her dearly, but we have communication problems that span back a lifetime. I know that she's concerned, and I know that she wants me to do well, but the way she expresses herself often leads to messages that are not just mixed, but completely scrambled.   For one thing, she is incredibly gung-ho, and doesn't seem to understand that her displays of cheerleader-ish behavior come across very, very badly. I'm knocking myself out on a daily basis, but she doesn't get to see that, since she's halfway across the country. As a result, her exhortations about the things that I could be doing come across as criticisms that I'm not actually doing enough.   Take today, for instance; I mentioned that I could, possibly, take my skills to someone else's shop. The reasons that I haven't are several; for one thing, the past two years have seen several established local jewelers go out of business. In one case, the firm had been around for over a century. The economic downturn hit them badly, and the uptick came too little, too late. It's sad, really, that they had to close their doors just as things are starting to recover, but I can understand. The lean years were very lean indeed, and the fact that my business is so very small worked in my favor. The point is, the other firms weren't hiring during the recession, and now there's something of a local glut of people with more experience that I have. If I had been working for one of those firms, I would be out of a job, and my own business would be further back on the growth curve. If I went out looking now, I would be in competition with people who have locally recognized names like Kortz Jewelers on their resumes, and bench jeweler certifications under their belts. I have neither of these to offer, so it stands to reason that the remaining companies would be less inclined to take a chance on me. And, as I have mentioned before, I got spoiled while working for my Old Goat. By the time he passed away, he had put an incredible amount of responsibility on my shoulders, coupled with an equal amount of trust, and I would likely not find that anywhere else. Before I could tell my mom any of this, however, she started in on how it would be a good idea, and I would probably have use of tools at another shop that I don't have in my own. Never mind the fact that an employer would not look very kindly about my using company tools for my own projects, I have holes in my knowledge base, and I know it. I even said so.   Her response was that, although I'm probably not going to go back to college at this point, there's nothing stopping me from taking art classes in the things I'm interested in learning.   I admit it; I don't have a degree. I was a few credit hours shy of my Associates when I had to drop out because of carpal tunnel syndrome. There were nights when I couldn't hold a pen to do my classwork. I am not proud of this, but I have tried to make up for the lack by doing things like reading chemistry and biology textbooks for fun, and I haven't given up on the dream of going back when my life is a bit more settled. What I'm sure that my mother meant to say was "I know that you have other priorities in your life right now." What I heard, however, was "I have become resigned to the fact that you are going to allow your brains to turn into porridge."   Yes, I could take metalworking courses; the ones offered by Metro State are well-regarded, and the campus is very close by. However, although I have holes in my skill set, I also am far beyond the 100-level classes. They focus on things like saw-pierced copper projects and making basic bezel set cabochon pieces. I have the design of a $15,000 diamond ring under my belt, and I regularly construct rings that have bridge mountings and cathedral shoulders. When I pointed out that taking college courses for jewelry design would mean interviewing with the professors so that they could figure out where to put me, she pointed out that they have telephones. I deferred on that idea, and pointed out that the Colorado Metalsmith's Association has skill-specific seminars; she immediately began grilling me as to what they offer, how much the membership is, and how much the courses cost. And she offered to pay for a year's membership for me.   I should be jumping for joy at this, right? Except for the part in which I'm not.   As of this moment, I have been officially 39 years old for about 3 hours (I was born very late on March 7th), but I feel as though I'm being treated like I'm a third that age. Honestly, this is the sort of thing that you would do with a not-terribly-motivated teenager; apply a very big stick, then dangle the carrot. I'm not that teenager anymore, and I resent being bullied as though I am.   She has always been like this; gung-ho beyond the bounds of reason. She owned her first business before she was eighteen. She owned her first home before she was 25. One semester, she attended college full time, worked a full-time job, and a part-time one as well. (Granted, she only did that for the one semester, but she did it.) She lives as though she has a ram jet powering her, and she holds the people around her to the same standard. This has caused considerable friction in the past; one year she went to my school and asked to see my history of academic achievement test scores. I consistently placed in the top 1st to 5th percentile for verbal and reading comprehension, and in the top 20th to 25th percentile in math. This means that, at my worst, I was doing better than 75% of my peers. Most parents would be delighted at this, but she took me aside and told me that it didn't look as though I had achieved all that much. What she meant was that she saw room for me to pull up my math scores, and if I had been able to earlier overcome the combination of inadequate teaching and math-phobia instilled by my father, I probably could have done just that. That wasn't what she said though, and she was befuddled when I took her pronouncement badly.   Now, she harps on my business, and the notion that I'm not doing "enough". Pray tell; what defines "enough"? I'm not making a fortune, but I'm making enough to keep going. I'm steadily increasing my income every year. I'm not a Name, but I'm becoming well-regarded locally. I have had people at the Cafe where I exhibit -- people who are not rolling in riches, mind you -- eat ramen noodles for a week so that they can afford to commission a special piece from me as a gift for someone else, and that says more about how my work is regarded than the glossiest ad campaign. I'm my own bookkeeper, my own advertising agency, my own promoter, my own designer, and my own manufacturer. What I do is physically exhausting; I spend what feels like hours on end hunched over, blowtorch in hand, not able to move around because I need heat in one exact spot for a soldering operation. At the end of long day, every muscle in my body is knotted or twitching, and sometimes both. How is this not "enough"?   I really feel that a lot of this can be laid at my father's feet. Although she has tried to purge the damage that he did from our relationship, I can see its shadow. My father was more of an artiste than an artisan, and certainly didn't have a lot in the way of goals or drive. It's no mistake that both he and my mother used the same insult on me when I was younger; whenever I did something that one of them didn't like, they would accuse me of acting "just like" the other one, and I had no illusions that this was meant as a compliment. If I point this out to her, it will probably cause her to back off quickly enough, but I fear that it might also do some damage in the process.   Now, on top of all this, D. -- my dear Grad Student -- got a bundle of mixed news from his PhD applications. First off was a very polite and properly regretful rejection letter from UCLA, which was really the wild card application. They would have had to throw a lot of money at him to compensate for the cost of living increase; and there's that fact that I would be illegally bringing a ferret into California. Yes, domestic ferrets are illegal in California, and if I get started on the idiocy of that particular bit of legislation, I'll be typing all night. So, while that letter made the overall decision making process easier in a way, it's still bittersweet; UCLA is a good school, Los Angeles is one of the world's great cities, and they're doing research there that really interests him.   The second bit of news was an acceptance letter from U of M. However, it's a backhanded acceptance, as it comes with no funding whatsoever. No TA offers, no RA offers, and no tuition assistance. U of M had a record number of internal applicants this year, and didn't get two major grants because NIH funding has been slashed by the Bush administration.   Just to bring this into perspective: Minnesota makes it incredibly hard for a student to establish residency, largely because they have a very good social safety net for residents. You have to work in the state, and student positions do not count. The legislation was obviously written with undergrads in mind, and didn't take the needs and restrictions of graduate students into account. This means that, for the past two years, he has been living there, paying taxes there, and voting there, but he would have to pay out-of-state tuition -- at some $13,000 per semester -- if he stayed at U of M. There is simply no way that we can afford that.   The realization hit him this afternoon as he was leaving campus: we won't be able to start our lives in Minneapolis unless something miraculous happens. We won't be able to live there, possibly for a very long time. I love the city. He loves the city. We have friends there; good friends. After all of the trauma with selling the condo, moving across the country, leaving Home behind, our developing and then maintaining our relationship, and his doing so with a badly broken leg at the start of it ...it comes to this. A slightly more polite version of "Oh, okay. Whatever" from the university.   It's not like the rejection from Johns Hopkins, but it is going to take a while for him to process it.   From CU-Denver, there is still an increasingly uncomfortable silence.   Now, when he called this afternoon, we had already been going back and forth about these things on his blog (the joys of the modern relationship) for much of the day. He even apologized during the text exchange about this not being a very fun birthday present. I told him that he had nothing for which to apologize; however, the collected faculty and staff of both U of M and the CU-HSC need to prostrate themselves before me en masse and beg my dubious mercy. Of course, by the time he called, we were both in a Mood, and tandem whining is not best done over 900 miles of copper and fiber optic cable. I was fresh from a verbal fencing match, he was distracted and obsessive, and neither of us really got the comfort that we needed from the other. He apologized for that in a later e-mail; he really just wanted to wish me a happy birthday and see how I was doing. Luckily, this weekend we will be able to hash some of this out together, and not over various cable systems, since he's driving down for Spring Break. Right now, though, we are both bone-weary and more than a little numb.   Can I just go back to being 38 and get a do-over next week?
goth_hobbit

