half empty, half full

i wear grief like a shroud
like an old familiar shirt
the same one i've worn a thousand days
over time it frays, gets soft, worn
by fingers and arms and tears
and i forget that i wear it, and it falls
away.
then one morning i wake
or one day over lunch it comes
and i find myself wearing that same
dark clothing again.

i wear it like my sister's fine french perfume
lingering, even after i have washed
a scent so strong that it makes
me cry, a bit, but so lovely
that i cannot help but mourn
when i can no longer sense it.

***

yesterday i got a call from the vet, before i could go and pick up shiva. they said that she had been up and around and was doing well, and then she ate some food, and lay down on her side, and was not moving. they said i should come and sit with her, because it looked as though this may be the end.

so i did. my poor little girl was all wrapped up in heating pads, with an iv in her tiny leg. dan got there and we cried together because it is so difficult to watch another being in pain.

and yet she was purring--a loud, rumbling purr.

i know cats purr when they're happy, or when they're in pain. i listened to teresa's cat purr as she gave birth--welcoming her kittens, easing her own discomfort. i had the feeling later that perhaps shiva was purring for both those reasons--because she wanted to comfort herself, but also because she wanted to comfort those around her. for what other reason is a purr so loud?

we sat with her for about half an hour, just petting her little chin and listening to the purr fade down to a low murmur. neither of us could stand to watch her suffer any longer, and my vet said, you have done all you could do.

they asked if we would like to hold her while she passed, but shiva hated being held in life, so we both thought she probably would in death, too. instead we sat and petted her, and then she was gone.

***

dan and i sat up talking that night, discussing the odd string of events that led her to live with us. it all went back to september 11th--which was how cari and i met. and then her mother dying--which led to the pug moving in with cari and tony, and shiva being relocated to our house since they didn't get along.

cari and i cried for a while on the phone, remembering a small gray cat who was tenacious, mellow and social.

i know that logically we did the right things: the vet, the shots and medicine, tempting her with all manner of food. i know that even if we discovered what it was, her life would never be the same--there would be more meds, more shots, more of everything--and that is not how shiva would have wanted to live.

she was so cold the last few weeks--even with all that fur, she had no fat left. i cannot tell you the number of times i could feel her cold little feet through my jeans. closer to the end, she did not care if you covered her when she cuddled close, something she never would have allowed when she was feeling better.

i know all these things, and yet i look around for her when i sit typing, wondering if she is warm. i listen for that bleating meow, asking for food, and when i go into the kitchen, i expect that she will be sitting there, waiting patiently.

my heart just has to catch up to my head.

***
when quinn died six years ago, shiva had just come to live with us. she arrived in may; quinn died on july 4th. i told dan that i did not want to go through that again--that we would keep shiva and that was the only cat we would have.

and then the next thing you know, we have henry.

i can see the future this once and i know that henry will be sick and die before i am ready for him to do so. i know that the same thing will be true for my parents, for uncles and aunts, for family and for friends. death swoops them away in the same manner as the mystical stork dropped them into this world.

every time someone dies--and i mean someone, because cats or dogs or birds, they are all little someones, even if they are not human--it reminds me that i cannot stop loving those around me. that i cannot wall up my world so that i can ignore the pain when they leave. that i must--i must--make an effort to take the opportunities as they come, and love unreservedly. if i did not care so much, i would not hurt right now.

the pain i feel, the sorrow, is only because i knew joy. when i lay down this mantle of grief that i currently hold, i do so with the knowledge that i will wear another, and another after that, until someone picks up what i have left behind and wears one for me.

the responsibility of companions

i'm owned by two cats, one of whom is sleeping happily on the sofa right now.

the other is at the vet's, awaiting a temperature-taking at 8 pm that will determine if she stays where she is or if she gets retrieved and brought to urgent care for observation overnight.

i keep thinking of all the things in life that are important--how it is not just a human life that is important. today at work i suddenly thought of that bible verse about how god knows even when a sparrow dies.

then certainly he knows that shiva is suffering.

part of me feels like a horrible friend to her: forcing meds to make her feel better, electing surgery to see if we can figure out what the problem actually is. she is not quite 15 yet, and still fiesty and sweet and terribly, terribly cuddly. in spite of the fact that she has been having issues with her bladder, and knowing where to poo, she is still my responsibility. maybe she just wants to die--but i am keeping her alive because i am being selfish. i don't know.

today she had the surgery--they biopsied her liver, stomach, intestines and lymph nodes, to see if it's cancer or something else. she had a 50/50 chance of making it and she made it through the surgery. however the vet called me later and said that although she'd made it through surgery, she wet herself, and then punctured the hot water bottle that was in the heated kennel with her. the vet blow dried her fur, but her temperature was still sliding. normal for a cat is 100-102; shiva is at 91. in the last month she's gone from 7.5 pounds to a bit over 3.

