It's late Friday night and I've enjoyed all my guilty pleasures: a bottle of wine, take-out dinner, mediocre rental movie (Open Range), dozing off on the couch and a pair of pajamas. Aaaah, Friday. And tomorrow I can look forward to making an ornate breakfast, remaining in pajamas until at least noon and then figure out what we'll do with our day. Tomorrow night my friend and ex-coworker Valeria is making dinner for other female ex-cons of FAO. Sunday is none other than Super Sunday which for some reason is always fun even if we do nothing. I'm hoping that we'll end up hanging out with someone though, one of Andrew's 3 brothers or maybe Megan and husband... it's always good to be surrounded by people who love you and accept you exactly as you are. Especially when you're a blonde Polish girl with an artsy background watching football.

Right now Andrew remains dozed off on the couch by himself. I got up and he grumbled something grumpy. This is my cue to just get up slowly and say nothing, lest I be greeted by the Angry Andrew Half Asleep Monster who frequents our couch at this hour. Worst of all Angry Andrew Half Asleep Monster has had half a bottle of wine so he's extra monsterly in his movements and noises. I dare not disturb him until he wakes on his own at 3am and realizes that he's not being spooned and he's still wearing shoes. Then he will schlepp himself up the stairs to our bedroom and whine rather than growl, whimper himself out of his clothes and into his jammies, and finally surrender himself to our bed. Several times throughout the night I will wake him with my own monstrosities, whether a bed drenching night sweat, a third degree burn from oven-like calves, one of my many disruptive trips to the bathroom; in conjunction with my big head of hair, big bad sleepy breath, and big cold clammy feet invading inappropriate places at regular intervals.

The only real reason I ended up online at all right now was to check my email. I sent an email to the Beagle breeder today to check on the status of our mommy beagle-to-be. She was due on Tuesday and we haven't heard from the breeder yet. The Breeder Lady did previously say that she would wait a few days after the litter was born before contacting us because she has to be safe and sure that the pups survive before calling anyone. But the anticipation is killing me and it's getting increasingly difficult to avoid thinking about it. Even when we get the good news we will have to wait 4 weeks before picking out our new best friend from the litter. Breeder Lady says that at 4 weeks we'll have a good feeling for their personalities and picking out a pup will be easy then. She doesn't like anyone changing their selections the next time they come see the pups.

I find it amazing that a creature develops a personality in just 4 weeks. But I guess in dog weeks that's 7 months. Neat.

I'm really banking on the name being picked as soon as we see our little shloopie. I don't think it will be possible to call a 2 pound floppy little thing "Killer." It just won't work. The little pookie will look up into our eyes and whisper his or her name under her breath. And if not I've got some backup names ready.

But anyway, there are no emails from Breeder Lady and I'll have to fall asleep with visions of Beagle pups howling in my head.

I've been alot of talk this week. Gotta do, gotta act, gotta move... but didn't. During my wasted hours at the day job I think so much about what I want to do when I get home. I get ideas and I jot them down. I make to do lists and plan to visit them later. The day job, however, is a creative energy vacuum. The situation here could be so good which makes it so frustrating that it sucks sucks sucks so much. This little company has licensing opportunities crawling up their wazzoos, but Crazymaker CEO and family will sabotage it all with their fragile egos, attention deficit disorderly crazymaking codependency and overall dysfunction. Yesterday featured a 4 hour long, loud, panic-stricken verbal attack on CEO's wife after her near deal-breaking mistake with email attachments. Have I mentioned that no one here knows how to use computers? The every day things you do like emailing and web browsing are challenging for all three of them. I near an emotional and dramatic explosion every time I have to explain how to CC someone or attach a photo for the 500,000th time, knowing that they haven't absorbed a thing I've said (again) and will call me back to help them do the same thing later. I can't blame CEO's mom too much--she is in her late 70s--but CEO and wife have no excuse other than having things handed to them on silver platters their entire lives. And why should I be teaching anyone Windows? I am a professional illustrator and graphic artist, not a teacher, and for the love of God I work solely on Macs.

So at the end of the day when I walk in the door all I want is a bottle of beer or wine and a few hours of mindless reality TV. I need my Donald Trump and Tyra Banks with their protogés, some greasy food delivered to my door and a good long zone-out session on the couch, running my fingers through my husband's hair until we both fall asleep to the hypnotic melodies of late night infomercials.

That's basically what I've done every day this week. I haven't even made it to the gym. I can blame the day job. I can blame the snow. I can blame my husband. Truth is that it is only up to me and I'm not taking responsibility for it. Why? Because it's hard, scary work.

So instead of commenting on all my favorite blogs today and surfing the net when the CEO thinks I am doing a very complex photo scan for 6 hours, I have to do something proactive instead. So far I've sent a letter to one potential employer. I need to do more. I really need to start redesigning my website, but it seems like such a big job now and I'm cowering in its shadow. I am considering uploading my former site pages in the interim so I don't feel like my web presence is so stark naked... like me in my dream last night as I stepped up on stage in front of all my former high school classmates to perform a cowgirl choral number until I suddenly realize that I'm wearing a sheer white shirt with no bra under very bright lights.

Which reminds me, I have been having scores of high school nightmares lately. First day of school and I don't have my class schedule. Got my schedule and all the room numbers have changed. I can't find my locker and all my books are in it. I can't find my way to the trolley. My car breaks down and I have to walk to school in the rain at night. I'm 30 years old and trying to fit into my 18-year old sized school uniform. My old friends don't remember me. I don't have any money for lunch. Interpretations, anyone?

Ok, tell me I'm being hard on myself... I read this over and I see it. But the situation here really needs to change before I pop a cork at work and do something really drastic.

Exasperated Penguin ©2004 Catherine Erin Hamilton

Today I had a doctor's appointment at lunch. After the appointment I got in my car and said, "Ok, where should we go today?" and Snowbird said, "The art store! I still don't have my sketchbook!"