goth_hobbit

2
 

More on the home front.

Hey, look everybody! I'm finally updating this thing again!   There has been a lot of Stuff going on at Chez Hobbit; so much so that I hardly know where to begin. I'm just going to pick a spot and go.   My Dear Grad Student, D., made the drive down for Spring Break with Maggie-dog, and it was good. A little awkward, in some ways; he was staying with his parents, which meant that I was as well. (I have a very small place and a housemate, plus two elderly cats and the ferret; adding another human and a large dog with knee problems who isn't used to two flights of stairs would have been utter insanity.) In fact, when he asked them if they would mind having me over for a night or two, they had already anticipated the possibility, so it turned into them seeing my bleary smiling face every morning all week. At some point, they were going to learn that I am not a Morning Person, so it was probably good to get it out of the way.   I'm not sure that D's parents were quite prepared for just how solid our relationship is, but again -- they were going to see it at some point, and if they have any reservations about my presence in his life, they had plenty of opportunity to bring it up. All in all, I don't have any worries on that front.   While D was here, he got word from CU. They want him. They really want him. Needless to say, the acceptance letter for their offer has been sent, along with the properly regretful "thank you for your interest in me" letters to the other schools. D is coming Home in August, and while the situation with Minnesota remains bittersweet, I think that things are going to be okay in that respect as well. D has been homesick beyond the telling of it. Although that isn't the best reason for choice of a PhD program, they did make him a good enough offer to tip the scales, and he was really impressed with the way that the program has come together in the past couple of years. Next up: house-hunting.   Saying good-bye gets harder and harder every time we have to do it, and this time was no exception. The only bonus is that we now know that there is a finite number of times that it's going to happen again. May, for D's graduation, and probably a mid-summer trip.   Speaking of May, both D and the Housemate are trying to convince me to fly instead of drive; I'm still torn on the idea. It isn't just graduation; I'm also going to Florida on that same trip for my chosen sister's museum exhibit opening, and I'll want to spend some time with my mom and birth-sister as well. I haven't been convinced that flights, extra suitcase charges, and a rental car will be any less expensive than gas and motels; plus having my own car gives me an escape route if Mom and I should have a major disagreement over some of the things I'm going to discuss with her while I'm there. On the other hand, airport shuttles do make residential pick-ups, and flight reservations can be changed, if you're willing to pony up the cash. It just takes more time to do so than packing a car. Decisions, decisions.   This week in particular has been hard; I found out a week ago today that a friend went in for what was supposed to be a routine surgery and didn't come out. Gabriel's heart stopped while he was under, and the doctors couldn't resuscitate him.   People are still reeling from the news. A bunch of us spontaneously converged on the local hangout the night that word got out. Everyone, including me, kept looking at the front door of the Cafe, waiting for Gabriel to walk in ...even though we all knew that it wasn't going to happen.   I had more beer than food, and I wasn't the only one in that state, either. Maybe I was betraying my Irish roots by sticking to Newcastle, but the Cafe doesn't have Harp or Smithwick's on tap, and doesn't carry Beamish at all. I don't drink all that much, despite having the alcohol tolerance of Bacchus, and I lost count of the pints I was downing. I have this vision of the brewery staff at Newcastle solemnly hanging my photograph in the lobby.   I had to break the news to the Grad Student that same day. Before I started abusing my liver. I didn't want him to just stumble over it like a trip wire, and the news was all over our friends' assorted blogs. I still feel bad about adding to his already crappy day, but he was glad to hear it from me instead of someone -- or somewhere -- else. Gabriel was his friend as well, and I know that it hit D hard. He said "Gabe and Vanessa should have been sitting in the corner at our housewarming party, making snarky comments." And I feel doubly bad that I wasn't physically there with D, doing what I could to make things easier.   It still doesn't seem real.   I told a friend at the first gathering that, were I Jewish or particularly religious, I would say that the world is short by one of the tzadikim; being neither, I was still saying it. She replied that she is Jewish, and she agrees with me entirely.   Gabe's memorial was Friday at the Cafe; it was entirely appropriate, as he spent more time there than in his apartment. The organizers wanted it to be a celebration of his life rather than focusing on his loss, and I think that we managed for the most part. People got up to tell stories and reminisce. I didn't know if I was going to speak or not, but in the end, I did. I got the final word, so to speak, when Rachel handed me the microphone. I kept it short, commenting that Gabriel Wisdom was the most aptly named person that any of us are ever likely to meet, and summed it up with two lines from my favorite Dylan Thomas poem: Though lovers be lost, love shall not. And Death shall have no dominion. Just to bring the suckage full circle, tomorrow (okay, today, March 28th) is the 1 year anniversary of my Granddad's death. I can already tell that I'm either going to be wildly productive, or a complete basket case; it depends on how well I can manage to keep myself distracted. Granddad will never get to meet Daniel, nor see how happy I am with him. Daniel will never get to shake Granddad's hand, or tell him how much he loves me. It hurts almost as much as it did a year ago, knowing these things. While the part of me that still has faith that this world is not the end tells me that Granddad already knows and approves, we still won't get to see it, and that makes a difference.   I wish that I could end this on a cheerier note, but I'm just not in that state of mind right now. I'm really looking forward to D's call this evening.
goth_hobbit

goth_hobbit

2
 

Well, I'm back.