i keep wondering if i am doing the right thing--if i am simply prolonging her suffering, if she would prefer just to sleep and not have pain any longer. it's hard to guess, when you're not a cat, and a hard decision to make as her friend.

cari had her from the time she was born until she was nine--that was when her own mother died, and she got her mom's pug. the pug and the cat did not get along, and thus, shiva relocated to my house. shiva's been my companion for six years now; she goes to sleep on my back, and wakes me with a hungry stare. when i read she is on my lap. when i cry she is on my lap. she's sociable and friendly and so mellow.

now she is not herself any longer. i dislike the notion of playing god with her, but i suppose that when one is companion to a being whose lifespan is considerably shorter than your own, that is the path you follow.

mentally i can handle this--i know that it is out of my control, that there is nothing i can do. jed and donna, my sister's loss, and now my shiva--who is really not mine, anyway.

i think of donna's funeral--the pastor quoted a bible saying. you know for someone who's not a fan of the bible i seem to be thinking of it a lot lately--but then again, death does make you think. anyway the quote was akin to "my father's house has many rooms."

when i consider it in that fashion--that death is simply a part of life, that it is not entirely an end, but perhaps a status change, or a change of scenery--then i can handle it.

it is when i focus on how it affects me that it becomes overwhelming. then all the deaths pile up and sit around me, making my fingers cold and my body shiver.

there is nothing i can do now, for shiva, which is the most difficult part. right now i just wait until 8, when they take her temperature and see if her body is ready to continue its small fight, or if it is ready to move on.

either way, i will support her.

addendum: shiva's temp is up to 95.2 and rising, so she is staying overnight at the vet in a heated kennel. go koja go!

long week

monday - wednesday were busy, with work. thursday we had turkey at my sister's house, and friday we drove to brainerd for my cousin's funeral. saturday we lounged about and i performed some retail therapy at my fave thrift store. today we were just hanging around the house when my dad called to let me know that my uncle passed away.

it's not like i did not know this was coming--jed's been bedridden and nearly mute for a long, long time, and he wanted to move on. it still hurts, though. the difference in the wound someone leaves upon your soul is often your own perception of how you were able to interact with that person before they died, and how you were able to say good bye. or at least that is what i've pondered.

when corey died it was sudden--there was no chance to allow time to heal bits and pieces. same with bev--gone, in a blink. with donna there was the gradual understanding that perhaps she might not win her battle--but i clung to the idea that she would, in spite of that.

with jed--with jed it has been a long time coming. he had his first heart attack when he was forty-six--which is always one of my favorite warning tales: once upon a time, jed had a heart attack at home. since he knew what was happening, he popped a beta blocker, and then drove himself to the er, where he was severely chastised for his bad behavior before suffering another heart attack and then actually dying on the table during angioplasty.

not the end.

jed came out of the closet, joined AA, and moved out west. he had a stroke years later and spent a good year rehabbing from that. and then in 2005 he had a series of strokes and has been in the hospital ever since.

and today was finally the end.

jed lived an unconventional life, in comparison with his siblings. dad, my uncles bob and tim, all had families. dan worked and continues to work, a bachelor.

jed was the uncle with matching pillows and a good friend named chuck. he was the one who made a mean beef stew and who partied and sent me emails after he sobered up, talking about feelings and spirituality and past lives. he was different in ways that i cannot describe, since he was always this way--it does not seem terribly unconventional, to my thinking, but to the rest of the world, during my childhood, it was vibrant and so very strange and wonderful.

i know that he was ready to go--i know it, in my bones, that he had come to terms long ago with the demons people face when they battle a long illness--whether it is cancer or some other demon--and i know that when he passed away he was probably thankful.

and in some strange way it is a relief that he is gone, in that he is no longer suffering.

there's been a lot of grief in these past few weeks: my sister losing the baby, my cat wasting away despite treatment, and now, my cousin and uncle passing away. i know that all of these things are natural--that life and death are simply rooms next to one another, doors in a long hallway. trees fall over every day, leaving themselves to nourish the next generation. i know these things, and while i am grateful to whatever it was that finally allowed jed peace, i am still sad that his tale had to end in such a manner.

i will miss you, jed.

cancer and kleenex

a few weeks ago i ran out of my lexapro. i've been struggling with my decision not to refill my perscription, mainly because the withdrawl is horrible: nausea, dizziness, a feeling of complete detachment.

but with this comes a rush of feeling that i didn't realize i was missing.

tonight i almost wish i was back on the lexapro. maybe it wouldn't seem so sad. but it probably still would. my cousin donna passed away tonight after a long battle with cancer. her motto was beleive always -- and she always did, and i guess i did too.