And so I drove to the art store, a local haunt of mine where everyone knows my name. To be fair, I used to work there. Usually I visit when I have a project that requires new supplies, and I rush in and out without looking around at all the other goodies. Today my friend Keith the Painter came up to me and said, "So, you got a new project going on? Whatcha working on?" and I smiled and said, "Oh, nothing really, just wanted to find something fun." Keith said, "Oh that's great! Just messing around, huh?" He seemed to understand completely and left me to wander around at my leisure. I picked up a few things, put them back, picked up another, put it back, and finally decided upon a box of Caran d'Ache Neocolor II Artist Crayons.

"Neocolor II crayons are softer than colored pencils, denser than children's wax crayons, and extremely responsive to a wet brush. Wet and dry techniques can be combined in the same drawing. Because of their strong pigmentation, light colors cover dark colors and vice-versa."

Well doesn't that sound like fun? Snowbird thinks so. I also bought an Arches "travel" sketchbook. It was the best I could find in the store. They are really lacking in the really-nice-handbound-softcover-natural-paper sketchbook area. I'm not gonna skimp out for Snowbird, she's endured way more than her share of skimping in the past.

Speaking of Snowbird, you know, if you are ever in doubt that you've got an inner child in there, just wait until your birthday. You know that feeling you get when you wake up, like, "Wow, I wonder what wonderful, magical things will happen to me today!?" and everywhere you go you are secretly hoping and waiting for birthday cakes and candles, waiters singing happy birthday, flowers delivered to your door and a mailbox stuffed with cards? As we get older and less magic follows us around we try to convince ourselves that these things are "just for kids." You hold in that disappointment as best you can when your expectations don't come to life. There's your inner child, feeling a bit like everyone forgot her birthday. That's when you need to step in and make your own magic.

Happy birthday to Merry, my mother-in-law who did receive some divine magic worth celebrating. Thankyou God.

Happy birthday to Valeria, who is going to serve a divine homemade authentic Italian feast on Saturday. I'm bringing the ingredients for Chocolate Martinis. Yummy! Actually our girl Kirsten's recipe is better than the one on this site (which I just discovered and is very cute) or even Godiva's site. I'll share it when I have the measurements.

©2004 Kate Hamilton

Today brought a pleasant surprise. I was in an email conversation with my best best friend Megan. (She may not know she's my best best friend, but she is.) Anyway, we were talking about how Andrew wants to name our puppy Killer and how I cannot drive around the neighborhood, head out the window calling, "Here Killer! Heeeeerre Killerrrrr!" when the dog gets out. It may scare the local children, their parents and their dogs. Anyway, so at the bottom of one of her last emails she writes casually,

"By the way, I have decided that it is my calling to write children's books."

Let me tell you about Megan. She and I met at my -one- semester a certain women's college in 1992. When I left to pursue art school Megan and I kept in touch for a while until I ended up in my beforementioned long, damaging 6 year relationship when I wasn't allowed to have friends. So essentially Megan and I hadn't spoken for 6 years when by fate we both ended up being invited to the same bachelorette party. I didn't go. But at that point I got ahold of her email address from our mutual connections. Since then we have spent quite a few happy hours catching up and reacquainting; endured (my) bad karaoke and played games of "I Never," we've each starred as bridesmaids in each others' weddings, have offered shelter and comic relief in icky situations, and soon will be mutually ensconced in the joys and trials of "my first dog." I have not been much of a girl's girl in my life, not for the most part... at least, not until recently. In the past I've sabotaged some female friendships and without realizing it. Maybe I'll figure that one out in art therapy. But I am so happy that my Megan and I have tripped into each others' lives again. She's the type of girl that you can get drunk as hell with, be a fool and spill out your worst secrets (or karaoke voice), then have a civilized dinner the next evening with husbands in tow and not say a word. Not even a giggle.

So now that we've come to the point when we can scream, "I Love You!" and talk about puppies and wombs, I am so excited that Megan has said, "I want to write children's books!" When I was last in her bathroom I noticed the dog-eared Lemony Snicket book on the window sill and recalled her mentioning a love for his books in an earlier email. Megan reads a lot more than I do and will probably pick up writing like I picked up crayons. I believe she's read all the Harry Potter books... I never got through #1 (The movie came out before I was finished! Sorry!). I would love to see her leave the boring/stressful/corrupt world of advertising to find a more rewarding career in publishing. Ironically she holds the same kind of position as Andrew does at his job. {Andrew would really gel in an interior design job, in my opinion.} Maybe advertising is a good hiding place for "shadow artists," as Julia Cameron calls 'em. Megan is full of big ideas in that curly marshmellow blonde head of hers and I know it. I hope I can help her along the way.

I think I've just adopted the most supportive critique group I could possibly find.

Title adapted from a quote by Pablo Picasso

If you've come here today and saw a screen of black, it's because I've been trying to update the look of my blogger template to correspond with what I've got on my home page. How the heck to I get my nice watercolor texture pattern onto this page? I've tried adding html tags but they don't seem to work. I'm not familiar with the code on this template.

I also want to be able to have an image in the title bar rather than PENGUIN TALES in a standard html font. It's rather harsh and boring. I like how my favorite birds' journals have pretty title bars, like Melanie's. I have template envy.

Meanwhile...

Snowbird is hoping and praying for a big fat snowfall tonight. Though she does worry about the birds in the snow, especially at night. I was told that I had better get back into the habit of feeding and caring for the birds like I used to but seem to have forgotten this winter. I left their feeders empty for a few weeks and now they don't come around. So I have to do some slightly loony things to lure them back into my yard so it can once again be the luxury bird spa getaway it once was.

Speaking of birds, a poor misdirected bird got into the Crazymakers' office yesterday. CEO's wife came running to me, calling "There's a bird in here! There's a bird in here!" like a fire alarm. I ran out to her lobby area and there she was, a scared little wren. She could have been a Winter Wren but I'm not sure; she wouldn't sit still long enough. Repeatedly she'd fly to one wall, pause, then fly beak-first into the giant mirror... obviously very confused and in a fevered panic. She was panting. Have you ever seen a bird pant? It is a very peculiar sight.

