The Sharkdog Cometh

  Another day at Casa de WTF?. Still no job, but my years as a borderline housekeeper are paying off as I continue the task of cleaning, organizing, and ironing everything in sight. In an effort to wring every last dollar out of this train wreck, we're clearing the closets and making offerings to a snooty consignment shop in town. As I mentioned earlier, I don't think we've ever gotten rid of anything. The things I've found would shock even the most clueless fashion victim. Also, apparently in the 80s (which extended well into the 90s in rural TN), it was okay for career women to wear shoulder-padded suits in pastel Easter egg colors. This hypothesis is based on the many such heinous examples found in my mom's collection this week. Three pink suits, Mom? Really?

  Cleaned out what we long referred to as the "junk closet" (in imitation of more sane households' "junk drawer") and saw the floor for the first time since we moved in. How is that we managed to hold onto decades-old fabric scraps, yet somehow misplaced actual important things? The mystery of the lost original Nancy Drew continues...

  That, plus some kickass transcribing work (women's lib be damned -- secretarial work pays well!), take up most of my time. The transcribing is for an academic dude I met in D.C. who's interviewing musicians for a book. I didn't know anything about the topic, so it's nice to hear some good stories and get paid for typing them up.

  I don't know if I've mentioned the new dog yet. Well, there is one, and he is a pistol. W, or as I call him, "Sharky", keeps me pretty busy with walks and ball games and pulling his head out of shoes and stuff. You have to take him out on a leash in the backyard because he's small enough to fit through the not infrequent gaps in the fence. Nine pounds of pure insanity combined with the misplaced bravado that is a hallmark of small dogs everywhere. Walked by a fence today and the dog on the other side (who, judging by his bark, had been a heavy smoker for at least 15 years) wanted to start an argument, but our brave Shark does not back down. Dragged him back home for the safety of all citizens.

  W is a mixed breed pound puppy: from his Westie ancestors he got his comically short legs and sturdy tail (twice the length and thickness of a leg), and from the Chihuahua side, the excitable temperament and urge to strike out like a cobra at everything that passes. It doesn't help that he's both black and stealthy: half the time you're searching the house for him while he 's following close on your heels, undetectable and probably snickering to himself before pouncing. The dog wants to chew on you all the time. Suppertime, pottytime, bathtime -- any time is fair game for this little assassin. I'm glad I watched all those Swamp People marathons -- you have to wrestle him like a damn alligator to get him into bed.

  In other news, I've finally been able to sleep after months of insomnia and unsettling, anxiety-induced dreams. I thought it would get better once I got to OK and (assumedly) stopped feeling guilty, but guilt has been replaced by the anxiety of not finding a job. Every night I would lay down at a reasonable hour and almost immediately find myself overwhelmed by the thought of every stupid thing I've done over the past couple of years. After a couple hours of Nightmare on Memory Lane, I'd fall into an unsatisfying sleep plagued by nightmares.

  Fast forward two months: I realized I had to supplant my anxieties with something else, something powerful that would eclipse them completely. So I asked myself, what's the only thing scarier than unemployment? That's right, vampires. Not the teen-lit. pansies of the modern era (cf: movies I will never again go see with my dad), nor the ones who drank themselves to death on Sunset Boulevard. No, I needed the old-school blood-sucking fiends. Read a couple chapters of Dracula and slept like a baby.

Biding his time until the moment is right to strike.