she was this indomitable force, and for some reason in my mind the happy ever after was that she would beat it.

it seemed within reach sometimes -- earlier this year the doctors said if she could make it to fall there was a new drug they wanted to try on her. but fall came and she was not healthy enough so they did not. i suppose you have to keep hoping until you give up hope.

this feels so different from my uncle jed -- he is lingering but has given up already, has surrendered to the idea of death, and looks forward to that release. donna didn't. she wanted to keep going, she wanted to live.

or perhaps at this point she did not, and that was just my hope--that i wanted her to live and keep going.

i know all too well that life isn't fair -- that the world doesn't care whether you live or die, that the earth will continue and time will march onward. it just doesn't seem right to do that without donna's smile and those big blue eyes.

i believed, right until 918 when dad called, that she would triumph, that she would beat cancer at its game. but i don't know why i thought this, because i don't know a lot of success stories when it comes to cancer other than my cousin aaron's new wife, who beat it in childhood.

***

in the oddest of ways i am glad that i can cry again, freely. i'm glad my lips can get all swollen and puffy, and that i can run out of kleenex. the downside to being off that drug is feeling all these things again, more deeply than i have in a few years--but that is the upside, too.

i guess that it is all balances, in the end. the books total out--the ledgers must match--a fact which donna would enjoy, with her accountant background.

cancer brought together donna's entire community. the strange and horrible growth within her created growth without. i guess i just don't like the cost at which such balance is achieved.

jed

how long will he linger
tied to this world with
such small, small threads?
one by one they are unhooked.
from this great distance
i cannot smell your cologne anymore
i cannot remember anything
other than the feel of your chin
brushing my cheek when you hugged me.
i know that this is not
how you'd hoped to live your life--
you, the man who camped in the desert
slept in the back of your pickup
and counted stars until you slept,
the same man who knew nana's secrets
to reading tea leaves
and making stew.
soon enough you'll join them all
so far away
and yet so close.
the only thing holding you here
is pain, and the cage
of your body.
so i ask again
i ask
how long will he linger

***

my uncle jed has been in a care facility since may of 2005. he had a series of strokes at that time. at first it appeared that he would recover, with enough therapy and time, but he has suffered more strokes since then, infections and everything that happens when you are trapped by your own body. he made the difficult decision to begin hospice care--which means that he will receive meds to soothe pain, but nothing further to control his blood sugar or his heart conditions.

when i was a kid jed lived in a townhouse in the cities--we'd visit him and i always loved his house, because it was so neat and tidy and smelled like cologne--which my father didn't wear. when i was a kid i knew my uncle was different from his brothers--he enjoyed colored pillows, matching furniture, and liked to cook and listen to show tunes.

it wasn't terribly different from my dad, or his brothers, i suppose--except my dad had no idea that pillows came in different colors, and i doubt that he notices when and if furniture matches. dad's idea of cooking is a grill and a spatula. jed's was always something tasty prepared in the oven, and a glass of wine. it never seemed odd that my dad and his other three brothers enjoyed cars and hunting, and jed enjoyed movies and line dancing--it was just who he was.

on his fridge he had a picture of his "friend" chuck, a man who i thought for a long time was magnum p.i., standing by a red sports car. it's too late now to ask if he loved that man--if he even remembers that man, i suppose.

jed came out of the closet when i was in college. he sent a letter around thanksgiving explaining that he was coming out and joining AA. my siblings and mom were more shocked that he was actually joining AA, but my dad was shocked that jed was gay. he felt horrible because what if he had insulted jed earlier in life, with jokes or pressing girlfriends on his brother?

i met so many diverse people in college--gay, straight, transsexual, liberal, conservative, wiccan and methodist and catholic. i cannot tell now how much of an impact jed had on me when i was growing up--all i know is that i'm not sure i would be the same person if i hadn't had him in my life. would i have accepted all around me, just as they were, if i had not had someone in my early years who was different and yet completely accepted?

for the past three years jed has struggled, soul trapped on earth, unable to speak or communicate with ease, unable to move himself, reliant on others for everything. in deciding to go into hospice care only, he's finally able to begin letting go, something that i began years ago, i suppose, when he first entered the care facility he's presently in.

jed, i think of you every day. i think of you when i drive past the denny's near my house--the one you knew as a "good denny's" and i know as a "bad denny's." i think of you when i go to the sales just south of town, in the townhomes where we visited you. i think of you when i see a banana cream pie at the grocery store--and i remember popping that into uncle dan's face, while you stood there waiting to serve it, plates and server in hand, shocked.

you used to have a book of naughty limericks in the bathroom, and being the literate child i was, i remember reading them and of course not understanding too terribly much, but thinking that they were so very interesting.

