As a child I had a blanket that I loved.
Blankey was an off-white, fuzzy thermal blanket with a satiny outside border about two inches wide. He didn't get washed very often since our parting was so difficult for both of us, but when he did I loved burying my face in his warm, fresh softness.
It was important for me to show Blankey how much I loved him. I would hug and nuzzle him and tell him repeatedly how important he was to me.
I began to worry, though, that this wasn't enough.
While I was hugging Blankey, I would notice that the part of him that was hanging down from my arms was not being touched. What if that part didn't feel loved? I'd scoop it up into my arms, too. Then I would notice a part of Blankey poking out near my shoulder. What if that part didn't feel loved? Unable to stand the thought of any part of Blankey feeling neglected, I would adjust and shift and hug until Blankey was in a hard little compact ball with my entire body curled around him--trying to touch every single part at once--in a fetal position on the floor.
My mom would say, "What are you doing?"
"Loving Blankey," I would answer in a strained voice, with my face nearly buried in my knees.
February 11, 2009
"I was quick to learn but slow to understand."
Alternative title to this blog: Confidential message to C.
I didn't realize you'd moved away. I hope your new home is making you happy. It's good for you to be able to make memories in a place I never was.
P.S. I hope you remembered to check the top kitchen cabinets and got my fondue pot and bread machine. I didn't remember they were up there until it was too late, and I've always been sad about it.
I didn't realize you'd moved away. I hope your new home is making you happy. It's good for you to be able to make memories in a place I never was.
P.S. I hope you remembered to check the top kitchen cabinets and got my fondue pot and bread machine. I didn't remember they were up there until it was too late, and I've always been sad about it.
February 9, 2009
Processing
I am trying to make sense of things and, for better or worse, the best way I know to do that is to write.
Thank god I took up writing instead of drugs. It would have been so easy.
All day I’ve been mulling over my life and hundreds of experiences and memories and thought patterns in my head. I have worried for months about what was wrong with me, and on occasion I mentioned some of those worries here in this blog.
I have a lot to learn—a LOT to learn—and I can’t speak for anyone but myself. But the path that I was spiraling downward on was terrifying enough that I want to tell people. I want to tell EVERYONE. I want everyone to know so that they can recognize these things in themselves, in others.
I am learning that obsessive compulsive disorder doesn’t always look like the classic textbook example that everyone is familiar with. It doesn’t necessarily involve washing one’s hands a hundred times a day, or checking to see if the door is locked a dozen times before climbing in bed. It certainly can be those things, but that’s not the only manifestation.
It’s always been roaringly loud inside my head, and I have no way of knowing how that compares to other people. I’ve always had things that I’ve done to calm myself, whether I told anyone or not. For me it was less about preventing some specific feared thing from happening and more about “putting things in order” inside my head. At an early age these things ranged from rocking myself and chanting, as I’ve already mentioned, to long, drawn-out prayers, smelling things, and counting. When my anxiety was more than I could bear and I was alone at night, I would pretend I was in one of my grandparents’ arms, being rocked to sleep. I would wrap my arms around myself, kiss my hand and touch it to various parts of my face, and say, “Sssshhhhh…..sssshhhhh….I love you. Go to sleep. Sssshhhh….”
Given the things I was experiencing as a child it’s no surprise that I needed to find my own ways to sooth and console myself. What I’m trying to understand now is how and why this has continued to affect me—with ebbs and flows—over the years. Especially now.
I’m telling it all now, okay? I’m not holding back. You’ve been warned.
Over the course of the last couple of months I have been on a downward spiral. [Cue Nine Inch Nails, please. Thank you.] I felt like I was losing control over my life. The best analogy I can think to describe it is this: It felt, at times, like there was a tiny person in a rocking chair inside my brain, rocking furiously. When this person started to rock, all I could do was be consumed by it. I was unable to do much of anything else.
A couple weeks ago at work I had a panic attack—the third I’ve ever had. I felt hysterical and inconsolable and terrified and helpless. I called my friend Shannon. I didn’t know what to do. I blurted my terror out to her, and she spoke to me soothingly as long as I needed her to. All I could think was, “What the hell is my problem? How does everybody else do this…this…LIVING?”
I went through several days between Christmas and New Year’s where I was obsessed with the Golden Gate Bridge. I needed to look at it, to read about it, to think about it. I needed to remember the times I stood on it and to visualize the way the water had looked when I was looking down.
Let me be clear. There was no time that there was a train of thoughts where I thought, “Everything is bad and it will not get better, therefore I will _____.” It was just an obsession. An absolutely terrifying obsession.
It felt important for me to know how deep the water was under the bridge. Exactly how far was it to the bottom? I read about the topography of the sea floor under the San Francisco Bay and how it has changed over the years due to dredging. I read that “it’s relatively shallow, and in some places is as deep as 100 feet.” I reasoned that some of the deepest places MUST be under the Golden Gate Bridge, to ensure that the ships could go safely under. In my head I decided that it must be 98 feet deep at the particular spot I was imagining. I would think to myself over and over, “98 feet deep. 98 feet deep. 98 feet deep.”
I had vivid dreams about the bridge. I dreamed of what it felt like when my feet left the side for the last time. I dreamed of what I saw on the way down. I dreamed of the sound my back made when it broke upon hitting the water. I dreamed of the light disappearing over my head and of sinking down…down…98 feet deep.
I alluded to bits and pieces of those thoughts here and here in an effort to channel them into something more creative and to work them out of myself. It wasn’t working, and when a couple of friends picked up on the fact that there was some scary shit going on in my head and wrote to me about it, I felt embarrassed. Touched, but embarrassed. And I stopped trying to express it.
I didn’t have the language to tell my friends what was happening to me. It was like the acknowledgment of this blackness that was overtaking me gave it even more power—telling people I can’t do this anymore. I avoided it not out of pride, but out of fear that admitting it meant I had lost the battle. My aunt said, “Sometimes the depths of sadness within you scare me.” Me too.
I was starting to scare myself so much that I finally emailed my doctor out of desperation. The best way I could think to describe it was, “I’m going down.”
Believe it or not, this is a happy story. Now it has a name. Now it has a face. Now I can finally take back my life from that by which it has been so consumed. The relief is indescribable.
There are still many unanswered questions, but I'll get there. I'll get there.
Thank you for reading with an open mind. I write this out of weakness, because I don't have the strength to hide it all anymore.
Thank god I took up writing instead of drugs. It would have been so easy.
All day I’ve been mulling over my life and hundreds of experiences and memories and thought patterns in my head. I have worried for months about what was wrong with me, and on occasion I mentioned some of those worries here in this blog.
I have a lot to learn—a LOT to learn—and I can’t speak for anyone but myself. But the path that I was spiraling downward on was terrifying enough that I want to tell people. I want to tell EVERYONE. I want everyone to know so that they can recognize these things in themselves, in others.
I am learning that obsessive compulsive disorder doesn’t always look like the classic textbook example that everyone is familiar with. It doesn’t necessarily involve washing one’s hands a hundred times a day, or checking to see if the door is locked a dozen times before climbing in bed. It certainly can be those things, but that’s not the only manifestation.
It’s always been roaringly loud inside my head, and I have no way of knowing how that compares to other people. I’ve always had things that I’ve done to calm myself, whether I told anyone or not. For me it was less about preventing some specific feared thing from happening and more about “putting things in order” inside my head. At an early age these things ranged from rocking myself and chanting, as I’ve already mentioned, to long, drawn-out prayers, smelling things, and counting. When my anxiety was more than I could bear and I was alone at night, I would pretend I was in one of my grandparents’ arms, being rocked to sleep. I would wrap my arms around myself, kiss my hand and touch it to various parts of my face, and say, “Sssshhhhh…..sssshhhhh….I love you. Go to sleep. Sssshhhh….”
Given the things I was experiencing as a child it’s no surprise that I needed to find my own ways to sooth and console myself. What I’m trying to understand now is how and why this has continued to affect me—with ebbs and flows—over the years. Especially now.
I’m telling it all now, okay? I’m not holding back. You’ve been warned.
Over the course of the last couple of months I have been on a downward spiral. [Cue Nine Inch Nails, please. Thank you.] I felt like I was losing control over my life. The best analogy I can think to describe it is this: It felt, at times, like there was a tiny person in a rocking chair inside my brain, rocking furiously. When this person started to rock, all I could do was be consumed by it. I was unable to do much of anything else.
A couple weeks ago at work I had a panic attack—the third I’ve ever had. I felt hysterical and inconsolable and terrified and helpless. I called my friend Shannon. I didn’t know what to do. I blurted my terror out to her, and she spoke to me soothingly as long as I needed her to. All I could think was, “What the hell is my problem? How does everybody else do this…this…LIVING?”
I went through several days between Christmas and New Year’s where I was obsessed with the Golden Gate Bridge. I needed to look at it, to read about it, to think about it. I needed to remember the times I stood on it and to visualize the way the water had looked when I was looking down.
Let me be clear. There was no time that there was a train of thoughts where I thought, “Everything is bad and it will not get better, therefore I will _____.” It was just an obsession. An absolutely terrifying obsession.
It felt important for me to know how deep the water was under the bridge. Exactly how far was it to the bottom? I read about the topography of the sea floor under the San Francisco Bay and how it has changed over the years due to dredging. I read that “it’s relatively shallow, and in some places is as deep as 100 feet.” I reasoned that some of the deepest places MUST be under the Golden Gate Bridge, to ensure that the ships could go safely under. In my head I decided that it must be 98 feet deep at the particular spot I was imagining. I would think to myself over and over, “98 feet deep. 98 feet deep. 98 feet deep.”
I had vivid dreams about the bridge. I dreamed of what it felt like when my feet left the side for the last time. I dreamed of what I saw on the way down. I dreamed of the sound my back made when it broke upon hitting the water. I dreamed of the light disappearing over my head and of sinking down…down…98 feet deep.
I alluded to bits and pieces of those thoughts here and here in an effort to channel them into something more creative and to work them out of myself. It wasn’t working, and when a couple of friends picked up on the fact that there was some scary shit going on in my head and wrote to me about it, I felt embarrassed. Touched, but embarrassed. And I stopped trying to express it.
I didn’t have the language to tell my friends what was happening to me. It was like the acknowledgment of this blackness that was overtaking me gave it even more power—telling people I can’t do this anymore. I avoided it not out of pride, but out of fear that admitting it meant I had lost the battle. My aunt said, “Sometimes the depths of sadness within you scare me.” Me too.
I was starting to scare myself so much that I finally emailed my doctor out of desperation. The best way I could think to describe it was, “I’m going down.”
Believe it or not, this is a happy story. Now it has a name. Now it has a face. Now I can finally take back my life from that by which it has been so consumed. The relief is indescribable.
There are still many unanswered questions, but I'll get there. I'll get there.
Thank you for reading with an open mind. I write this out of weakness, because I don't have the strength to hide it all anymore.
Closure, answers
Today was my grandpa's funeral.
Today I was diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder with panic disorder. This helps a lot of things that I have thought and done since childhood make a lot of sense.
I imagine I'll have a lot more to say about all of this soon, but for right now I'm still processing everything.
I'm relieved. I'm exhausted. I'm glad to have a name for whatever it is that's been happening to me in conjunction with depression, especially in the last couple of years. The times as a child that I spent obsessively counting things and the hours I spent rocking back and forth chanting to myself (as described here, for example) were early signs. Other things from the past few weeks that still feel a little too intense to talk about but I probably will try soon--those make sense, too.
I'm so relieved. I'm not a lost cause. I'm crazy, but at least now I know what kind of crazy I am.
Today I was diagnosed with obsessive compulsive disorder with panic disorder. This helps a lot of things that I have thought and done since childhood make a lot of sense.
I imagine I'll have a lot more to say about all of this soon, but for right now I'm still processing everything.
I'm relieved. I'm exhausted. I'm glad to have a name for whatever it is that's been happening to me in conjunction with depression, especially in the last couple of years. The times as a child that I spent obsessively counting things and the hours I spent rocking back and forth chanting to myself (as described here, for example) were early signs. Other things from the past few weeks that still feel a little too intense to talk about but I probably will try soon--those make sense, too.
I'm so relieved. I'm not a lost cause. I'm crazy, but at least now I know what kind of crazy I am.
February 8, 2009
This phenomenon cheers me up.
Short vignettes
My grandpa always worried about whether and how I would remember him when he was gone. I can remember being little, and he would tell me how much his grandpa meant to him and how many good memories they had together. He would say quietly, "I hope you remember me this way." Oh, if he only knew.
Actually, he did know, because I told him.
* * * *
I remember that fateful day when coach took me aside. I knew what was coming. "You don't have to tell me," I said. "I'm off the team, aren't I?"
"Well," said the coach, "you were never really on the team. You made that uniform you're wearing out of rags and towels, and your helmet is a toy space helmet. You show up at practice and then either steal the ball and make us chase you to get it back, or you try to tackle people at inappropriate times."
(written by my friend Seth, and I love it beyond belief)
* * * *
When my great-grandmother "Mimi" was dying in the fall of 1997, I went home to visit her one last time. I sat on the edge of her hospital bed and stroked her hand. Despite her weakened condition, her eyes still shone a brilliant, feisty blue.
"Mimi," I began, "are you scared?"
"No," she said simply. "I'm tired."
* * * *
"Sometimes you lie in a strange room, in a strange person's home, and you feel yourself bending out of shape. Melting, touching something hot, something that warps you in drastic and probably irreversible ways you won't get to take stock of until it's too late....I could feel serious changes happening to me the longer I stayed....I felt knots untie themselves, knots I didn't know were there. I could already tell there were things happening inside me that were irreversible."
Actually, he did know, because I told him.
* * * *
I remember that fateful day when coach took me aside. I knew what was coming. "You don't have to tell me," I said. "I'm off the team, aren't I?"
"Well," said the coach, "you were never really on the team. You made that uniform you're wearing out of rags and towels, and your helmet is a toy space helmet. You show up at practice and then either steal the ball and make us chase you to get it back, or you try to tackle people at inappropriate times."
(written by my friend Seth, and I love it beyond belief)
* * * *
When my great-grandmother "Mimi" was dying in the fall of 1997, I went home to visit her one last time. I sat on the edge of her hospital bed and stroked her hand. Despite her weakened condition, her eyes still shone a brilliant, feisty blue.
"Mimi," I began, "are you scared?"
"No," she said simply. "I'm tired."
* * * *
"Sometimes you lie in a strange room, in a strange person's home, and you feel yourself bending out of shape. Melting, touching something hot, something that warps you in drastic and probably irreversible ways you won't get to take stock of until it's too late....I could feel serious changes happening to me the longer I stayed....I felt knots untie themselves, knots I didn't know were there. I could already tell there were things happening inside me that were irreversible."
February 5, 2009
Last night...
...I heard my grandpa's voice for the last time.
He stopped his treatments and came home from the hospital so that he could die in the house in which he and my grandmother raised their children. His doctors give him a couple more days to live without dialysis. I will still call to hear updates on him, but I wanted him to know who I was the last time I spoke with him. He has already begun hallucinating--sipping drinks and seeing sights and people only visible to him.
He is the person I love most in the world, and my last of four beloved grandparents who made me the person I am.
My mom is in the bar getting drunk, and I feel far away.
He stopped his treatments and came home from the hospital so that he could die in the house in which he and my grandmother raised their children. His doctors give him a couple more days to live without dialysis. I will still call to hear updates on him, but I wanted him to know who I was the last time I spoke with him. He has already begun hallucinating--sipping drinks and seeing sights and people only visible to him.
He is the person I love most in the world, and my last of four beloved grandparents who made me the person I am.
My mom is in the bar getting drunk, and I feel far away.
February 3, 2009
A spreading warmth
I peed my pants today. I was at work. Actually, I wasn't AT work so much as I was beating on the doors and windows of my office suite desperately screaming while I was peeing my pants.
Let me back up.
My wonderful friend Shayna and I are starting to work out together. I'm doing a 5K in June, and I've been working on drinking more water. A LOT more water.
I got in the car at 6:45 am to drive to work (40 miles away) with a giant cup of coffee. Shortly after the drive began, I had to pee. Really, really had to pee. I figured I'd rather just continue driving to work than turn around, so I decided to stick it out and kept drinking my coffee.
When I finally arrived, I sped into the parking lot, grabbed my things, and raced to the office on the second floor.
I couldn't find my office keys.
No one else would be at work for a little while yet. I laid my bags in front of my office's front door and assured myself: "Someone will be here soon. I just need to walk around and think about other things and wait."
I paced.
I hummed.
