Who am I? Marie Antoinette?

While I am all for eating cake, I otherwise bear little resemblance to the much-maligned and entirely beheaded former queen of France. But among her often-ridiculous affectations an possessions, she had something I am starting to understand the need for: a retreat in the form of a hobby farm village. It was a tiny, working mini-farm with a herd of 8 cows and one bull. The farm provided food for the parties that the queen held there, and gave her a chance to escape the intrigues of palace life and play peasant while it pleased her to do so.

Of course, the farm itself was run by a real farmer, appointed by the queen. She couldn't be expected to make the thing an actual going concern, could she? She'd get callouses or something. Of course, the fact that the queen amused herself by milking carefully washed cows was part of the reason she lost her head. Being frivolous while glaring class divides exist in your country tends to piss people off. Never mind that this was how she was raised, having been treated to gardens and menageries as a child. Le Petit Trianon was probably an immense comfort to a person whose main (and failed) function as a person was to produce a viable Dauphin.

Of course, I am not under the kind of pressure she was under. Nobody gave me much crap for being entirely unable to conceive. Actually, Marie Antoinette had several children, so she is well up on me there. But I'm still considered a mostly worthwhile person, I figure.

But this isn't about political pressure and class warfare. It isn't even about the indignity of infertilty. It's about goats.

Or rather, it is about farm animals in general. Whether it is inspired by Jacob's endless collection of books extolling the virtues of farm life (The duck says "quack"!), or the fact that I love fresh goat cheese, or the other fact that some of my friends are getting a chicken coop, I suddenly find myself fantasizing about having a few farm animals of my own. Not because I want to go back to my country-fried roots. I don't want 100 head of anything. I just want a vanity farm. Just a garden and few cool animals that would, given care, provide me with the makings of goat cheese and butter and eggs. Not like I don't buy that stuff at the farmer's market, anyway.

Animals are cute. They do funny things. There is something sort of sweet about the pugnacious affection of goats in particular. But I am dreaming if I think I have time, given my hectic work schedule, to milk a freaking goat or sticking my hands under a bunch of chicken butts for my breakfast omelet ingredients. Plus, there are the, um, poop issues. I whine about picking up after my labradoodle's messes. What would I do with the output of a 135-pound nanny goat?

But surely you can see the appeal. Living closer to the land and having your kid grow up caring about other living things. Having fresh food that hasn't been processed eight different ways before reaching said kid's mouth. The romantic idea of animals that come running when they see you, even if it is only because you are the one that feeds them.

Oh yeah. Feed. That shit's expensive. In what economy do I figure I live? One where they don't build houses right on top of each other? Not really.

So what is that feeling about? Maybe I am just craving a little extra space and a pastoral sort of arrangement. It sounds nice. But given the fact that I left the small town/rural area I came from for lots of reasons, shoveling manure among them, it probably isn't going to happen.

I have a lot of half-baked ideas lately. I'm trying to figure myself out. I contain multitudes and contradict myself daily. (Thank you Walt Whitman, for saying it best.) Who am I? Certainly not Marie Antoinette, but I can appreciate the no-win aspects of her life in that no matter what she tried to be, she lost her head because of libelous public opinion. It might be good to be the king, but it seems like being the queen kind of sucks. At least she had her farm, where she could pretend life was simpler. It was probably fun while it lasted.

The only thing that helps

I like this quote, and I like (good) champagne, even if it does cause me to do crazy things and gives me a wicked hangover. At least that is my excuse du jour for why I do crazy things. Champagne just makes me wanna get naked.

But that isn't the point of this post. What I do when I drink too much champagne and get naked is for a select few to comprehend.

What I set out to discuss today is self-soothing behaviors. One of the problems with being the adult child of an alcoholic is the constant need to try and "keep it together". We don't give ourselves an ounce of slack, like ever. And given that the addictive tendencies tend to run in families, I don't exactly feel safe cutting loose and getting all drunk to relieve stress. It is too scary. Look what happened to Ryan. He chose that and he's dead now.

Even though I am quite convinced that smoking an occasional bowl would enhance my personality in positive ways, I don't go in for doing drugs at all. Not even because I am a foster parent and the legal risks are too high. I just don't need to take a drug that will make me want to eat brownies. I like brownies too much as it is. Sheesh.

So, as Adam Ant would say "Don't drink, don't smoke, what do you do?"

I have a lot of hobbies that don't get enough attention. Trying to find a balance with the whole parenting thing is my life's challenge right now. Trying to find time for the stuff that helps make life worth something and to break up the tedium of my domestic concerns is tough. Here's a list of the things that help:

1. Writing: The sound of a nice messy pencil scratching on paper or clicking keys is one of the few ways I can effectively get the circling sharks out of my head. It feels like I am actually physically removing something from myself. Part of the point of writing my first novel was just to get some of my stuff out of my head and put it on paper where I can print it out and burn it as many times as I like. Making time to write is a priority for me right now, and I am having mixed results. Not all of it is publish-worthy, but if I can get a good streak going, it feels pretty good.
2. Dancing: Minya just needs to start that Wednesday Belly Dance class and I am so freaking there. My hiatus from hip drops must end. It must be something about the drums. I just need to find the joy in my limbs again. I need to be embraced by a bunch of women wearing dowries' worth of shiny objects. Something. I just need an excuse to unpack that box of Kuchi jewelery and buy some damn Melodia pants to show my commitment.
3. Singing: I need to hit up Jill Snyder for some lessons, or see if she knows someone who will work out my occasionally rocking mezzo-soprano. Singing forces you to breathe. Breathing is good.
4. Theatre: Oh man. I so don't have time for it, but I like it. I went to an acting improv workshop with Michael Lewis from Empire Improv- http://empireimprov.com/ over the weekend and felt spent but good afterwards. I actually felt some of my old power coursing through me. I don't know how well I did, but it was cathartic how that blew the sticky substance that is the mundane off of me. My neurotransmitters were on tap for that. My brain was shouting "Yes! Awesome!". That should tell me something and I had better find a way to listen.
5. Friends: Ok, that still involves the occasional cocktail and often travel to the far flung cities my pals have scattered to. I hate crowds of strangers, but my friends can press as close as they want. Preferably on the dance floor more than one at a time. Whooo!

So, how am I gonna do all that and still hang out with my family? Puzzle, puzzle. Oh yeah, and going to school etc. No wonder I have insomnia. I want it all and can't have it, at least not right now.

And how am I going to fit in the new things I want to try? Fencing, race car driving school, and whatever else catches my fancy? Dangit.