there was one time we visited and you took us to a horse farm, south of the cities, i think. they bred thorobreds and i was in heaven--the rest of my family was in horse manure, and bored after five minutes, i hazard. but you knew how much i loved horses and did that for me.

i always had the feeling that i could tell you anything i wanted to, anything at all, and you would not judge me. now i wonder why i did not tell you more, did not talk more, did not listen better.

i wish you only the best--that you might leave this world and move along to wherever it is the soul journeys. i hope that you can return again to sedona--you loved it there--and perhaps to the northern forests of minnesota. i will wait for you here, wait for that one last hug that i know you will give me.

love, your neice kimberly

believe

i wish i could say with all authority that i had a good weekend. saturday was fun--picked up rene from the airport, had lunch, saw pics of new york. sunday was my cousin's fiancee's wedding shower--so i got to see my mom, my aunt, my just-married cousin and about 10 friends of my aunt's. it was fun and the weather was perfect.

my cousin shelly, however, and her daughter lauren, weren't there. my aunt was concerned so she called shelly.

after the shower, when it was just my mom and aunt and my cousin, my aunt revealed that shelly's sister, my cousin donna, had been in the hospital again this weekend. her intestines shut down. the doctors restarted them, but shelly had spent pretty much the whole weekend in bed with donna.

standing on the warm front lawn yesterday my aunt said, she's such a fighter. i just don't know how much longer she can fight.

i cried most of the way home.

***

it's not like i know donna well--but she's my cousin, older by probably 10 years or so, and she has the most beautiful smile.

when i was a kid, i remember staying at her parent's house over christmas--it was only a few blocks from my grandma's house, which was chock full to the seams, and shelly and donna weren't home that year. i got to sleep in shelly's room, if i remember correctly. shelly had a waterbed--something i'd never slept on--and the door to her room wasn't shut all the way. i fell asleep listening to my parents and aunt and uncle drink coffee and smoke, and laugh, and staring at shelly's graduation picture on the wall.

i was probably about nine and wanted to grow up now now now--for various reasons, i didn't want to be a child any longer--anyway when you're nine you dream of being like whoever it is in your life that is your dream. shelly and donna were my dreams. i wanted to have donna's feathered blonde hair and shelly's ready laugh. i wanted the independence i dreamt they were exploring--and they were, i'm sure of it.

my sisters and i would play dress-up in my family's basement. our most common play theme was being on a ship that was marooned--i'm fairly certain that came from watching "swiss family robinson" a few too many times. sometimes we'd mix it up and play that we were in college--sharing a room, going to class, dressing up for a dance. that was an idea that stemmed directly from me wanting so badly to be older and prettier and not me--i wanted to be donna or shelly, pretty and independent and strong.

of course life goes on. you forget these things. you forget longing for your frizzy red hair to be white-blonde, and your strange hazel eyes to turn some color--brown, green, blue, pick one. you grow up and forget who your role models were when you were younger.

***

last weekend was my other cousin's wedding--tis the season, i suppose. this was my cousin chris--donna and shelly's younger brother. donna's been going through chemo for so long that i honestly cannot remember when she was not fighting that insiduous second being, cancer.

she'd just had chemo that week, but she was there. her smile was the same--bright and shiny, despite being weak and tired. she's lost her hair, but she has a great wig, one she calls her "candy" wig, that's a dark brown and makes her blue eyes that much more blue.

when i hugged her i could feel how terribly thin she's become. during the actual ceremony i saw her and her husband clinging to each other--listening to the vows, watching as her little brother became a husband.

i remember when donna and biz got married--nearly 20 years ago now, i think. you cannot know in the ensuing years what will happen. they have two children, a house, a dog, jobs and lives, and this thing, this cancer, has entered into their lives and changed everything. it's an unwanted guest, one that just will not leave.

but she was smiling. despite being in a great deal of pain--the kind that necessitates massive doses of drugs, and still lingers--she was smiling.

i realized while standing there that the strength and independence and beauty for which i longed when i was younger was still there--made stronger over time. your heroes when you're young grow up too--but they don't have to stop being your heroes.

months and months ago they made bracelets--a royal blue color--with donna's motto on it: believe always. i haven't worn it in a long time, but i recall it often. in the same way i think of my uncle jed and his saying, "little by slow." i look at my own life--the small hills and valleys through which i travel, the complaints that fill my days--and they are tiny compared to the paths donna and jed have traveled. miniscule compared to the paths of others on this planet.

i realized long ago that i would never have donna's blonde hair, feathered and falling neatly. she no longer has her hair, either. but the inner core of her--the strength and independence that i saw, years ago, and longed for--that is still there.

cool

it's finally becoming autumn, and i'm quite thankful for that. i'm not a summer person, not by a long shot. in fact just a few weeks ago i had an epiphany while talking to my sister. we were discussing a family gathering, perhaps camping.