I cawed at crows on nearby power lines, leaving them looking puzzled.
I watched the parking lot for co-workers.
It was working for awhile.
At last, our intern Mai pulled up. I started to shout excitedly, "Mai! Thank God!" She was going in the back door, and did not hear me. I sprinted down and caught the door, scaring the hell out of her and nearly causing her to drop her sticky rice and beans. (She's very soft spoken and easily startled.)
I burst into breathless explanation as I started toward the bathroom, but remembered my purse and briefcase and gym bag lying outside near the front door. Abruptly I changed courses and ran to get them, only to idiotically get locked out of the front door in my haste and lunacy. I screamed, "NNNNOOOOOO!" I pounded on the front door.
Mai didn't come.
I ran around to the back door and pounded on it.
Mai didn't come.
I went to the side door and banged my fistful of keys against it.
Mai didn't come.
I went to the exterior windows closest to her office and pounded on those, too. I started to pee, and beat on the windows more and more frantically with a wail: "MMMAAAAAIIII!!!"
It was too late. I was feeling that complicated feeling of relief and warmth and shame.
Mai poked her head out of the building with a face full of fright. "Oh, it's you!" she breathed. "I was so scared! I was in here all alone, and I didn't know who was beating on everything."
"But you knew I was here!" I protested weakly, trying to cover myself with my bags. I locked myself in the bathroom with my shower supplies and the change of clothes in my gym bag.
Immediately after my attempts to salvage my dignity, I went into the office kitchen to make some more coffee, and managed to pour a pot of water all over the counter.
Today is AWESOME.
Let me back up.
My wonderful friend Shayna and I are starting to work out together. I'm doing a 5K in June, and I've been working on drinking more water. A LOT more water.
I got in the car at 6:45 am to drive to work (40 miles away) with a giant cup of coffee. Shortly after the drive began, I had to pee. Really, really had to pee. I figured I'd rather just continue driving to work than turn around, so I decided to stick it out and kept drinking my coffee.
When I finally arrived, I sped into the parking lot, grabbed my things, and raced to the office on the second floor.
I couldn't find my office keys.
No one else would be at work for a little while yet. I laid my bags in front of my office's front door and assured myself: "Someone will be here soon. I just need to walk around and think about other things and wait."
I paced.
I hummed.
I cawed at crows on nearby power lines, leaving them looking puzzled.
I watched the parking lot for co-workers.
It was working for awhile.
At last, our intern Mai pulled up. I started to shout excitedly, "Mai! Thank God!" She was going in the back door, and did not hear me. I sprinted down and caught the door, scaring the hell out of her and nearly causing her to drop her sticky rice and beans. (She's very soft spoken and easily startled.)
I burst into breathless explanation as I started toward the bathroom, but remembered my purse and briefcase and gym bag lying outside near the front door. Abruptly I changed courses and ran to get them, only to idiotically get locked out of the front door in my haste and lunacy. I screamed, "NNNNOOOOOO!" I pounded on the front door.
Mai didn't come.
I ran around to the back door and pounded on it.
Mai didn't come.
I went to the side door and banged my fistful of keys against it.
Mai didn't come.
I went to the exterior windows closest to her office and pounded on those, too. I started to pee, and beat on the windows more and more frantically with a wail: "MMMAAAAAIIII!!!"
It was too late. I was feeling that complicated feeling of relief and warmth and shame.
Mai poked her head out of the building with a face full of fright. "Oh, it's you!" she breathed. "I was so scared! I was in here all alone, and I didn't know who was beating on everything."
"But you knew I was here!" I protested weakly, trying to cover myself with my bags. I locked myself in the bathroom with my shower supplies and the change of clothes in my gym bag.
Immediately after my attempts to salvage my dignity, I went into the office kitchen to make some more coffee, and managed to pour a pot of water all over the counter.
Today is AWESOME.
February 2, 2009
Conversation with N.
Alternative title to this blog: Feedback that should not need to be given, but sometimes you've been wandering around in so many mazes in confusion that you need it.
N: Good, that's good. It's supposed to be fun. You're supposed to smile and laugh and do things and have a good time. Love is supposed to be joyous. If it 's not, then something's not right. If you're terrified and upset and worried, it's not right. If those things happen, you know it's something you need to get the hell away from.
A: I didn't cry at any point, either.
N: Good! There should definitely be no crying the first time you meet someone--I don't care what the reason is. It's supposed to be fun. It's supposed to make you happy.
N: Good, that's good. It's supposed to be fun. You're supposed to smile and laugh and do things and have a good time. Love is supposed to be joyous. If it 's not, then something's not right. If you're terrified and upset and worried, it's not right. If those things happen, you know it's something you need to get the hell away from.
A: I didn't cry at any point, either.
N: Good! There should definitely be no crying the first time you meet someone--I don't care what the reason is. It's supposed to be fun. It's supposed to make you happy.
Please pardon my dust
I'm working to go back through my old blog entries to add labels to all of them. I didn't start labeling until a few months ago, and there were hundreds of entries left uncategorized from my blogging dark ages. I am finding it necessary to add a few additional labels, too. For example, my waxing adventures (and my colorful esthetician, Penny) have necessitated the new category of "wax on/wax off."
This will make it much easier to look stuff up (for me and for both of you that read this). That way, if you want to read every single thing I've written on the topic of love (categorized as "L is for the way you look at me" and by far my very favorite topic), you will soon be able to do so. For better or worse.
This will make it much easier to look stuff up (for me and for both of you that read this). That way, if you want to read every single thing I've written on the topic of love (categorized as "L is for the way you look at me" and by far my very favorite topic), you will soon be able to do so. For better or worse.
January 30, 2009
Veracity, candor, and uprightness
According to my lovely friend and regular blog reader Becky, I am an honest person. To commemorate my honesty award, I am supposed to tell ten secrets. (How is that part of it an award? Shouldn't anyone who reads this be writing to tell me their secrets to reward the ones I've already told? I mean, I've certainly gone into topics through the writing of this blog that would make some people's hair curl.)
I've given a fair amount of thought to the topic of honesty. I've considered different ways of being honest, different levels of honestly, various motivations for honesty. Recent experiences with honesty have been, well, HEART-WRENCHING. I have lots of questions about honesty, such as:
Is it advisable, desirable, or even possible to be honest in every situation?
Can anyone else handle my complete honesty and, for that matter, can I handle theirs?
How much honesty is too much? That is, when does it become a detriment?
A friend once told me he really admired my honesty and ability to be humble; he said he thought it was admirable that I didn't mind looking bad in front of others. I wasn't quite sure how to take that compliment.
Anyway, all my rambling about the topic aside, here's some more honesty. Enjoy.
1. My Room 101 fear is being buried alive.
2. I've always had one foot out the door, and I'm not sure how to change that.
3. I seem to feel everything REALLY INTENSELY or not at all. It's exhausting--I know it is for me, and I imagine it must be for the people around me.
4. Eight
5. I've always wanted a pair of penny loafers with shiny copper pennies in them. I don't care if it's dorky.
6. Yesterday my boss asked me if I was on my meds. *gulp*
7. Somehow I know with every fiber in my being that I will write my book. I can't say when, but I know I will write it.
8. I worry that I will never have children. For whatever reason. I've always promised myself that I would not allow that to be dependent on another person--that I would do it by myself if that's what it took. I hate to admit that this will probably ultimately end up being the situation. It's a lonely and sobering thought.
9. When I was in third grade, I was so ashamed that I'd dramatically outgrown my shabby and dingy winter coat that I went an entire winter without it. I hid it so no one would find it, and I pretended I was never cold.
10. I pretended it didn't really matter to me, but it did.
I've given a fair amount of thought to the topic of honesty. I've considered different ways of being honest, different levels of honestly, various motivations for honesty. Recent experiences with honesty have been, well, HEART-WRENCHING. I have lots of questions about honesty, such as:
Is it advisable, desirable, or even possible to be honest in every situation?
Can anyone else handle my complete honesty and, for that matter, can I handle theirs?
How much honesty is too much? That is, when does it become a detriment?
A friend once told me he really admired my honesty and ability to be humble; he said he thought it was admirable that I didn't mind looking bad in front of others. I wasn't quite sure how to take that compliment.
Anyway, all my rambling about the topic aside, here's some more honesty. Enjoy.
1. My Room 101 fear is being buried alive.
2. I've always had one foot out the door, and I'm not sure how to change that.
3. I seem to feel everything REALLY INTENSELY or not at all. It's exhausting--I know it is for me, and I imagine it must be for the people around me.
4. Eight
5. I've always wanted a pair of penny loafers with shiny copper pennies in them. I don't care if it's dorky.
6. Yesterday my boss asked me if I was on my meds. *gulp*
7. Somehow I know with every fiber in my being that I will write my book. I can't say when, but I know I will write it.
8. I worry that I will never have children. For whatever reason. I've always promised myself that I would not allow that to be dependent on another person--that I would do it by myself if that's what it took. I hate to admit that this will probably ultimately end up being the situation. It's a lonely and sobering thought.
9. When I was in third grade, I was so ashamed that I'd dramatically outgrown my shabby and dingy winter coat that I went an entire winter without it. I hid it so no one would find it, and I pretended I was never cold.
10. I pretended it didn't really matter to me, but it did.
January 29, 2009
Miscellaneous assortment
1. Yesterday I decided I liked coming to work the morning after I'd gone to sleep with my hair wet, because it makes it stick up in interesting ways. Today I would like to reiterate that. This morning I was eager to see what it had done. I awoke to the front of my hair resembling a cross between the cowardly lion and a fashion model. The back looks like an elderly chihuahua's ass.
2. I heard the most hideous and trite phrase ever put into words as I was getting ready for work. On a commercial break during the morning news was an ad for that Benjamin Buttons movie. One review said that it captured "the poetry and pain of life." Terrible. Just terrible.
3. I was listening to a congressman on NPR this morning saying, "Americans need us to take action. They don't want us sitting around like little boats around the dock. They want us to go out to sea where the big ships are." I found this indescribably funny.
4. A couple mornings a week I stop at 7-11 to get a cup of coffee before starting my commute. [Stop laughing! I love the good stuff as much as anyone else, but Philz and Blue Bottle and all those places aren't beating down my door to sponsor me, so...]
Anyway.
There is a man who works in the mornings that I just love. I always laugh because he tries to give me the special deal every single time I'm in there. It seems that in the morning if you buy a coffee of a certain size you can get two free taquitos. I always shudder at the thought of this and vehemently decline, even when he reminds me, "They're FREE! What a deal!"
Irrespective of his taquito pushing, he's such a sweetheart. He asks each and every customer with genuine interest how their morning is going and listens to their responses. He wishes everyone a safe drive to work and a good day. In front of me this morning, there was a homeless man buying a soda and carefully counting out pennies and nickels to put on the counter. While he was waiting, the cashier said to the man encouragingly, "It's going to be okay. Things are going to be okay. You just keep working at it, alright?"
At that moment I loved him.
2. I heard the most hideous and trite phrase ever put into words as I was getting ready for work. On a commercial break during the morning news was an ad for that Benjamin Buttons movie. One review said that it captured "the poetry and pain of life." Terrible. Just terrible.
3. I was listening to a congressman on NPR this morning saying, "Americans need us to take action. They don't want us sitting around like little boats around the dock. They want us to go out to sea where the big ships are." I found this indescribably funny.
4. A couple mornings a week I stop at 7-11 to get a cup of coffee before starting my commute. [Stop laughing! I love the good stuff as much as anyone else, but Philz and Blue Bottle and all those places aren't beating down my door to sponsor me, so...]
Anyway.
There is a man who works in the mornings that I just love. I always laugh because he tries to give me the special deal every single time I'm in there. It seems that in the morning if you buy a coffee of a certain size you can get two free taquitos. I always shudder at the thought of this and vehemently decline, even when he reminds me, "They're FREE! What a deal!"
Irrespective of his taquito pushing, he's such a sweetheart. He asks each and every customer with genuine interest how their morning is going and listens to their responses. He wishes everyone a safe drive to work and a good day. In front of me this morning, there was a homeless man buying a soda and carefully counting out pennies and nickels to put on the counter. While he was waiting, the cashier said to the man encouragingly, "It's going to be okay. Things are going to be okay. You just keep working at it, alright?"
At that moment I loved him.
January 27, 2009
A new kind of spam
Alternative titles to this blog:
Strangely appropriate timing
Get it while it's hot, boys
I *just* got this email message:
Ave, dear!
If I had to choose between loving you and breathing, I would use my last breath to whisper 'I love you ' I am a very warm and friendly person with a good sense of humor. I am passionate and complex. I give freely of myself and I am always ready to lend a hand to someone who needs me. I am strong and independent and no matter how bad things get I am always looking for that silver lining. I still believe in true love and I believe that life is magical and I don’t sweat the small stuff. I’m very spontaneous and adventurous and I love the outdoors. I believe strongly in family and celebrating tradition. I'm looking for man who has similar interests. Looks, race, religion, size, and age don't matter to me. I look for what’s in the heart, not the outside. I'm looking for a man with a big heart and which is sweet. I don't like them to be cynical, I don't like attitude, sarcasism is ok. I'd like a man to be honest, a man who is warm hearted, understanding, loyal and patient. Drop me a line http://affairsamour.com/7811/
Looking forward to hear from you soon
Alexy G.
Strangely appropriate timing
Get it while it's hot, boys
I *just* got this email message:
Ave, dear!
If I had to choose between loving you and breathing, I would use my last breath to whisper 'I love you ' I am a very warm and friendly person with a good sense of humor. I am passionate and complex. I give freely of myself and I am always ready to lend a hand to someone who needs me. I am strong and independent and no matter how bad things get I am always looking for that silver lining. I still believe in true love and I believe that life is magical and I don’t sweat the small stuff. I’m very spontaneous and adventurous and I love the outdoors. I believe strongly in family and celebrating tradition. I'm looking for man who has similar interests. Looks, race, religion, size, and age don't matter to me. I look for what’s in the heart, not the outside. I'm looking for a man with a big heart and which is sweet. I don't like them to be cynical, I don't like attitude, sarcasism is ok. I'd like a man to be honest, a man who is warm hearted, understanding, loyal and patient. Drop me a line http://affairsamour.com/7811/
Looking forward to hear from you soon
Alexy G.
On connection, or lack thereof
Yesterday in the middle of my work day, I felt the need to express myself. I didn't know quite where to put what I needed to say, so I posted my words on Craigslist for whomever happened to stumble upon them to read. My post said:
I’m trying.
I’m trying to regroup and put a smile on my face and shrug and laugh it off. When people sweetly display righteous indignation and anger on my behalf (e.g., “What an ass!”), and when they offer words of support, comfort, and encouragement (e.g., “You don’t need him! You’re amazing and don’t you forget that for a minute!”), I laugh and thank them and put on a brave face. I pretend I’m wearing my big girl pants.
But the fact is I’m tired of being brave. And these pants never felt like they fit quite right anyway.
I have amazing friends and am building my career. I am busy and I have goals and I am going places. But sometimes I just need to be held.
I’m tired of feeling lonely.
I am tired of longing.
I’m tired of brushing myself off and working up the courage to try again.
Alright. So it's a bit of a forlorn message, but I just needed to say the words to SOMEONE. I was amazed by the responses I started getting.
Some people wrote to me to say, "Don't give up! Keep going!" Others wrote to say, "Me too." Many, many wrote to describe their own feelings and thoughts on the subject, from someone undergoing a male to female sex change and learning who her friends really are to someone who loves a girl that already has a boyfriend but continues to string him along.
Many men sent me their pictures and phone numbers, too.
It just seems a shame that--as many people as there are in the world and as many different kinds of people as there are in the world--anyone should feel lonely if they don't want to.
I’m trying.
I’m trying to regroup and put a smile on my face and shrug and laugh it off. When people sweetly display righteous indignation and anger on my behalf (e.g., “What an ass!”), and when they offer words of support, comfort, and encouragement (e.g., “You don’t need him! You’re amazing and don’t you forget that for a minute!”), I laugh and thank them and put on a brave face. I pretend I’m wearing my big girl pants.
But the fact is I’m tired of being brave. And these pants never felt like they fit quite right anyway.
I have amazing friends and am building my career. I am busy and I have goals and I am going places. But sometimes I just need to be held.
I’m tired of feeling lonely.
I am tired of longing.
I’m tired of brushing myself off and working up the courage to try again.
Alright. So it's a bit of a forlorn message, but I just needed to say the words to SOMEONE. I was amazed by the responses I started getting.
