One thing I like about Maine, is that opportunity to exchange ideas with my family and friends. With my parents, we talked about the already-developing hopefuls for Democratic nominations: Dean, Kerry, mostly. I heard a soundbyte from Kerry "Half the lives in Viet Nam were lost from Pride: Let's make sure that won't happen again." -- he has my vote.

I told my parents that I felt our present president was the worst one I'd lived through, and while I've said that before, we had a chance to discuss it in more detail. We compared him to Nixon. Dad felt that GWB is just plain stupid, while Nixon was evil. I countered that GWB will thus be more evil, because he can be the working mouthpiece for those who are truly evil. My mom said, that at least Nixon had a brilliant foreign policy -- and I couldn't disagree. With C, she talked about her relatives who believe that Clinton is the worst president, mostly because of Lewinskigate: "He desicrated the white house!" We both heartily agreed that couldn't possibly be the worst thing.

With my sister, we talked about bringing up baby -- education mostly. Our conversation began with a report on Maine PBS about the state's refusal of the "No Child Left Behind" program initiated by GWB. The tenants of that program call for people having a choice in public schooling and minimum certified standards for teachers: Maine balks as it is a rural state. And rightfully so, through their own efforts (Yankee ingenuity?), they continue to have some of the higher educational standards in the country. SL and I talked about a Ritalin nation, obesity, nutrition and exercise. I suppose my parents were appalled that she was breast-feeding in the restaurant, but honestly, she did it discreetly and no one noticed. Welcome to the 2000's!

It was so good talking to SL.

At present, Dad has taped McNeil Lehrer Report and is watching it while I tap this out quietly. More later, when I've returned to OHio. Why O Who O. Dreams of leaving my job and living up here permanently.

OOooh, I was looking forward earlier to logging on and tapping out a little something about my vacation, but instead I had problems with my laptop as I logged on: No sound, where I usually have them, and problems, apparently, with my modem. I suppose things may have gotten broken in the flight up here to Maine.

Traveling this time was horrendous, and I have decided I will not fly if I have to again. Oh, I suppose I'll have to if I'm traveling out to Colorado, but I'll try to drive as much as possible from this time out. Rude employees, long lines, no directions about standing in the correct line; condescension when encountering new things I've never come across before -- this ATM-like machine because I had used e-tickets. The presents I had wrapped were torn open and inspected -- and snippy comments like "Northwestern is not liable for packages that split open in flight." Well, then, I guess I'm not liable for anything then am I? If my laptop is broken, I'll really flip. I like to travel, but I've never enjoyed the airport experience, and I viewed all of this as intrusions on my civil liberties.

Furthermore, I made the mistake of logging onto work using my dad's computer, and there were several upsetting e-mails, and then I just have to sit back and relax: It's just not worth it.

Right now, I'm borrowing my dad's laptop to type this in, check my bank balances and personal e-mails. Yaay: My tenants have all paid their rent and so the mortgages are paid. Yikes, I'm already down to almost $0 in my personal bank account, that's from paying "cash" for the DVD players (that were a hit, yaay!). And I heard from my little Colorado friend Corey.

And the weather and time up here has been a relaxing time. I'm staying up at "Topside", the second home my parents have bought , and of which I'm part owner. We bought it furnished, and it comes with a lot of 1970s furniture, gold and avacado green. Low ceilings, fold out beds, knotty-pine walls, and a table in front of a picture window overlooking the road and in the distance the bay. I have been sleeping A LOT, so I must have needed it.

My sister is here, with my nephew. He looks a lot like our family, and I haven't said anything, but I think he looks a lot like me when I was a kid. He has brown eyes, though, and straight hair. He's walking, kind of like a sailor on deck, and very pleasant. I think he's going to have our personality, too, someone who is a little on the shy side, he doesn't cry or carry on; just looks and watches everything. Duncan was happy to see me, apparently responded to Dad's mention of my name, running up and looking for me. When he saw me, he bugled, pawed me excitedly.

On the second day here, C from Cincinnati pulled into town. She was an instant hit with my family. We went on a hike in the rain, hung out at the aquarium, and she picked up the bill at the Tugboat Inn when we went out to eat. She fully joined in conversations with all of the family. I'm sure if we were straight, we would be getting married. She particularly liked Toasted Almonds, and the story behind it, a Smith family tradition, that we shared at Tugboat.