I have read in my many bird books that the best way to capture a misled bird is to take a soft, light towel or shirt and gently toss it over the bird, scoop her up, and let her outside. This bird wasn't coming anywhere near tossing range and all I had was a big heavy snow jacket. We left her alone for a minute with the window open but she didn't leave. So I went back in by myself and tried to talk in a bird-soothing voice, "Over here, little wren... over here..."

I guess it was either soothing or frightening because out she flew.

Snowbird had silently watched the whole thing from the corner of the office and was very worried for the bird. She clutched onto her Fuzzy Blanket for support. When the wren flew out she exclaimed, "Yaaaaayyyy birdie! You did it!"

Snowbird wondered when we would get to fly out that window.

I was going to post an old photo or two today in honor of the 3 to 5 inches of snow that fell last night, but as I put my picture in the scanner someone tugged on my arm and asked me to draw instead. And so may I introduce to you for the first time appearing in this journal, Snowbird.



Snowbird is 4 years old here and she is very proud of her snowman. She actually had real coal to use for his eyes, nose, mouth and buttons. One of the first things Snowbird learned to draw by herself was a snowman. In fact, most of her coloring books have snowmen scrawled all over the end pages, but they have carrot noses and flowers in their tophats like Frosty the Snowman.

Snowbird will only draw with a sharp Crayola crayon. Once the crayon has lost it's crisp point it goes back in the box for good; usually the black first, then the blue-purple, then the purple-blue, then the blue, until all she has left is very sharp yellows and oranges. She has found the "built in crayon sharpener" to be very ineffective as it breaks off the whole top of the crayon, leading to much frustration and even a tear or two. When given a fresh pack of construction paper she quickly goes through all the white pieces first.

"Why don't they make whole packs of white construction paper?" she asks.

Well, if you didn't have all those other colors you couldn't make red valentines or orange pumpkins, Snowbird. There's all kinds of fun things you can make.

"Well I like the white pages." Alright, we'll have to get you a big, empty sketch book. We'll do that today on my lunch break.

"Is it lunch time yet?"

See, I told you she was impatient.

In the meantime, I just found the Crayola Custom Crayon Box Builder and other neat stuff that they didn't have back in 1978. This should keep Snowbird busy until lunch, making her own box of 64 sharp black crayons.

If I told Andrew this story, he'd say, "Bah! You're just like your mom." You're cringing, aren't you. You know that this is something you never say to a girl without expecting an ugly rebuttal. I would gladly spend an hour trying to convince him otherwise, breaking him down until he throws up his hands in surrender and says "I'm sorry! You're right! I take it back!" Thatta boy.

So lets just avoid all that messiness and I'll tell you instead.

Intuition is a strange little thing. It's that little voice inside your head. You've got one and you know it. I've got one too but she has had a sock stuck in her mouth for a few years to many ("more like, 27 or 28..."). Ah, there she is. Recently I've been dislodging the sock, and it's been a meticulous thread-by-thread operation rather than a quick and painless gesture. No wonder she's wildly impatient. Impatient and adventurous, and making up for lost time. She seems to enjoy long car rides, because that's when she has the most to say. And since she bores easily she won't let me take the same route twice and she begs for me to explore different backroads and get lost for a while.

You know what? I think I'll call her "Snowbird." That was my nickname when I was very very small.

So I was driving out to lunch today with burritos on my mind. A nice big fat Santa Fe Burrito is all I wanted. Maybe I could get some To Do lists done at the same time. I was at the light that you pass through to go to the burrito place, and suddenly I made a right instead of going straight. Huh? "Go home for lunch!" demanded Snowbird. I admit, I kind of heard this at work on the way out to my car but I dismissed it. Not now. "I'm taking you home for lunch. Just trust me." So I oblige and take the extra 10 minute drive to my house. As I approach my street I figure it out. Aack!!! I almost forgot! I have to call Jill and Jack* today!

"You did forget, you know. Not almost." Silly me.

I step inside my home and panic a bit. There were two self-marketing phone calls to make to two potential clients who have expressed interest in my art. It was quite frightening. Uhhh, do I have their phone numbers? I think. Maybe I left them at work. "Don't you even try that, Kate, you know you have them in that book. We both know it!" Crap. I can't get away with anything anymore. All because I took that sock out of her mouth. I've let her speak and now she won't shut up, especially when I'd rather be doing fun things like watching tv and--

Snowbird will not allow me to procrastinate any longer.

I look up the phone numbers. I make a list of questions I need to ask. I sit down at the dining room table and make the first call. Please let me get her voicemail! I pray. "Hello this is Jill." Fnargh. Snowbird sits in the chair in the corner and listens quietly, swinging her dangling feet. The conversation goes well. I stumbled a little here and there, but when it is over I feel really good.

Snowbird does a little victory dance.

Ok. Next I must call Jack. This one is a little tougher. It's been a long time since I spoke to Jack so it is bound to be bunglesome. I feel Snowbird throw a hard glance at me so I dial the number, speak to the receptionist and get transferred to Jack's voicemail. Phew! Thank God for voicemail.

I forage around the kitchen for something to eat. We haven't been food shopping in a while. If I wanted a beer I'd have my choice of 4 varieties, but there's no lunch meat, no leftovers, nothing easy to make. Snowbird tugs on my sweater. My cell phone is ringing, or, errr...clucking (yes, my cell phone clucks like a chicken) in the living room. My heart plunges to my stomach and bounces up into my throat. Caller ID tells me it's Jack.

Ok, so this phone call is way more uncomfortable because Jack is so completely laid back and at this point I am so completely nervous that I ramble on senselessly and even laugh at my own jokes. I must have learned that from the Crazymakers. But despite my anxiety and desperation I get through the call without blurting out "please, please PLEEEEASE give me some work! I can do it! I promise!" Plus he's asked me to email him. Jack's such a nice man that it's silly for me to be so scared. I hang up and Snowbird grins ear to ear. I let out a deep sign and we both giggle.

"Thank you thank you thank you!" I exclaim in gratitude. "Where would I be without you?"

Snowbird says casually "Oh, I don't know," and rolls her eyes to the ceiling like she's known it all along, how couldn't I? Ok, so I do know. Without my listening to my intuition, without letting her speak, I'd be back where I was at my unhappiest hour. Very alone.