Some people wrote to me to say, "Don't give up! Keep going!" Others wrote to say, "Me too." Many, many wrote to describe their own feelings and thoughts on the subject, from someone undergoing a male to female sex change and learning who her friends really are to someone who loves a girl that already has a boyfriend but continues to string him along.
Many men sent me their pictures and phone numbers, too.
It just seems a shame that--as many people as there are in the world and as many different kinds of people as there are in the world--anyone should feel lonely if they don't want to.
January 26, 2009
I still love love!
To all the people out there who keep on hoping and looking and trying despite the odds: you are amazing!
Recent Craigslist Missed Connections examples...
Hi,
I was walking on Clement Street a little before 6pm on Sunday. I was wearing a navy coat with a high collar. I shrugged and sighed. You were coming the opposite way and you smiled at me. Tall, short hair, cute smile (loved that smile!)... Wanna share a cup of coffee ?
* * *
Where did you come from? What are you?
I looked into your eyes and I couldn't even breathe. I saw you on the Muni a couple of weeks ago. You were wearing a black sweater, black boots, blue jeans, your hair was kind of pulled up, and a hand full of books. You got off at SFSU...
* * *
hi...i was walking out of my building with a friend and you were walking in front with your whole foods bag. i just thought you were really pretty so i'm taking this long shot that you'll look here. :)
* * *
come on. you knew i was smitten with you.
oh to have the upper-hand....
Recent Craigslist Missed Connections examples...
Hi,
I was walking on Clement Street a little before 6pm on Sunday. I was wearing a navy coat with a high collar. I shrugged and sighed. You were coming the opposite way and you smiled at me. Tall, short hair, cute smile (loved that smile!)... Wanna share a cup of coffee ?
* * *
Where did you come from? What are you?
I looked into your eyes and I couldn't even breathe. I saw you on the Muni a couple of weeks ago. You were wearing a black sweater, black boots, blue jeans, your hair was kind of pulled up, and a hand full of books. You got off at SFSU...
* * *
hi...i was walking out of my building with a friend and you were walking in front with your whole foods bag. i just thought you were really pretty so i'm taking this long shot that you'll look here. :)
* * *
come on. you knew i was smitten with you.
oh to have the upper-hand....
January 24, 2009
January 22, 2009
Thirty two
I like to write a blog on my birthday that reflects what I've been thinking about and what I've been doing. This morning I read over the entries from my 30th and 31st birthdays.
My life has changed in leaps and bounds. At times, the speed was dizzying but (sometimes) because I didn't have the thing I wanted most, it seemed to be just more of the same.
I have tried my best to document my journey...partly for me, partly for you, and partly for the me and you that would someday be.
Lost yet?
I hope not. Because, for once, I am right where I want to be. At this moment, at least, I am not looking back, and I am not looking ahead. I am right here.
At this moment I am so happy.
At this moment I feel incredibly loved.
At this moment I know that the waiting and the searching and the hopefulness were actually leading towards something.
Sometimes the moments that change your life the most feel ordinary and fairly uneventful and it is only in hindsight that their import becomes apparent; other times they knock you on your back and you are left breathless and trying to regain your composure.
The terrain between where I was a little over three weeks ago and where I am right now is almost unfathomable. Thank God.
My eyes are open. I'm breathing deeply. All those feelings over the past three years that I was supposed to be paying attention...? I'm so glad I was.
My life has changed in leaps and bounds. At times, the speed was dizzying but (sometimes) because I didn't have the thing I wanted most, it seemed to be just more of the same.
I have tried my best to document my journey...partly for me, partly for you, and partly for the me and you that would someday be.
Lost yet?
I hope not. Because, for once, I am right where I want to be. At this moment, at least, I am not looking back, and I am not looking ahead. I am right here.
At this moment I am so happy.
At this moment I feel incredibly loved.
At this moment I know that the waiting and the searching and the hopefulness were actually leading towards something.
Sometimes the moments that change your life the most feel ordinary and fairly uneventful and it is only in hindsight that their import becomes apparent; other times they knock you on your back and you are left breathless and trying to regain your composure.
The terrain between where I was a little over three weeks ago and where I am right now is almost unfathomable. Thank God.
My eyes are open. I'm breathing deeply. All those feelings over the past three years that I was supposed to be paying attention...? I'm so glad I was.
Waking Life
TO SAY YES TO ONE INSTANT IS TO SAY YES TO ALL OF EXISTENCE
Now Lady Gregory was Yeats' patron, this Irish person, and though I'd never seen her image, I was just sure that this was the face of Lady Gregory.
So I'm walking along, and Lady Gregory turns to me and says, "Let me explain to you the nature of the universe. Philip K. Dick is right about time, but he's wrong that it's 50 A.D. Actually, there's only one instant, and it's right now, and it's eternity. And it's an instant in which God is posing a question, and that question is basically, 'Do you want to be one with eternity? Do you want to be in heaven?' And we're all saying, 'No thank you. Not just yet.' And so time actually is just this constant saying No to God's invitation. That's what time is, and it's no more 50 A.D. than it's 2001. There's just this one instant, and that's what we're always in."
Then she tells me that actually, this is the narrative of everyone's life. That behind the phenomenal differences, there is but one story, and that's the story of moving from No to Yes. All of life is like, "No thank you, no thank you, no thank you," then ultimately it's, "Yes, I give in, yes, I accept, yes, I embrace." That's the journey. Everyone gets to Yes in the end, right?
— Richard Linklater, excerpt from the movie "Waking Life"
Now Lady Gregory was Yeats' patron, this Irish person, and though I'd never seen her image, I was just sure that this was the face of Lady Gregory.
So I'm walking along, and Lady Gregory turns to me and says, "Let me explain to you the nature of the universe. Philip K. Dick is right about time, but he's wrong that it's 50 A.D. Actually, there's only one instant, and it's right now, and it's eternity. And it's an instant in which God is posing a question, and that question is basically, 'Do you want to be one with eternity? Do you want to be in heaven?' And we're all saying, 'No thank you. Not just yet.' And so time actually is just this constant saying No to God's invitation. That's what time is, and it's no more 50 A.D. than it's 2001. There's just this one instant, and that's what we're always in."
Then she tells me that actually, this is the narrative of everyone's life. That behind the phenomenal differences, there is but one story, and that's the story of moving from No to Yes. All of life is like, "No thank you, no thank you, no thank you," then ultimately it's, "Yes, I give in, yes, I accept, yes, I embrace." That's the journey. Everyone gets to Yes in the end, right?
— Richard Linklater, excerpt from the movie "Waking Life"
January 20, 2009
Medication
This is the part of me that needs medication.
This is the part of me that believes in heaven.
This is the part of me that thinks outer space is all dead.
This is the part of me that wishes it was with it.
This is the part of me that's trying to be funny.
This is the part of me that loves my parents.
This is the part of me that thinks that ants are cavemen.
This is the part of me that thinks all humans are ants.
This is the part of me that learns from sitcoms.
This is the part of me that means nothing.
And I don't know.
Well, I could go away and you could wish that
I had stayed or just stayed gone
And I don't know.
And I don't know at all.
So, out of the context and into what you meant.
And you know your reasons.
You don't know who you are but you know who you want to be.
I don't know.
So you go to the library to get yourself a book
and you look and you look
but you didn't find anything to read.
And I don't know at all.
Left all my kinder parts rusting and peeling
That guy was complaining as he looked at the ceiling.
My nose isn't that big;
It looks nothing like me.
We're all doctors trading sadness for numbness
Grass looks much greener but it's green-painted cement.
The mayor's machines are there cleaning the pavement.
You can't make dirt clean so we'll just lemon scent it.
(Thanks for reminding me to go back to this song, M.)
This is the part of me that believes in heaven.
This is the part of me that thinks outer space is all dead.
This is the part of me that wishes it was with it.
This is the part of me that's trying to be funny.
This is the part of me that loves my parents.
This is the part of me that thinks that ants are cavemen.
This is the part of me that thinks all humans are ants.
This is the part of me that learns from sitcoms.
This is the part of me that means nothing.
And I don't know.
Well, I could go away and you could wish that
I had stayed or just stayed gone
And I don't know.
And I don't know at all.
So, out of the context and into what you meant.
And you know your reasons.
You don't know who you are but you know who you want to be.
I don't know.
So you go to the library to get yourself a book
and you look and you look
but you didn't find anything to read.
And I don't know at all.
Left all my kinder parts rusting and peeling
That guy was complaining as he looked at the ceiling.
My nose isn't that big;
It looks nothing like me.
We're all doctors trading sadness for numbness
Grass looks much greener but it's green-painted cement.
The mayor's machines are there cleaning the pavement.
You can't make dirt clean so we'll just lemon scent it.
(Thanks for reminding me to go back to this song, M.)
Items 764 and 1,988 on the list "Ways to Stick It to the Man"
Apparently, Bush St. has been renamed Obama St. in San Francisco. An amusing idea, but it seems sort of inconvenient for the businesses on that street...
Too bad the proposition to rename the Oceanside Water Pollution Control Plant to the George W. Bush Sewage Plant didn't pass.
Too bad the proposition to rename the Oceanside Water Pollution Control Plant to the George W. Bush Sewage Plant didn't pass.
Voicemail transcript
Here's one of my favorite voicemails ever. It was left by S. The context is that I almost never check my voicemails and, knowing this, he sometimes leaves them just so I have to listen to them later.
S: BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. So this is one of the messages that you're not going to check for, like, five months and then you're going to be like: what the fuck is some sociopath doing...BEEPING...into my fuckin' voicemail? And, I don't know, I don't have an answer. I...I just wanted to do it. So, you know, your phone beeped at me, I beeped at your fuckin' phone. And, to be fair, it's not even your phone, it's your voicemail, which isn't even, like, really connected to your phone. It's, like, somewhere else in, like, some fuckin' satellite call center bullshit.
But um...I don't know exactly what it is...I wanted to see how you were and how your weird drink thing or whatever went on, shit, Saturday? Is that when it was? I don't...I don't know. All the days blend together when you're unemployed. It doesn't fuckin' matter...anymore...what day's what.
But, um....you know, I...I will...I will assume that we have talked since...in the time in which in between...I can't even fucking complete a sentence now...in the interim time in which, uh, I left this message and you've checked it because, once again, you won't check it for seven years. Um...I may be dead by then, I don't know. Who knows? Maybe. I'm not even sure.
This could be a very eerie and touching moment for you where you, like, cry because I have since passed on and you miss all the wonderful mix compilations cds that I made for you. Um...but, you know, who knows? Anything could happen. That's the point, I guess.
Um...so, I'm going to assume that you're doing well and that someday in the near future you'll call me back. And, um...I'm just gonna hang up the phone now so, you know....BOOSH...[hangs up]
S: BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP. So this is one of the messages that you're not going to check for, like, five months and then you're going to be like: what the fuck is some sociopath doing...BEEPING...into my fuckin' voicemail? And, I don't know, I don't have an answer. I...I just wanted to do it. So, you know, your phone beeped at me, I beeped at your fuckin' phone. And, to be fair, it's not even your phone, it's your voicemail, which isn't even, like, really connected to your phone. It's, like, somewhere else in, like, some fuckin' satellite call center bullshit.
But um...I don't know exactly what it is...I wanted to see how you were and how your weird drink thing or whatever went on, shit, Saturday? Is that when it was? I don't...I don't know. All the days blend together when you're unemployed. It doesn't fuckin' matter...anymore...what day's what.
But, um....you know, I...I will...I will assume that we have talked since...in the time in which in between...I can't even fucking complete a sentence now...in the interim time in which, uh, I left this message and you've checked it because, once again, you won't check it for seven years. Um...I may be dead by then, I don't know. Who knows? Maybe. I'm not even sure.
This could be a very eerie and touching moment for you where you, like, cry because I have since passed on and you miss all the wonderful mix compilations cds that I made for you. Um...but, you know, who knows? Anything could happen. That's the point, I guess.
Um...so, I'm going to assume that you're doing well and that someday in the near future you'll call me back. And, um...I'm just gonna hang up the phone now so, you know....BOOSH...[hangs up]
January 19, 2009
"Maybe an ocean is found in a lake; maybe exceptions to this could be made."
Because variables lurk in the wine
Because the bed’s warm when it’s cold out and that’s a good sign.
It’s never ever gonna feel right to pull the latch back again.
The dust you kick up is too fine.
January 15, 2009
What about dealing with the consequences after breakfast?
Alice laughed. "There's no use in trying." she said. "One can't believe impossible things."
"I dare say you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
- Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There, Lewis Carroll
"I dare say you haven't had much practice," said the Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."
- Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There, Lewis Carroll
Today everything feels too small:
this cup of coffee, this desk, this office, my bank account, the amount of time I have to do things I enjoy as compared to things I have to do, the open space in my brain, the topics of my dreams, my capacity for rational thought, the constraints associated with sanity, my vocabulary to describe all of this…
January 13, 2009
I have discovered...
...that my greatest weakness seems to be those who are skilled at writing articulate letters full of wit, quotations of any kind, and good grammar that stimulate my mind and fuel my own urge to write. Numerous close friends of mine already fall into this category. And recently I may have just found one of the very best.
January 7, 2009
A memory
One humid summer afternoon when I was six years old, I was playing with my neighborhood friends Traci and Beau. Traci and I were the same age, and Beau must have been about four.
We were sitting on Beau’s front steps, pondering what to do with ourselves. “We could play hide and seek,” I suggested. We agreed that it was too hot for so much running. Traci suggested we play Barbies.
“My dad said I’m not allowed to play Barbies with you guys anymore,” Beau muttered.
While we were mulling over our options, the mailman arrived and handed Beau his family’s mail. On top was an envelope from Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes with bold, capitalized words saying, “CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE JUST WON 10 MILLION DOLLARS!”
We instantly flipped out.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, YOU’RE RICH!” Traci and I cried, hopping around excitedly. Beau sat in a daze for a moment as this knowledge sunk in, and then he was jumping up and down with excitement as well.
We immediately began to make plans for the money. Traci and I practically fell over each other shouting out suggestions for how it should be spent. “You can build the biggest tree house in the world!” I cried.
“You can buy your own plane!” Traci added.
“You don’t ever have to go to school again!” We were both envious of this.
Beau happily joined in the planning and, because he was a sweet little boy, said, “I’ll give you guys some money, too!” We all danced with joy.
Too impatient to wait for Beau’s mother to get home so we could break the news to her, we ran inside Traci’s house to tell her mother about the Corbett family’s new-found fortune. She laughed and broke the news to us that everyone got those notices—that she’d gotten them in the mail, too—and that it didn’t actually mean anyone had one 10 million dollars. And…just like that…we were crestfallen. Our plans for trampolines and brand new bikes and an endless supply of Doritos were gone.
I would give anything for five minutes of such pure, unadulterated joy again.
We were sitting on Beau’s front steps, pondering what to do with ourselves. “We could play hide and seek,” I suggested. We agreed that it was too hot for so much running. Traci suggested we play Barbies.
“My dad said I’m not allowed to play Barbies with you guys anymore,” Beau muttered.
While we were mulling over our options, the mailman arrived and handed Beau his family’s mail. On top was an envelope from Publisher’s Clearinghouse Sweepstakes with bold, capitalized words saying, “CONGRATULATIONS! YOU’VE JUST WON 10 MILLION DOLLARS!”
We instantly flipped out.
“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, YOU’RE RICH!” Traci and I cried, hopping around excitedly. Beau sat in a daze for a moment as this knowledge sunk in, and then he was jumping up and down with excitement as well.
We immediately began to make plans for the money. Traci and I practically fell over each other shouting out suggestions for how it should be spent. “You can build the biggest tree house in the world!” I cried.
“You can buy your own plane!” Traci added.
“You don’t ever have to go to school again!” We were both envious of this.
Beau happily joined in the planning and, because he was a sweet little boy, said, “I’ll give you guys some money, too!” We all danced with joy.
Too impatient to wait for Beau’s mother to get home so we could break the news to her, we ran inside Traci’s house to tell her mother about the Corbett family’s new-found fortune. She laughed and broke the news to us that everyone got those notices—that she’d gotten them in the mail, too—and that it didn’t actually mean anyone had one 10 million dollars. And…just like that…we were crestfallen. Our plans for trampolines and brand new bikes and an endless supply of Doritos were gone.
I would give anything for five minutes of such pure, unadulterated joy again.
January 2, 2009
You did, you had, you were.
You ate green apples.
You wanted to explore.
You took for granted the grass beneath your feet.
You stood for hours.
You peed in your snow suit.
You spilled the beans.
You petted the squirrel.
You told him, "No."
You threw rocks.
