Hello, Bette

I'll be honest: I haven't traveled to bloggyville for several days now. I have not written nor have I read a single blog entry. Besides trying to keep my personal writing deadlines, I've been way too social and maybe a bit obsessed with working out, spending time with my husband, and taking care of my dogs. The kicker, however, is that all of this is generally a fine element in the chaos of my writing summers, but something really bad happened Thursday night.

After the Bunny's softball game, we went out for a few drinks. When we came home, we saw some random items piled in the trash bin behind our shed that sets beside the pad where we park in the alley behind our house. At first we assumed our crazy Nam vet neighbor, Mr. Bob, had dropped off more "presents" for us, but when I moved to investigate, we realized it was our stuff. It took my confused, wine-laden head about two seconds to realize it had been removed via theft from our shed and the rustling noise an arm's length in front of me in the dark was the perpetrator trying to escape. Though the shed is locked three times with a master lock, he had squeezed in the space between our neighbor's fence and the building and popped open a tiny storm window. It was through this little space that he was now attempting to escape.

I froze and then my heart started beating in my ears. This is the moment one always imagines but never quite believes will happen to them. I started shouting to the Bunny, "Jesus Christ, we've been robbed and he's RIGHT HERE!!!" To the thief, I shouted, "Do you understand that we have a gun, and we are about to fucking kill you?" No, I didn't have a gun, but my combative nature combined with the stupid drunkeness of the wine in my blood intermingling with an adrenaline overload made the situation spin out of control. I called 911, and as they were asking the most stupid questions, "What is the name of your business?" and "What does the man look like?" (It's a home, not a business, and it's dark, bitch, so just call someone to come, okay?), the Bunny snapped the phone out of my hand and screamed, "Get someone here now or someone is going to fucking die." By this time, the criminal had extricated himself from the window and was running down the space between our fence and our neighbor's.

I ran through our gate and into the house where I sent Dax back to meet dear husband in the alley. I ran to the front street and flagged down the SEVEN cop cars that came rolling up our block. To the JPD's credit, they really hauled ass this time. Within minutes, they caught the guy an alley over, and the Bunny went to identify him, though he'd only made out the outline of the guy's hair and glowing white wifebeater. He was just a juvenile with a long rap sheet, but we will have to go to court in the coming weeks.

After the last cop left around 1:00 am, I was still too hyped up to sleep, so I tossed and turned for most of the night. The next day, I started to realize what could've happened had he had a weapon, and I just started to break down. There was a juvenile that tortured and killed a couple just a few streets over about two years ago. He had only meant to rob them. I just kept replaying the whole ordeal in my head. Though our house was secure, this boy invaded my space, but worse, he invaded my head. I can't stop thinking about him. I tell myself at night to think about sunshine and beaches and mountaintops, but all I can do is replay R-rated versions of the incident over and over again. My ears cock to the side for every little sound I hear in my 82-year old home. I imagine scenes where I am forced to "fight" again, and I clutch the panic button on our ADT alarm remote. It's no way to live, I'm telling you.

Friday night, the Bunny and I came home early and watched Revolutionary Road. Not to be a spoiler, but the ending involves a self-abortion, which, in turn, follows with a lot of other gruesome images. As I watched the blood trickling down this woman's thighs, I started to feel hot. I have a history of blacking out when I give blood or if I am overworked/underfed/sleep-deprived/stressed, etc. I blacked out right before our wedding when we were building our first home, I was working 40 hours a week, finishing 20 hours at school, and trying to deal with family drama and stress over our impending union. This, however, was much worse. I had what seemed to be a panic attack combined with a minor seizure and all the horrible, being-held-under-water-feelings, that occur with my typical blackouts. When I came to, I was pale, shaking, and confused, and my body just couldn't take it anymore. We went to bed, but I lay awake anxiety-ridden until the sun came up.

Honestly, I am having a bit of a self-indulgent pity party right now, but here's the truth: I need a break. So, to that end, I'm putting this blog on hiatus until shit works itself out. Please send me your blessings of peace, and I hope to see you all soon.

I'm in the Business of Blowing your Mind Right Now

I submitted Chapter One yesterday to my dissertation committee chair. He started lecturing me about sending out more of my work to scholarly journals, so that I'll have more publication credits on my CV, hence, I'll be more "marketable" when I start job hunting. The problem is that I can't both write book chapters and write for journals, so I don't know where he expects that I'll find the time to do all of these brilliant things. Hell, I'm hard-pressed to keep up with my dear blog these days. The less I see of humanity, the less there is to discuss. What should I report? Well, we started giving Dax fish oil tablets because we heard they were good for his joints and his heart, of course. I switched from light sour cream to full fat. No more of that lower-cal cream for me, kids. I want the good stuff. The pool water is finally crystal clear... Okay, you get the idea.

As for my Chair--he just kept talking about the difficult job market, and I said, "Oh, Dr. -----, stop being such a negative Nancy." I figured he would understand that better than Debbie Downer. I hate being compared to a product. Should I also be sure to clean myself up and put my ass on display so that some school might yank me up out of the ranks of nonacademia oblivion? I think I'd rather just become a professional underwear dancer.

I'm watching this study about womenomics--which is a sort of exploration of alternative ways for women to both run companies and still have "flex time" to spend with their families---and they noted that since more female CEOs have sprung up, profits have increased by 1/3. I'm not surprised by this figure, as all of my female friends in co-habitation situations are, generally, the ones that keep the houses running efficiently. Plus, think of how much time is wasted by excessive masturbation and porn-perusing practices. I like to think that better than half of male CEOs do their fair share of both while on the corporate clock. Maybe that is just my evil fantasy spawned by terrifying 80s films about women in the corporate world pre-p.c. Maybe that was insulting. Maybe I should edit that part for my male readership, who, by and large, are sensitive and intelligent individuals.

We had a yard sale on Saturday, and we made a ton of good, hard cash on old basement items. Plus, it was fun chatting with neighbors and friends from around our hood. Winnie, Will, and Lisa came by to help, as did my mother, who kept trying to give me part of her profits. Though the yard sale began at 7:00 am on Saturday, one woman came at 4:00 in the afternoon on Friday and asked for a "sneak peek." That same woman returned at 5:30 am to watch us unload, asked if she could get started early, and dropped $100 before 6:00 am rolled around. Her boyfriend looked like Terrence Howard, and Winnie and I started fawning over him. He sat on my porch and chilled with everyone while his girlfriend kept spending money. He says he gets the Howard comment all the time.

The night before, Winnie helped me organize and price everything, which included this lovely ceramic cherub-in-Southern-Belle-wear figure. My Nanny made it, gave it to my mother, who shamelessly tried to sell it in a yard sale two years ago, failed in this endeavor, and then my mom snuck it into my basement where I found it. Horrified, I got it out for this year's sale. We thought $0.50 was a fair price, but we certainly couldn't part with Angel before taking a few snapshots:

Sebastian got really nervous when we put Angel in his bed.

Winnie thought Angel could have used a little more tact with her snippy comments.

I laid Angel down for her feeding.

Here is the man that bought Angel, but he refused to pose for our photo:


I'll leave you with some more images from the classic, Southern yard sale, which, by the way, is far-removed from a "garage sale," in my humble opinion.