By all rights, I should be in bed right now, but I'm at the point of "too awake to sleep and too tired to be properly awake". This is not a good state for coherency, but an excellent one for random thought-dumping.   A month on the road, almost exactly. Driving from south Florida to Minneapolis, and then to Denver -- alone, no less -- is not the sort of thing that I would recommend doing on a regular basis, but it gave me much-needed time to sort some things out in my head -- when I wasn't dodging 18-wheelers, that is. Trying to get used to the idea that Granddad's car is now my car, as he doesn't need it anymore. Granted, he hadn't driven it in about three years, but Mom offered him the option on a regular basis. Trying to get used to the idea that the heirloom vase that was always Granddaddy and Grandmama's is now mine as well; not so much a possession as a trust, and certainly worthy of its own entry. Trying to get used to a lot of things, in fact; some of which I will have help in adjusting to, and some of which I'll have to process on my own.   There is quite a lot that I want to say, some of which will have to wait.   I can say that the more I see of Minneapolis, the more I like the city. I have good friends there, and people who have potential to become good friends. There's a thriving arts scene, lots of interesting architecture, and beautiful scenery. I spent almost three weeks there this time, and I'll be there for almost a month on my next trip. I'm looking forward to it, even if it means my first taste of a Northern Plains winter.   My Dear One says that I still move like a dancer, and told me that one of the many things that he finds so attractive is my grace. Given that he knows that I had a reputation for being able to trip over the pattern in the linoleum when I was younger, this means more to me than almost any other compliment that he could have paid me.   Thinking about the future occupies a great deal of my time lately. The immediate future involves holiday shows which I need to firm up, and all of the work that I need to get done for them, as well as the hope that grinding myself to a nub will prove to be lucrative. Long-term plans are forming as well; some of them I can shape, but others depend on things which are out of my control. Oddly enough, it's the ones over which I have the most mastery that are causing me the most stress, because they're the ones into which I have to put the most effort. In that respect, the stress that these plans are causing isn't odd at all. Such is the way of these things.   Further typing is going to have to wait for another time, though. Sleep is calling my name, and while sleep may not completely knit the raveled sleeve of my cares, it will probably manage a solid basting stitch. Enough to go on with, at least.
goth_hobbit

goth_hobbit

1
 

Life go 'splodey...

This weekend (and I'm including Friday for the sake of clarity) has not been the most fun.   Getting locked out of the Cafe's WiFi security wall on Friday, for nearly the entire day, was annoying enough. Since then: my middle sister, the MD and Navy officer, found out that she might be deployed
a friend of my chosen sister took it upon himself to inform her abusive ex-fiance that she has moved back to that town
the Grad Student and I have been on the telephone with one another three times, hand-holding one another through assorted emotional crises
I tried to smash a bone in my finger to kindling while trying to hammer a ring shank into shape
and some information has left me a little worried about my future ability to do my Friday shows at the Cafe.
I can't do anything about the possibility that Alex might be deployed, and the idea has haunted my nightmares ever since Shrubya declared Son of the Sandbox ("My daddy got a war, an' I want one too!"). I can't do anything about (possible) new ownership at the Cafe, even though the official owner has reassured me that nothing is changing. I can't bolt to Minneapolis -- I already have an airline reservation that's only 11 days away -- and I can't drop everything and camp out on Sioux's doorstep with a broadsword, much as I want to.   I have decided that I need to have the income of a Lady of Leisure, only without the attitude that usually accompanies it. I want to be able to throw money at the problems of family and friends until they go away; I want to be able to drop everything and fly to wherever I'm needed on a moment's notice. I want to provide boltholes and margaritas, storage and critter-sitting, tea and sympathy, and not have to worry about who is going to have to pay for all of it. I want to be a punk-rock, ElderGoth Auntie Mame to friends and family, and direct emotional and logistical support to D. I want it all, and right this second; but it's not happening on my current budget.   Mostly, I just want to make a difference that amounts to more than "I'm here, and thinking of you."
goth_hobbit

goth_hobbit

1
 

What I should be doing, versus what I am doing

I really ought to be doing constructive things right now, like sorting laundry and making a packing list. Instead, I'm hanging out on the 'net, eating cookies, and generally goofing off.   And trying to put together some first impressions of various BPAL blends, because I doubt that I'll have time to do much serious reviewing over the next couple of weeks.   I ought to be at the workbench getting things ready for the push when I get back, as I have two shows scheduled for the weekend after Labor Day. I should be making an order for the silver and stones I'll need, too. I should also wait on getting more stones until the September gem show, but it seems like it's been a hit-or-miss proposition lately; if I need it, none of my regular suppliers will have it.   I ought to see if I can find my good leather bodice (and if it still fits around my post-second-pubescent cleavage), just in case Minnesota RenFaire is in the works for this weekend. Of course, with the way the house is right now, I'd be better off spelunking for needles in haystacks, and I'll probably just try and find a couple of coin scarves there to make me feel somewhat garbed. The company will be more important than the costuming, anyway (and I never thought I'd see the day when I'd say that about going to Faire. I was 12 when I went to my first one, and I didn't feel "dressed" until I bought a flower garland.)   I ought to put the new cartridge in the printer and print my e-ticket, but that can wait until tomorrow. (For the record, no matter how late I stay up, it's not officially tomorrow until either I've had some sleep, or the clock hits noon.) Once that's done, it'll be a fight to avoid further procrastination by booting up Photoshop and printing out a couple of pictures from the last trip up north.   Of course, the ultimate "what I should be doing" is getting my arse to bed so that I have a fighting chance of accomplishing my list of things to do tomorrow, but I'm too antsy to sleep. Too much stuff in my head, clamoring for my undivided attention. Too many "ifs" and "whens" and "maybes", and too little internal silence.   All hail Insomnia, Goddess of Sleep Deprivation. Her supplicants are recognized by yawns; Her sigil is the sacred Coffee Cup.
goth_hobbit

goth_hobbit

0
 

Color me misanthropic...

(This was originally written on July 11th and should actually be the first entry, but it didn't get published -- probaby due to an ID 10T error on my part.)     To someone who isn't here...   I know that I said I would try not to turn into a hermit. Well, I tried.   It didn't work.   You know why; we discussed it when last we talked. And it's still eating at me. I walk alone these days, separated from people who both of us had counted on to, if not understand, at least refrain from hurtful behavior.   They haven't, nor do I think that they will.   To several other non-present persons, with reference to the first...   When someone mentions a recent, much needed vacation, the correct response upon hearing where the person went is not "I'm sorry." How you feel about the location in question is immaterial; the person had reason for their choice of destination, whether you agree with it or not.   Fine; maybe the place isn't a Vacation Mecca. Maybe the most famous local dish is something of a national joke. Maybe you don't appreciate what that place has to offer. It doesn't matter. There are a number of correct responses: what did you do, did you have fun, take any pictures -- any of those are right and good. "I'm sorry" is not.   And then, to compound it by proving that someone who had considered you to be, if not a friend, at least a good acquaintance, has completely dropped off of your personal radar -- that only compounds the slight.   So you're sorry that I went somewhere that I wanted to be. Well, I'm not. I saw a completely new place; somewhere I had never been before, and I saw it in the company of one who knows it, and considers it to be a Good Place. I saw beauty and wonder. I saw my delight at these new places mirrored in the face of that person, who has seen them many times; lives with them now, in fact. He can now see those things anew, because of my reaction to their new-ness. And we had the joy of seeing places new to us both; discovering them together. Those places will remain dear for that reason alone.   You're sorry? I'm not.   In the words of Gonzo, from "The Muppet Movie": I'm going to go back there someday; someday being sooner rather than later. And one of these days I just might not come back. Will you question my choice? Probably, but you don't get to second-guess me, nor ask me to do so to myself. It is not your decision. And if I also drop from your radar, then so be it. I will know that I have made the correct decision for myself.   If you feel "sorry" for this, then keep it to yourself.
goth_hobbit

goth_hobbit

0
 

Randomness...