sister: well, we can't go camping in march. maybe we could all stay at a cabin or something. but then it might still be too cold out to do anything outside.

me: too cold?

it was then that i realized that i see temperature in exactly the opposite fashion of my sister, and probably the better part of humanity, too.

there's just something about summer--the humidity, the heat, how it's so terribly bright outside when the sun's up--that makes me cringe, in the same way that my sister cringes when the wind bites her cheeks.

i don't even know why i love the cold so very much, but i can hazard a few guesses. cold, to me, feels clean. it is tidy and neat and precise in ways that humidity can never be--and ways that i will never be, either. i think of winter and i think of walking outside when there's that tang of snow in the air, hearing the geese escape to southern areas while the wind picks up and the sun sinks. i think of bare branches, stark against pale sky, and the crunch of millions and millions of crystalline bits of angular water beneath my boots.

there is so very much to love. it's not only the outside, either. it's coming in from the cold, being accepted into the heat of one's home. your cheeks--so red and wind-chapped that they're nearly solid--slowly warming. hot cocoa and stews, biscuits hot from the oven, a warm cat and a blanket and a book.

as i type our patio door is open, and there's a small, chill breeze blowing through the house. it's making me smile, this bit of wind.

i know part of the reason i enjoy it so much is the extremes. the house is always warm and outside is always cold enough to make your teeth hurt. those same extremes are present in summer--at least in my house they are--but they're backwards. it's cold inside and hot outside--muggy and bright with lazy sunshine. i've not hing against sun, mind--but i burn so easy that it makes shade and darkness my haven.

in minnesota in the winter the sun is a fleeing guest, running across the southern sky, barely saying hello before it's murmuring goodbye. maybe that is what i love--the feeling of being hidden, in winter. the solitude of the woods, when no one else is poking about--because it's too cold.

personally, i've yet to meet too cold. but i'm a bit odd, i spose.

comfort in odd places

there are weeks that go by in which my day job overtakes my life. this past month has been no exception. by the time i arrive home all i want are--and in this order--a pair of comfy pants, a less-confining bra, a old, worn t-shirt, and a tall glass of cold milk.

then it's hugs from man, and cuddles from cat, and a book opened in my lap.

of late it's been all i can to do read anything other than pd james. years ago one of my well-intentioned aunts gave me a paper sack filled with mysteries and other assorted books. this was when i was about twelve, give or take, and completely bored with what i was reading. it's been twenty years since then, and i've no clue of what your average twelve-year-old reads these days, but to give you an idea of where i was at:

when dad went away on work he'd come back with these little nancy drew books -- case files. they were interesting and held my attention for their time span...about an hour. my parents are not big readers, and those books he brought as gifts were the only books i owned well into my teens. (along with an astrology book. don't ask. or maybe later.)

one night when my parents were out at their bowling league i discovered a copy of james michener's hawaii downstairs, on a shelf with a book penned by lee iaccoca webster's dictionary, and an atlas. i gobbled that up like a starving child and by the time bowling was done, convinced myself that i was a leper.

i think it was the summer afterward that my aunt gave me the bag. it was white paper with these twisted paper handles -- nothing like that at our house, as it came from herberger's, and heaven forbid we shop anywhere above k-mart. the bag alone was a treat and i remember treating it as if it were made of ivory, and not fiber.

anyway, in the bag was a pile of pd james, martha grimes, one dorothy sayers, jean auel's clan of the cave bear, and stephen king's the eyes of the dragon. there were also a few lillian jackson braun books in there--what my aunt called "popcorn," since they were quick reads.

i've seen movies in which people open chests of gold, and it shines back in their faces like the sun. that was me, with this heap of ink.

that fall we moved, and my mother, who encouraged library usage, found herself ferrying us to the library more and more often. i was careful to choose enough books to tide me over until the pile was due, and then i'd inveigle myself into the suburban when mom went to work, and take the bus from there to the library.

i motored my way through every mystery i could find. the following year i wanted to impress a boy on whom i had a horrid crush, and when i saw him reading piers anthony's a spell for chameleon, i found that in the library, too.

as a reader i was fearless. in books i could escape and adventure ever so safely, while in reality i was the red-headed, slightly plump target for schoolyard bullies. i was afraid of everything outside of those pages, and yet those pages were what showed me things so much more horrific than my own petty scares.

