So I WAS going to write about Literary Orange tonight. Really. But then....

Okay, I *really* just took a deep breath to confess something to you all. I nearly lost my shit tonight. After I got home from Literary Orange (more on that in a moment), I took some time to fill my Mom in on all the wonderfulness that was today. Then, my intestines attempted to turn themselves inside out. I quickly took Rowan and Loki outside to go potty (Rowan was very insistent), and deposited them into my room. After I emerged from the restroom (I know, ew, but it's my blog. Deal.) I discovered that Loki had dug out my LAST pair of hand-knitted slippers and chewed the crap out of them. One was intact, but the other was unsalvageable, so I threw them both away. Not only that, but he had also partially eaten one of my strawberry socks I frequently wear for work, and a cute skull & crossbones sock as well. When I find the pairs to those socks, it'll be another slap in the face to throw those away since the mate was destroyed.

I'll tell you something. Logically, I know that yelling at Loki will do no good whatsoever. He won't connect my anger with the act, and it would only succeed in making him more insecure and skittish. And if I did yell, Rowan would get all freaked out, thinking I was yelling at her too, or just freaked out by the energy in the room. Logically, I know this. But........but I did yell. I shook the remaining slipper in his face and told him "bad dog", and did all the things I know won't accomplish a damn thing. I lost my shit. He cowered, curled into a little ball, looked thoroughly ashamed of himself. He did all the things that my rational brain knows a creature would do to try to placate the other creature that is being aggressive toward him. I know he's not really sorry for what he did, and given another chance, he would absolutely do it again. He has no way to connect what he did to my anger. So why did I give in to my rage? I don't know. Part of me wanted to whop him on the nose and yell at him some more, but I was already so angry at myself and ashamed with my behavior that I made myself stop and breathe, and calm down for a minute.  Bonnie, this is your fault for not exercising them enough lately. It's your fault for noticing they were getting antsy and needed an outlet, and it's your fault for leaving these things out where he can get them. I know this. But the anger! The anger!!

I love my dogs more than life itself, and I would do anything for them. I think when I get frustrated with them, I'm actually getting frustrated with myself for not doing what I KNOW needs to be done. Whether it's training, more exercise, or whathaveyou, it's all on me. My fault. I'm the one that needs the whop on the nose, not them. Anyway, I think I just needed to get that off my chest. Thank you.

WHEW! Okay, I actually do feel better now. Judge me if you will, I was just being honest and confessing that I am a flawed person who is doing their best to learn along the way. I do believe that in most cases, there are no bad dogs, just bad owners. Lately, I have been lazy and distracted and (insert every other excuse in the book) have not been the responsible dog owner I should be. Believe me, the self-flaggelation is in progress, and I will bear the scars. Scars that manifest in destroyed knitwear. For those that don't follow me on facebook or twitter, I'll fill you in on what happened a few weeks ago. I went out for an evening, and when I came home I witnessed a truly horrific murder scene. The carcasses of my most beloved hand-knit socks were in bits and pieces all over my bed and floor. The cherished rainbow socks from the luscious mini-mochi yarn, the exquisite mermaid lace socks from the knitpicks blue yonder stroll tonal that I had spent MONTHS on, gone. Just gone.

I cried. To borrow a phrase from my blogging heroine Laurie Perry (Crazy Aunt Purl), I cried "the ugly cry" for about two hours. You know, the squinchy faced, nobody-can-possibly-look-attractive helpless sobbing that wrenches your heart out, wishing that whatever had happened could be taken away by your cathartic wailing. Those damn socks made me so happy. They brought me a comfort and joy that I can't explain. The bright rainbow colorway that would make me feel like it was a special day, or the gorgeous lace pattern that made me SO proud that yes, I did in fact knit those socks myself. A couple of days later, when I told my Mom that I had cried for a good two hours, she said "those socks meant that much to you?" I was a bit taken aback and had trouble finding the words to explain that yes, those damn socks really did mean THAT much to me. I was proud of those socks. I loved those stupid socks. I didn't even cry that hard when I recently ended my six year relationship with a man I still love with all my heart, because I knew it was the right thing to do. Maybe that was the final crack in the wall that was holding back all the emotional crap that's been building up lately, but man did it flood. I'm not much of an emotional crier, and when I do cry it's usually from completely impotent rage and frustration. You know, the intense rage that has NO outlet and NO justice, and you can't do anything about. That's usually what gets me to cry. Anything else can be rationalized away or walled up inside that little place that resides inside your stomach. Please let me know I'm not the only one that does this! I'm not THAT crazy, am I? Feel free to comment or criticize at will.

Holy schmoly. I fully intended to do a short paragraph vent about my poor destroyed beautiful hand-knit slippers, and it turned into a full-on manifesto. Sorry, guys. This really is verbal vomit, and confessional all rolled into one. I would love to know if anyone can relate, or if I really am that weird and messed up. I know I make a lot of empty promises (I'm working on it, really!), but I SWEAR tomorrow I'm going to write and post pictures, and it's going to be a totally entertaining post about Literary Orange and meeting one of my personal heroes, Laurie Perry of Crazy Aunt Purl fame. I'm seriously having to control my total fangirl squees and not totally freak her out with a million tweets and email. Also, I want TOTAL CREDIT for not backing her into a corner and running my mouth nonstop for hours and hours about all of the things I've always wanted to tell her, what her writing has meant to me, and what an inspiration she is.

Epiphany. Seriously, I just had a complete epiphany about why I love her so much. This whole post has been a confession about how imperfect I am, and how I came *thisclose* to totally losing my temper.  I'll be the first to admit it. Laurie has never balked at showing herself in a goofy, not-so-perfect light. I LOVE her for it. She takes an awful day she's having and turns it into a funny story, or a compassionate "I've SO been there, and I SO get you" kind of thing.  I understand her, I "get" her, and she's SO my people. Nobody has awesome days all the time, and it's okay to admit it. I think everyone can relate to that. The important thing is that we analyze, understand, and strive to be the best versions of ourselves that we can be. There's no shame in admitting that we hit stumbling places along the way. Anyone who plasters on a smiley happy face all the time isn't to be trusted, and I love you more if you'll tell me your'e not having the best day ever, but things will inevitably get better. Honesty and optimism. To me, there's no better combination. Don't you think?

Much calmer now,
Bonnie

P.S. following the tradition my Mom started when I was a very grumpy teenager, here's "one good thing about today":

AAAHHHH!!!! Me and Laurie Perry (Crazy Aunt Purl)

I totally wish I was her new BFF. She's made of awesome with awesome-sauce on top.

Now THAT is "one good thing about today" don't you think, Pollyanna? Er, I mean, Mom? ;)