I should be working, so I'll keep this brief. In case anyone's interested: I'm markedly less depressed. Things suddenly feel normal. This is a big improvement!

Things I Like. . .

1. Over-the-knee socks

2. Bubble baths

3. Boston Terriers

4. Brothers

5. Nieces

6. Pie

7. "Friday I'm in Love"

8. Autumn

9. Inspector Morse

10. Stripes

11. Make-up

12. The sky

13. The Beatles

14. NPR

15. Harry Potter

16. Pigeon Pose

Ok, so I'm increasingly depressed. And I can't seem to get anything done, and I feel really stupid about it all. Just getting out of bed in the morning feels like a Hurculean struggle, and I'm normally pretty morningish. But my first thought on waking is something like, "I wish I could go back to sleep and pretend that today isn't happening." Only today is always happening. And I'm not anxious so much all the time, just really depressed. I'm like a slug, although I practiced Yoga for an hour yesterday. Still, it's like nothing's getting done, and I can't even make myself WANT to get things done. And, to be honest, I'm starting to worry about myself. I don't know. Maybe this post is really just my cry for help. Or maybe I'm being over indulgent, somehow.

I just realized, about an hour ago, that I hadn't posted in a while. So, here's my big news: I just dyed my roots pink. Now, those of you who have known me for any length of time probably know that I seem to have more than my fair share of hair color disasters. This I attribute mostly to my propensity to decide, without much real consideration, that my hair NEEDS to be a funky color (or just something different) right this very second ("immediately, if not sooner"). And sometimes, it just doesn't work out quite the way I had planned. For example, there was the time when I decided that my black wasn't black enough, was too ashy or brassy or something. So using blue "Fudge" seemed like a good solution to, you know, cool off the color somehow. And I used it, rinsed it off in the shower, and while my hair looked good, my skin was tinted blue for the next week. While this is maybe not strictly a hair color SNAFU, some claimed that I rather looked like a Smurf. Now that I think about it, I wonder if I looked like the black-haired, evil Smurfette, because really, I always thought that although evil, she was kinda sexy. SIDE NOTE: I don't subscribe to the blondes-have-more-fun theory; I think brunettes and red heads are often prettier. Then, there was the time, not too long before I moved to Vermont, when I tried for pink streaks. That didn't work at all. And apparently, I didn't learn from that mistake, because I used the same product tonight. However, I must say this: My method was different. Apparently, it's all in the method. And I guess, really, that I can't be so terrible at this hair color stuff, because Carina let me color hers once. Wait. She ONLY let me do it once. Oh, and then there was the time I bleached my brother J's hair. Only, I didn't apply the bleach very uniformly. It resulted in his being dubbed "Patches" at summer camp.

Ahhh. . . so many colors, so little time!

Overheard Conversation

"I just want to be able to go out into the woods and drag something back and be like, 'I killed this with my bare hands' or 'I found a rock and sharpened it'"

I Blew Chunks

Ok, on Saturday, I had a "rather unpleasant, unclean experience." And I know that most people would feel great embarrassment if this had happened to them. But I just keep thinking that it's somehow funny.

On Saturday morning, I left for a day trip to Salem, Massachusetts; yes, home of the infamous Salem Witch Trials. In between memories of The Scarlet Letter and The Crucible, I learned that John Lennon had made a point of visiting Gallows Hill, the site where 19 of the accused witches were hanged. And I had this great day, visiting The House of the Seven Gables, among other stuff.

However, just after lunch, I started to develop a headache, and it got worse and worse. I get these headaches that I call migraines because, among other things, they make me feel nauseated. Anyway, by the time we boarded the charter bus to return home, I was feeling pretty sick. And about 15 minutes into the 3 1/2 hour drive home, I threw up (yes, I blew chunks, yawned in technicolour, up-chucked, puked, barfed) on the bus. It was all over my clothes and the seat where I was sitting. And there wasn't all that much cleaning up I could do, aside from what can be done with dry paper towels. And so I had to ride home in my own vomit.

I know this is all really gross, and I realize that I'm forever branded as "The Professor who Puked on the Bus in Salem," but all I can think is that it's just really funny somehow.

I Heart Umberto Eco

I've just started Eco's The Island of the Day Before, thanks to my dad. And there's so much that I want to say about Eco and semiotics and medievalism and postmodernism and narrative theory. I wish there were someone appreciative to whom I could say these things. And although I've avoided it and repressed it all these years, maybe it's time to give in to my urge to study and read and write about contemporary literature and postmodernism and popular culture. And did I tell you that I'm planning to teach The Muppet Show in my 20th century class next semester?

Stalled

It just hit me: I'm feeling stalled. In fact, I dare say, I AM stalled. It's like I somehow can't get going, but am not so distressed about it as I would imagine. Is this merely the antidepressants? This worries me. I'm not getting as much done as I'd normally like to be getting done, but at the same time, I'm not so upset as normal about not getting things done. It's like I'm not making progress somehow, but it's just not grating on my nerves the way it normally would. And I have to ask myself: is this who I want to be? I know that maybe this doesn't make sense. I tried to explain it to J. the other night, and I realized that it's all pretty darn complicated, and it's near impossible to articulate. But it comes down to this: I'm suddenly afraid that I won't be me anymore without stress and anxiety grinding down my psyche. Really. I'm afraid that I'll be stalled forever, that I'll never amount to anything, but that I'll just never care. This is not at all how I perceive myself, at least until very recently, nor is it the way I want to live my life. I want to commit myself to my work and to crafts and to books and to people, and I want to do all these things passionately. Lately, my greatest passion seems to be physical comfort. And so, I find myself stalled. And I don't know what to do. I am wondering if living with anxiety, however debilitating it sometimes became, was preferable to this. I mean, often the anxiety got in the way of my peace and satisfaction, but at least I was getting stuff done. I was knitting and reading and scrapbooking and thinking and reading. Now, it seems that I'm content watching Law and Order, my not-so-guilty pleasure, all night. And more than ever, I'm content with being alone. Contentment is certainly good. But can't I have balance? Can't I have contentment and still work the way that I want to be working?

I consider this post a shout out. . .

. . . to Dolce Carina and the rest of the fidfam, who are on their way to Europe today. And I'm so thankful that Carina and O. are joining M. in Europe, because to me this says that maybe all is still right with the world, you know? I mean, I so appreciate that there are healthy families out there, making healthy decisions. So, this could easily turn into a paean of praise for Carina, but I'm afraid that would embarrass her. But really, I just so appreciate the strength she has to seize what's right for her and to do what works, even when other people don't necessarily understand. This, to me, is quite inspiring. And so, even though I don't take the time to tell her so nearly often enough. Carina is such an encouragement to me; she's the kind of friend who doesn't come along very often.