You hid your face and peered out from between your fingers.
You slid down the stairs.
You tried on her lingerie to imagine what you would look like as a woman.
You pretended your hands were your friends.
I dreamed about how it felt when my feet left the platform.
I dreamed of the sound my back made when it broke.
I dreamed I was a little girl in my grandpa's arms.
I dreamed of you.
You wanted to explore.
You took for granted the grass beneath your feet.
You stood for hours.
You peed in your snow suit.
You spilled the beans.
You petted the squirrel.
You told him, "No."
You threw rocks.
You hid your face and peered out from between your fingers.
You slid down the stairs.
You tried on her lingerie to imagine what you would look like as a woman.
You pretended your hands were your friends.
I dreamed about how it felt when my feet left the platform.
I dreamed of the sound my back made when it broke.
I dreamed I was a little girl in my grandpa's arms.
I dreamed of you.
Bits of recent conversations 2
(sitting in an all-night diner)
A: When I was somewhere in the vicinity of 10 years old, my uncle--the one who came out here recently and at that time he must have been, oh, 21 years old--my uncle and I were sitting in Bonanaza--a family steakhouse chain in the southeastern US; you don't have them here do you?
S: (shakes head)
A: Anyway, we were sitting there eating and there was this elderly couple--probably about 90 years old--sitting nearby. They weren't talking to each other. They were just eating and looking around absently. They didn't seem unhappy or anything, just...content. So my uncle looks over at them for awhile and says, "Look at them. They've probably said everything there is to say to each other. Now they don't even need to talk because they know each other so well. I want that." I thought it was so interesting that he said that, even when I was only 10. I mean, you don't hear a lot of 21 year olds say things like that, you know? I'm sure he doesn't even remember saying it.
S: (nods)
A: I doubt that he even...[pauses and lifts nose and sniffs the air in the diner]...oh my God! Wait! [continues to sniff] That smell, do you smell a lady? Like a lady's perfume?
S: (shakes his head)
A: Who was it that just walked past me? That busboy over there?
S: (nods)
A: He smells like my grandma! I mean, I'm sure that's not a compliment from his perspective, but he does. He smells like my grandma's perfume. How funny: I was just telling a story about one of her kids and now I smell her.
S: (sits in silence)
A: You know, I don't know what's going on in your head when you don't say anything. Do you just sit there and think about how crazy I am? It must be interesting to sit there and just watch me talk endlessly about the weirdest things.
S: It's like watching a one woman tragedy unfold before me.
* * * * *
M: [nods toward S. and says in a whisper] He has a crush on you.
A: No.
M: Yes, he does. I could tell as soon as he got in the car.
A: No. We're really good friends. Maybe you're not used to seeing that between a man and woman?
M: He has a crush on you.
A: We tried that already and it didn't work.
M: Oh.
A: When I was somewhere in the vicinity of 10 years old, my uncle--the one who came out here recently and at that time he must have been, oh, 21 years old--my uncle and I were sitting in Bonanaza--a family steakhouse chain in the southeastern US; you don't have them here do you?
S: (shakes head)
A: Anyway, we were sitting there eating and there was this elderly couple--probably about 90 years old--sitting nearby. They weren't talking to each other. They were just eating and looking around absently. They didn't seem unhappy or anything, just...content. So my uncle looks over at them for awhile and says, "Look at them. They've probably said everything there is to say to each other. Now they don't even need to talk because they know each other so well. I want that." I thought it was so interesting that he said that, even when I was only 10. I mean, you don't hear a lot of 21 year olds say things like that, you know? I'm sure he doesn't even remember saying it.
S: (nods)
A: I doubt that he even...[pauses and lifts nose and sniffs the air in the diner]...oh my God! Wait! [continues to sniff] That smell, do you smell a lady? Like a lady's perfume?
S: (shakes his head)
A: Who was it that just walked past me? That busboy over there?
S: (nods)
A: He smells like my grandma! I mean, I'm sure that's not a compliment from his perspective, but he does. He smells like my grandma's perfume. How funny: I was just telling a story about one of her kids and now I smell her.
S: (sits in silence)
A: You know, I don't know what's going on in your head when you don't say anything. Do you just sit there and think about how crazy I am? It must be interesting to sit there and just watch me talk endlessly about the weirdest things.
S: It's like watching a one woman tragedy unfold before me.
* * * * *
M: [nods toward S. and says in a whisper] He has a crush on you.
A: No.
M: Yes, he does. I could tell as soon as he got in the car.
A: No. We're really good friends. Maybe you're not used to seeing that between a man and woman?
M: He has a crush on you.
A: We tried that already and it didn't work.
M: Oh.
December 31, 2008
When in the throes
I've resisted being completely open in this blog of late, mostly as a result of feeling a little inhibited by certain readership. I don't want you to:
- judge me
- use my honest words as evidence that I was, am, and always will be a fucking nutjob
- categorize me as some sort of ridiculous emo girl
I started fantasizing about starting another blog--one in which no one knew who I was. Then I thought, "Fuck that! I should write whatever I feel, other people's perceptions be damned!"
I recently lost a handwritten journal that I was keeping. God only knows where it ended up. Although I don't believe there was any identifying information in it, I found myself cringing when I thought of strangers reading the words I so earnestly and privately wrote. Then I thought, "Fuck that, too! If the things I wrote are shocking or disturbing to someone then they need to stop living such a one-dimensional life!"
Then I thought, "I spend a lot of time shouting at myself and at and about hypothetical others. Perhaps I should stop this."
Onward to the real point of this ranting madness...
Unfortunately, I acted very stupidly in the last few days. I know perfectly well that when you stop taking psychotropic medication that you have to taper off of it gradually. I've been very responsible about this in the past, but this time I wasn't. I just stopped, and I really suffered for it.
To be honest, I always kind of laughed when I heard commercials for antidepressants that said, "Stopping this medication abruptly can lead to adverse effects, including thoughts of suicide. If you experience this, call your doctor immediately." It wasn't that I doubted that this side effect was true, it's just that it seemed ridiculous and unrealistic to be self-aware enough during a severe depressive state to think, "Oh! Thoughts of killing myself just popped into my head. I need to jump on that. The proactive worm avoids jumping off the bridge!" My laughter was sardonic because those two states of mind just don't go together, in my experience.
They were definitely right about that side effect and, for better or worse, I was right about the fundamental incompatibility of those two mental spaces. But even if I weren't, what would one say?
"I'm wondering if going to that edge, literally and figuratively, would be enough to scare me into normalcy? Or would it be just that last push over?"
How can you succinctly and sufficiently describe the wide-eyed mute terror that leaves you grasping for something, anything, anyone? It all seems so real and overwhelming when curled up in a ball in the dark. Trying to describe it in the harsh light of day to a loving friend makes me feel ridiculous.
- judge me
- use my honest words as evidence that I was, am, and always will be a fucking nutjob
- categorize me as some sort of ridiculous emo girl
I started fantasizing about starting another blog--one in which no one knew who I was. Then I thought, "Fuck that! I should write whatever I feel, other people's perceptions be damned!"
I recently lost a handwritten journal that I was keeping. God only knows where it ended up. Although I don't believe there was any identifying information in it, I found myself cringing when I thought of strangers reading the words I so earnestly and privately wrote. Then I thought, "Fuck that, too! If the things I wrote are shocking or disturbing to someone then they need to stop living such a one-dimensional life!"
Then I thought, "I spend a lot of time shouting at myself and at and about hypothetical others. Perhaps I should stop this."
Onward to the real point of this ranting madness...
Unfortunately, I acted very stupidly in the last few days. I know perfectly well that when you stop taking psychotropic medication that you have to taper off of it gradually. I've been very responsible about this in the past, but this time I wasn't. I just stopped, and I really suffered for it.
To be honest, I always kind of laughed when I heard commercials for antidepressants that said, "Stopping this medication abruptly can lead to adverse effects, including thoughts of suicide. If you experience this, call your doctor immediately." It wasn't that I doubted that this side effect was true, it's just that it seemed ridiculous and unrealistic to be self-aware enough during a severe depressive state to think, "Oh! Thoughts of killing myself just popped into my head. I need to jump on that. The proactive worm avoids jumping off the bridge!" My laughter was sardonic because those two states of mind just don't go together, in my experience.
They were definitely right about that side effect and, for better or worse, I was right about the fundamental incompatibility of those two mental spaces. But even if I weren't, what would one say?
"I'm wondering if going to that edge, literally and figuratively, would be enough to scare me into normalcy? Or would it be just that last push over?"
How can you succinctly and sufficiently describe the wide-eyed mute terror that leaves you grasping for something, anything, anyone? It all seems so real and overwhelming when curled up in a ball in the dark. Trying to describe it in the harsh light of day to a loving friend makes me feel ridiculous.
December 29, 2008
Bits of recent conversations
C (age 15): You mean you want to have sex?
A: Sure. Of course.
C: Ewwww.
A: Why is that "ewww"!?
C: Because you're old. You're too old.
A: How old is too old? What's the cut-off?
C: How old are you again?
A: I'm not telling. How old is too old?
C: 30 is the cut-off. And you're 31. You're practically ancient.
* * * * *
A: How long did it take you to get over a broken heart?
J (co-worker): A long time. 2-3 years.
A: Oh, my God. It's already been forever, I don't think I can take it anymore.
J: Well, that makes sense. It's really traumatic. You became so intertwined with another person that, when they were gone, there was this hole left. You remember the person you were before them. You remember the person you were with them. You remember the plans that you made, the memories you created. And you have to make all new ones after they're gone.
* * * * *
M: I don't know what it is about you, but I can't stop thinking about you. Are you sure we haven't met before? Because I really feel like I've known you for a long time.
A: No. We've never met before. I'm pretty sure.
M: Let's have dinner tomorrow. Or a drink. Or an ice cream cone. Or whatever you want. I just want to hang out.
A: Sure. Of course.
C: Ewwww.
A: Why is that "ewww"!?
C: Because you're old. You're too old.
A: How old is too old? What's the cut-off?
C: How old are you again?
A: I'm not telling. How old is too old?
C: 30 is the cut-off. And you're 31. You're practically ancient.
* * * * *
A: How long did it take you to get over a broken heart?
J (co-worker): A long time. 2-3 years.
A: Oh, my God. It's already been forever, I don't think I can take it anymore.
J: Well, that makes sense. It's really traumatic. You became so intertwined with another person that, when they were gone, there was this hole left. You remember the person you were before them. You remember the person you were with them. You remember the plans that you made, the memories you created. And you have to make all new ones after they're gone.
* * * * *
M: I don't know what it is about you, but I can't stop thinking about you. Are you sure we haven't met before? Because I really feel like I've known you for a long time.
A: No. We've never met before. I'm pretty sure.
M: Let's have dinner tomorrow. Or a drink. Or an ice cream cone. Or whatever you want. I just want to hang out.
December 26, 2008
Surreal
Sometimes life is so surreal.
I have marveled on numerous occasions about the people whom MySpace and Facebook have brought into or back into my life. Just a couple days before Christmas, I was reconnected with a young lady for whom I used to babysit (C.) and her mother. I lived with them my senior year in college. It was a great deal for a poor student--free room in exchange for a certain number of child-care hours.
I was pleased to see what a beautiful young woman C. has become in the last 10 years was stunned to hear that they were just about to come to San Francisco for a stretch between Christmas and the new year. C's mother gave me C's cell number so that we could get in touch about when we could all get together while they are here.
I've been rushing around trying to straighten up my house for their visit, and tonight I got a text message from C. We sat here and texted about our lives and challenges for about an hour and a half. It was so strange. I mean, I used to take her to preschool and give her baths and we used to make up stories together! And here we are having an adult conversation! What a lovely surprise.
I have marveled on numerous occasions about the people whom MySpace and Facebook have brought into or back into my life. Just a couple days before Christmas, I was reconnected with a young lady for whom I used to babysit (C.) and her mother. I lived with them my senior year in college. It was a great deal for a poor student--free room in exchange for a certain number of child-care hours.
I was pleased to see what a beautiful young woman C. has become in the last 10 years was stunned to hear that they were just about to come to San Francisco for a stretch between Christmas and the new year. C's mother gave me C's cell number so that we could get in touch about when we could all get together while they are here.
I've been rushing around trying to straighten up my house for their visit, and tonight I got a text message from C. We sat here and texted about our lives and challenges for about an hour and a half. It was so strange. I mean, I used to take her to preschool and give her baths and we used to make up stories together! And here we are having an adult conversation! What a lovely surprise.
Testing (Part II)
"You know what? When I grow up I actually do want to be a junkie."
"Can't we just forget this restraining order nonsense?"
"It's my party and I'll go commando if I want to."
Strata
1. I recently fell in love with two songs and now I have to hear them over and over. And over.
Antony and the Johnsons - "Fistful of Love"
Bon Iver - "Skinny Love"
2. I want to go to Prague. I can't find the name of the cafe that lets you throw stale rolls.
3. I had the coziest Christmas with Nannette and Scott. I felt warm and loved and mentally stimulated. Prosecco, peach and blackberry cobbler, blankets, and decorating boxes. What could be better?
4. I didn't expect the box I decorated to become so personal. I was hoping to give it as a gift or maybe to sell it, and now I don't know if I can. My favorite parts say "It happened" and "At that moment, no one else compared." Other people's words that I made my own.
5. Tonight I am going through boxes of things, trying to clear out space in my office. Going through the strata of old letters from people I've loved, old pictures of myself, and the jottings I've made on scraps of paper over the years is painful and bittersweet. I'm trying clear space for the new.
Antony and the Johnsons - "Fistful of Love"
Bon Iver - "Skinny Love"
2. I want to go to Prague. I can't find the name of the cafe that lets you throw stale rolls.
3. I had the coziest Christmas with Nannette and Scott. I felt warm and loved and mentally stimulated. Prosecco, peach and blackberry cobbler, blankets, and decorating boxes. What could be better?
4. I didn't expect the box I decorated to become so personal. I was hoping to give it as a gift or maybe to sell it, and now I don't know if I can. My favorite parts say "It happened" and "At that moment, no one else compared." Other people's words that I made my own.
5. Tonight I am going through boxes of things, trying to clear out space in my office. Going through the strata of old letters from people I've loved, old pictures of myself, and the jottings I've made on scraps of paper over the years is painful and bittersweet. I'm trying clear space for the new.
December 23, 2008
I want it to be retroactive. Can it be retroactive? Please let it be retroactive.
Well I'd like to spread your perfume around the old apartment
Could we live together and agree on the same wares?
A trapeze is a bird cage even if it's empty and definitely fits the room
And we would, toooo...
And my dear, dear, dear Khalana
I talk too much about you
Their ears are getting tired of me singing all the night through
Let's just talk together
You and me and me and you
And if there's nothing much to say
Well, silence is a bore
I've gotta big, big, big, big heartbeat, yeah
I think you are the sweetest thing
I wear a coat of feelings and they are loud
I've been having good days
Think we are the right age
To start out own peculiar ways
With good friendly homes?
Sometimes you're quiet, and sometimes I'm quiet (Hallelujah)
Sometimes I'm talkative, and sometimes you're not talkative, I know....
Sometimes you hear me when others they can't hear me. (Hallelujah!)
Sometimes I'm naked and, thank god, sometimes you're naked. (Well, hello.....)
Can I tell you that you are the purple in me?
Can I call you just to hear you? Would you care?
When I saw you put your purple finger on me
There's a feelin' in your bottle
Found your bottle, found your heart
Gives a feeling from your bottled little part.
Could we live together and agree on the same wares?
A trapeze is a bird cage even if it's empty and definitely fits the room
And we would, toooo...
And my dear, dear, dear Khalana
I talk too much about you
Their ears are getting tired of me singing all the night through
Let's just talk together
You and me and me and you
And if there's nothing much to say
Well, silence is a bore
I've gotta big, big, big, big heartbeat, yeah
I think you are the sweetest thing
I wear a coat of feelings and they are loud
I've been having good days
Think we are the right age
To start out own peculiar ways
With good friendly homes?
Sometimes you're quiet, and sometimes I'm quiet (Hallelujah)
Sometimes I'm talkative, and sometimes you're not talkative, I know....
Sometimes you hear me when others they can't hear me. (Hallelujah!)
Sometimes I'm naked and, thank god, sometimes you're naked. (Well, hello.....)
Can I tell you that you are the purple in me?
Can I call you just to hear you? Would you care?
When I saw you put your purple finger on me
There's a feelin' in your bottle
Found your bottle, found your heart
Gives a feeling from your bottled little part.