On the way back to work I stop at Santa Fe Burrito and get a chicken and cheese burrito to go. Snowbird made a few more suggestions (since I was "finally listening") and asked to listen to Tori Amos so she could sing along... really loud.


* Names have been changed to protect myself from embarrassment.

'Eek
Inflected Form(s): eked; ek·ing
1 archaic : increase, lengthen
2 : to get with great difficulty -- usually used with "out" (eke out a living); supplement : "Kate eked out her income working for the crazymakers while pursuing her dreams in children's literature."
...

This morning my inbox is my friend. I received an email from the SCBWI Eastern PA list, leading me to the website of writer Debbi Michiko Florence, who every month interviews a writer for her website. What a great idea! This month it's Sally Keehn, author of I am Regina and other award-winning historical fiction for children. My favorite quote from the article:

"What a powerful story, I thought. But could I tell it? Did I have the talent? I was filled with self-doubt.

"The Native Americans say that a story stalks a writer and, if it finds you worthy, comes to live in your heart. Regina's story stalked me. It wouldn't let me go! Finally I gave into it. I thought, What have I got to lose? Be fearless, Sally. Tell the story. Just do it!"

Sounds a bit familiar, huh?

Next I opened my eNewsletter from Write4Kids.com, Children's Writing Update. Along with other gems, I found a link to a website called One Word. Now this is neato. You go to the site, you are given one word, the word of the day. You have 60 seconds to write whatever comes to your mind from that word. You then submit your writing and name and address, just like blog comments. A pretty cool exercise to warm up your brain in the morning! Reading the others' interpretations is equally stimulating.

And finally, a contest. The Write It Now Competition is sponsored by Smart Writers, is inexpensive to enter and includes writers and illustrators. Go on and enter, it's good for the brain, good for exposure, and if you win, good for the resume. If nothing else some real editors, art directors and other professionals will see your work. I'm going to try to whip something up. The deadline is February 15th.

Have I ever mentioned that I really want and need to learn how to write? But like Katrina fears her novel, I fear all writing whatsoever, except perhaps blogs and emails where I tend to be rather long-winded. I have a few themes for stories haunting my mind and I don't know what to do with them. But one baby step at a time, gladdies!

If you're learning how to write and illustrate too, I highly suggest joining the SCBWI (Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators). It's a friendly community with lots of perks.

Aaah crap, I've just been given crap to do by the crazymakers. Poo poo poo and "Oh bother." Time to eke out some crap.

Ok, so I've been paging through all my illustration market books, my SCBWI guides, and the websites of many publishers and licensees. I've highlighted, underlined, starred and dog eared many potential clients. All I need to do is compile a comprehensive list so I can begin to think about my target audience, begin to create some marketing materials for them and send them out. For a long time I've been kind of narrow in my searches, and narrow-minded in my first potential assignment. I wanted the ideal situation, right away, right out of school: $5,000-$7,000 advance on royalties, 10% royalty payments for clearly defined reproduction rights from a large trade publisher with high distribution and fantastic marketing. I strived for it for few months, and not half-bad for a beginner. I sent out hundreds of postcards and designed my website. What happened after that was my own fault. I waited.

I waited months and months and months... probably a year before I followed up on my postcards. I did get a handful of voluntary positive responses from some small publishers, and a few form rejections from big houses. This lack of "Here's your first assignment and a check for $5,000!" enthusiasm sent my spirits downhill. At the same time, my dad was vocally very nervous about my lack of a stable, salary-based 9-to-5 job. This combination drove me to the classifieds, which landed me an entry level graphic design job with a communications company that was looking for someone with children's book experience. In my first few weeks they had me work on a children's book that they were going to publish themselves, written by the CEO's wife's sister or something. Within a month they cancelled that project, and I began designing catalogs instead.

I won't lie and say that I got nothing out of that job, because it did teach me alot. I learned more than I ever could in school about Photoshop, Illustrator, Quark, as well as pre-press and production and the basics of model and product photography. I learned how to work with a team, brainstorm for ideas, communicate with clients and listen to their every whim. There was alot of "keeping the client happy." Sometimes this meant working 80+ hours a week, which totally didn't allow for any moonlighting in children's book illustration.

The other positive, of course, is that I met my husband at that job. He was a customer service rep hottie with a quirky sense of humor and a spring in his step--a welcome change from a very long, very bad relationship I had been in for 6 years. Yes, 6 years. Age 19 to 25. A long story for another time. Anyway, Andrew was the first guy I ever dated that I knew loved me for me, not some girl that he thought he could mold me to be or threaten me into being. (Funny thing is, I can't get used to this and still try to be "perfect!") My relationship with Andrew has been the catalyst for many positive changes in my life.



And so we return to my life as it is right now. Working for crrrazy people who value very little about me. Years ago I might have accepted this with gratuity, but the Kate I am now cannot stand it. The wimpy attempts I have made in the past to be my own illustrator will not do anymore. One difficulty I'm having is keeping my brains from becoming too distracted from the Master Plan. I am queen of distractions and welcome them with open arms, especially on the internet. Distractions keep me from thinking about how much I hate my job. Distractions keep me in the reasearching phase and out of the art of DOING. I can't well be an illustrator if I don't sit down and illustrate now can I. No one will hire me to tell them what I know about illustration. They will hire me to put my knowledge and skills into action. I can do that! I can, I can! I'm going to have to stop saying it and... (Warning: Overused marketing cliche ahead!) just do it.

Last night I had a nightmare about PlayStation.

Andrew loves PlayStation. It is his "hobby" of sorts. He turns it on the moment he gets home from work... sometimes even before changing out of his corporate-world suit and tie. When he first got his navy seals game I almost died. I walked in the door after a long day at work hoping for my usual hello kiss, but instead I was greeted by, "Bravo team, attack at will."

"What?"

"Sssshhh...! Bravo team, ATTACK AT WILL!"

Chjuh-Chjuh-Chjuh-Chjuh-Chjuh-Chjuh-Chjuh-Chjuh-Chjuh-Chjuhg--(Machine guns blast in a surround-sound, sub-woofing fury)

There he sat, perched on the edge of the couch cushion, still in his suit, wearing a telephone-operator headset, clutching onto his controller for dear life, shouting commands to his imaginary, 3D-animated team mates... and they listened.