Many things are making me both sad and annoyed right now.   First off, people who probably consider themselves to be friends are running roughshod over my business. I have a pair of earrings on perpetual hold (okay, since December) for someone who desperately wants them ...but not enough to put them on lay-away. I keep reminding her that I have them, she keeps telling me that she still wants them, but finances have been tight, things have been hellish ...and then she talks about a cute new outfit that she bought to wear to an upcoming show, which probably cost more than the earrings.   If she had put them on lay-away, and kicked me five bucks with every other paycheck -- certainly less than she spends at the local hangout for coffee, or cigarettes -- she would have had them long before now. And I certainly could have used the $35 more than once since November.   Her boyfriend / fiancee (depending on the week, resident pain-in-her-ass at other times) wants me to make specialty pendants for him and some of his friends, on the basis that they'd "sell like hotcakes". I very much doubt that; even though I mostly agree that TOPY crosses would go over well with the local industrial community, I'm not tying up more money into making something relatively esoteric for people who consistently gripe about how broke they are. The crosses would sit in inventory for six months while they all go "damn, I wish I had the money"; once I get tired of it and scrap them, the same people would gripe about how they were going to buy one.   One of my good friends wanted to commission one for one of these people for his birthday; I roughed out a design, gave her an estimate, and she was supposed to give me a down-payment with her next check. Needless to say, it didn't happen, and she is someone that I consider to be chosen family. Yet, it seems that lately she gets in contact with me only when she wants something; a repair made on a dress because she can't sew worth a damn, to borrow $20 until her next payday even though she knows that I'm self-employed. Her work schedule has been such that we can't really hang out, but she hasn't even called me to check in more than once or twice in the past 2 months. I ran into her this evening; she was on her way home from an interview, and that's the most time we've spent together since May.   I post something that it seems would be at least *hugs* worthy to my LJ, but have no comments. Not even from my SO. Yes, we talked for a couple of hours last night, yes, we'll be seeing each other in 2 weeks, but he made comments in a couple of other people's journals today on relatively frivolous things, and I can't help but feel somewhat ...slighted. It's probably the exhaustion talking, but only partially. Sometimes, I just want a little reassurance, especially from him; and when disturbing dreams keep me up half the night, the want is especially sharp. No e-mails, no comments, and no 5 minute "are you okay" calls.   Sometimes I wonder if I've become such a hermit from work and finances that nobody will notice when I'm not in Denver anymore. Lord knows it's looking that way. People who I thought were at least good acquaintances have dropped off the radar for the most part -- or, rather, I've dropped off of theirs. I'm tired of unanswered phone calls, and I know that while my guy would like me to keep in touch with them since they're his friends as well, he also knows that some of them have been guilty of some damned callous behavior towards me since he moved. And, I think, if he wasn't giving them benefit if the doubt, he'd look back at some of the things that they said to him, supposedly in jest, and realize that there's more to it. It was supposedly a joke when they told him that he couldn't go, even while they were outwardly supporting his furtherance of his education. He couldn't get the PhD in the field that he wanted, not with the department here in its infancy. But these same people have shut me out of their lives, even knowing since Christmas break last year that our relationship has blossomed into something more than the deep friendship that it was. I can only think that he's not readily available for their anger at his "desertion" (in their eyes), whereas I am. And it makes me sad that I can't tell him how they're doing when we talk, because I know that he misses them -- and Home, Denver; the rodina -- terribly.   My social life is most active on IM with my dear friend, chosen sister, and shared brain owner (who is, coincidentally, my SO's ex-girlfriend, and still his dear friend as well. He had hoped that we'd get along well, and I think that we've exceeded his expectations -- but that's another story.) The thing is, she's three-quarters of the way across the continent, and we get to see one another maybe once or twice a year. At least we can keep each other company in our isolation, but it's not the same thing as being able to watch bad movies and drink margaritas together whenever the whim hits.   On the grand scale, life doesn't suck. I have a business that is starting to take off locally -- which gives me hope for what it'll do once I can take it to the 'Net, at least one good friend that I can talk about anything to, a wonderful and affirming relationship, and the distinct possibility of starting the next phase of my life in a whole new city that I'm looking forward to exploring more of before then. Right this second, though, I'm having trouble seeing the forest for the trees.
goth_hobbit

goth_hobbit

0
 

This day has sucked.