On the third day, my old boyfriend R, and his new boyfriend B showed up, fresh from Bar Harbor. My dad was a bit hostile, and I hadn't thought about it in advance or I would have stressed about how everyone would get along with each other, but no need: Everyone got along fine. After dinner last night, the four of us returned to town and walked along the quiet streets and even quieter boarded bridge, stopping to talk quietly and stare at the water, mirror-like in its stillness, lights blinking softly in the distance, along with a soothing foghorn or two. We bought a bottle of wine at Hannaford's, and had a laugh around the dining room table in the house. Lotsa laughs, R telling a funny story or three: B's mother, a tough Della Reese; Sharon, his coworker and her "mother who isn't her mother", and his own mother. They looked so happy, and they talked about their new condo and getting hitched next February. We had more laughs around the breakfast table in the morning, waving from the picture window at the few folks walking with their dogs or driving by.

I was reminded again that the most important thing about finding someone compatible for me, is a sense of humor. C saw a unique side of me, because she met friends of mine from a different, earlier time in my life.

Privately, I've been thinking about the Dayton duplex. There's no avoiding moving back, and despite the illness in my stomach as I drove through that town on my way to the airport. If I have to live there, I'm thinking I will treat my living quarters as if it's a vacation home: I've been flipping through a Cottage book Mom has, and I think I'll paint the floors, and put together decorations as if the duplex is a vacation cottage -- painted floors, oil lamp hanging from the kitchen walls, adirondack chairs in the yard, wild rose bushes. Decorating it this way will be cute, and will enable me to get through the next, very cold, steps.

Despite the frustrations, I'll remember the laughter with my sister, my family, and my friends. That's what's important in life.

Late last night, after initially coding a new home page for my free website using a table, I trekked over to a certain bar known for its action in the back room. It was happening, quite a crowd; more than a few hot young guys taking turns sprawling out on the pool table, like whore d'oevres. Someone offered to give me a BJ. And soon I, too, was surrounded.

But... nothing happened. I didn't get beyond semi, and I didn't feel the spark of excitement. After awhile, I apologized to the guy's scalp, said "nothing personal" to the audience, zipped up and left. I drove home in the muggy heat, windows down and sunroof back, trying to put my head together.

I don't really want a boyfriend -- I want to get out of my current situation, and to do that will require focus: Paying off bills, fixing up the duplex, and then looking for something else somewhere else. I'm not "available" because I want to be free to change jobs or change locations, to make decisions without consequences impacting someone else.

I don't know if I really want sex, either. I can't say I'm under-sexed -- ho ho, not at all these past few years! After a certain point it's not worth it. After a certain point it's meaningless. And that certain point is becoming less and less these past few months. "Everything in moderation." Moving back to Dayton will be a cold time, but there's always options: Roadtrips to Cincy, Columbus, Indianapolis and even Chicago...

I don't know if I'm even open to new friends, now, either. In Cincy, I have C and D, and I couldn't ask for better friends. I have the work crew, with some pretty cool folks. The cynical part of me says: You can never have enough friends. But, blogginks, let me tell you that my experiences with the local yokels have been ... well, I'm out of step. Drugs, Alcohol, and in the case of Dayton, a high amount of misery per capita. As miserable as I probably come off myself in these pages (one purpose of this BLOG after all), I want to preserve hope and optimism with myself as much as I can as I gear up for the next chapter, whatever that might bring or be.

Anticipating how colds things will be if I move back to Dayton, I have some hobbies lined up: This blog for starters has been a lot of fun, and I recently filled out for another one on BLOGGER -- my thought will be that I would begin separating blogs by topic. Teaching myself scriptwriting and html coding are others. With the duplex, there's plenty of projects to bring it up to fabulous. Today, even, I was thinking that if the condition of the floors were such that I couldn't refinish them -- there are signs of old termite damage -- I would paint them a glossy black enamel. With a wine-colored living room wall color and my artwork, it will look freakin awesome.

I spoke to my favorite ex boyfriend in Colorado last night: DJ. He's had an off-again on-again romance this past year, the first boyfriend since we broke up gosh over three years ago. His boyfriend, who I met, is cute, but tells a few tall tales. Like, he's being investigated by the IRS, and it's costing $13,000 a month in legal fees. He's a lawyer AND a doctor AND an ex-model and he's going back for his PhD in Business, all of this and only 26. Oh, did I also mention he's an accomplished sculptor and artist and writer? Well well. Because I want to keep DJ's friendship, I've tried not to give too much of an opinion. I have said, "If he makes you happy and yet you don't believe some of this, does it matter?" Like, the stories are more exaggeration, and if no one gets hurt... But DJ persists in asking questions and they have stormy fights, usually with his friend saying something like: "I can't believe you're questioning me on the day I found out my father had a heart-attack!" or his mother has breast cancer or his brother got into a car accident. Last night, they exchanged mutual "Fuck You's!" and broke up again.