That was probably a year ago. He has since mastered that game, and is now working on the sequel. When I came home from work yesterday Andrew had the entire entertainment center pulled away from the wall as he installed new gadgets. Dread filled my heart. Andrew ordered DSL so he can attack random people all over the globe at will.

Gee, I thought we'd be using the DSL for internet access? Well it seems that it's either the computer, or the PlayStation that gets hooked up (until we spend another $80 or so on a router).

By midnight Andrew was playing with a virtual team of guys who somewhere out there were also sitting in front of their TVs with their little headsets. I'm not sure why, but it kind of creeped me out hearing him communicating in this wartime manner with "real" people. When I went to sleep I had a long, terrifying dream in which Andrew took off in the middle of the night--not to have an affair (my usual recurring nightmare), but to play PlayStation.

Will I ever see my husband ever again?

Had to add another distraction:
Mary Ludington's pet portraits. Especially the doxie in the snow! I have a soft spot for dog ears. The longer and thinner and floppier the better. I have a feeling I'm going to have a whole album of beagle ear pictures on display when the time comes.

Let's avoid talking about the Eagles.

My dear husband threw a surprise dinner party for me on Saturday night. Sisters, brothers, friends, cousins all met at Gnocchi in Philly for a belated birthday surprise. Unfortunately I caught onto it on Friday when my Dad sort of unknowingly slipped, but I didn't know any details, just that something was going to happen. We had a great time eating, eating, eating, drinking, dancing, drinking, singing, partying and merry-making. I am so grateful to Andrew for my first-ever surprise party, and for my friends and family that made it out to be with me. It's such a good feeling to have, being loved. Hopefully I'll have some photos to share soon.

Of course all this fun partying comes with a small price, and that is the feeling in my stomach the morning after. The shaky, ill feeling that makes me cry, "Why? Why oh why oh why did I..." By game time last night I was feeling better, but Andrew could not say the same. Despite all the self-inflicted adversity, the bitter cold and the even more bitter disappointment I did enjoy going to the Eagles game with the boys very, very much. I was all Eagled out (and my hoarse voice today proves it!)

The weekend flew by way too fast and I cannot express how much I'd rather be in bed right now.

Distractions of the day:
Loobylu's illustrated 80's wardrobe
Jennifer Morgan's blocks remind me of summer
Dooce's pre-baby postings
Swirly Girl's updated site
Fat Cat's crazy-cute pet toys
Pao's street penguins and other fine Italian art
BEAGLES! (just 8 days before our due date!)

Today started with 2 nice things.

First, during my drive to work, I was listening to WXPN (great station, has a live feed) and they played Sarah McLachlan singing "The Rainbow Connection"--which is essentially my unofficial anthem. The recording, I found out later, is from a compilation of various pop artists singing classic Muppet songs and original songs for their own kids called For The Kids. Happily, I found that it also includes "Mahna Mahna" sung by Cake, and "La La La La Lemon" performed by the Barenaked Ladies. It is now officially on my wish list. Have I ever told you that I am a huuuuuuuuuuuuuuge Muppets fan? I always wanted to be a muppeteer.

The second nice thing was a little blue bird of happiness landed on my shoulder when I sat down to my computer.

The little blue bird of happiness told me to be grateful for myself today. Be grateful for my strengths, as well as my faults. My body and all its bumps and curves, my mind and all its paranoia and overthinking, my heart and all its insecurities and cravings. I went to the gym at lunch and gave my body a boost. Tonight I'll take it easy and relax my mind. In bed I'll cuddle up to the man who makes my heart skip a beat. Tomorrow I'll wake up very happy.

And here's a treat: a page with Rainbow Connection lyrics and midi files.

Top ten things keeping me from my usual routine, and resulting in a foggy dizzy lost-in-space feeling in my brains:

1. The website fiasco. I changed my host from ehost to DreamHost. I then lost all my old content. I could re-upload it (I found a backup) but I have decided to redesign the site instead. I was procrastinating on this project anyway, now I have to do it. Blank Dreamweaver documents laugh at me.

2. BlogSpeak no longer seems to function so I have no more comments, just like Penelope and Katrina. All past wonderful comments are lost. New comments fields to come, but...

3. ...DreamHost says it has it's own blog system but I am having trouble setting it up. Their blog system should be ad-free, so I'd like to start one, but I can't. Grrr.

4. The Crazymakers are back from their trade show and have been piling To Do items all over my desk. Double grrrr. They are in crazymaking namedropping dreamland, but are also very sick so aren't quite able to brag as much as usual.

5. Andrew and I are trying to refinance our 2nd mortgage in order to get some super fantastic landscaping done in our yard, including a wood picket fence, a deck, a patio, and an arbor that leads to a seating area out by the creek. All this brought on by the coming of the puppy in April.

6. "To go to South Africa, or to not go to South Africa?" That is the question. We were invited to Andrew's cousin's wedding in the heart of South Africa, which includes sightseeing in Cape Town, a wild boar roast, a safari wedding in a national wildlife reserve, and possible interaction with LIVE WILD PENGUINS at Boulders Beach. Can you imagine? Me, sunbathing and frolicking on the same beach as a colony of South African Blackfooted Penguins! (AKA Jackass Penguins). Can you possibly better define "heaven" for this penguinese, nature-loving, Animal Planet addicted birdwatching wants-to-pet-the-squirrels girl? Where else in the world could I take better pictures of penguins? When else is my husband going to agree to such a lavish, luxurious, outlandish vacation? Hmm? Hmm? Hmm? There is only but one, small problem: the price. There are no cheap tickets roundtrip from Philadelphia to Cape Town or Johannesburg. (Any travel agents out there?) Everyone says its "the opportunity of a lifetime! You must go, Kate! Penguins, Kate, penguins!" Yes, but what about the freakishly gigantic credit card bill staring back at us when we return home to normal life? We just don't have 5 or 6 grand sitting around doing nothing at the bank. We're refinancing for a fence!