December 22, 2008
Balls to the wall
Today I applied for research studies, interviews, and focus groups on:
- Getting people to comply with documents requiring signatures and approval
- Examining how cognitive load influences pain perception
- Providing taste-testing and feedback on snack food
- Participating in a market research study on the topic of personal finances
I also applied to participate in a focus group on an unidentified topic. All it said was that it takes place in San Francisco for one and one-half hours on Jan. 6 and "if you feel you are the right individual, please call..." I don't what it is, but I feel I'm the right individual so I called and left a message.
I applied for part-time and temporary positions to:
- Interview Jewish women about working during World War II
- Serve as a pet food demonstration representative
- Proofread a 400-500 page opthamology textbook
Finally, I responded to something that said, "Make predictions, get paid." I can make predictions. I can't vouch for my accuracy, but I can definitely make predictions.
- Getting people to comply with documents requiring signatures and approval
- Examining how cognitive load influences pain perception
- Providing taste-testing and feedback on snack food
- Participating in a market research study on the topic of personal finances
I also applied to participate in a focus group on an unidentified topic. All it said was that it takes place in San Francisco for one and one-half hours on Jan. 6 and "if you feel you are the right individual, please call..." I don't what it is, but I feel I'm the right individual so I called and left a message.
I applied for part-time and temporary positions to:
- Interview Jewish women about working during World War II
- Serve as a pet food demonstration representative
- Proofread a 400-500 page opthamology textbook
Finally, I responded to something that said, "Make predictions, get paid." I can make predictions. I can't vouch for my accuracy, but I can definitely make predictions.
Looking for a condom alternative?
One of my friends from high school, Brian R., was in town last night with his fiancee. We went out for dinner and drinks and had a lovely time. I was reminded of why I always thought he was one of the nicest guys I knew in high school.
[As indicated in the previous entry] I tossed and turned fitfully last night and was unable to sleep until about 4am. I did a lot of things during that time, including watching YouTube videos. One of the videos I watched was my favorite scene from Love, Actually:
I also watched all the videos I could find on crows and ravens.
When I woke up this morning, all of my hair was standing straight up in the air in a most dramatic fashion. Seriously. Even my eyebrows were pointing upward. I was exhausted and running late for work and tamed it the best that I could before heading out the door. When I arrived, one of my co-workers said, "Wow. Your hair looks very...lion-like today..." and I burst out laughing.
I am researching opportunities to make money on Craigslist. I found a women's research study where you could make $500 testing out a new diaphragm. Unfortunately, it requires that you have sex once or twice. I asked my Magic 8-ball if this is in my future, and it said, "Not a chance."
[As indicated in the previous entry] I tossed and turned fitfully last night and was unable to sleep until about 4am. I did a lot of things during that time, including watching YouTube videos. One of the videos I watched was my favorite scene from Love, Actually:
I also watched all the videos I could find on crows and ravens.
When I woke up this morning, all of my hair was standing straight up in the air in a most dramatic fashion. Seriously. Even my eyebrows were pointing upward. I was exhausted and running late for work and tamed it the best that I could before heading out the door. When I arrived, one of my co-workers said, "Wow. Your hair looks very...lion-like today..." and I burst out laughing.
I am researching opportunities to make money on Craigslist. I found a women's research study where you could make $500 testing out a new diaphragm. Unfortunately, it requires that you have sex once or twice. I asked my Magic 8-ball if this is in my future, and it said, "Not a chance."
Lean
Ugh.
I am awake stressing about money.
Because of budget cutbacks, I can't teach a class next semester. My income at my regular job is not enough to pay for the apartment, car to get to work, and the rest of the bills. I'm starting to feel a little bit on the verge of hysteria, to be honest. I'm strategizing ways to continue to feed the parrots and myself.
I've put in job applications, signed up for product testing and focus group mailing lists (because if you get selected for one they pay you anywhere from $50 to $150 bucks for a couple hours of your time), and started looking around my house for things I might be able to sell. I have a nice coat that my aunt got me that I've only worn once so far. I have a round-trip plane ticket that I got when I was bumped from a flight home. I have an extra TV. I'm getting rid of cable and downgrading my cell phone plan.
Beyond continuing to come up with ways to creatively advertise my greeting cards and putting in additional job applications, I'm not quite sure what else to do.
I don't have the money for Christmas presents. My grandpa is in renal failure. My car got towed and cost me $500.
I'm feeling freaked out and anxious and I needed to vent.
I am awake stressing about money.
Because of budget cutbacks, I can't teach a class next semester. My income at my regular job is not enough to pay for the apartment, car to get to work, and the rest of the bills. I'm starting to feel a little bit on the verge of hysteria, to be honest. I'm strategizing ways to continue to feed the parrots and myself.
I've put in job applications, signed up for product testing and focus group mailing lists (because if you get selected for one they pay you anywhere from $50 to $150 bucks for a couple hours of your time), and started looking around my house for things I might be able to sell. I have a nice coat that my aunt got me that I've only worn once so far. I have a round-trip plane ticket that I got when I was bumped from a flight home. I have an extra TV. I'm getting rid of cable and downgrading my cell phone plan.
Beyond continuing to come up with ways to creatively advertise my greeting cards and putting in additional job applications, I'm not quite sure what else to do.
I don't have the money for Christmas presents. My grandpa is in renal failure. My car got towed and cost me $500.
I'm feeling freaked out and anxious and I needed to vent.
December 18, 2008
I think I forgot to post this...
Here is the link to my shop:
Six Birds Cards
(www.sixbirdscards.etsy.com)
I've been spending a lot of time coming up with creative ways to advertise. Between both the website and word of mouth networking, I've sold a few items so far! The two that are the most popular:
1. The chicken card ("Do you honestly think that slut Henrietta can love you the way I can?")
2. The card with my hand and the words "My hands remember how your body felt." (This one makes me especially proud, because it is my very favorite.)
Six Birds Cards
(www.sixbirdscards.etsy.com)
I've been spending a lot of time coming up with creative ways to advertise. Between both the website and word of mouth networking, I've sold a few items so far! The two that are the most popular:
1. The chicken card ("Do you honestly think that slut Henrietta can love you the way I can?")
2. The card with my hand and the words "My hands remember how your body felt." (This one makes me especially proud, because it is my very favorite.)
Testing
Have you ever had one of those days when you find yourself standing naked in front of Walmart with a goat named Harold and a plastic baby Jesus?
Yeah, me neither.
Yeah, me neither.
December 17, 2008
Wednesday morning shiz-nit
As I was leaving for work this morning, I caught a portion of the Bay Area traffic update on the local NBC news from Mike Inouye. He's the biggest dork in the world, and often cracks me up with the weird little things he says. Today while reporting on traffic conditions coming into San Francisco on the Bay Bridge, he said: "Toll lane number 14 is closed this morning. So, if number 14 was your favorite toll lane, I'm sorry to tell you that you're going to have to find a new one today."
Maybe it was because it was 6am. Maybe it was because I hadn't had any coffee yet. But I found the serious manner in which he delivered this particular line to be unreasonably funny.
In other news, I made my first greeting card sale! Business is booming! Okay, not really. I sold one card to some wonderful soul in Illinois, but it's a start. I'm going to write her a special note when I mail her card to her. Kind of like saving the first $1 you make when you open a business.
Maybe it was because it was 6am. Maybe it was because I hadn't had any coffee yet. But I found the serious manner in which he delivered this particular line to be unreasonably funny.
In other news, I made my first greeting card sale! Business is booming! Okay, not really. I sold one card to some wonderful soul in Illinois, but it's a start. I'm going to write her a special note when I mail her card to her. Kind of like saving the first $1 you make when you open a business.
December 16, 2008
Announcing the birth of 6 Birds Cards...
I'm so excited to announce I've opened a greeting card shop, 6 Birds Cards, on Etsy.com (a website for homemade items). It has taken a long time to come together.
For a long time I felt there were things in me that needed to be expressed, and this is one outlet for that. I've collected weird greeting cards for years, as many of you already know. I also have a long history of writing along with taking pictures of fairly random things (food I made, computer error screens, table tops, etc.). I horde old family pictures, too. It was only recently that it occurred to me that making cards might provide some focus to my eccentricity and melodrama.
I can't take all the credit for this. Scott has collaborated on the caption-writing of many of these cards. Nannette has viewed and made comments on many prototypes. Shayna provided the needed kick in the butt by hosting a day at her house where several of us made things and, um, drank mimosas. Some of you have seen me open my little beaten up suitcase like a traveling salesperson to proudly display them. In the last couple of years, many of you have viewed and commented on early versions of these pictures on MySpace and Flickr. Thank you, and your contributions are gratefully acknowledged.
At present, there are 31 cards being sold. There are many more on the way. I also happily accept donations--want me to use one of your pictures and make it into a card? Sweet! Bring it.
Regardless of whether you want to buy any of them, please take a look. I'm proud of them.
For a long time I felt there were things in me that needed to be expressed, and this is one outlet for that. I've collected weird greeting cards for years, as many of you already know. I also have a long history of writing along with taking pictures of fairly random things (food I made, computer error screens, table tops, etc.). I horde old family pictures, too. It was only recently that it occurred to me that making cards might provide some focus to my eccentricity and melodrama.
I can't take all the credit for this. Scott has collaborated on the caption-writing of many of these cards. Nannette has viewed and made comments on many prototypes. Shayna provided the needed kick in the butt by hosting a day at her house where several of us made things and, um, drank mimosas. Some of you have seen me open my little beaten up suitcase like a traveling salesperson to proudly display them. In the last couple of years, many of you have viewed and commented on early versions of these pictures on MySpace and Flickr. Thank you, and your contributions are gratefully acknowledged.
At present, there are 31 cards being sold. There are many more on the way. I also happily accept donations--want me to use one of your pictures and make it into a card? Sweet! Bring it.
Regardless of whether you want to buy any of them, please take a look. I'm proud of them.
December 15, 2008
Beef stick?
I always feel rather emotional when a class that I'm teaching ends. I tend to get rather attached to the students and to the particular dynamics of a given group and am sorry to see them go. I've had the pleasure of having several of them get in touch with me after the class ended to say hello, either through MySpace, Facebook, email or just stopping by another class I was teaching. I am particularly sad to see this semester's statistics class end.
There are several extraordinarily outgoing students in the class, and I have a lot of fun joking around with them. They're also incredibly sweet.
The most recent example of this came last Monday. I wasn't feeling very well at the beginning of class. An observant student asked me if I felt okay. I mentioned that I hadn't had the chance to eat yet that day, and probably that's why I wasn't feeling so hot. He immediately reached into his bag, grabbed a Slim Jim, held it toward me, and said, "Beef stick? It's been in my bag for a couple of months, but these things last forever." Another student reached into his bag and pulled out chocolate. I laughed and thanked them and told them I was fine, that they didn't need to offer their food. At the beginning of Wednesday's class, one student brought an apple, another brought candy, and another brought Christmas cookies. I was incredibly touched (but also felt really mortified).
Maybe it was dumb of me not to go into teaching full-time. I don't really know anymore.
There are several extraordinarily outgoing students in the class, and I have a lot of fun joking around with them. They're also incredibly sweet.
The most recent example of this came last Monday. I wasn't feeling very well at the beginning of class. An observant student asked me if I felt okay. I mentioned that I hadn't had the chance to eat yet that day, and probably that's why I wasn't feeling so hot. He immediately reached into his bag, grabbed a Slim Jim, held it toward me, and said, "Beef stick? It's been in my bag for a couple of months, but these things last forever." Another student reached into his bag and pulled out chocolate. I laughed and thanked them and told them I was fine, that they didn't need to offer their food. At the beginning of Wednesday's class, one student brought an apple, another brought candy, and another brought Christmas cookies. I was incredibly touched (but also felt really mortified).
Maybe it was dumb of me not to go into teaching full-time. I don't really know anymore.
A disarming smile
Ugh. Sometimes I get so wound up and anxious in one-on-one interactions that I just start talking uncontrollably. There is very little filter between my head and my mouth. I speak in a total stream of consciousness kind of fashion interspersed with song lyrics, talking to myself, and meta-comments about the interaction taking place (e.g., "Oh, my God. Do you hear how I'm talking right now? I'm just telling you these random things..."). It must be quite a sight to witness when I'm really at maximum speed, and I imagine it must be overwhelming for the person on the receiving end. I mentally step outside of myself and think, "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Then, when I proceed to keep talking, I mentally slap my head and groan.
Kindess
I lost my wallet for the second time this year--I don't even want to talk about the extent of my absent-mindedness--and I'm still waiting for my ATM card to show up. This has been a huge pain in the ass.
A few nights ago I hadn't had any dinner and the bank was already closed and my card still hadn't come. I went to the grocery story with only a few dollars on me and was trying to be very careful about how much I spent. I went over the amount I had by twenty cents. I was embarrassed and asked the lady who was checking me out to put an item back. She said, "Don't you worry, honey," and reached into her pocket and pulled out two dimes. I protested that she didn't need to do that, that she couldn't possibly make a habit of that. She winked at me and continued completing my transaction. I was so touched. I thanked her profusely. It was one of those moments that makes you feel a little better about the world.
A couple days later I made another trip to the store and the same lady who'd loaned me the money checking me out. I said, "You loaned me twenty cents the other night and it was so sweet of you--I'd like to return it to you now."
She looked confused. "I did?" I handed her two dimes and smiled. "Well, that was pretty nice of me," she said laughing and accepted my two dimes. "Yes, it was," I agreed. "I really appreciated it."
"No problem, honey," she responded. "You have a great day."
A few nights ago I hadn't had any dinner and the bank was already closed and my card still hadn't come. I went to the grocery story with only a few dollars on me and was trying to be very careful about how much I spent. I went over the amount I had by twenty cents. I was embarrassed and asked the lady who was checking me out to put an item back. She said, "Don't you worry, honey," and reached into her pocket and pulled out two dimes. I protested that she didn't need to do that, that she couldn't possibly make a habit of that. She winked at me and continued completing my transaction. I was so touched. I thanked her profusely. It was one of those moments that makes you feel a little better about the world.
A couple days later I made another trip to the store and the same lady who'd loaned me the money checking me out. I said, "You loaned me twenty cents the other night and it was so sweet of you--I'd like to return it to you now."
She looked confused. "I did?" I handed her two dimes and smiled. "Well, that was pretty nice of me," she said laughing and accepted my two dimes. "Yes, it was," I agreed. "I really appreciated it."
"No problem, honey," she responded. "You have a great day."
December 10, 2008
Micromanaged
I got an email from my boss yesterday. Let's call her "Janet" henceforth, shall we? (I'm glad you agree.)
I'd sent Janet a progress report on a project I was working on with a projected timeline of when various tasks were going to get done. She wrote to say she had some questions and that she would like to meet to get those questions answered. I was to plan to organize my time in the following fashion:
1. Janet and Amie sort out few remaining questions that Janet has.
2. Amie finalizes all questionnaires based on this discussion.
3. Amie prints out final questionnaires for Janet's final review vs penultimates.
4. Amie drafts and Janet approves letter to participants.
5. Pretests go out to 25 pilot participants.
6. Amie gives Janet correct answer sheets for all questionnaires.
Now, when I was four years old I needed some assistance with knowing when to brush my teeth, clean Kool-Aid stains off my face, put on a jacket, and take a bath. But Jesus Christ! I didn't spend 13 years after high school training to take a job that spells out at what time my every breath should be taken!
Janet attempts to account for my time down to the smallest detail on a given project, and then wonders why I begin to fall behind on other projects and why am I not "donating time" [a term thrown around often here that is just fancy-talk for "working for free"] to get caught up?
If you have wondered why I haven't been writing as much in my blog lately and/or haven't answered emails, it's because my two jobs are keeping me running around. Despite having two jobs, I am still forced to look for a third source of income in order to survive in San Francisco. Shit's expensive.
Thus, I have been brainstorming ways to make money or cut corners in order to make ends meet. Here are some of the thoughts floating through my puzzler:
1. From what locations can I steal toilet paper?
2. How many times can I eat generic bran flakes as a meal in one week without, um, negative repercussions?
3. How lucrative is prostitution? And what differentiates any skills or qualities I might have versus those another might have?
For what it's worth, I'm setting up a website on Etsy.com in order to sell my greeting cards. I'll send out a link as soon as all that's set up. Buy cards. Buy lots of cards!