So, I'm gearing up for another two years without even a date. I don't think I'd be able to, even if I wanted to.

Writing this while taking a break from packing; also, after coming back from viewing "Dirty Pretty Things" with D at Newport-on-the-Levy.

On a completely unrelated note, as D and I walked through The Levy on the way to buy tickets, ahead of us, turned to us with a hopeful face, was the circuitparty friend to the guy I dated last fall. I think he was waiting for a date (and he has a boyfriend of seven years. whatever.), and I think he might have thought it was us, not having met in person before. I didn't react and D didn't see him, so we walked by. He was walking away, when with tickets bought, we were on our way to see the movie a few minutes later -- his date a no show.

When writing the last post, the firecrackers began. Looking out the front window, I could see green and yellow splashes reflected in the dark lakes of the neighboring windows. So I walked over the lip of the hill and down to the park near my house for a better view. Cars lined both sides of the streets and there were a lot of people about, but I wanted to keep to myself.

The haze from the night and from the fireworks covering the downtown made the scene look like a grey poster: A neon skyline here, a partial facade spot-lit there. Private planes, invisible but for their wing-lights, circled like starship fighters; and helicopters hovered silhouetted like a futuristic movie. The fireworks were pretty cool: Red, Green and Purple shrubbery; lots of what my sister and I used to call "Exploding Dandeleon Heads". They had a few of the glistening stream kind, and weirdly, something that colored the grey sky with an alien glow. The end was a blitzkreig: People knew it was ending, and started collecting chairs and kids before it really did.

A kid, maybe 10 years old, was there with his dog, by themselves. The dog looked a lot like Picasso -- but no black spots on the tongue. He stayed by that kid's side, sniffing out the ground.

The news services reminded me that the Deity that was Princess Diana died six years ago today. I remember her more for her passive aggressiveness, such as eating disorders and acting like she'd been beaten by Prince Charles when no such thing occurred. I remember she had had a falling out with Elton John, and he didn't know why, until all of a sudden there's a new version of "Candle In the Wind." Today's headlines are along the lines of "...Where were you when..." and/or "Remembering the People's Princess".

I was living in Lakewood, Colorado. I lived in a mega apartment complex, one of many in suburban Denver, this one on your way toward Golden, and built from the city's go go 1970s, with party facilities, swimming pool, gym, tennis courts. It had the appearance of catering to disco-era swinging singles. But by the time I lived there it was, uh, clinging to respectibility with a fair number of overworked DINKS and families trying to hang onto the American Dream in the inflationary Colorado of the 1990s. It was one of the few places I could find that would accept dogs.

My dogs Grace and Picasso were quite a couple, black lab mixes with matching silky black coats. Every day we would go on walks in a park on a sloping hill adjoining the apartment complex. At its top-most point, you got an awesome view of the Denver skyline contrasted with the squat buildings of corporate Lakewood close by; on a clear day you could see the Eastern Plains and just make out the teepee hats of DIA. Behind you was Green Mountain, another favorite open space. From its crest you got an unobstructed view of both the metro region and the teeth of the front range.

Although smaller of the two, Grace, the alpha female, always led the way on our walks. Picasso (and I) either were tugged impatiently along or cheerfully followed. From a distance you could spot their matching tales bobbing along -- where Grace lunged to sniff something interesting, Picasso would copy a moment later.

On August 30, 1997, we stopped at the apartment's dog-pen, a chain link enclosure with signs like "Pick Up After Your Pet". When I let them out of the car, the dogs jumped out and ran ahead to wait eagerly by the entrance. There was a "air-lock pen" to the larger pen, and a woman and her dog were in there. My dogs started sniffing at them as they came out.

Before I could retrieve the dogs' leash, things escalated. The woman and her dog felt surrounded, and a fight ensued between her dog and my dogs -- mostly it was Grace, growling and lunging at the dog's neck. There was a moment of frantic barking, and the woman gasping "Oh my god Oh my God!" Picasso, a big cluck of a dog, stayed out of it mostly, retreated with eyes rolling. Although I know how it is to have dogs coming at you, honestly there was nothing to panic about, but I apologized profusely to the woman and asked if she was OK, but she was definitely freaked. "This doesn't usually happen. My dogs are good dogs." I know I asked if she was OK a few times, and she said she was, she definitely said she was.