***
bees have long been a phobia--that heavy buzz, the thick abodomen. there is something about a bee that raises alarm in me. there's no reason for my fear, since i love flowers and fruits and honey, and bees are somewhat integral to those items. over time i've squelched my greatest of those fears, however, and can remain seated, if with thudding heart, when one swings close.

there is one other bug, however, that i cannot stand.

the other day i was in the downstairs bathroom when i saw something moving across the floorboards. at first i thought it was a mouse, and laughed at the thought of my two sedentary cats trying their paw at catching it. then i realized it was an insect of some kind, and gradually realized it was a centipede.

when i was a kid we had centipedes all over the house in wisconsin, until dad sprayed insecticide. you had to check your shoes before you put them on, etc. nasty things. either way, they've been part of my fears as long as i can recall.

and i was stuck in the bathroom with this beastie.

for a good long second i didn't move, as if like the dinosaur in jurassic park the insect would not see me, if i did not move. it sped under the door and was gone.

i found a bottle of windex and, thus prepped, opened the door, fully expecting to see it flowing across the white linoleum. but it wasn't there. it was climbing swiftly up the door.

after a great deal of histrionic gasping and shouting, during which my cats stared at me in terror, i was able to subdue the thing with the bottom of the windex bottle and a puddle of blue liquid, and it was subsequently flushed.

in the end i resolved to conquer my fear by overload. for an hour i read online about how to rid the house of these pests, and how they actually were fairly beneficial: as carnivores, they scour your floors for other bugs, and have no interest in humanity.

***
my latest pd james is "the maul and the pear tree," a co-written account of two brutal murders in 1811 london, nearly eighty years before a man stalked whitechapel and made a name for himself with a knife.

the murders are shocking in their own right--the marrs and their three-month-old baby and servant boy, and the williamsons and their servant--but worse is reading them and knowing that the powers of detection at the disposal of regency police was so terribly...minimal.

the prime suspect in the murders was never able to be actually questioned at the inquest; he hung himself, thereby cementing any doubts that he was guilty.

heaven forbid that he was not.

either way, it reminded me of how different things are, two hundred-and-some years down the line. it reminded me of how terrified i am--this grown woman, nearly hopping onto her coffee table to avoid an insect smaller than a quarter. i feel nearly desensitized to the horrors that await me within a novel's pages, but that one scurrying creature turns me into a child of twelve again, gasping for air as my mother hands me a paper bag.

perhaps lately i crave that delicious English rhythm of pd james. i don't know. books are comforting to me in ways that i cannot explain. when in stress i turn to a select few, again and again. lately work has been stress--which is why i put my hands on james' detective dalgliesh and take comfort.

the shape of my dreams

lately i've been obsessed with writing. it's like i'm in college again and have a paper due tomorrow. a better approxiamation would be the scene in "alien" when the guy's sitting at the table and the alien ejects itself via his sternum. bloody and unexpected--that's what this feels like.

it doesn't happen all the time. some nights or even mornings i sit down with the urge to put fingers to keyboard and nothing--and i mean nothing--happens. i wish that the urge could have a constant outlet, that i could put into words all that i process during the day--but that would be impossible, unless i wrote in my sleep, because even there my mind overhauls the days and weeks and compresses them into a pseudo-reality that's difficult to separate from my actual waking hours.

perhaps those are the real hours, and these "waking" hours are the dream? there are days that i don't know. nights when my brain is a fertile ground in which every green shoot becomes jack's bean stalk, a fantastical ladder to a fantastical world.

it's hanging there at all times--the option to fall into sleep and clamber up, see what's there. when i do wake the rest of my life becomes a gathering ground for the dreams, but it does not stop there. i often wonder what it is about the brain that forms the shape of my dreams. they're not anything i can describe properly with words, despite my attempts. dan often looks at me and says, you're weird.

i cannot honestly recall a night in which i did not dream. sometimes i cannot recall the dream itself -- but i know that it happened, just as i know that i forgot to brush my teeth last night before bed.

but where do they come from? the deepest pits of hell, the heights of heaven. loving, bloody, horrific, sweet and sentimental, you name it--one dream can be peppered with all of the above, and often is. everything in the dream is incongruous, when i wake up, but during the dream it is seamless and makes perfect sense.

perhaps that is why i can accept real life for what it is--odd and terrifying, in both good and bad ways.

i remember waking up years ago--literally like seven years ago--and telling dan about the dream i'd just had. we were traveling somewhere, me and dan and some other girl. in the dream we walked with another group of people across a broad, waving grassy plain. the sky was gray, a hint of hidden sun. at some point we walked into a cave, a giant black maw in the landscape, and then something happened to us. we woke up in a room with a huge number of people, all waking with the same puzzled faces.

i read somewhere once that you do not dream about people you do not know--but my dreams are so often staffed with a bevy of unknowns that i know it's not true.

anyway. the room is huge--the ceiling is probably twenty feet high, the walls are poured concrete, the doors are giant and unrelenting dark steel. the whole place is new and clean. bright neon lights cast everyone in lurid color. there's a voice, saying that this is a game. there is another like group of people in a twin to this room. the lights go out and there is the hiss of gas; we topple into sleep again.

