Notice Of Continued Life

I have not, my dear friends, disappeared from the face of this planet. On the contrary, I have been appearing all over this planet of late, particularly if we allow “of late” to include the past four months. Even if we limit “of late” to this past month, I’d likely show up on some sort of scientific planetary activity scan.

[Insert break for mental “scolding” and “refocus” lecture.]

Many of you are all too aware of where I’ve been recently, as you’ve been right there with me, sucking in the paint fumes. To those of you who have escaped the Paintathon, I extend a sincere congratulations and a reassurance that I will manage to rope you into some other taxing and very un-enjoyable “because you’re a good friend” job at some point.

Now I will take a moment to unveil the Painters Of Honor Awards:

Most Focused and Productive:

Tiffany Carlson, who unveiled her secret Super Painter status as the rest of us stared from the kitchen floor where we sat consuming pizza, awed by the flurry of tornado-like painter activity coming from a being that scarcely measures over five feet. Amazing.

Most Unflagging Energy and Undying Chatter:

Stacy Steyer, who managed to not stop speaking for more than two consecutive minutes at ANY point as she painted, and painted, and painted for two days in a row. Extra award of honor is deserved in recognition of her offer to help FINISH the job this weekend! Kudos as well for roping Mike into helping. Astounding powers of persuasion.

Most Dedicated With Simultaneous Whining:

Dan Philipp, who made the trek from Milwaukee to Madison on less than four hours of sleep (which we were NEVER allowed to forget) and for single-handedly not-quite-finishing The Green Room! It should also be noted that he lugged his painting supplies AND ran to the paint store for ADDITIONAL supplies when the need arose! His smiling, unshaven, sleep-deprived face was sunshine to us all.

Most Eager to Volunteer (coincidentally, also most inexperienced):

Britt Zeidler, who had never painted before in her life, and who painted only small sections of the ceiling (actual target: wall) in her painting initiation. Her positive attitude and willingness to take on any assignment was a boon to us all!

[Coming soon: The Movers Of Honor Awards.]

To sum up, I am alive. Surrounded by chaos, covered in bruises, calorie-deprived (a completely different story,) but alive. I am – once again – reminded of what amazing people surround me in my life. Why it took me so long to realize that I can ask you people to help me with things – and that it results in ACTUAL HELP – I cannot imagine.

Further proclamations to be issued as progress is made.

Mr. Sleepy Sunshine hard at work.

The happy newbie!

She's blue, la da dee, la da da, la da dee...

Tiff - The Master Paintress - Pretty in Pink

Song In The Key Of Now

Here I go again on my own

I don't think I can stay in the old house anymore

'Cause I'm moving on up


Wasting time's an aggravation. Got no time for confrontation.

I'm leaving here. I'm long away.

And I never lost one minute of sleepin' worryin' 'bout the way things might have been

Cause I'm free, I'm free


Morning has broken

I need to laugh and when the sun is out I've got something I can laugh about

What's on the other side?


I'll tell you about the magic and it'll free your soul

If you believe they put a man on the moon

Things aren't what they seem to be


But for a moment, all things aside, look to yourself somewhere inside

The future's so bright I've gotta wear shades.

The Boy

I am being punished.

The Boy Rabbit is refusing to speak to me.

This is not a new form of punishment. It’s happened before, many times. I am not – you see – permitted to leave him for any considerable length of time. If the length of my departure requires that I secure someone else to care for him, or – HEAVEN FORBID – that he be left with my parents, then I am punished for an EXTENDED period of time.

Last week, their uncle R stayed with them for 7 days while I was vacationing in San Diego. According to his report, they were well-behaved during this time. The Boy Bun – it seems – even allowed R to pet him. (This does not – frankly – bode well for me. It smacks of desperation, which I will pay for.)

Tuesday, in the wee hours of the morning, I surprised the pets with my return. As is customary, The Boy Bun was initially too relieved to disguise his pleasure at seeing me. Ears perky, he pressed up against the bars of his cage, watching me with bright, gleaming eyes. Unfortunately, this happy version of The Boy never lasts. By the time I woke from sleep a few hours later, his anger had set in.

I was greeted that morning with a grunt, after which The Boy Rabbit immediately dashed into his cardboard tube. As I dropped pellets into his dish, he peered at me from the end of the tube, his face ominous. It was only after I had moved away from his area that he came out, sniffing his pellet dish contemptuously and giving me “a look.” This I ignored.

An hour or so later, as I offered the bunnies their customary morning “good-bye treat,” he swatted my hand. This was a new development. I have – many, many times – been swatted at when delivering food or litter, or when adjusting items in his cage, but NEVER have I been swatted when I’ve had a treat in my hand. I was – I realized – in much more trouble than normal.

Since my return, I am watched constantly by a little brown rabbit with angry eyes. He glowers at me from a new favorite spot – in a basket at the far end of his pen, quite distanced from any hands that may attempt to touch him. My cheerful greetings are met with a disdainful turn of his rabbit back. When treats are offered, they are only accepted after an elaborate show that is meant – through the sniffing and hesitation – to imply that I am not to be trusted, and that I smell bad to boot.

He is an odd creature, my Boy Bun. I am – you see – the only one that he has ever adored (at least as long as I’ve had him.) I know this because there have been rare occasions, in the many years that we’ve lived together, in which he has let down this wall that he has built. He has snuggled his face into my neck, he has thrust his forehead into my hand, he has licked and kissed my arm as I pet him. I know that the anger that he feels when I leave him is based on the fear that he holds – every time – that I will not return. In these feelings he is, I think, like many people in this world. The difference is that he is so very open about it. He does not pretend that he is not angry when he clearly is, does not wait until a few weeks after my return to have a “fit” over me “moving his water bottle” or “leaving the roof of his cage open.” His anger – and the cause of it - is refreshingly honest.

“I want you with me,” it says, laying his emotions bare, “and if you don’t stay with me I will be angry.”

I can understand this, and – because I do – I can accept it. I am willing to spend extra time cajoling him back from his angry spot, am happy to give him the attention that he has missed in my absence. In a few days, after I’ve spent hours petting and playing with him, (yesterday’s bribe: Peter’s Hay Tumbler) we will once again snuggle happily together.

Until he finds out we’re moving.