cold fear

To find yourself jilted is a blow to your pride. Do your best to forget it and if you don't succeed, at least pretend to. - Moliere (1622 - 1673)

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don't get overly upset - the quote above has nothing to do with my marriage and everything to do with the Highland Games. (see below)

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It’s been a rough week. I haven’t blogged much since Monday, mainly because my stress level has been outrageous (directly tied to PMS, no doubt) and I’d rather not spend my time with you, Constant Reader, in useless bitching. (I have T for that – thank you as always, for your loving and completely non-judgmental shoulder. I honestly don’t know what I would do without you.)

I've been backsliding. I feel sometimes as if the persona who took over last November is waiting around corners for me, ready to rope me back to that hell of depression and anger and hopelessness. The fear of that is so cold and large, like sitting in an egg-shaped stainless steel chair. It seeps into my bones at night and makes me twitch. The only thing that seems to alleviate that chill apprehension is the silly happy grin of my daughter, or her warm, sleeping body snuggled against me.

There is, thankfully, an upside to all this stress. I’ve had to sit and consider my feelings very seriously, instead of simply waiting them out. I’ve had to find a way to communicate those feelings, uncomfortable as it was, to Husband. We spent several long months living in the same house and not communicating about much of anything at all, which resulted, unhappily, in two people who are married, have a child together, but are, essentially, strangers. This, despite the intimacy and closeness that we once shared. So this level of communication has got to be step in the right direction, even if it’s a teeny baby step.

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Duckie has another cold but is managing beautifully anyway. She has fallen in love with our self-propelled vacuum, and can push and pull it over the carpet with one hand. Hey, it’s good exercise, right? I’d like to say it also gets the floor clean, but she goes over one spot a thousand times and neglects the rest of the floor. Not that it matters – if she’s helping with chores at 17 months I think that’s a good start. (She also likes to help with laundry, putting her bath toys away, and putting trash in the garbage can. Now if I can just get her to change her own diaper…)

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After a week of negotiations and clarifications between the Whiskey Sisters and the new booking management at the Foothills Highland Games, I am sorry to say that they have declined to hire us for the 2005 Games. I will admit that I am more upset about this than I have generally let on. What bothers me most is not knowing why – were our prices too high, and if so, why didn’t they bother to haggle about the money? Was it because we could only commit to four shows instead of five? Are there tons of other performers who were head and shoulders better than we are, or is it because we’re “just” a capella singers? Or – God forbid – are we just not good enough for them?

I don’t know – and that’s the problem. Times like these are when I start to fantasize about getting an agent, who could at least get the lowdown on their decision and communicate it to us. But an agent would probably want to book us a lot more than we could handle, given the family commitments we all have. After we said “no” enough times, she or he would probably give up on trying to get us jobs.

Buffy has suggested that we could still go to the Games as part of the Ren Faire tent, and maybe sell some sample CDs (which we’ll probably have available by then.) My pride is stung by this image. To be demoted from a main stage show – and a pretty good one at that – back down to street singing for free (which is kind of a pain in the ass once you’ve gotten used to microphones) really bothers me. On the other hand, I’m perversely interested in whom else they’ve booked for entertainment, and I’m really interested in whether or not they’ll be having a Bonnie Knees Contest. If so, it couldn’t possibly be as much fun without us.

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I’m off to the beach tomorrow afternoon. I seriously doubt I’ll have time to update before next week – I’ll only be in for a half-day tomorrow, and the ladies are picking me up in Buffy’s new-to-her-land-yacht-of-a-Taurus. Please send good creative juju our way, if you don’t mind. This will be a valuable time for us to learn new songs, maybe write some originals, figure out how to present a good show at the Ren Faire this year, and – maybe – relax.

I’m missing my daughter already – and I haven’t even left yet.

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Before I forget (because my brain tends to flush ugly current affairs without taking any action, and I am trying not to do this anymore), I have to state my own protest about the Senate's vote yesterday, narrow as it was, to drill for oil in the Artic Wildlife Refuge. Drilling proponents are saying there are ways of drilling now that leave less of a footprint on the land and the ecosystem. But I don't see how this is going to solve anything long-term. And the very thought of it leaves a nasty taste in my mouth. It feels like a monumental mistake. It feels like the kind of thing a society does that eventually dooms it in the eyes of the gods. I know that sounds like a strange, excessive reaction, but that's my honest response to this level of stupidity and ignorance.

If you run across any activist groups who are stubbornly trying to stop this ridiculous insanity, feel free to post their links here; I would love to know about it. Nothing on the Greenpeace website yet.

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And if you give a shit about it, have a great St. Pat's day.