awake again; we struggle to our feet, but this time it is just dan and me and this strange girl with whom we travel. as our eyes adjust to the light we see that the people around us have been dismembered--they are strewn about all over, clean and bloodless, bright red seams of flesh where they have been cut apart. the voice comes again, explaining that we have to put everyone back together again--find the body parts that match, assemble them again, humpty-dumpty style. there are arms clad in flannels, denim legs, torsos wearing various t-shirts and blouses.

there is no time to be horror stricken; the game is that we must put together all of our bodies before the people in the next room do the same. whoever wins will live.

at that point i woke up, confused. it was about three am, and i told myself to change my dream, and fell back asleep.

this time we were in the room, with all the chilled body parts, but rescue was on its way. we opened the doors and people from all kinds of other rooms were doing the same--it was not just two rooms, but many. or perhaps there were rooms in which others were just not all dead. either way, we surged up a wide hallway, going towards the light at the top of it. there was no noise; we were silent, this large herd of people.

at the mouth of the cave we paused. helicopters buzzed through the air--some belonging to whatever terrorist group had held us, others to the police. cop cars dotted the previously peaceful landscape, lights flashing. it was near dusk or dawn--the sun was behind gray again.

i pressed myself against the cave wall and everyone behind me did the same, creeping forward slowly. a helicopter swung into the cave, swirled over us, sprayed us with bullets. some of the escapees fell. then a bazooka boomed, and the aircraft slammed against the wall, crumpling to the cave floor. the pilot's body oozed out of the helicopter just like a caterpillar's body would, if stepped upon: yellow and green, slimy.

we ran out of the cave and i woke up again, and told dan my story.

he, too, had dreamed. he'd dreamed that he flew to chicago, the plane crashed, and he rescued a kitten.

***

there are times when i know that my dreams are different--there was another dream about finding a serial killer's house--the killers were a husband and wife in their seventies; it was gruesome. and another dream where the world was going to end because teenagers on skateboards were bombing things.

then there was the one about the giant stuffed spider (which actually hangs from the ceiling at half-price books) that me and an asian produce mart owner killed, which was part and parcel of the same dream where my sister being held hostage at a community center, and a girl was knifed on a city street.

i could chalk it up to television or books, but to be honest, i don't watch a lot of gruesome shows, or read horrifying books. what is it about my mind, swimming in this bone goblet, that leans towards the horrific, and can be lead down the ridiculous, too? (ridiculous being the dream in which my siblings and i slugged our way through some humid and tropical south american jungle, after which my brother gave birth to a glistening ebony bowling ball.)

there are folds in the corpus collosum--is this my subconcious doing the mundane job of ironing them flat? if so, does it use starch or just a spritz of stale water, as my mother does?

i'm in my thirties, and the dreams are more and more reality and not fiction. i cannot always separate them from my life. did i dream that i filled up my gas tank, or did i fill it? did i bake bread, or do i need to pick some up at the store? do i need to review cnn online to see if there has been some horrific thing that is real, or did i dream it?

the evening news can be just as disconcerting. case in point: the boy randomly decapitated on that canadian bus.

what is real? what is just my mind, shaping invisible clay into whatever it wishes? tossing it in the air, seeing the virgin mary's face on one side of my lopsided creation?

***

this week i've been watching shark shows on discovery channel. do i dream of sharks, swimming arrogantly beautiful in the ocean, large eyes searching? no, i dream of assembling bright orange cheddar cheese balls and garnishing them with fresh, green parsley for some ghoulish zombie ball, at which there are actually rotting undead. why would they want a cheese ball?

this morning, i woke and finished a book, and thought about sitting down to work on the story that's constantly bubbling on the back burner. while i drank my first coffee, i watched more sharks, and came to the conclusion that a writer does not always just graze like an antelope, gleaning what they can from life. sometimes they have to go on the offensive, chase out their prey--nouns, verbs, whatnot--and trap it.

it's odd to think that my mind can be just as gory as it is--scary and terrifying, and beautiful at the same time, to my poet's eyes. during the day i am the prey--i am the four-legged ungulate, cropping at new shoots. i'm not a bull shark, sampling the world with my thousand teeth.

so perhaps if i graze during my real life--the time in which bills are paid and cats are fed--then i hunt in my dreams, where every individual can go beyond the acceptable pale? i don't know.

then again, are my eyes open, just now?