As I yanked them back and into the car (no run in the pen today!) there, buzzing up with prim efficiency, was a representative of the apartment (bolt upright from a pole up her ass I'm sure) on a little corporate golf cart designed to charm prospective tenants around. She had seen the whole thing, she later claimed.

Of course I received a call a few minutes later. "Your dogs are out of control. You must have your dogs on a leash at all times. In addition, you are in violation of the lease to have more than one dog over 25 lbs in your apartment." The woman shrilled at me. I had my dogs on a leash, I explained, but I knew it was a losing argument. And check your paperwork, I was not in violation of the lease: You were well aware I had two dogs when I applied. No matter: The other woman was complaining she had been bitten. "You will have to get rid of your dog -- or move."

What to do? Although I was due in a few days to begin my job (and the start of my present so-called career) at The Publishing Company, I did not yet consider that secure employment: I had no money, no other job prospects, and, well, I guess I just didn't know what to do. Should I try to find another place? Should I keep the dogs locked in the apartment all day? It was already an hour's commute to my new job.

When the evening hit, solutions loomed cloudy, but none were positive. I forgot what I drank, probably a bottle of rum/short on the coke. It is not an easy sleep that comes when you're drunk. I had no furniture then and slept in a sleeping bag, a tiny black-and-white TV left on in the corner. As I slogged out of it, the news in the early morning began registering that something had happened in Paris. At first, beeping warnings ran across the foot of the screen, but then updates began breaking into the infomercials, and finally the news moved to continual coverage. Princess Diana had been involved in a horrific car accident in a Paris tunnel. Live views of the entrance of the tunnel or viewed from above in a helecopter, cordoned off with flashing lights. As this news unfolded, the dogs slept around me on the sleeping bag or behind me on their matching pillows. As the confirmation of her death came in, it showed repeated clips of her, speaking to landmine victims in the Balkans, AIDS victims in South Africa, or smiling (or grimacing) against a fireworks of flashbulbs before Event curtains or podiums. I didn't end up sleeping much, and when I could at last move, a sour stomach and head, I had to turn it off.

The morning was bright. Sick and aching, I loaded the dogs together into the car and drove them to a beautiful park in suburban Denver. Then after a couple of hours walking in the exhaust-smelling Denver air amid lawn sprinklers, or me sitting with them drinking coffee and eating doughnuts, we drove to the Dumb Friends League. Dumb Friends League was a non-profit devoted to getting pets adopted, and I was encouraged at the number of folks there so early -- hopefully looking for a dog. I'm sure I was a huge drama diva, wearing dark sunglasses as I brought the dogs in and waited while the receptionist took care of people ahead of me. I know I couldn't see and could barely talk as I sat there with the dogs patiently by me on their individual leashes, sniffing around. It was all very Sophie's Choice.

Until the last second, I wasn't absolutely certain what my decision would be, but I turned in Picasso. I wrote out a $100 check -- a lot of money for out-of-work me then -- and also donated his comfy pillow and handful of toys. (Grace was never into toys.) I helped put Picasso in his cage in the back, his tail wagging as he hopped in. "I'll leave you two alone for a second," said the worker. And I did pet him one last time inside the cage, his big thick head, his black rubbery snoot. I talked to him too, but I don't remember what I said. Probably pitifully pathetic things like "I'm sorry. This is the best thing for all of us. Be a Good Boy." He was fine until I began to leave. Then he panicked and began staccato barking. I could hear him as I staggered out of there with Grace.

The folks had asked me if Picasso had a "history". Absolutely not. He was a such a pleasant, friendly, if maybe not-too-smart, dog. He loved people, especially "little people". He was part chow -- a very handsome dog: He looked like a stocky, block-headed British Black Lab and definitely had the lab disposition. The chow part of him showed with a tail that curved over his back in a splay and felt like a feather, and a spotted black design on his tongue that reminded me of modern Art (and hence the origin of his name). Grace, on the other hand, did have a "history". She did not get along with other dogs, and she instigated some bad behavior like digging holes like a Prairie dog at the parsonage. She would have been "destroyed". Ironically, once it became a one-dog house, her personality vastly improved -- she became much better with other dogs. Perhaps her ill-behavior was a measure to protect Picasso. Whenever I see a photograph of Princess Diana, I remember giving up Picasso.

I like to think of Picasso being adopted by a family, a nice, middle-class Denver family. Maybe a loud cheery Mexican family with a million aunts and cousins, or a yuppie couple, or a working mom and her just-pre-teen kids. Maybe he was adopted by a college kid, one of those Boulder guys that likes to drive Jeep Wranglers and go off-roading in the high country, and would put bandanas around his neck and call him "Dude".