7. And that is in addition to a wedding the very weekend before, Andrew's best friend is getting married in a castle in Long Island, NY 2 days before we would depart for Africa. This makes everything even more expensive and requires more days off from work. Is it possible to do it all?

8. Not to mention that our dear infant puppy will be ready to be picked up from the breeder smack dab in the middle of that entire 3 week wedding extravaganza. Can I bear to go to Africa when there's a puppy waiting to be brought home and snuggled with?

9. We are going to the Eagles/Carolina game on Sunday. This could be the game that sends the Eagles to the Super Bowl. There will be tens of thousands of crazy drunk insane fans, either ecstatic or outraged by the outcome of the game, and little me bundled up with 6 layers of clothes, battling the -20 degree windchills in the 200 level of the Linc. Though I love penguins, I am not one, and lack the thick layer of insulating blubber that my feathered friends don with pride. (Though I do have a few extra pounds from all the holiday hoopla.)

10. The position of {volunteer} Editor of the SCBWI Eastern PA Chapter newsletter is open, and I have expressed my interest, thinking that I would probably have little chance of being offered the job, after all I am an illustrator, not a writer, not yet anyway. But--I guess no one else applied for the job, because I received several very enthusiastic emails from the Regional Advisors. Cue the Fear, Anxiety, Self-Doubt, Worry and Inner Critic. Can I do it? Do I have time? What if I mess it up?

That's a long list of 10 things, isn't it.

I've had a pretty rough 24 hours trying to fix my website/host/email/blog situation. I'm almost there. I'm going to redesign the rest of my site, I was planning on it anyway. But losing all my content will just make it happen faster.

But don't panic, I'm back.

I have spent most of today's work hours setting up a new web host and a new DNS, which also includes a new blog service, after deleting hundreds of spams in my mailbox and scrambling to get the 2000 sketches done that CEO requested to be finished during his trade show haitus. No worries, my URL will remain the same.

I am just so so sick of spam. Not just the V!@gra and V@ll1um P!11s spam, not just the Increase Y0ur S1ze 4 Her P1e@sure spams, the New P0l!sh B3ast!ality S!te spams, and URGENT HELP NEEDED SIR scams but the spams that have subjects like this:

"Overture incandescent laxative poodle barstool binary lava..."

And body content such as:

"Inside out pew barnicles torrential apertures decisions veto participle warping plasticine radiators anatomical questionaire talker orangatan binge eating plausibilty..."

From a sender named:

"Miss Shaniqua L. Persimmony"

and such.

What is the purpose of such spam? I mean, come on! Ok, you've fooled my spam filter because I've never blocked out any of those keywords, and I am not expecting Shaniqua to email me ever again under the same guise. But come on people! I do not read your 121 emails a day! I delete them! So why keep sending them with such determination? Do you really think that I am going to whittle your peach terrycloth bar monkey in between gravel covered lube chickens? Exhuberently?

Help!

I did not go to the game last night, but was there in spirit as Andrew and I watched the victory over bowls of chili, pinot grigio and a warm fire. There was one spare ticket to the game up for grabs and I decided to take a risk and pass it up in hopes that there would be another game this coming weekend. And lucky for us, the Eagles won! So if all goes according to plan, both Andrew and I will be at the Philly/Carolina game.

Andrew makes an otherwise confusing and anticlimatic sport very exciting for me. Before we moved in together I don't think I ever sat and watched an entire football game. But once Andrew taught me the rules and familiarized me with the sport I started to appreciate it. Though sometimes what I enjoy most is watching Andrew totally freak out when the Eagles have a brilliant interception and score a touchdown. Or, in last night's case, come back from behind to tie the game in the last minute of regulation play, lose their initial possesion of the ball in overtime, then steal it back to score the game-winning field goal (see, I sound almost knowledgeable). At that moment Andrew called everyone he knew and chanted, "E-A-G-L-E-S Eagles!" with excrutiating ferver. I held my ears and giggled.

Two of my sisters and one of my brothers did attend the game, and we called their cell phones to share our whoop-ti-doos. My youngest sister Meggie, 17, is a diehard fan and it cracks me up to hear her spout off statistics with confidence.

Putting on a team jersey is a wakeup call to how unathletic I am. Today I must go to the gym because I fear that I am starting to look like a typical Philly fan after all the chili, chips, dip and wine, nevermind all the intense eating and drinking of the holidays. I haven't done a thing since the week before Christmas. I guess I'll have to deal with the trainers' teasing again. But a nice post-workout fruit smoothie will make it almost worth it.

I suddenly have a 50% chance of going to the Eagles playoff game on Sunday. Today I bought my first ever silly Eagles jersey. #20. Look for me on TV, freezing my very oversized red ears off...most likely standing next to a beer-guzzling cheesesteak-gobbling man in green makeup with an oversized belly. I'll try to take pictures.

Aaaah, Philadelphia, city of brotherly love.

Until Monday...

So I go to the therapist last night, and I spout out as much as I can in my limited time. All the issues I’ve written about here and much more. I asked her, “So how do I find myself and express myself, now that I know that I need to? How do I know what I want when it’s been dictated to me for so long? Where do I go from here?”

Her answer was surprisingly simple and not anything I haven’t heard before. But you know, someone can tell you a truth over and over again, but no matter how hard they try they can’t make you hear it or understand it until you’re ready. I guess last night I was ready.

“Boundaries. Healthy boundaries. You know who you are by setting boundaries. Boundaries are what separates you from everyone else. Boundaries define YOU.

“You know something is crossing your boundaries when you feel icky about it. Listen to yourself when you don’t want to do something. Don’t let it in. Don’t do things for the sake of other people. Do things for yourself. Withhold yourself when you need to. Pay attention to the signals you give yourself when something doesn’t feel good, and then make decisions that honor yourself, your boundaries.

“You also have to allow the good in. Don’t build your boundaries so rigid that can’t let the love in.

“You have to take a risk in order to do this. You risk what other people might think of your new boundaries. But it is better to set them and then deal with it, rather than giving up yourself for the sake of others. The people that love you will have to adjust.”

