Wednesday, July 18, 2012

Two New Things

At the beginning of the year, I was totally convinced I should get a dog. I had the breed picked out and everything. I was going to be the proud owner of a toy aussie shepherd. They look like this:

They've got a sort of pomeranian mixed with a border collie look to them, and they're as smart as a whip. It seemed like a match made in heaven.

About three months into the year, I started to research breeders. Sadly, the more I searched, the more I got this obnoxious twinge of the spirit telling me, "I know you think this a good idea, but it isn't. You live in an apartment the size of a comfortable shoe box. You enjoy weekends in National Parks (mostly, very non-dog friendly destinations) at least once a month. You tend to take week long breaks outside of the state or country on a semiannual basis. You treasure your space. Dogs don't tend to do any of the above very well. So you may think you want this, but you're wrong. So very, very wrong."

Don't you just hate it when the spirit is right?

I admitted defeat, and put the idea to rest shortly thereafter. Nevertheless, I still had a nagging feeling that my search for a pet was not over; I just wasn't sure which animal might be a better fit. The dialogue went like this in my head: "Rat? No. They die way too easily. Chinchilla? No. They eat better food than most of their owners, due to their specialized diet. Iguana? Snake? No and no. I don't want a pet whose only thoughts are living, breathing food and heat. Cat? No. [Pause] Well. Maybe. I'll think about it."

Then about a month and a half ago, I saw this on the Salt Lake City Public Library website (click on the picture for a better look):

It was then I had an overwhelming thought flood my brain: "I want one of those."

After a little bit of research and studious observance to the Salt Lake Humane Society website, I did eventually find the exact cat I wanted. (Can you spot her? I named her Two Sox, because she has two spilt milk paws and I love Dances with Wolves).

In addition to acquiring a new cat, I also managed to finally purchase a new computer. I've been without one for the last little bit, and that has greatly hindered both my ability to post and to download at least two months of pictures from my camera.

I've begun the arduous task of editing, but here is a sneak peak of some of the cool shots, so far.



(Bridle Veil, Yosemite)

(Salt Flats)

(Salt Flats)

(Salt Flats)

More to come...

Thursday, July 12, 2012

One of These is Not Like the Others

“To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.”
E.E. Cummings

I remember being in kindergarten and one day noticing the gender segregated groups of kids playing in the schoolyard. First, there was the girl group, who seemed more interested in remaining sedentary, playing house and dolls. Then there was the boy group. They were busy splitting up into teams, making imaginary war boundaries, running around, and smacking the crap out of one another when Mrs. Skinmore, the teacher, turned her back.

I remember very seriously wanting to join the boy games, but I was finally rejected by the lot of them, because I was a “cootie infested” girl. I felt totally underwhelmed by the games the girls were playing, so I didn’t even bother asking to join them. Eventually, I decided to start my own group: The Tomboy Club. I cheerfully advertised under the slogan: “The Tomboy Club is a club for girls who wanna be like boys.” I remained its only member that entire year. I spent my recesses alone or playing with the daddy long leg spiders that hunted in the shade of the school walls.

Five seems like such a young age to realize life is inordinately hard on people who are different.

So the questions I have now, 25 years later, gravitate around the following problem: “What do you do when your own nature is against you?” I find more often than not, boys are afraid of me, because I tend to be better at things they should be good at. Should I try to be less me? Am I less myself, when I attempt for a more feminine personality or appearance? Should I play dumb or weak? I figure, in the end, they’re just going to realize I prefer to wear jeans or cargos, cowboy boots, and t-shirts, and that I can actually smoke most people if challenged to a game of wit.

The hardest question that nobody can answer for me is this: “When will I be loved for exactly who I am?”