I'd sent Janet a progress report on a project I was working on with a projected timeline of when various tasks were going to get done. She wrote to say she had some questions and that she would like to meet to get those questions answered. I was to plan to organize my time in the following fashion:
1. Janet and Amie sort out few remaining questions that Janet has.
2. Amie finalizes all questionnaires based on this discussion.
3. Amie prints out final questionnaires for Janet's final review vs penultimates.
4. Amie drafts and Janet approves letter to participants.
5. Pretests go out to 25 pilot participants.
6. Amie gives Janet correct answer sheets for all questionnaires.
Now, when I was four years old I needed some assistance with knowing when to brush my teeth, clean Kool-Aid stains off my face, put on a jacket, and take a bath. But Jesus Christ! I didn't spend 13 years after high school training to take a job that spells out at what time my every breath should be taken!
Janet attempts to account for my time down to the smallest detail on a given project, and then wonders why I begin to fall behind on other projects and why am I not "donating time" [a term thrown around often here that is just fancy-talk for "working for free"] to get caught up?
If you have wondered why I haven't been writing as much in my blog lately and/or haven't answered emails, it's because my two jobs are keeping me running around. Despite having two jobs, I am still forced to look for a third source of income in order to survive in San Francisco. Shit's expensive.
Thus, I have been brainstorming ways to make money or cut corners in order to make ends meet. Here are some of the thoughts floating through my puzzler:
1. From what locations can I steal toilet paper?
2. How many times can I eat generic bran flakes as a meal in one week without, um, negative repercussions?
3. How lucrative is prostitution? And what differentiates any skills or qualities I might have versus those another might have?
For what it's worth, I'm setting up a website on Etsy.com in order to sell my greeting cards. I'll send out a link as soon as all that's set up. Buy cards. Buy lots of cards!
December 4, 2008
"How the hell did I get here so soon?"
Grown-ups go to work when they don't feel good.
Grown-ups go to work when they're exhausted.
Grown-ups do things even when they don't feel like it.
Grown-ups have conversations and interactions with people even when they don't like them at all.
Grown-ups eat foods that are good for them even when they taste like hell.
Grown-ups don't pout and complain when they don't get their way.
Grown-ups probably even listen to their voicemail once in awhile.
I'd rather stay here in my room
Nothin' out there but sad and gloom
I don't wanna live in a big old tomb
On Grand Street...
- Tom Waits
Grown-ups go to work when they're exhausted.
Grown-ups do things even when they don't feel like it.
Grown-ups have conversations and interactions with people even when they don't like them at all.
Grown-ups eat foods that are good for them even when they taste like hell.
Grown-ups don't pout and complain when they don't get their way.
Grown-ups probably even listen to their voicemail once in awhile.
I'd rather stay here in my room
Nothin' out there but sad and gloom
I don't wanna live in a big old tomb
On Grand Street...
- Tom Waits
December 2, 2008
"All the people you knew were the actors."
Well, all the apostles
they're sitting in swings
and I'd sell off my savior
for a set of new rings
and some sandles
with the style of straps that
cling best to the era
Some days I feel I’ve gotten off track.
And all of the angels
they'd sell off your soul
for a set of new wings and anything gold
they remember
the people they loved, their old friends
and I've seen through 'em all
seen through 'em all
How have I gone so far from where I thought I’d be?
Well, I'll go to college
and I'll learn some big words
and I'll talk real loud
goddamn right I'll be heard
you'll remember the guys
that said all those big words
they must've learned in college
And the people I thought I’d be with?
And it took a long time
but I came clean with myself
I come clean out of love with my lover
I still love her
loved her more when she
used to be sober and I
was kinder
But what if I’m exactly where I need to be?
they're sitting in swings
and I'd sell off my savior
for a set of new rings
and some sandles
with the style of straps that
cling best to the era
Some days I feel I’ve gotten off track.
And all of the angels
they'd sell off your soul
for a set of new wings and anything gold
they remember
the people they loved, their old friends
and I've seen through 'em all
seen through 'em all
How have I gone so far from where I thought I’d be?
Well, I'll go to college
and I'll learn some big words
and I'll talk real loud
goddamn right I'll be heard
you'll remember the guys
that said all those big words
they must've learned in college
And the people I thought I’d be with?
And it took a long time
but I came clean with myself
I come clean out of love with my lover
I still love her
loved her more when she
used to be sober and I
was kinder
But what if I’m exactly where I need to be?
December 1, 2008
Follow-up to "Cover Letter to Philip Morris"
Someone that I don't know in L.A. wrote to me today with a comment on my last post regarding my cover letter to Philip Morris. He says:
Second-hand smoke aside, no one's forcing you or your uncle to buy or smoke cigarettes. Tobacco and alcohol are legal, yet they kill hundreds of thousands each year. Marijuana is illegal, and it kills so few people that I can't find a statistic on it. How is that possible ?
My responses to stoner dude can be summarized as follows:
1. Sweetie, it's called sarcasm.
2. From where did you pull this uncle? I mentioned my imaginary husband Johnny and my yet-to-be-conceived youngest daughter Ellen with the lazy eye. But there was no uncle.
3. Start your own blog. You can be on your soap-box and cite epidemiologic data (or your lack thereof) as much as you want to.
Second-hand smoke aside, no one's forcing you or your uncle to buy or smoke cigarettes. Tobacco and alcohol are legal, yet they kill hundreds of thousands each year. Marijuana is illegal, and it kills so few people that I can't find a statistic on it. How is that possible ?
My responses to stoner dude can be summarized as follows:
1. Sweetie, it's called sarcasm.
2. From where did you pull this uncle? I mentioned my imaginary husband Johnny and my yet-to-be-conceived youngest daughter Ellen with the lazy eye. But there was no uncle.
3. Start your own blog. You can be on your soap-box and cite epidemiologic data (or your lack thereof) as much as you want to.
So life-like and inviting!
On Saturday I the most horrible date I've ever had in my life and, let's be honest, in the last year there's been a LOT. At least by my standards.
[Brief aside: Please don't misconstrue that last statement about there being a lot of dates. It should be noted that 1) I do not enjoy this process; 2) Mostly they've been first/last dates; and 3) It's not like I'm out whoring around. Not that I should have to justify myself in that area. But still.]
I've gone out with twenty-some guys in the last year, and there's definitely been some highs and lows.
A few highlights:
- the DJ who used words like "hella" and "word" at regular intervals and spent 15 minutes on his cell phone during the date telling his friend to quit doing drugs and come and stay at his place and then pointed out to me how this was evidence of what a sensitive and caring guy he was
- the guy who called me EVERY DAY for two weeks (at times ranging from 5:15am to 11pm, and including times that I was at work) and later went on to explain that he COULD NOT have a physical relationship with me.
- the sweet guy who showed me his apartment in a high-rise in Oakland and, after we'd gone up on the roof to look at the view, accidentally locked us out at 3am. The last BART to the city was long gone and we fell asleep on the floor of the lobby of his building waiting for a locksmith. I made it home by 7am in time to get ready for an interview.
I've mentioned others before. There's no need to go further. I don't even want to go into details about the one on Saturday because it was so hideous. I cried and cried as I was driving home and called Nannette to ask if she could meet me somewhere so we could talk.
I've mentioned before that I'm keeping track of how many there were so that, some day if and when I meet the right one I can say, "See how hard I looked?" Some days I find it all amusing. Some days I wonder if there's something wrong with ME. Some days I think, "Fuck it. I don't have the energy for this. I should buy a blow-up doll. There's probably some Christmas specials going on."
[Brief aside: Please don't misconstrue that last statement about there being a lot of dates. It should be noted that 1) I do not enjoy this process; 2) Mostly they've been first/last dates; and 3) It's not like I'm out whoring around. Not that I should have to justify myself in that area. But still.]
I've gone out with twenty-some guys in the last year, and there's definitely been some highs and lows.
A few highlights:
- the DJ who used words like "hella" and "word" at regular intervals and spent 15 minutes on his cell phone during the date telling his friend to quit doing drugs and come and stay at his place and then pointed out to me how this was evidence of what a sensitive and caring guy he was
- the guy who called me EVERY DAY for two weeks (at times ranging from 5:15am to 11pm, and including times that I was at work) and later went on to explain that he COULD NOT have a physical relationship with me.
- the sweet guy who showed me his apartment in a high-rise in Oakland and, after we'd gone up on the roof to look at the view, accidentally locked us out at 3am. The last BART to the city was long gone and we fell asleep on the floor of the lobby of his building waiting for a locksmith. I made it home by 7am in time to get ready for an interview.
I've mentioned others before. There's no need to go further. I don't even want to go into details about the one on Saturday because it was so hideous. I cried and cried as I was driving home and called Nannette to ask if she could meet me somewhere so we could talk.
I've mentioned before that I'm keeping track of how many there were so that, some day if and when I meet the right one I can say, "See how hard I looked?" Some days I find it all amusing. Some days I wonder if there's something wrong with ME. Some days I think, "Fuck it. I don't have the energy for this. I should buy a blow-up doll. There's probably some Christmas specials going on."
Cover letter to Philip Morris
Dear Philip Morris,
Please consider this letter and my attached resume as my application for Brand Manager within your company. I am confident that you will find me a qualified candidate with a well-defined long-range vision for insuring the continued profitability of the Philip Morris brand.
Once upon a time I was a consumer of your products. My husband Johnny was, too, until we lost him to the cancer. I’ve seen many relatives die after battling long illnesses, but do you have any idea what it’s like to watch someone die of lung cancer, Philip Morris? I wish you could have heard him beating on the walls, begging to die as quickly as possible.
Can you appreciate how many of my hopes and dreams went to the grave with Johnny? We were supposed to be putting a roof on the house this year. We were finally going to be able to afford to take our youngest daughter Ellen to the doctor to see about her lazy eye. We had plans to buy of those inner tubes with the built in coolers so that we could spend lazy summer days floating down the river with ice cold beer. Have you ever known such carefree plans, Philip Morris?
I think you owe me this job. I might not have some fancy college degree or any marketing experience, but how can you compare those things to the education I have received from life, Philip Morris?
Help me dry my kids’ tears and put Hamburger Helper on the table. Help me to get the dog some flea and tick medication—dear God, we are being eaten alive in here Philip Morris. Help me buy the fancy panties I’m going to need to snag me a new man to help support us.
Please don’t be an asshole about this, Philip Morris. I look forward to speaking with you soon.
Sincerely,
Amie [censored]
Please consider this letter and my attached resume as my application for Brand Manager within your company. I am confident that you will find me a qualified candidate with a well-defined long-range vision for insuring the continued profitability of the Philip Morris brand.
Once upon a time I was a consumer of your products. My husband Johnny was, too, until we lost him to the cancer. I’ve seen many relatives die after battling long illnesses, but do you have any idea what it’s like to watch someone die of lung cancer, Philip Morris? I wish you could have heard him beating on the walls, begging to die as quickly as possible.
Can you appreciate how many of my hopes and dreams went to the grave with Johnny? We were supposed to be putting a roof on the house this year. We were finally going to be able to afford to take our youngest daughter Ellen to the doctor to see about her lazy eye. We had plans to buy of those inner tubes with the built in coolers so that we could spend lazy summer days floating down the river with ice cold beer. Have you ever known such carefree plans, Philip Morris?
I think you owe me this job. I might not have some fancy college degree or any marketing experience, but how can you compare those things to the education I have received from life, Philip Morris?
Help me dry my kids’ tears and put Hamburger Helper on the table. Help me to get the dog some flea and tick medication—dear God, we are being eaten alive in here Philip Morris. Help me buy the fancy panties I’m going to need to snag me a new man to help support us.
Please don’t be an asshole about this, Philip Morris. I look forward to speaking with you soon.
Sincerely,
Amie [censored]
November 30, 2008
10 things to 10 people
1. I feel like you've saved me over and over again.
2. I miss you.
3. Sometimes I wish you would just leave me alone.
4. I feel unworthy of the esteem in which you seem to hold me.
5. Let's start driving. Now.
6. I feel more peaceful now that we've forgiven each other.
7. What if...?
8. Thank you for loving me.
9. I am so grateful that I can say absolutely anything in the world to you and know that it will be heard without judgment.
10. You give me hope for myself.
2. I miss you.
3. Sometimes I wish you would just leave me alone.
4. I feel unworthy of the esteem in which you seem to hold me.
5. Let's start driving. Now.
6. I feel more peaceful now that we've forgiven each other.
7. What if...?
8. Thank you for loving me.
9. I am so grateful that I can say absolutely anything in the world to you and know that it will be heard without judgment.
10. You give me hope for myself.
November 24, 2008
2 unrelated things
1. I woke up this morning to this message:
We need someone to write song lyrics for our band. We're a moderately terrible band with pretensions to be something between the melvins and kiss. We have not obtained a singer, but when we do, we need something for him to sing.
If interested, let's get a drink. If not, let's get two.
I don't really want to have a drink with this person, but the message did make me laugh.
2. One of my favorite websites, A Softer World, has t-shirts for sale and advertised them this way:
If you buy one of our shirts for your mom or your dad for Christmas, your parents will probably get back together. Unless they are happier apart. Then they will just look good.
We need someone to write song lyrics for our band. We're a moderately terrible band with pretensions to be something between the melvins and kiss. We have not obtained a singer, but when we do, we need something for him to sing.
If interested, let's get a drink. If not, let's get two.
I don't really want to have a drink with this person, but the message did make me laugh.
2. One of my favorite websites, A Softer World, has t-shirts for sale and advertised them this way:
If you buy one of our shirts for your mom or your dad for Christmas, your parents will probably get back together. Unless they are happier apart. Then they will just look good.
November 23, 2008
Far from heaven
That was the day I stopped believing in love. That kind of love. The love in books and films. The love that tells us to abandon our lives and plans, all for one brief touch of Venus. So often we fail at that kind of love. The world just seems too fragile a place for it. Perhaps it's just that we are too fragile.
"There is hope. Make the call."
Today I worked on something that I started over a year ago for the first time: making greeting cards. It was an extremely satisfying experience.
For years I've felt there was something creative in me trying to get out. And for the last couple of years I've taken pictures of random things and never really knew what I would end up doing with them.
Here are some prototypes:
Once I bluffed and fooled everyone, I stopped playing. It was enough that my eyes hadn’t revealed everything for once.
This one above I actually made last October, and I still like it. So after mailing out all those copies, I made another.
Momma wished for a bigger set of tits. See how that didn’t work?
This one above was a postcard secret I made last October, and it's one of my favorite things I've ever made because it was so anguished and heartfelt. I felt like it didn't need any writing inside because it said enough already.
We painted our bodies like savages and vowed to give our children names of towns we’d never been to. Then your mother called and told you to come home for dinner.
Do you honestly think that slut Henrietta will love you the way I can?
I heard, I heard. I heard it clear. I was afraid to follow. (Shel Silverstein)
This one above I have on my MySpace page entitled "run away with little boy blue." That title is appropriate for so many reasons. As is this caption.
Turned off the stove—check. Set the cat free—check. Told the landlord to go fuck himself—check. Gave you all my taped MacGuyver episodes—damn…
I bought stamps and put my brand name on the back of each: 6 Birds Cards
There are a couple that I want to re-work a bit. There are at least a dozen more that I've made and am still thinking about the captions. But I'm pretty happy with them. Also, I realize they're not for everyone, as has already been evident from the people I've shown them to. I don't care, though. I love them. I'd buy them.
For years I've felt there was something creative in me trying to get out. And for the last couple of years I've taken pictures of random things and never really knew what I would end up doing with them.
Here are some prototypes:
Once I bluffed and fooled everyone, I stopped playing. It was enough that my eyes hadn’t revealed everything for once.
This one above I actually made last October, and I still like it. So after mailing out all those copies, I made another.
Momma wished for a bigger set of tits. See how that didn’t work?
This one above was a postcard secret I made last October, and it's one of my favorite things I've ever made because it was so anguished and heartfelt. I felt like it didn't need any writing inside because it said enough already.
We painted our bodies like savages and vowed to give our children names of towns we’d never been to. Then your mother called and told you to come home for dinner.
Do you honestly think that slut Henrietta will love you the way I can?
I heard, I heard. I heard it clear. I was afraid to follow. (Shel Silverstein)
This one above I have on my MySpace page entitled "run away with little boy blue." That title is appropriate for so many reasons. As is this caption.
Turned off the stove—check. Set the cat free—check. Told the landlord to go fuck himself—check. Gave you all my taped MacGuyver episodes—damn…
I bought stamps and put my brand name on the back of each: 6 Birds Cards
There are a couple that I want to re-work a bit. There are at least a dozen more that I've made and am still thinking about the captions. But I'm pretty happy with them. Also, I realize they're not for everyone, as has already been evident from the people I've shown them to. I don't care, though. I love them. I'd buy them.
November 12, 2008
All you need is...