I know that I should be seriously thinking about bed, but I'm just too damned wired. And pissed, and upset. You know the point where you can't either cry or scream? That's where I am.   First off, my ferret, Sinead, has early-stage insulinoma. It's like reverse diabetes; instead of the pancreas producing too little insulin, it produces too much. Anyway, Sinead had a massive blood sugar crash tonight. She wasn't just drooling and spacey; she was shivering, almost limp, and had the hiccups. Not a good combination. I was out of town for over a week; my housemate was taking care of the critters. They're his fuzzies too, after all. I asked him if he had been keeping up with Sinead's evening pureed poultry ration.   He said no, he hadn't.   I'm torn between being angry at him for flaking out on it, for being so linear that he can't intuitively grasp why it's important; at myself for letting myself forget that he is that way, and at the fact that the communication skills both ways have not improved after years of time and practice. I'm angry at myself for not providing him with an illustrated chart outlining why the dietary change was so damned important ...and I'm angry at him for needing one, and not being able to simply realize that it was necessary without the detailed instructions.   I got the Inner Bitch on a choke-chain and didn't raise my voice. He still got defensive and tried to put the onus on me for referring to it as her evening treat. If it's a treat, it's no big deal, right? But I know that I had explained that the extra protein was necessary to keep her insulin production from spiralling upward. If I called it a treat ...well, it's a treat to her, and it makes her sound ...less sick. Call it sympathetic magic, or positive thinking, or self-delusion. If it's a dietary change to manage a chronic condition, it doesn't matter. I knew what was going on, and I thought that he did as well.   An insulinoma is to the pancreas kind of like a faulty accelerator in a car. Not the most accurate analogy, maybe, but it works well enough here. The pancreas can rev up, but it can't de-accelerate, so to speak. Even the best kibble probably has more carbohydrates than a healthy ferret really needs, just because of the composition; starch is what holds it together. So the carbs break down into glucose, and nudges the pancreas into action. But with an insulinoma, the pancreas doesn't switch off when enough insulin is produced. By adding more fat and protein to the diet, the ferret is less dependant on the kibble for nutrients, thus taking in fewer carbs, and you achieve a sort of stasis. There are little fluctuations, but they're manageable. Catch it early, and you can get the problem under control; but if it gets out of control again, it's much harder to get things back in line.   Sinead's stasis got interrupted for almost 2 weeks. And she was probably getting more than the usual amount of Ferretvite, which -- while it does have extra fat in it -- also has malt and molasses.   For the record, he is truly sorry, and he says that he gets it now, although I told him that it feels like locking the barn door after the horse is long gone. He is going to call Dr. Feldman in the morning, 'fess up, and see if Dr. Feldman wants me to bring Sinead in; so I may be cancelling tomorrow's show, depending on timing. I believe that he is both sorry and deeply grieved, but that isn't going to help the situation as it stands. Sinead was doing just fine, and I honestly thought that even if she wasn't going to avoid going on steroids forever, at least it wouldn't be immediate. Now, I'm not so sure.   In the meantime, I made a late-night grocery run for more baby food, and discovered that the only meat varieties now have corn starch as well. It's a stop-gap supply, but it's something, and it'll work until I can hit one of the local natural foods stores to try and find something that's just meat and water with no cereal additives. I also picked up 2 quarts of Gatorade; one for me, and one for her, since it's a flavor that I know she likes. Pedialyte is probably lower in sugar, but it's got a bitter taste that she won't tolerate. It doesn't matter how good something is for her if it's all over her, me, the walls, and the floor, instead of in her.   This -- among other things -- is why I made a second BPAL order tonight. I had already had a craptastic day that was pretty much shot to hell out from under me; holding my littlest fuzzbutt and trying to get her to eat -- she of the normally piston-driven tongue -- this was merely the bile-cream frosting on the already unpalatable cake.
goth_hobbit

goth_hobbit

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On pillaging the bagel shop...

For someone with as thoroughly Southern an upbringing as I had, I have a remarkably wide-ranging taste in foodstuffs. Granted, some of this can be attributed to my childhood; one of my aunts is Thai, my dad was a gourmet cook, my father (no, not the same person; my father couldn't cook to save his life) would just about commit larceny for good Chinese and Greek cuisine (he would buy an entire tray of homemade baklava at the annual Greek festival), Granddad got me hooked on lychees and pine nuts ...basically, food is the one aspect of my young life that was culturally broad, relatively speaking. So it should come as no surprise that I like things like good bagels and curry as much as I do grits and boiled peanuts.   Anyway, the local bagel shop sent me an e-mail coupon for a special that's guaranteed to keep me in boiled baked bread for a couple of weeks; buy a baker's dozen, get a half-dozen free, and I took them up on it earlier today.   On Talk Like A Pirate Day, natch.   I got to chatting with one of the staff, and mentioned what day it was. Soon, the entire store was ringing with "avast"s and "yarrrr"s. However, they hadn't gotten one of those coupons before this afternoon, and soon the manager was roped in.   "Today be 'Talk Like a Pirate Day'", I said to the rather confused looking woman, "and I be plunderin' yer store with a coupon!"   She took the amusement in stride, and confirmed that the e-mail was valid. The staff filled up two boxes with baked goods, and I was on my merry way. When I got back to the house and started unpacking, though, I found out that I had caused a minor distraction, to the tune of two extra bagels.   Now, normally, I would feel as though I should go back tomorrow, 'fess up, and pay for the extras. Given the day, though, I'm tempted to just sum it up thusly:   "Pirate."
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Of bad dreams and feline antics

Last night, I had a horrible nightmare, of the sort that I haven't had since I was a little kid, and it still has me rattled.   Maybe some background is in order here; when I was a kid -- about five years old -- I got a "bug jar" for my birthday. I was fascinated by nature; I thought that National Geographic specials were the best thing on TV, after Mutual of Omaha's "Wild Kingdom". (I also had a bit of a crush on Marlon Perkins, but only because he was my Granddad's age and got to play with tigers and otters.) Anyway, the jar wasn't meant for long-term habitation; I used it to catch fireflies so I could see them up close, butterflies on occasion (I'd put a flower in the jar and let them fly in); even a praying mantis once. I'd look at them for an hour or so, watch them explore the inside of the enclosure, get a close look at them, and let them go. I never wanted to keep them for long; I understood that they were wild creatures and needed to be free. I felt privileged to have their company for a bit, and wouldn't let my cousin David -- who had a bit of a destructive streak at that age -- hurt or torment them while they were captive.   One afternoon, I found a Cecropia moth, or robin moth, on the back fence. It's highly unusual to see them during the day, because they're a nocturnal species. I ws astounded at the size of this creature; the moth had a six-inch wingspan and bright red and white banding on the body. It was the biggest winged thing I had ever seen that didn't have feathers. I gently got it into the jar, and proceeded to observe it.   About this time, my Mamaw, who was normally a font of good sense, saw my strange visitor, and decided that I "needed" to start a butterfly collection, starting with the moth. I argued with her; I wanted to let it go, but I hadn't quite developed the iron streak that runs in the women of my family. She wouldn't hear of it, and kept me from releasing it several times.   The problem was that Mamaw had only the vaguest notion of how butterfly collections are started, and knew nothing of the infamous "killing jar". My formerly innocent toy took a darker turn as the moth was held captive for the next two weeks.   I learned three things during this time: first, that an agitated moth will beat its wings constantly, and in a species this big, that is no small thing. The constant flutter drumming against the plastic of the jar seemed to follow me wherever I went. Second, I learned that this moth was female, as she started to lay eggs after a week. Mamaw transferred her to a shoebox while I was visiting my Granddad and Grandmama; the beating of her wings against the cardboard was not an improvement. Third, Cecropia moths live for about two weeks. She must have just emerged from her cocoon and completed mating the day before I found her.   For two weeks, the sound of her wings invaded my dreams, and I had nightmares about being surrounded by nine-foot tall moths, in an upright circle, beating at me with their wings. They were all facing inward, hovering vertically, reproach in their eyes and attitudes. After a couple of nights of this, I was afraid to release the moth; convinced that she would try and kill me for allowing this to happen, for doing this to her. Two weeks of the sound of her desperate wings during the day, and nightmares all night.   She died while I was out of the house, not outside where she belonged, but trapped in the darkened confines of a box. Mamaw, making good on her promise, mounted her on a piece of cardboard. In a bizarre twist, the pin she selected was one of her sewing pins, and the head was almost the exact same shade of yellow as the eggs the moth had laid. I hated looking at the display.   The night the moth died, I had my last nightmare. The moths that had surrounded me were dead; lying on their backs, wings spread and eyes dulled, in a circle around me. I was free to go, Yet, I knew that as I stepped out of the circle, if I so much as brushed one of their wings for the briefest moment, the most minute instant of contact, they would come back to life, and kill me.   From that day forward, I've been scared of moths.   I was convinced as a child that all of them knew what I had done, and were just waiting for their moment. Miller moths provoked the worst reaction; I was convinced that they would fly up my nose and suffocate me. Butterflies didn't scare me; my childish logic was that their wings folded upwards rather than backwards, and therefore they couldn't fly up my nose. Still, it was years before I was comfortable around them. Grasshoppers in flight also scare me; their wings make almost exactly the same whirring noise that haunted my days so long ago.   Last night's nightmare was about being trapped in my bedroom by Cecropia moths. Dumb? Maybe, but it went straight to the five-year-old part of my brain and held on. Especially since that was the first dream I've had involving them since I was five, making it all the worse somehow.   It's also no surprise that one of my favorite Buffy episodes is "Nightmares". The scene where Wendell explains about his recurring dream about the spiders resonates deeply with me.   Now, how do feline antics come into this? As I was pouring the details of my dream into an e-mail, Panther attacked a picture across the room to get at something behind it. That something apparently turned out to be a moth; not a Cecropia, thank Excolo (to borrow a phrase from Indicolite), or I'd be about six counties away by now, barefoot and heading northeast at warp speed. But a largish one nonetheless, which has since fluttered out of sight.   Is it any wonder that I'm still wide awake?
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Add another knot to my shoulders...