So simple, right? Self-esteem, self-awareness, self-expression, confidence, happiness all depend on healthy boundaries. Growing up as little Katie, I was at some point told that my boundaries hurt other people. That I should sacrifice myself for the comfort or welfare of others. It’s become habitual. Making others happy, that’s me. Worrying about others’ opinions to the point of paralysis, sacrificing my comfort zones, that’s me. Or that was me. It can’t be anymore.

We ended the session differently than I had expected. I mentioned that I was interested in art therapy. She agreed that it might be really good for me. Then she said, “So I’ll transfer you our art therapist, who is a friend of mine. She’ll probably give you a call sometime next week. Good luck!” Time to move on.

Wow. Shouldn’t I get a diploma or something? Therapist graduation?

*****************
Ok, I can't end this so deeply entrenched in pensiveness again. So here's a fluffy little happy thought that I've borrowed from the comments in the diary of lizardek, who is also having some blues.

My puppy just can't be born soon enough!

I am totally in my head today. I'm either pensive or self-absorbed, depending on your perception. Lucky for me (?) I have therapy tonight. So I get to talk for a whole 40 minutes about how much I'm thinking and how it's got my shoulders in knots. It feels like they've risen up to ear level and I can't relax them. My temples are throbbing too. I've thunk so much today that it hurts.

I'm trying to figure out what being myself is all about. For the better part of the last 30 years I've spent alot of time wishing, trying, failing to be someone else. Self-acceptance has been a challenge. Maybe this is why I find it difficult to express myself. How can you express yourself if you forget who you really are?

I've been able to trace certain insecurities of mine back to my "Family of Origin," as they say. I can ramble on for hours about how this person and that person influenced my thinking. I've become quite skilled at analyzing, but also blaming, other people. I think that maybe right now I am at a crossroads. I can either spend the rest of my life blaming and analyzing until I shrivel into a bitter old prune, or I can accept things as they are and move on. I may become the first person in my family to succeed in acceptance and growth if I do indeed get there. But my Gawd, it is hard. It is sooo much easier to blame. So much so that it's actually quite addictive.

Perhaps this also explains why I can't seem to finish a story. I have a few pieces of beginnings and themes of stories stashed up in my sketchbooks, but I can't get them to the point where the main character overcomes obstacles and changes, or learns her life lesson, and returns to normal life a wiser person. Maybe I have to get there first.

A few weeks ago my therapist suggested two possible treatments: hypnosis (scary) and art therapy. Hmm, art therapy. I know very little about it, except that the art therapist asks you to draw and then they analyze it. Sounds a little scary too. But at least they won't judge it on artistic merit, like the terrorizing Art Director. If I can lose that mentality for a while I could, however, find something about myself that I may have lost along the way. Maybe it will affect my art. I'm a little frightened of how it might be affected. Enter thoughts of what will everyone else think if I change?

The familiar quest "into the woods to find myself" sounds very cliche and therefore I hesitate to use it, but I don't know how else to describe what I'm going through. Ever get so lost that you forget what you enjoy? I feel very helpless in this regard and I don't believe I can figure it out on my own. But at the same time, isn't it really my job to do so? Haven't I let others influence me enough already?

One thing I know is that by admitting all this, I am being truthful about some part of me, and that could be a start.

In the meantime I can look forward to solitude at work starting tomorrow and ending Wednesday. The CEO family is going to a trade show and I will be alone. I will have plenty of time to fill, once I get the 1000 sketches they've requested done. Of course, this also means alot of dead silence, and my head will try to fill it. So send me happy thoughts if you have any to spare.

1 : to go over in the mind repeatedly and often casually or slowly
2 : to a chew again what has been chewed slightly and swallowed : chew the cud

Pshaw. I missed a free teleclass by Gail McKeekin last night. I totally spaced out on the date and time, and I didn't even know I was missing it as I couch potatoed away with my Beagle books. A Free teleclass! There is a clip from one of her teleclasses on her website. Gail is a creative life coach and author of my first creative-self-help book purchase:The 12 Secrets of Highly Creative Women: A Portable Mentor. Which prompted me to read How Much Joy Can You Stand? by Suzanne Falter-Barns, which directed me to The Artists Way by Julia Cameron. The combination of these creative forces sent me over to Another Girl At Play where Alex's chronicles, and the stories of the other Girls inspired me to start this journal. Now I have quite a few new creative friends, who whether they know it or not, have become a sort of virtual support group for me. Isn't that nice? I can't believe I missed the teleclass.

What really reached me was the similarities I saw in myself and the women featured on Another Girl at Play. For a while I felt a bit isolated in the big bad world of illustration. I took alot of jobs for the sake of paying bills, and lost alot of my Self in the process. Reading these girls' struggles helped me realize that making dreams come true isn't necessarily all fun and games from the start. Also, I felt that in order to be hired as a freelance illustrator, especially by a children's publisher, you had to be Older and Established. I often feel younger than I am when I speak to experienced people in the field. Oh, how wise they are. They're not scared like me! How can I ever get anywhere in children's books without a few grey hairs, a teaching degree and/or children of my own? I needed a big studio, preferably in New York City. I needed a portfolio full of past published works. I needed money, a car, nice interview clothes and connections. I had none of these when I first started. It made it impossible for me to succeed with all these prerequisites on my back. I can't believe I missed it.

Now, 7 years later, I don't have grey hairs or children but I do have a small room in my house in PA that I call my studio. I do have a portfolio with published works, just not in publishing. I have a car, I have some nicer clothes, I'm working on the connections. And yet I'm still stuck with a whole new list of prerequisites. How could I miss it?

Sometimes I wonder if children's publishing was meant for me. I don't really get excited about it until I sit down and start painting. I avoid all the sketching, stretching, stapling and prepping. I hate not coming up with an idea right away. Is it because I fear those polite rejection letters, or am I just not excited enough? I am trying to figure this out. I'm hoping that my recently ordered shipment of creative-self-help books and market reference will give me a jump-start. And I should not have missed the teleclass.

Ouch, this post made my head hurt.

New Year's Eve. Clockwise from left: Andrew, random bald man, 2 of Andrew's brothers, my 2 future sister-in-laws, and me makin' noise.

