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 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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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...

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.

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.

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."

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.

"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!"

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Pre-dawn, with foghorns

I spend a ridiculous amount of time thinking about how I could climb under my desk at work and take a nap and no one would know. This week I *did* need sleep so desperately that I went out to my car in the parking lot, laid the driver’s seat back, put a sweater over my head, and feel asleep. I didn’t quite stoop to crawling under my desk, but that day is coming. I can feel it.

I started a list. I want to be able to show it to you one day and say, “See how long I waited? See how hard I looked?” And then we will laugh and I will think, ‘That seems like a lifetime ago. Thank God.’”

I like the idea of being thorough now, so that later I can read about the transition. I can remember the lonely times. I can affectionately look back on my angsty, wandering self and think, “Awww, honey. You were trying so hard.”

I didn’t write back because I didn’t have anything nice to say. I thought that would still be okay, but—to be honest—the prospect of uttering/typing the words, “We have to catch up!” one more time made me want to retch.

This is the last one for awhile. I’m tired. I just need a break. I don’t have it in me right now.

I’m trying to mentally gear up to take the baby steps. Maybe the first one comes in the form of a Bodybugg. It took so goddamn long before, but it was so worth it. I at least want a 5K. I could totally do that.

I know it was a mistake allowing myself to be without them for awhile and running the risk of ending up back there. I can feel the slippage. On Monday it was so strong I could barely breathe. Oct. 1 will change all of this.

Why you wanna be an asshole and steer your shopping cart like a maniac through Safeway? We’re all in this together.

This minute

Oh, holy mother of God I need a few seconds to breathe...

I just came from one job, and in about 30 minutes I'll start another. Here's what I'm fantasizing about right now.

1. A hug. From anyone. I don't give a goddamn who you are at this moment. My bank teller who told me to have a nice day? Lay one on me! The dude in the elevator at the SFSU parking garage who sounded like he was coughing up a lung? That's right, baby--you know what to do!

2. A perpetual cold side on my pillow.

3. A leisurely afternoon of drinking sangria on a patio with my closest friends.

4. More rooty tooty, less fresh and fruity.

5. A bra whose underwire is not poking the bejeesus out of my boob and making me feel like I want to napalm small villages.

6. Toenails that never lose their polish.

7. A little pencil sharpener shaped like a duck.

8. Sunglasses that are more movie-star-like; these aren't cuttin' it.

9. One of those moonwalk bouncy things that you jump in. Except for adults.

10. A Wet Banana.

11. One of those places where you can rent a room full of dishes and smash it all up with a baseball bat to relieve stress.

12. An escape plan.

13. A trap door.

14. A secret entrance.

15. A hiding place.

16. A hollowed out book.

17. A juicy secret.