Most of the time, I don't talk much about "what I do all day", as I'm convinced that most people are going to find it amazingly boring.   Take today, for instance. I spent most of it hunched in an unnatural position over my workbench, because I was constructing those pain-in-the-ass settings known as step bezels.   You can purchase a form of bezel wire to do this (note: in the jewelry industry, anything that can come in a roll is referred to as "wire", whether it's round, flat, square, or something else), but I've found that the ledge in pre-made step bezel is not always in the right place for the stone that eventually has to go into the setting; it's almost always too low, or too sharply angled for a deep-cut stone. This is why I tend to make my own; if I get the ledge too high, I can always take a setting bur and grind it down a bit, but you can't add extra height to the factory-made stuff, except by doing exactly what I just spent a good chunk of the day doing.   First, you make the bezel, which is made of a very thin, flat strip of fine silver (.999, as opposed to .925 sterling.) It's just slightly bigger than the stone that you want to set; almost too tight for the stone is what you're aiming for. However, bezel wire is usually too thin to cut a seat for the stone -- high-speed burs are aggressive, and can chew all the way through the metal even if you are careful. So, you create a step to support the stone from underneath. In theory, this is a relatively simple process of bending a bit of wire so that it's the same shape as the bezel, fitting snugly inside, then soldering it into place. However, this theory falls into the same category as battle plans that never survive the first skirmish with the other side.   First off, the step is never the right size. Never. It will always be slightly too big or too small. Too big is correctable with a bit of judicious filing; the key word being judicious. Shave off too much in any one spot, and you end up with a step that's too small, and the only remedy for that is to start over. (You will have a little piece of silver that will eventually make good casting grain, but that's not the point of the process.)   Next, you have to get the step correctly placed inside the bezel, and this is an exercise in patience. Even if you cut a shallow channel to hold it, the step wire isn't going to stay put. Minute adjustments will inevitably cause the step to pop out of place; if you're lucky, it stays in the bezel or lands on the bench. It's far more likely that spring tension will cause the step to become airborne and land someplace where you won't find it without resorting to extreme measures, at which point it's back to square one.   Once you get the step placed where you want it, you coat the piece that you're working on with soldering flux and start heating it up. Here's where you keep your fingers crossed that either the expansion and drying of the flux -- or the heating of the metal -- doesn't displace the damned step yet again, forcing you to stop and re-adjust it. Actually getting it soldered on the first try seems anticlimactic after all of the prep work.   This goes triple for any step / bezel combination that requires angles... like a 7x5mm emerald cut. Just as a "for instance".   And yet, despite the pain in the ass factor, I keep making them, because I love the look. The stone is protected, and it goes well with the antique feel of many of the pieces that I make.   Not everything I did today required step bezels, and I probably would have gotten a lot more done if I hadn't been making them at all. Still -- two rings, most of a bracelet, and two pairs of earrings; not bad for a day's work.   And another couple of twists to the ever-present knot between my shoulderblades, but that's an occupational hazard.
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The Long and Winding Road, take 2...