I have this weird thing I like to do.
In Facebook there is this strange little application (among exactly 9,458 others) you can add to your page. It's called "send good karma" and I added it months ago when a friend spammed me on a list. You earn points when you send people good karma, and you can use those points to "purchase" different types of good karma to send to people--things like health, prosperity, love, and wisdom. You can send it to your friends and you can send it to strangers. You can also put out a general request to all good karma users for a specific type of karma you want.
At first I was amused by this ability to send and receive good karma to and from strangers. Then, as I started reading the reasons people listed as to why they'd requested a good karma, I was touched.
Take love for example. People give responses to the prompt, "I ask for this karma because..." such as these below:
"...because I have been unlucky in love lately."
"...because I feel like love is something for other people and not for me."
"...because I am lonely."
"...because the one person who loved me is no longer in my life."
It's true that I'm a sucker for sad bastard stories and this has been pointed out to me by more than one person. But after reading these responses, I started sending "Love" to every stranger I could. (Am I, like, a good karma whore?)
Then I tested it for myself. I typed the reason I was requesting the good karma of "love" be sent to me:
"...because sometimes I am afraid I only have a limited supply of it."
I started getting "love" and encouraging, supportive messages from people all over the globe. Somehow I never get tired of them. This application really cheers me up.
In Facebook there is this strange little application (among exactly 9,458 others) you can add to your page. It's called "send good karma" and I added it months ago when a friend spammed me on a list. You earn points when you send people good karma, and you can use those points to "purchase" different types of good karma to send to people--things like health, prosperity, love, and wisdom. You can send it to your friends and you can send it to strangers. You can also put out a general request to all good karma users for a specific type of karma you want.
At first I was amused by this ability to send and receive good karma to and from strangers. Then, as I started reading the reasons people listed as to why they'd requested a good karma, I was touched.
Take love for example. People give responses to the prompt, "I ask for this karma because..." such as these below:
"...because I have been unlucky in love lately."
"...because I feel like love is something for other people and not for me."
"...because I am lonely."
"...because the one person who loved me is no longer in my life."
It's true that I'm a sucker for sad bastard stories and this has been pointed out to me by more than one person. But after reading these responses, I started sending "Love" to every stranger I could. (Am I, like, a good karma whore?)
Then I tested it for myself. I typed the reason I was requesting the good karma of "love" be sent to me:
"...because sometimes I am afraid I only have a limited supply of it."
I started getting "love" and encouraging, supportive messages from people all over the globe. Somehow I never get tired of them. This application really cheers me up.
Conversation at work
Co-worker (regarding our company's 25th anniversary party this evening): Are you bringing a date tonight?
Me: No.
Co-worker: Thank God I'm not the only pathetic one.
Me: No.
Co-worker: Thank God I'm not the only pathetic one.
November 9, 2008
A symphony in three movements
The song in my head right now:
I'll take advantage while
You hang me out to dry
But I can't see you every night
No, I can't see you every night
Free
(I do.)
The book quote that just struck me:
Our backyard looked into the woods, and we'd sit out there when it got too humid to breathe inside. Charlottesville turns into a rain forest every summer; the sea winds blow in from Tidewater, a few hundred miles to the east, and then they run slam into the Blue Ridge, so all the hot, wet air just hovers over Charlottesville. We'd look out across our neighbors' yards and try to imagine their lives. Did the really live here, call it home? Or were the on their way to bigger things, like us? Did they get stuck here on their way somewhere else, or was this the town where they arrived and said, This is the place? Did they give up and blame each other? Were they lying low and planning their next move?
- From Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield
The vivid dreams I've been having:
1. I dreamed about my bike. I barely know how to do anything to it, including ride it, and I've been thinking about it a lot lately. I dreamed I finally got on it to go for a ride. When I got there I had a flat tire and absolutely no idea how to fix it. I stayed in one place forever trying to get it fixed. I finally broke down and admitted I couldn't do it myself. I asked someone to help me so that I could finally get somewhere.
2. I dreamed I was flying. I haven't had one of those dreams in years. I would have dreams where I tried desperately to get off the ground--would run and run and hold out my arms, hoping the wind would lift me--but I never got there. In this dream, I was gliding over meadows as the late summer sun started setting in the sky, and I was thinking, "My God, it's been so long..." A voice of someone I knew in my past--I couldn't quite place her--said, "How do you do this? Can you show me?"
I shook my head and said out loud as I continued to fly, "No. I don't think so. You have to figure it out for yourself. It took me a lot of trial and error. I still don't always get it right."
She persisted. "Just tell me how you do it! Teach me how!"
I answered, "I can't. I can't teach you."
I'll take advantage while
You hang me out to dry
But I can't see you every night
No, I can't see you every night
Free
(I do.)
The book quote that just struck me:
Our backyard looked into the woods, and we'd sit out there when it got too humid to breathe inside. Charlottesville turns into a rain forest every summer; the sea winds blow in from Tidewater, a few hundred miles to the east, and then they run slam into the Blue Ridge, so all the hot, wet air just hovers over Charlottesville. We'd look out across our neighbors' yards and try to imagine their lives. Did the really live here, call it home? Or were the on their way to bigger things, like us? Did they get stuck here on their way somewhere else, or was this the town where they arrived and said, This is the place? Did they give up and blame each other? Were they lying low and planning their next move?
- From Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield
The vivid dreams I've been having:
1. I dreamed about my bike. I barely know how to do anything to it, including ride it, and I've been thinking about it a lot lately. I dreamed I finally got on it to go for a ride. When I got there I had a flat tire and absolutely no idea how to fix it. I stayed in one place forever trying to get it fixed. I finally broke down and admitted I couldn't do it myself. I asked someone to help me so that I could finally get somewhere.
2. I dreamed I was flying. I haven't had one of those dreams in years. I would have dreams where I tried desperately to get off the ground--would run and run and hold out my arms, hoping the wind would lift me--but I never got there. In this dream, I was gliding over meadows as the late summer sun started setting in the sky, and I was thinking, "My God, it's been so long..." A voice of someone I knew in my past--I couldn't quite place her--said, "How do you do this? Can you show me?"
I shook my head and said out loud as I continued to fly, "No. I don't think so. You have to figure it out for yourself. It took me a lot of trial and error. I still don't always get it right."
She persisted. "Just tell me how you do it! Teach me how!"
I answered, "I can't. I can't teach you."
November 6, 2008
Confessions of a dangerous mind
I am bored.
I think I get bored way too easily.
I get lonely frequently.
I think I get lonely way too easily.
I would like to be having sex.
Going to Richmond--however briefly--has made me think a lot about what I want in my life.
I am planning my exit strategy now more than ever--on the drives to and from work, in the quiet moments before sleep, with my head underwater in the shower, while waiting for the coffee pot at work...
I think I get bored way too easily.
I get lonely frequently.
I think I get lonely way too easily.
I would like to be having sex.
Going to Richmond--however briefly--has made me think a lot about what I want in my life.
I am planning my exit strategy now more than ever--on the drives to and from work, in the quiet moments before sleep, with my head underwater in the shower, while waiting for the coffee pot at work...
November 3, 2008
In between
I imagine there are only a few moments in your life, at best, when you have the opportunity to tell another human being--really tell them--the impact they've had on you. The funny thing about these moments is that it seems like each second should be momentous and dripping with meaning, and that usually isn't the case. It often seems that they could easily be mistaken as a moment of lesser import because they are sandwiched in between more mundane and trivial affairs: Did I remember to turn off the coffee pot? My foot itches How long would a piece of hail last if I were to save it in my freezer?
Yesterday morning I had the opportunity to say these things to my grandpa--my favorite person in the world, living or dead. I was exhausted and feeling rushed My hair was dripping from taking a bath and I was having trouble getting my suitcase closed. I needed to stop and get gas before getting on the interstate to go back to the Pittsburgh airport.
I felt self-conscious about asking my mom and my step-grandma to leave me alone with him for a few moments. I worried that I would lose my nerve to face up to this conversation. I wondered how to sum up a lifetime of love for and memories of and gratitude toward someone.
He looked small and frail in pajamas that have grown too big for him. I pulled a kitchen chair into the living room and sat next to him in his recliner. I took his hand into mine and looked him in the eyes. I told him everything I wanted to say. I wept. I thanked him for loving me and helping to raise me. I told him how important he was to me and I loved him very much.
He squeezed my hand and listened to me with tears in his eyes. He told me in a weak voice that I'd brought so much happiness into his life. He told me not to feel guilty about not coming home for his funeral because he didn't want one. He told me he would watch over me. He told me he'd had a good life. I stroked his arm and asked him if he was scared. "No," he said quietly.
I hugged and kissed him, called everyone back in the room, and said my goodbyes. Then I slipped back into business mode--loading my suitcase in the car, checking my watch, and returning to the life I've created for myself on the west coast.
Yesterday morning I had the opportunity to say these things to my grandpa--my favorite person in the world, living or dead. I was exhausted and feeling rushed My hair was dripping from taking a bath and I was having trouble getting my suitcase closed. I needed to stop and get gas before getting on the interstate to go back to the Pittsburgh airport.
I felt self-conscious about asking my mom and my step-grandma to leave me alone with him for a few moments. I worried that I would lose my nerve to face up to this conversation. I wondered how to sum up a lifetime of love for and memories of and gratitude toward someone.
He looked small and frail in pajamas that have grown too big for him. I pulled a kitchen chair into the living room and sat next to him in his recliner. I took his hand into mine and looked him in the eyes. I told him everything I wanted to say. I wept. I thanked him for loving me and helping to raise me. I told him how important he was to me and I loved him very much.
He squeezed my hand and listened to me with tears in his eyes. He told me in a weak voice that I'd brought so much happiness into his life. He told me not to feel guilty about not coming home for his funeral because he didn't want one. He told me he would watch over me. He told me he'd had a good life. I stroked his arm and asked him if he was scared. "No," he said quietly.
I hugged and kissed him, called everyone back in the room, and said my goodbyes. Then I slipped back into business mode--loading my suitcase in the car, checking my watch, and returning to the life I've created for myself on the west coast.
October 28, 2008
Preparation
My grandpa is dying quickly, and my heart is breaking. I will feel really alone when the last most important person in the world to me is gone.
October 19, 2008
Indifference
I received an email early this morning that said, "I didn't feel anything special when we kissed. I felt like one of your birds. Except I can't compare myself to them, because you love them."
October 14, 2008
Best overheard conversation ever.
Sadly, it wasn't overheard by me!
Overheard
Person A: Look, I’m telling you, they’re not bears. This should be the end of the conversation.
Person B: The Care Bear Cousins count as bears.
A: No, they don’t! Brave Heart Lion isn’t a bear! He’s a lion! You know why? Because he’s a fucking lion, that’s why! Brave Heart is a lion and Bright Heart is a raccoon and Fat Heart is an elephant. Now what do all of these things have in common? Oh, right, they’re not bears!
B: Look, they do the Care Bear Stare. They are honorary Care Bears. Maybe not by species, but -
A: Ah ha, but they don’t do the Care Bear Stare. They do a “call.” Only bears can Stare.
B: Cats stare.
A: We’re talking about cartoons, man. Don’t bring real life into it. Besides, I meant “Stare” with a capital S.
B: Need I remind you of the second Care Bears movie? The one where the fat motherly Care Bear and the unicorn - Super Heart or whatever - quite clearly took care of the baby Care Bears and Care Bear Cousins? It is obvious that the Care Bears and Care Bear Cousins are all sprung from the unholy union of bear and unicorn.
A: So you’re suggesting that the Care Bear Cousins are the result of interspecies breeding?
B: That’s why they’re all plushy.
A: That’s horrible.
B: Well, when you get right down to it, the idea of magical bears embodying emotions isn’t great either. Where are the evil Care Bears?
A: There’s Grumpy Bear.
B: Grumpy Bear is good-natured down deep. I mean an actual evil Care Bear. Nastiness Bear, Anger Bear, Hatred Bear, Racism Bear. That sort of thing.
A: Bad Heart Mongoose? Greedy Heart Ostrich? Brutal Heart Hippopatamus?
B: Wow, evil Care Bear Cousin names sound like the titles of David Lynch films.
Here's the original link.
Overheard
Person A: Look, I’m telling you, they’re not bears. This should be the end of the conversation.
Person B: The Care Bear Cousins count as bears.
A: No, they don’t! Brave Heart Lion isn’t a bear! He’s a lion! You know why? Because he’s a fucking lion, that’s why! Brave Heart is a lion and Bright Heart is a raccoon and Fat Heart is an elephant. Now what do all of these things have in common? Oh, right, they’re not bears!
B: Look, they do the Care Bear Stare. They are honorary Care Bears. Maybe not by species, but -
A: Ah ha, but they don’t do the Care Bear Stare. They do a “call.” Only bears can Stare.
B: Cats stare.
A: We’re talking about cartoons, man. Don’t bring real life into it. Besides, I meant “Stare” with a capital S.
B: Need I remind you of the second Care Bears movie? The one where the fat motherly Care Bear and the unicorn - Super Heart or whatever - quite clearly took care of the baby Care Bears and Care Bear Cousins? It is obvious that the Care Bears and Care Bear Cousins are all sprung from the unholy union of bear and unicorn.
A: So you’re suggesting that the Care Bear Cousins are the result of interspecies breeding?
B: That’s why they’re all plushy.
A: That’s horrible.
B: Well, when you get right down to it, the idea of magical bears embodying emotions isn’t great either. Where are the evil Care Bears?
A: There’s Grumpy Bear.
B: Grumpy Bear is good-natured down deep. I mean an actual evil Care Bear. Nastiness Bear, Anger Bear, Hatred Bear, Racism Bear. That sort of thing.
A: Bad Heart Mongoose? Greedy Heart Ostrich? Brutal Heart Hippopatamus?
B: Wow, evil Care Bear Cousin names sound like the titles of David Lynch films.
Here's the original link.
October 10, 2008
"You're so fine, and you're mine."
I'm so over these Blue Angels and the constant sounds like the city is under attack today.
I got my teeth cleaned this morning, and I LOVE going to the dentist. My dentist, Jeremy Velasco, is a sweetie. Today he looked at my chart, looked at me, and said, "So, you're going to be 32 in a couple of months, huh?"
"It's nice of you to point that out," I told him. He laughed and said he was going to be 40 soon and that I had nothing to complain about.
While he and the hygienist were preparing "the Jet" (this awesome sandblasting tooth carwash that makes my teeth whiter than white), I sat back in the chair and listened to the music that was being piped into the office. It was "Like a Virgin," and I bounced my foot along with the music. Jeremy was writing something on my chart, the hygienist was lining up the necessary equipment on the little stainless steel tray, and suddenly we all burst into song together at the chorus: "Like a virgin, woo! Touched for the very first time..." Then we all looked at each other and laughed. It made me so happy.
Then I stopped at the bank and while waiting in line, "Another One Bites the Dust" was playing somewhat loudly. I found myself rocking back and forth and swishing my check for deposit around in time to the music. I halfway turned to find that the guy in line behind me was passionately (and silently) lip-synching the words and jutting out his chin to phat, infectious beats. We giggled at each other.
"And another one down, and another one down, and another one bites the dust-AH!"
I got my teeth cleaned this morning, and I LOVE going to the dentist. My dentist, Jeremy Velasco, is a sweetie. Today he looked at my chart, looked at me, and said, "So, you're going to be 32 in a couple of months, huh?"
"It's nice of you to point that out," I told him. He laughed and said he was going to be 40 soon and that I had nothing to complain about.
While he and the hygienist were preparing "the Jet" (this awesome sandblasting tooth carwash that makes my teeth whiter than white), I sat back in the chair and listened to the music that was being piped into the office. It was "Like a Virgin," and I bounced my foot along with the music. Jeremy was writing something on my chart, the hygienist was lining up the necessary equipment on the little stainless steel tray, and suddenly we all burst into song together at the chorus: "Like a virgin, woo! Touched for the very first time..." Then we all looked at each other and laughed. It made me so happy.
Then I stopped at the bank and while waiting in line, "Another One Bites the Dust" was playing somewhat loudly. I found myself rocking back and forth and swishing my check for deposit around in time to the music. I halfway turned to find that the guy in line behind me was passionately (and silently) lip-synching the words and jutting out his chin to phat, infectious beats. We giggled at each other.
"And another one down, and another one down, and another one bites the dust-AH!"
October 9, 2008
Being without clothing or covering
The lovely Nannette and I had the most beautiful Sunday in the world this past weekend.
