Jaci Dawn

I am taking a few days off from my second job (art) to settle and focus. I finished a three-week-long commission (maybe it was four weeks) and shipped it off to the client on Monday, realizing at the last moment that I should probably put a note in with it. So: note to self: invest in some small cards to include with commissions and art purchases. I’m not very good at this, apparently.

Spring is in the air, although you’d never know that by the dismal temperatures we’ve been seeing – and the lack of gardening posts that I’ve put up. Don’t worry: I’ve been doing a little work around the yard. Garden posts will come soon enough. Not this weekend, however: we’re in for another round of cold and rain, rain, rain. Enough with the rain, already! It’s the wettest winter in a decade and I was tired of it a decade ago. My S.A.D.D. is in full force.

Updates: Harvey is the same. He coughs, coughs, coughs, and gags. It is not heartworm. It does not respond to antibiotics. There’s too much fluid in his lungs for a good picture (to see if there are tumors in there). His blood came back normal, although the thyroid is slightly low. That means nothing, really: he’s sick, so the thyroid is low. He’s on diuretics and takes a dose of Robitussin DM* to help with the coughing spells. (The vet was very specific on the Robitussin – anything else is dangerous to dogs. Our other dog takes Benadryl when he has an anaphylactic reaction to bee stings.) Harvey probably doesn’t have allergies – he’s 8 years old this spring.

The good news is: Harvey doesn’t realize he is so sick. He’s happy, has some energy, and his back doesn’t give out on him much (he has a narrowed spine, probably due to bad breeding – just another health issue for a rescue dog). So we’re just monitoring the coughing.

I am typing a little on my fourth rewrite of The Great American Novel (not the junk I send to NaNoWriMo). I may finish that by year’s end and attempt to self-publish. I really need to get my retirement plan in action, and that plan is to be an author and artist (which was my original dream in the 1970’s when I graduated from high school and aspired to be like John Steinbeck).

I still would like to do a lot of recycled art sculpting, but you know this all takes so much time? And I work a 40-hour/week job? And weekends are spent cleaning, shopping, and catching up? My body is slowing down, but my brain is still plowing forward at ninety  (okay, seventy) miles an hour.

I have two inspirational books open that I am slowly working through. “Becoming Myself” by Staci Eldridge (I really need to own the paperback version of this – you can’t make notes in the Kindle version!), and “Worthy: Boost your Self Worth to Grow Your Self Worth” by Nancy Levin. Don’t roll your eyes at me: some of us have money issues. I intend to deal with mine.

Am still in the 9-5 job. It’s OK. It is certainly *not* that nightmare of a job I had before, and I have lost over 15 pounds of stress weight in the last year (while I had a broken foot!). My former employer may not appreciate me posting that, but perhaps they should look into the amount of stress they put me through. Ya think? Won’t happen. Screw them.

My grandkids are growing. I need to pull the family tree together to pass on to the next generation, so they have some idea who they are. DNA testing can only go so far, especially if most of your heritage is in the British Isles. Are you aware that your British DNA can show aleles from all along the northern European coast, the Iberian peninsula, and Rome? All those pirates, Vikings, and clan wars. Rapes and pillages. My DNA is 40% West European, 30% British Isles, 13% Iberian Peninsula, 7% Irish, 6% Scandanavian, 4% Finland. The fun part comes when my ancestors migrated to the Americas. Oh, and DNA permanently squashed that idea that there is a Cherokee Princess back there somewhere. Apparently my people didn’t intermingle with anyone outside their skin color until my children’s generation.

Don’t worry – despite that apparent Aryan heritage, I still remember the “talking to” I got when I drew swastikas on my tennies in the 7th grade. I don’t know *why* I don’t know why I drew the swastikas, but I remember the lecture, vividly. My father quite nearly blew a gasket, and I feared the worst (he really never beat us, but his words could be harsh enough that you felt like he beat you). I felt like he beat me, not because he called me any names, but because he told me truths about Nazi Germany I had not learned in school. He told me how they skinned twins and made lamp shades out of their skin. He told me how they gassed people. He told me of Jews, Christians, and anyone who stood up against Fascisim.

I was summarily ashamed, and I threw those tennies out, and I have never walked that path since. I fear for those who do not understand what Fascism is. It’s not rape and pillage, but complete annihilation of other races, religions, and anyone intellectual or different. I am thankful my father blew a gasket and took the time to explain to me why.

Is that enough of “little this and little that”? I need to work on my art website and more. But right now – I just want to chill. Just for a week.