Well, I have confirmed that the lengthy, insightful, and occasionally witty blog entry that I composed last night / this morning (it was sunrise when I finished, so...) has, in fact, been eaten by the database.   Grr arrgh, indeed.   I suppose that it gives me a chance to write something perhaps better, especially in light of this morning's phone call (that’s, what ...five for this week?)   Let me start with some background: the man about whom I am very serious is separated from me by about 900 miles. Twenty hours drive time -- even if you drive like I do, Nebraska never ends -- or two and a half by air from where I live. (Although, after having gone to Minneapolis four times in the past 12 months for an average of three weeks at a shot, “where I live” is subject to a broad definition at this point.) He’s a graduate student at University of Minnesota in the process of finishing up his second MS. The field in which he is studying is biostatistics, which is a branch off of the larger discipline of mathematical biology -- a subject which fascinates me and apparently causes our friend Vanessa’s head to explode if she tries to comprehend what he’s doing.   His first Masters was earned here, at University of Colorado - Denver; computer science with a bioinformatics focus (bioinformatics being the computer science powered side of mathematical biology.) Since he truly loves mathematics, and the CU Health Sciences Center biostatistics program was in its infancy, he elected to go to U of M for his next step -- which was supposed to be a PhD, but U of M decreed that he needed a biostatistics MS before entering their PhD program. So, he’s getting the second MS out of the way, and applying to several different PhD programs, including U of M’s.   He also had a First Author publication before he got his first MS, has been an author on three more papers since, with another in the works. The man is both smart and driven.   No, I’m not at all proud of him; why do you ask?   At any rate, the bane of his existence of late -- and therefore mine by proxy -- has been his PhD applications, handled by a service known as SOPHAS; the Schools of Public Health Applications System, also known as “the circle of Hell that Dante left out because it was too grim". (Thank you for the turn of phrase, dearest.) Or, as we have taken to calling it: SOPH-ASS. If it seems that neither one of us is particularly impressed by their service, you’re not wrong. Don’t take my opinion as gospel, though; here are D’s own words on the subject:   “I have now spent as much time on the application process for various PhD programs as I would on the average class over the course of a semester. Also $500 or so, counting application fees, getting re-issues of transcripts and GRE scores, etc.”   The financial aspect, although annoying, is an investment. The time that he has had to put into this is unforgivable. SOPHAS is the brick wall against which D. has been beating his head for the past couple of months, in addition to carrying a full-time class load in something rather more demanding than Underwater Basket Weaving (we will not go into the special Hell that is his Analysis course at this time), his TA duties, and RA work. No grad student has the time to devote to the sorts of hoops that SOPHAS demands an applicant jump through, which leads me to think that the people responsible for this service have never tried to go for any degree over baccalaureate. Add to this the fact that SOPHAS appears to like having all submitted applications achieve a certain degree of ripeness before sending them on to the schools themselves -- with no regard to whatever deadlines the schools themselves have set for applications and admissions.   In other words, if D. had submitted his applications in the form of cream, the universities would have finally gotten them in the form of blue cheese.   This is why, every time I’m there, I spend an absurd amount of time in the kitchen, cooking enough food to provision the Shackleford Expedition to Antarctica. Twice. Every meal that he can just pull out of the freezer is equal to roughly two hours that he can spend on homework, other work, or sleep. Plus, it equals $20 that he doesn’t have to pony up to Pizza Luce. (Not that I have anything against Pizza Luce in the slightest; they’ve been our salvation after a couple of horribly delayed flights, since Luce delivers until 3AM. However, even their menu gets old -- and expensive -- after a while.)   So, the latest part started on Tuesday afternoon. D. called -- unexpectedly, since we had talked the night before.   He got home from class / office hours to find a message on his answering machine. From The Ohio State University (yes, they capitalize the “the”.) OSU wanted to get all of his application materials straight so they cold enter him in a fellowship competition. His reaction was a three-way tie between “#&$*&%!^ SOPHAS; they had to call because those morons sat on everybody’s application until the deadline went by”, “OMG, they really really like me” and the pragmatic “my GPA and publication record tripped a flag for the fellowship requirements; SOPHAS is handing them a bunch of applications that are technically late through no fault of the applicants, and they need to get the ball rolling as fast as possible.”   It’s a good fellowship. OSU would be paying him as much as U of M is, only without having to take on TA and / or RA work; his job would be to attend class and put his dissertation together. OSU has a couple of well-recognized names in the field: Stanley Lemeshow is pretty much to biostatistics what Stephen Hawking is to physics. OSU probably has more immediate name recognition than U of M, which could make a difference when it comes time to look for that first faculty position. Columbus is cheaper in terms of cost of living than Minneapolis. And did I mention that it’s a really good fellowship?   But...   D. confessed to me that he now has empathy for what I went through, being bounced around from address to address as a kid. I could have lived a long and happy life without ever having him know what that felt like. Sympathy I can live with, but he didn’t need to have personal experience. He uprooted his entire life: sold a house that he loved, moved away from his parents, old friendships, from here and all that makes Denver into Home. The rodina. A place where, as he puts it, the streets know our names. Yes, his military career had him moving from place to place; yes, he has chosen a new career that has the potential to be highly nomadic. Yes, as a professor and researcher, you have to go where you can do the best research, and yes, you probably won’t be able to spend your entire academic career in one place.   That, however, is the rational side of his brain talking. On the other side is a four-year-old kid pitching a grand “do’WANNA!” fit.   He wants to stay in Minneapolis. I want for him to be able to stay in Minneapolis; joining him there, obviously. He has been visiting friends there for over a decade; it was one of the reasons that he applied to the university in the first place. Those friends, most of whom I had never met until this past June, have accepted me into their circle nearly effortlessly. One of those friends (one who I did know previously) was part of the Muddy’s Java Cafe tribe, lo these many years ago; when I was there in December, Lexi and I talked about the possibility of getting work studio space together. She and her ex-husband Michael made sure that I got out to play as much as I wanted. One of D.’s classmates loaned me a car for while D. was out of town; I can’t drive D.’s car as it’s a stick shift. To leave these connections behind and go to a place that neither of us is familiar with would be painful beyond words; both of us place a high value on friendship, and especially the concept of chosen family. The fact that several people who he has known since high school seem to have taken the “out of sight, mostly out of mind” approach since he moved hurts him; since there have been times in my life when I had to turn to friends instead of family to keep myself sane and healthy, I understand, and ache with him.   (Of particular ironic potential is the fact that one of the school that he has applied to is the University of Colorado Health Sciences Center, but that’s a whole different issue, and deserving of its own post, which I will make within the next 24 hours. No, really; I promise.)   He wants to be able to put down roots again, even if it is for but another year or two; a desire with which I am in complete agreement. He wants to be able to buy a house again; not a huge one, just big enough to comfortably house two humans with pack rat tendencies, a seven year old Olde English Bulldogge, two sixteen year old cats, and a ferret without everyone tripping over each other and the furniture. He wants a yard for Maggie-pup; again not a huge one, just a space that she can call her own -- like she had here in Denver. (Yes, we dote on the fuzz and consider the impact that any plans will have on them. Deal with it.) He wants a home that is Ours in the way that his condo almost was, but without the stamp of his ex-wife. He knows that I’ve come to love Minneapolis, and wants me to know the city as he does; not as a frequent visitor, but a resident. It is at times like this when I see the mark of his family history in him, whether he sees it or not; his father’s mother came from a little village in Lithuania which no longer exists, but her family had lived in that area for 500 years. Roots mean something to him, and to me as well. And right now, he literally has no idea which of six cities he might be living in come autumn.   Now, imagine dealing with this mostly through 900 miles of copper and fiber optic cable.   So that’s where we are; up in the air, clinging to one another as the only guaranteed thing in the other’s live at the moment.   Next up: today's installment of "Tales from a Harried Grad Student", which hopefully isn't going to disappear into the Twilight Zone like this one did last night. (Helpful suggestion du jour: text editor or word processing programs are your Friend.)
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Public Service Announcement

Ever had the feeling of a song being stuck in your head? It's called an earworm. Nobody knows what causes them, and they're contagious to boot.   There are only two scientifically proven ways to rid yourself of an earworm: either bash yourself over the head several times until unconsciousness ensues, or -- give it to someone else.   Therefore, I've decided to share the Brain Radio: Icicle Works Marathon. Enjoy.   (Even better: watch the video here and sing along!)   ***********************   Love comes down upon us and it floats like water Burning with the hope of inside Feathered books the colors of a bright elation Stolen in the sight of love.   We are, we are, we are we're just children Finding our way around in decision. We are, we are, we are all but helpless Take this forever, Whisper to a scream.   Birds fly in the eye of a painter's daughter Spoken at the bitter end Wasted sacrifice for the new nirvana Night time, sends us on our way   We are, we are, we are we're just children Finding our way around in decision We are, we are, we are all but helpless Take this forever, Whisper to a scream Whisper to a scream Whisper to a scream Whisper to a scream Whisper to a scream   We are, we are, we are we're just children Finding our way around in decision We are, we are, we are all but helpless Take this forever, Whisper to a scream.
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More Grad Student Support Staff stuff...