It was a beautiful day in San Francisco and we started out with a walk at Lake Merced which, apart from the rather jarring skeet shooting, was lovely. We had a leisurely lunch and then made our way to the Kabuki Springs and Spa. I'd never been here before and wasn't quite sure what to expect in terms of how I'd feel about the nudity part.
Though we were going on a 'women only' day, I still considered taking my bathing suit as a sort of safety net in case I chickened out. I ended up electing to leave it at home and was pretty proud of myself for such bravery.
The spa was lovely and relaxing. You bathe before you go in, and they provided lovely cucumber-scented shampoo and body wash. We did the dry sauna, wet sauna, salt scrub, and both the hot and cold pools. Plus, we spent a lot of time just hanging out on a bench and sipping tea.
I felt more comfortable than I thought I would, but I couldn't stop being aware of being naked. I just couldn't...I don't know...FORGET. It's a strange feeling to walk into a room of naked people. Going through my mind was something along the lines of:
Naked. I'm naked. I'm definitely naked. She's naked. She's naked, too. And so is that lady and that one. Holy crap, I'm naked with a bunch of strangers! Naked, naked, naked. I'm now laying down. Naked. Now I'm getting some more tea. Naked. I think I'll lay across this bench. Naked. In my birthday suit. Nude. Nekkid. Let's see...what are some other words for naked...?
That was pretty much playing on a loop through my head the whole time.
I also became startlingly aware of just how much I stare at people. It's not exactly a secret that I love to watch people. I observe them and make up stories about them and ponder what they're doing or thinking. But staring at others takes on a whole new meaning when one or both of you is NAKED. I'd forget myself for awhile and sit back and watch everyone, and then I'd feel suddenly creepy and self-consciously avert my eyes. Even opening the door for someone or smiling politely when passing them took on a whole new meaning. Naked.
My favorite part of the whole experience was probably the gong. It was on-hand in case people were ruining the serenity of the experience by talking too loudly. The bathers were gonged a couple of times while we were there, and I decided that if I worked there I'd gong people every day.
We were incredibly relaxed afterward and lingered over some Mediterranean snacks, wine, and a hookah--my first one ever.
It was a beautiful day in San Francisco and we started out with a walk at Lake Merced which, apart from the rather jarring skeet shooting, was lovely. We had a leisurely lunch and then made our way to the Kabuki Springs and Spa. I'd never been here before and wasn't quite sure what to expect in terms of how I'd feel about the nudity part.
Though we were going on a 'women only' day, I still considered taking my bathing suit as a sort of safety net in case I chickened out. I ended up electing to leave it at home and was pretty proud of myself for such bravery.
The spa was lovely and relaxing. You bathe before you go in, and they provided lovely cucumber-scented shampoo and body wash. We did the dry sauna, wet sauna, salt scrub, and both the hot and cold pools. Plus, we spent a lot of time just hanging out on a bench and sipping tea.
I felt more comfortable than I thought I would, but I couldn't stop being aware of being naked. I just couldn't...I don't know...FORGET. It's a strange feeling to walk into a room of naked people. Going through my mind was something along the lines of:
Naked. I'm naked. I'm definitely naked. She's naked. She's naked, too. And so is that lady and that one. Holy crap, I'm naked with a bunch of strangers! Naked, naked, naked. I'm now laying down. Naked. Now I'm getting some more tea. Naked. I think I'll lay across this bench. Naked. In my birthday suit. Nude. Nekkid. Let's see...what are some other words for naked...?
That was pretty much playing on a loop through my head the whole time.
I also became startlingly aware of just how much I stare at people. It's not exactly a secret that I love to watch people. I observe them and make up stories about them and ponder what they're doing or thinking. But staring at others takes on a whole new meaning when one or both of you is NAKED. I'd forget myself for awhile and sit back and watch everyone, and then I'd feel suddenly creepy and self-consciously avert my eyes. Even opening the door for someone or smiling politely when passing them took on a whole new meaning. Naked.
My favorite part of the whole experience was probably the gong. It was on-hand in case people were ruining the serenity of the experience by talking too loudly. The bathers were gonged a couple of times while we were there, and I decided that if I worked there I'd gong people every day.
We were incredibly relaxed afterward and lingered over some Mediterranean snacks, wine, and a hookah--my first one ever.
October 7, 2008
Email goggles
Google has recently released a sort of designated driver for your email. On Friday and Saturday nights, when they deem you more likely to be, um, cognitively impaired, Gmail asks you to complete some math problems prior to sending out emails. I'm terrible at math problems in my head, but I could totally do these while drunk.
It's a good thing I've never needed this, though. I've definitely never needed it on a Monday night.
It's a good thing I've never needed this, though. I've definitely never needed it on a Monday night.
I want this speech at my own wedding...
This man makes me laugh so hard. I've never laid eyes on him, but I swear to God I'd marry him tomorrow. Blindfolded. And drunk.
October 5, 2008
Hypervigilance
When I was a kid, I was quite the prayer. Every night I dutifully said prayers that began with the well-known, “As I lay me down to sleep…” and ended with a list of every single person that I loved and a request that an eye be kept on them. I used to get confused, though. I was never quite sure to whom I was actually supposed to be praying: God? Jesus? I mean, I knew that one was the dad and one was the kid. I just didn’t know which one was directly involved in my affairs and which one was only loosely affiliated with the job. I used them interchangeably to cover my bases. Going along with my interest in prayer was my desire to find out about and figure out how to get to heaven.
One of my stepfathers was an avid fisherman, and I used to have to go with him all day, every day in the summer when I was 6 and 7 years old. I hated him, and I was convinced that everything he did pretty much guaranteed he was going to hell. I hated fishing. I hated having to be quiet and speak in whispers all day. I hated seeing him put worms on the hook and watching them wriggle frantically. I hated watching the fish die; I always cried. So I tried to find other ways to amuse myself and to remove myself from the hell-bound, worm- and fish-killing stepfather. I wanted to show God/Jesus that I wanted no part of this.
I was really interested in talking to people about what they thought of death and heaven and hell. I used to make my way around the lake or along the river to talk to all the fishermen who were old men. (I loved my grandpas dearly, you see, and in my mind all old men were somebody’s kind and sweet grandpa.) I would ask them if they were afraid to die and what they thought was going to happen to them when they died. Some of them were nice and would talk to me, while others just wanted the pesky, noisy little girl to go away. I kept this up until one old man tried to put me in the trunk of his car, telling me how good he was going to make me feel. Then I ran like hell, knowing he was going to hell. After that I contented myself with playing with my stepfather’s night crawlers.
If he was going to eventually kill them, I wanted to at least make sure they had an interesting life first before they went to worm heaven. It seemed like the Christian thing to do. I would make these worm families with names and personalities for each one. There would be Henry, the father worm, who came home and drank at night and took out his frustrations and insecurities on his family. There was Katherine, the mother worm, who would sit by the window looking out at the rain and clipping coupons—saving her pennies for the day that she could leave. There was Claire, the teenage daughter worm, who was sullen and quiet and who shut herself in her room and wrote dark poetry and song lyrics and waited for the day when she would be out of the house. Their blissful reverie ended, of course, when one of the family members was cruelly snatched out of my hand and impaled upon a hook.
In addition to my prayers and constant thinking about heaven and hell (and whether my doomed worm family was going there), I wanted to work on paving my own way to the great cloud playground in the sky. One way that I saw to do this was by being well-mannered and polite—like saying “excuse me” if I burped or “bless you” when someone sneezed. Except I didn’t trust myself to always remember to say these things. I was afraid I might suddenly forget or be distracted and miss the opportunity. The only way to ease my anxiety about all of this was to sit for long periods of time, usually rocking myself, and say enough of these polite phrases to last me a lifetime. Just in case I forgot to bless someone when I was 15, 29, 45, or 82, I wanted to have enough of them said out loud and built up that they would serve as an insurance policy against later rudeness or forgetfulness.
I’d sit Indian-style, rocking from side to side, saying, “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me….” over and over. I would work on excuse me until I was tired of saying it, and then I’d switch to a long list of bless you’s. I’d work my way through every polite word or phrase I could think of:
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“Pardon me, pardon me, pardon me, pardon me…”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…”
“Please, please, please, please…”
I’d spend an afternoon doing this every so often, convinced that I was building up a good supply and that Jesus/God would see the earnestness of my efforts and—even if I occasionally forgot to say these things in the future—would let me into heaven.
One thing that I knew was a big no-no was suicide. Killing yourself was the quickest way to get to hell. Unfortunately, I was very curious about it. Thoughts would creep into my mind like, would it hurt? Would I chicken out? Would I go to hell immediately or would I hang around and rattle chains for awhile? I felt incredibly guilty when I had these thoughts. If suicide was the ultimate sin, then surely thinking about suicide was something to be avoided at all costs also. I made a conscious exception once, though.
There was a small house that my school bus passed every morning on the way to Simpson Elementary. It was a modest little one-story house at the intersection of Johnson Ave. and Philadelphia Ave. Every Christmas they covered their house and filled their yard with Christmas decorations in outlandish contrast to the neighbors next door. I looked forward to seeing this house every morning around the holidays, because its colorful cheeriness stood out against gray, slushy winter mornings and the drudgery of going to school.
I made up my mind that I wanted to write the people who lived in that house a letter telling them how much I liked their Christmas decorations. I worried that they wouldn’t take a letter from a little kid seriously, so I tried to figure how to make them REALLY understand how much I liked their decorations. I decided to pretend to be an adult and write the letter, except this didn’t seem to have enough gravitas, either. Eventually my mind hit upon the perfect solution—I would tell the family in the letter that I had been just about to kill myself when I saw their Christmas decorations and changed my mind. I realized I was risking my own salvation by doing so, but it seemed that making them feel so good would be worth it in the long run. God/Jesus wasn’t an idiot and would realize that, wouldn’t he?
I decided to tell this family in my letter that they reminded me there were still good and beautiful things in the world and their Christmas decorations had saved my life. This, I felt, THIS was the way to make them understand!
I never sent that letter.
One of my stepfathers was an avid fisherman, and I used to have to go with him all day, every day in the summer when I was 6 and 7 years old. I hated him, and I was convinced that everything he did pretty much guaranteed he was going to hell. I hated fishing. I hated having to be quiet and speak in whispers all day. I hated seeing him put worms on the hook and watching them wriggle frantically. I hated watching the fish die; I always cried. So I tried to find other ways to amuse myself and to remove myself from the hell-bound, worm- and fish-killing stepfather. I wanted to show God/Jesus that I wanted no part of this.
I was really interested in talking to people about what they thought of death and heaven and hell. I used to make my way around the lake or along the river to talk to all the fishermen who were old men. (I loved my grandpas dearly, you see, and in my mind all old men were somebody’s kind and sweet grandpa.) I would ask them if they were afraid to die and what they thought was going to happen to them when they died. Some of them were nice and would talk to me, while others just wanted the pesky, noisy little girl to go away. I kept this up until one old man tried to put me in the trunk of his car, telling me how good he was going to make me feel. Then I ran like hell, knowing he was going to hell. After that I contented myself with playing with my stepfather’s night crawlers.
If he was going to eventually kill them, I wanted to at least make sure they had an interesting life first before they went to worm heaven. It seemed like the Christian thing to do. I would make these worm families with names and personalities for each one. There would be Henry, the father worm, who came home and drank at night and took out his frustrations and insecurities on his family. There was Katherine, the mother worm, who would sit by the window looking out at the rain and clipping coupons—saving her pennies for the day that she could leave. There was Claire, the teenage daughter worm, who was sullen and quiet and who shut herself in her room and wrote dark poetry and song lyrics and waited for the day when she would be out of the house. Their blissful reverie ended, of course, when one of the family members was cruelly snatched out of my hand and impaled upon a hook.
In addition to my prayers and constant thinking about heaven and hell (and whether my doomed worm family was going there), I wanted to work on paving my own way to the great cloud playground in the sky. One way that I saw to do this was by being well-mannered and polite—like saying “excuse me” if I burped or “bless you” when someone sneezed. Except I didn’t trust myself to always remember to say these things. I was afraid I might suddenly forget or be distracted and miss the opportunity. The only way to ease my anxiety about all of this was to sit for long periods of time, usually rocking myself, and say enough of these polite phrases to last me a lifetime. Just in case I forgot to bless someone when I was 15, 29, 45, or 82, I wanted to have enough of them said out loud and built up that they would serve as an insurance policy against later rudeness or forgetfulness.
I’d sit Indian-style, rocking from side to side, saying, “Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me, excuse me….” over and over. I would work on excuse me until I was tired of saying it, and then I’d switch to a long list of bless you’s. I’d work my way through every polite word or phrase I could think of:
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”
“Pardon me, pardon me, pardon me, pardon me…”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you…”
“Please, please, please, please…”
I’d spend an afternoon doing this every so often, convinced that I was building up a good supply and that Jesus/God would see the earnestness of my efforts and—even if I occasionally forgot to say these things in the future—would let me into heaven.
One thing that I knew was a big no-no was suicide. Killing yourself was the quickest way to get to hell. Unfortunately, I was very curious about it. Thoughts would creep into my mind like, would it hurt? Would I chicken out? Would I go to hell immediately or would I hang around and rattle chains for awhile? I felt incredibly guilty when I had these thoughts. If suicide was the ultimate sin, then surely thinking about suicide was something to be avoided at all costs also. I made a conscious exception once, though.
There was a small house that my school bus passed every morning on the way to Simpson Elementary. It was a modest little one-story house at the intersection of Johnson Ave. and Philadelphia Ave. Every Christmas they covered their house and filled their yard with Christmas decorations in outlandish contrast to the neighbors next door. I looked forward to seeing this house every morning around the holidays, because its colorful cheeriness stood out against gray, slushy winter mornings and the drudgery of going to school.
I made up my mind that I wanted to write the people who lived in that house a letter telling them how much I liked their Christmas decorations. I worried that they wouldn’t take a letter from a little kid seriously, so I tried to figure how to make them REALLY understand how much I liked their decorations. I decided to pretend to be an adult and write the letter, except this didn’t seem to have enough gravitas, either. Eventually my mind hit upon the perfect solution—I would tell the family in the letter that I had been just about to kill myself when I saw their Christmas decorations and changed my mind. I realized I was risking my own salvation by doing so, but it seemed that making them feel so good would be worth it in the long run. God/Jesus wasn’t an idiot and would realize that, wouldn’t he?
I decided to tell this family in my letter that they reminded me there were still good and beautiful things in the world and their Christmas decorations had saved my life. This, I felt, THIS was the way to make them understand!
I never sent that letter.
October 3, 2008
The tenth month
October has been my favorite month for a long time. It makes me crave the east coast though, and the colors of the trees, the smell of wood smoke, and the crackling of leaves underfoot. When I was leaving work on Wednesday, I heard a drum-line practicing in the distance and I was filled with intense nostalgia for fall the way I grew up with it.
October is still my favorite month, but as an adult it has become inextricably associated with people I’ve loved (a very short list). This weekend, in particular, makes me think of how filled with anticipation and excitement I was a year ago on this day. What a wonderful feeling. And in a couple of more weekends, my mind will drift to other memories.
For the first time in quite some time, I have no plans this weekend. It is just fine with me.
It is supposed to rain, and I hope that it does.
I am making a stew, and the scent of it is filling the house.
I am writing on my bedroom wall because I was running out of places to put my words. I want to see stories and poems and quotes and lyrics—words, just words--all around me. This endeavor is infinitely more satisfying than the covert wall scribblings with magic marker from my youth.
Today I learned to give myself injections, and it was easy. All my worries and fears and hesitations…gone.
Tonight I’ll drink a glass of wine and sit outside.
Thanks to Bob, soon my feet will be documented in the Berkeley Folklore Archives.
That is about all.
October is still my favorite month, but as an adult it has become inextricably associated with people I’ve loved (a very short list). This weekend, in particular, makes me think of how filled with anticipation and excitement I was a year ago on this day. What a wonderful feeling. And in a couple of more weekends, my mind will drift to other memories.
For the first time in quite some time, I have no plans this weekend. It is just fine with me.
It is supposed to rain, and I hope that it does.
I am making a stew, and the scent of it is filling the house.
I am writing on my bedroom wall because I was running out of places to put my words. I want to see stories and poems and quotes and lyrics—words, just words--all around me. This endeavor is infinitely more satisfying than the covert wall scribblings with magic marker from my youth.
Today I learned to give myself injections, and it was easy. All my worries and fears and hesitations…gone.
Tonight I’ll drink a glass of wine and sit outside.
Thanks to Bob, soon my feet will be documented in the Berkeley Folklore Archives.
That is about all.
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