Thank you all who emailed and commented with birthday wishes. I cannot ever get enough of such lovely thoughts. Last night turned out to be rather fun, even fantastic; so much better than I morbidly envisioned. My Megan came over right after work and we headed out to Plate for cocktails and dinner. I had the meatloaf, she had the chicken. And although she didn't have to, she gave me presents! A smart little silver gift bag containing:
--A very funny mug that she's making me take to work because it has a cute angry bird on it giving the finger, and it says "Peep This!" This is doubly funny if you know CEO's last name.
--An even funnier dainty little pink tank top with DIRTY BIRDIE written in huge bold black letters over the decolette.
--A Beagle Handbook :)

We rehashed the details of the parties of the past week. (Want to see a slide show?) We gabbed and giggled and had a nice girly time. I love her so much. Then Andrew surprised us and showed up around 9pm. We enjoyed some more cocktails, and then some more... my drink of choice was the Appletini. The Appletini is dangerous because it tastes like a Sour Apple Jolly Rancher on the rocks with a cherry. But it's all alcohol, like a Martini. The result of which is me walking crooked, saying "puuuuuuuuuppiiiieees!" and "I loooove youuuuu!" alot. I have been feeling very lovey lately.

We parted ways and Andrew had some things to wrap for me when we got home. Now, remember that the puppy-to-be is my birthday present. But the little puppy fetus cannot be wrapped in a box for me to open. So the fool went and bought me things to open, and I squealed with delight at each surprise:
--A pretty dog bed in blue toile
--An also pretty dog blanket in red toile and gingham
--A stainless steel dog bowl... from Coach. I think he's gone Coach crazy this year.
--A Beagle book
--A cuddly plush Beagle (for me, not the dog--I think)
--A Beagle calendar (sense a theme here?)
--A customized Gauchita tote bag and coordinating pouch. How perfect is it? It is black with robin's egg blue lining, and there is a penguin hand stitched on it in white, with the words "el penguina" (which is penguin in Spanish) it. The pouch is blue with black lining and the words stitched in black. I *heart* it, and I'll take a picture and show you why. If you had looked at Allie's site before and hesitated to order a bag from someone you don't know, please just go ahead and order one already! She did a fabulous job. The material is a finely ribbed canvas that looks like it will last forever. She worked extra hard to get it done for my birthday. Making handbags is her dream.

So anyway, my non-dog-person husband seems to be really getting into this whole puppy thing. Or at least the accessories. I told you he was a very male very hetero Martha. He's all about doggie...uh...style. Why yes he is.

Time to go home and be a dirty birdie!

I promised you Beagles. Here is a 2 month old puppy who was very licky kissy with me. I *heart* puppy kisses.

And introducing the future mother of our puppy, pictured with the breeder, Sue. She is due January 27th. She is a young and gorgeous 2 years old, and this will be her first litter. Look at those lashy eyes... those long floppy ears...

And the proud father. How could he resist the charms of our happy mother-to-be? And how could she resist such a stud?


Those are my happy thoughts for the day, currently in use to battle the sad thoughts... Andrew has class tonight, so I could possibly be spending the evening alone. I have been dealing with (or ignoring) this reality all day. But my Megan has just suggested meeting up, which would be the sweetest thing a friend has ever done. I hope the night turns out better than I've been envisioning. (And I can envision quite a pitiful scene, let me tell you.)

Happy Bird-day to me...

Yes, today at 3:01 pm I shall be 30 years old. A birthday of mixed feelings. I don't know what to say so I am posting some photos.

First, me as a wee little thing in on a sled, with my Beagle pal, Max. Aren't I a puffy little snowbird?

Next, my first birthday, celebrated at my grandmother's house. I have no idea what's going on, but I do like the candle.

And my second birthday, my last year of being an only child. I look shy but believe me, I love the attention.


That's all for now, I need to go get a manicure; a gift for myself today. Always lifts my spirits. I'll post again when I get back from lunch and beauty. I have Beagles to show you. Yes, Beagles. I know you can hardly wait.

Happy 2004!

Though I must admit I'd be much happier if I was at home with Andrew right now, who like everyone else who has the day off today except for me because CEO can't bring himself to granting a free day off to his only employee. He himself is not here, nor his wife, nor his mother. It is just me.

I am leaving for lunch at 12:30 and that is it. I am not going to sit here all by myself for an additional 5 hours. I would love to walk out for good, but the mortgage demands that I come back on Monday. Unless I can find something else before then...

In the meantime, my new year's celebration was fantastic. Andrew and I met up with 2 of his brothers and their fiancés (one proposal happened on New Year's Eve! Woohoo!), their friends, their fiancés' friends, my dearest friend Megan and her husband, their friends and their friends' friends. All of us crammed together at the back room of Fado (irish bar) in Philly for a long and festive celebration. Many digital photos were taken. Unfortunately I do not own a digital camera (yet) but I will post pictures when my friends undoubtedly send them to me so that I can be embarrassed at how silly I was. Thank you, pinot grigio.

The party continued at Megan's place and Andrew's keys got hijacked so we spent the night. Sometime during the walk to Megan's place Andrew's pants got ripped and his leg slightly welted, but all in all that's not too bad of a consequence considering the collective amount of alcohol we consumed. Far less casualties than... well let's just say that at least I didn't fall on the dance floor as I am often known to do. Yes, I get a little carried away. Especially if they play "Just Like Heaven." And I never have been good in heels.

All in all it was great fun and I wish we could have repeated the experience last night, but unfortunately I had to work today. As I mentioned earlier. And I have come to the conclusion that I give these people far more of my Self than they deserve. My friends and family and I deserve me much more.

And so does a puppy. So tomorrow, as a pre-birthday event, Andrew and I are driving to one of the Beagle kennels we have found 2 hours away. We will go and meet 30 bouncy Beagles. One of which is expecting puppies end of January. So by April I will hopefully be one happy and proud mommy of a wee little shnookie.

And in the meantime, I have the last weekend of my 20's to enjoy. I hearby give myself permission to fall on the dance floor while I am still young. Cheers!