I think I should just start using the acronym and save myself a bunch of keystrokes.   Anyway -- talked with D. tonight; as expected, I am absolved of and barred from any guilt for my decision, so naturally, I feel like crap about it.   It doesn't help that he feels guilty about putting me in a position where I'd have to say no in the first place. His words; see disclaimer under "Gloomy and Russian."   He did not put me in the position. CU put us in the position. It's expensive to board a dog who 1) needs thyroid medication twice a day, and 2) doesn't usually get along with other (adult) dogs because of pain issues from surgeries on both knees. Not if you're going to have her in any decent kind of kennel. It would be less expensive -- possibly -- for me to fly up; it certainly was when he was out of town over Christmas and New Year's, and he got a freezer full of homemade dinners out of the deal as well. The logistics were different then, though.   On the other hand, it is wonderful to have someone who respects and encourages what I'm trying to build. It does bring my Old Goat mentor's words to my Mom into sharp focus, though. When she met Jim, she told him how great it was that he had taken me under his wing, and that she was proud that I had become so passionate about something that had the potential to let me make money. Jim burst out laughing, got his composure back, grinned at her and said "Jane, jewelers don't make money. Jewelers make jewelry. People who sell jewelry make money. Jewelers have really neat rock collections." He's mostly right; a designer and bench jeweler who has talent, passion, and determination in equal amounts can make a good living, and I am determined that that designer is going to be me.   It's damned hard, though.   If either D. or I wanted to take the easy way out, he could have kept his old job as a DBA here after he got his Masters, and called it good. I could have taken my knowledge and experience to another storefront after Jim died. We didn't; D. wants to teach and do research in equal amounts, and I ...well, my little workbench might not be the foundation of the next Tiffany and Co., but what I build from it will be all mine. Besides which, Apple Computers started out in a garage.   There may be a way around the logistical problem, though. If I fly up the weekend before he has to be down here, and fly back the weekend after, I'd still be back in time for the show that I'm really the most interested in doing. And D. is planning on driving down with Magpie for Spring Break, because he is very, very homesick. If he made the drive on the Saturday that my show is, he'd get in about the time I finished unpacking the car after breakdown. The only potential conflict would be that Sinead the Wonder Weasel has a vet appointment the day after Hallmark Hearts and Flowers Day, but the housemate has the day off and can take her if I'm too busy packing.   R., the housemate, is going to put his l33t cyber-shopper skillz to work on finding cheap airfare, and D. will call on Saturday for my decision. C'mon; what do you really think I'm going to say? There's not a bookie in Vegas who would take that bet.   Now, I just have to screw up the gumption to tell my Mom that I'm going to be out of town yet again...
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It's been a while...

...time to take the chairs off of the tables and give everything a thorough dusting.   As you might have gathered, I am newly arrived from the Great White North yet again, and never before has that description been quite so lacking in hyperbole. The two storms that hammered Minneapolis while I was there left three feet on the ground in some places. The park across the street from D's apartment is so completely engulfed that it may not be uncovered come May. D. is six feet three inches tall, and I kid you not when I say that there are drifts and plow-bergs that would be over his head. I'm a foot shorter than him, and I had trouble simply walking in some places because the snow was so deep. Poor Maggie-dog; she loves snow, especially when she's in it up to her chin, but snow, ice, and cold are very hard on her knees.   The weather is hard on her humans as well; D. has a titanium rod in his left lower leg, and the cold gets into it in a very unpleasant way. I managed to get my feet soaked while we were walking Maggie, and he was scared half to death that I would get frostbite before we could get our very stubborn bulldog back home. D's final station in the Air Force was Minot, ND; as a medic, he saw plenty of cold-weather injuries without having them visited upon me. (My toes are just fine, by the way; I told him that if they were in danger of frostbite, they wouldn't have hurt so damned much.)   At any rate, the interview with University of Colorado went well. D. had an unofficial heads-up to watch for a letter bearing an official offer -- a letter which has not yet arrived. U of M hasn't said anything either, which has him rather antsy. He was hoping that all of the offers would be on the table before I left, so that we could discuss the options.   This week, hopefully. The plan is for him to drive down next weekend for spring break, puppy in the back seat, and weather permitting. With luck and the cooperation of the admissions committees of two different universities, we'll be able to make some decisions.   Of course, we've already managed to discuss things at length. Neither of us is particularly entranced with either Pittsburgh or Columbus. More to the point, neither of us knows the cities, nor do we have friends or family in either place. It would make things far more difficult than need be. If we are going to even think of starting a life together, let it present as few obstacles as possible.   In the meantime, I have a show on Saturday to prepare for. Since this show is an hour's drive and a high mountain pass away from here, I hope that the weather on Friday doesn't take a turn for the worse. I can't set up until Saturday morning, which means leaving here at about 6 AM if the roads are in good shape. And I need to finish most of the things on my workbench before then.   It's going to be a long week.
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Why I've been less than interactive lately...

Some people may have noticed that I haven't been precisely chatty of late. Gabriel's death, coming a week before the first anniversary of my Granddad's death, hit me pretty hard. That isn't the only reason, though.   D, my darling Grad Student, got another blow not quite two weeks ago. The research assistant position that he had been hoping to get for the summer isn't going to exist. U of M's School of Animal Health is in as bad a financial shape as the School of Public Health, and for the same reason: NIH grants that were slashed by Shrubya and Co.   There are obvious downsides to this, most notably being that the RA position was worth about $5000 that he's not going to have. This means running up the credit cards more than he would like in order to save money for the move back here. However, his father is on a couple of mailing lists for programming positions, and offered to keep an eye out for a temporary contract offer. While D. doesn't miss programming by any means, he's not going to turn down perfectly good money if someone should wave it in his face. First, though, his dad has to come across a temporary contract that allows remote work.   However, there are a couple good points to the news as well: first off, he is planning on coming back down for a couple of weeks in June to start the Great House Hunt. He wants to go with the realtor who handled the sale of his condo, and I am in agreement; both of us like the guy. While the realtor in question is decidedly metrosexual, he's also personable and professional, and he already knows what kinds of houses that D. and I would gravitate towards. He won't waste our time by showing us places that we won't like.   Perhaps more important, though, is that not working over the summer (assuming that D's dad doesn't find anything) will give D a much-needed chance to do something that he hasn't been able to do in far too long -- namely, relax. D. is incredibly smart and hard-working, and the fact that he enjoys learning in addition to the previous qualities has led to some of our friends to assume that academic pursuits are easy for him. That's hardly the case I know better, having witnessed just how hard he studies in pursuit of his GPA. When he starts comparing semesters and academic years to, say, Ypres, or The Somme ...well, let's just say that WWI metaphors have been a standard part of our mutual vocabulary for the past couple of years. He desperately needs the down-time before plunging back in to the academic grind.   So, here starts the planning for the next round of cross-country travel. I looked at gas prices and decided that flying would probably be a better bet, even with the addition of an extra suitcase and a rental car. First leg is Denver to Minneapolis in mid-May for D's graduation. From there, I fly into Orlando, pick up the rental car, and drive down to Bradenton for my chosen sister's museum exhibit opening. We'll reprise our piratical finery at a convention in Orlando that same weekend, then back to Bradenton for a few days. I drive back to Orlando and spend a few days with Mom, her husband, and my youngest sister, then back to Minneapolis, and then back to Denver.   D. comes down in June; in early July, I'll be flying back up for CONvergence and the start of packing. Somewhere in there, we might close on a house (under D's name for the moment), and I'll try and work in some more outside shows. Plus, I'd like to try and work sleep somewhere into all of this.   It's a lot of work. But I truly believe that the payoff will be more than worth the effort.
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