Frozen in Time, Part I (Rated R for Irascibility)

Photo by susannah78 on Flickr

You now get to see what my writing looks like when I am clinically depressed. I have informed myself recently that depression is no longer considered a valid excuse for not writing. Unfortunately, it is you, Dear Reader, who will suffer.

Update on Ginger:

Ginger Ale the pit bull has been diagnosed with a torn ACL ligament in her left knee. She blew it out jumping after a squirrel the day after Jack the Irascible Arabian got kicked in the head, about two months ago. Fragments are breaking in her right knee as well, though it is still pretty firm.

The recommended surgery for this has a name I could not possibly remember--perhaps because I heard the price and fell into a deep, dark place from which I have not yet returned. One knee=$3000.

There is a running special for you savvy shoppers, however. Two knees=$4500. No coupon necessary. One deal per dog, please.

Broken Pit

Update on Career:

After narrowly avoiding conspiratorial and unfounded termination last week, I told my boss I will be leaving equine pharmaceutical sales (yeah, I sell ketamine and no, you can't get any) as soon as I find some other position--preferably one that does not require bending over and firmly grasping one's ankles.

Employee of the Year

This leads to numerous concerns, all of which converge into clinical depression (see above). I currently make $$$ a year. The best job I have found (but not yet been offered) pays $$. My bills are $$$$ a year, which was already causing great stress. Too many animals. Too much house. Too many cordial visits with various veterinarians.

Jobs I have so far considered include parking attendant, CIA operative, mental hospital janitor, creative consultant for a company I still can't figure out ( Sandbox International), veterinary technician for the UW Vet School (license necessary) or for a nationally-known testing company (no license required for torturing animals), Army National Reserves Linguist, Peace Corps, snow shoveler, and librarian page (the one who files books), among others.

Before you write and ask me why I am not using my master's degree in Arabic, I will say ONE LAST TIME that I AM NO LONGER FLUENT. Employers do NOT have time or money to train employees how to use their skill. If you have never been a language major at the higher level, trust me on this one. If you are 15 years removed from fluency, which is VERY hard won in my case, you cannot retrieve it by reading or listening to Al-Jazeera over lunch and after work. You need about a year of language immersion, preferably in the country you specialized in, in this case, Egypt. This costs money, believe it or not, and also requires that you leave all loved ones (including animals if you have none besides immediate family) for said period of time. This in and of itself also converges at clinical depression.

I'm not done.


I chose the title "Frozen in Time" for a reason. I recently learned that putting one's storm windows on in 6 degree weather is not only unwise, but impossible. My windows are old--old as my 1920 house, in fact--and freeze solidly in place after the first cold spell. Just to get to the window two days ago I had to chisel away thick, ribbed waves of ice on the INSIDE of the glass, after peeling off the rolled-up towel that was frozen to the sash as a make-do remedy. A smarter homeowner might have taken this as a bad sign, but I persevered with my hair dryer and flat-sided screwdriver.

Ice gone and floor soaked, I struggled to stay upright on the shards of broken ice and leaned into the sash.

Nothing. I had carried two extremely large and heavy storm windows up two stories from the basement to learn that my windows had no intention of opening until next June. I quickly adapted a positive outlook.

Fuck my windows. Fuck Wisconsin winters. Fuck ACL ligaments and rabid co-workers. Fuck expired vet tech licenses and forgotten Semitic languages. Fuck mortgages and irascible ponies. Fuck me.