Wanting

Lately I have been feeling guilty about all the things that I want.

I realize that I am a very very lucky person. I have someone I love, I have a fantastic home that I love, I have three little furry babies who I love and who make me smile every single day. But every day I find something else that I want. I become convinced that it will add value to our lives, that we need it. But lately I have been trying to evaluate where this sense of need comes from.

I think it's natural to want things, and I think it's healthy to have goals, and to want to surround yourself with things you love. But what is excessive? And what is normal? And is normal really normal, or is it just us imitating what seems "average" and has "average" become out of control?

In my case, I think I am trying to find a balance. There are so many things in my life that make me very very happy, but there is one giant thing that makes me seriously unhappy. I think I'm trying to drown it. I'm trying to say, "well, I can live with it, but only if I have...." Like I'm trying to fill up all the time I spend unhappy with things. In the past two months, I have felt so much happiness, and I want to keep it going, because I really loved feeling full from happiness instead of half-full from buying stuff.

I don't want to talk too much about the Giant Happiness Sucker, but I will say that now I am focusing on how to change it. It's much slower than I'd hoped - what I had dreamed would be done by November is now looking more like February or March. And while I can't possibly express how that saddens and disappoints me, I can say that I am trying to think only about how happy I will be if it happens.

Disconnected

I started crying five minutes ago because I was watching eTalk daily (stay with me) and they were talking about this week's Giller awards.

I didn't even know the Gillers were this week.

Who am I? What has happened to my interest, passion, and ambition for literature and writing? I have been reading All the Pretty Horses for two months now and McCarthy is a god to me. I bought 7 summer novels and four of them haven't left the shelf.

More importantly I haven't written a thing in longer than I would like to admit.

My biggest fear is that I will never do this. But I am getting closer to the point where I will be ready to admit it to myself that it's not going to happen. And if I was enjoying what I was doing instead, I may feel differently about it.

But for now, it is embarassing and it is heartbreaking.

Think Oceans Eleven, not ER

Let me preface this by saying that I have never been a huge George Clooney lover. I recognize that he is gorgeous, aging very well, and pleasantly sarcastic and witty. But he's not one of those actors that I drool over. He has never been on my list of movie/TV boyfriends.

That being said, two nights ago I had a really great dream in which I hooked up with Mr. Clooney after we met at some kind of birthday party or wedding or something. Did not re-dream this last night, regrettably, but it was really hot, and now I've got Clooney on the brain.

I'm not rushing out to watch Leatherheads or anything, but I'm just saying...

A nightmare

Last night I had a dream that I was pregnant, and then gave birth. I was sitting at a table with a bunch of other ladies and we were taking a chemistry class. Everyone was pregnant, and suddenly I was like "excuse me, may we deliver my baby now" and then 10 seconds later I was climbing onto a bed in another room and giving birth.

In the dream I was not that happy about giving birth, and was particularly annoyed that my doctor in the dream was my real-life vet, and also that the nurse got me to lay on my stomach to give birth (?????). Then I was annoyed that the baby was a boy. However, I was less annoyed that the doctor, to make my trip home more convenient, put my baby in an easy-to-carry paint can.