Pan of brownies keeps woman sane.

this week was another "week from somewhere hot, humid and governed by Satan." it seems like i have been having a series of those, lately, compounded by the fact that weekends have been so very nice. relaxing, filled with fun--until sunday afternoon, when i realize that i have to start everything all over again.

i feel a bit like cinderella, minus the fireplace ashes. on the weekends my pumpkin transforms into something grand and lovely, but i know that at the stroke of midnight or thereabouts, it's going to turn into a pumpkin again.

which has brought on a fit of depression, one which has been stayed only by the hand of Wellbutrin and Lexapro.

in the resulting ennui, i'm creeping up on "that time of the month." usually it's manageable these days, what with the different meds, but this time i feel as if i spun too many times around, and am lost. on thursday night i came home, feeling a need to sob wildly, and watched two hours of law and order.

two hours.

then i watched "the joy luck club," which is a guaranteed tear-jerker for me at any time of the year.

when i got home, however, the first thing i did was bake a pan of brownies. i don't pretend to understand the general link between women and chocolate, or the more personal link between me and cocoa powder. all i knew was that i needed to bake that pan of brownies, and bake i did.

so in the end it was therapy of a type i'm not sure is sanctioned by psychiatrists nationwide, but one which worked for me at that point in time: a potent combination of steaming chocolate pastry and dramatic, poignant, movie. it helped that the movie has the most haunting and evocative music. by the end of the evening i was drained, happily sated on chocolate and cried out, and feeling as if i really, really wanted my mommy.

who is working all day today at a food festival. so driving there would not have helped much, i'm guessing.

also not helping would be the fact that since we've put off laundry for-ev-er i'd have to drive and visit in the nude. not an option.

it's strange to consider the way life works. sorrow and happiness, balanced without my noticing, often times. even when there is a dearth of sorrow--or at least when that is my perception--i can laugh. it's my terror to wake one morning and feel nothing again. i'd rather be in pain, carrying the weight of fear and sadness on my shoulders, than feel that horrid numb feeling i've felt before. gray and silent, it creeps up on me, envelops me. for a while it's comfort: soundless, motionless, nothingness. cool and quiet.

and then after a while you realize that the lack of everything--the lack of feeling--is invasive. it overtakes your life, poisoning your relationships and your creativity. the comfort of being that way--numb, i think of it--is that outweighed by the overdose of emotion?

for a long time i thought that taking my meds was helping--and often i will say that it does. without my blood pressure and birth control meds, i'd be a wreck. without my wellbutrin i'd never get my bills paid. and without lexapro, right now i'd be curled in a ball somewhere upstairs in a dark corner, terrified to face even the rising sun.

but equally important is the self-medication of feeding my soul what it requires.

on thursday it required tears and brownies; and that means that on saturday morning, i feel more in balance once again.

unconcious

lately it feels as though
i'm walking in my sleep
i bump into things during dreams:
my car, a cat, the vacuum i've left out
as a reminder of what needs cleaning.
my toes are bruised, stubbed so many
many times.
there does not seem to be
anything
that will wake this sleeper,
i hear them say. it is up to
her.
last night, in cavernous living room
the dark creeping through screen doors
and across beige carpet,
i hear so many things that could
nudge me to clarity--horns honking,
the chirping of a thousand birds, a cricket, man and woman's
voices fighting over something they'll later
forget,
and then a sneeze, incongruous at dusk.
i cannot see the person; their anonymous breath
jostles air, and pushes me
to laugh,
blinking awake
before i doze again.

purposeless instruments

shiftless, i sit before the screen, a million things to do and none of them compelling enough to move me from my chair, at least not at the moment. i can hear the hum of dan's earphones behind me, hear him mouthing the words to a song i know, rearranging his neatly organized desk.

my own desk is a pile of...piles. cds stacked haphazardly, paperes sitting atop books sitting atop more papers. everything is dog-eared in the land of kim. there is an instruction manual for a mp3 player i've already figured out, a recipe for beef stroganoff, a code for one of my cameras, my w2 from 2007, a small pink tin lantern i picked up for half-off at the Bibelot, a candle that smells like pumpkin pie, the little brochure from my uncle paul's funeral.

when i open it i see the little card that is placed there--something to carry along, i suppose, in remembrance. it holds what is quite possibly my favorite prayer. i'm not the praying type--i feel that if there is a prescence that is all-knowing, then it will know what i consider thought-consuming, without me putting voice to words.

i'm not Christian, i'm not Wiccan, i'm not anything, really. i don't believe in the here-after--not in the sense of cherubs and harps and angels and haloes. there's quite a lot i don't believe in, come to think of it, but what i do believe in is that people have the opportunity to be--more.

the prayer does not tell me how to be--it is a suggestion, really, a recipe for getting into a heaven i don't believe exists. so why do i love this prayer so very much, then? because it embodies so many people i know, and it is after their image that i would like to model my own.

prayer of st francis of assisi

lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.
where there is hatred, let me sow love.
where there is injury, pardon.
where there is doubt, faith.
where there is despair, hope.
where there is darkness, light.
o divine master, grant that i may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved as to love.
for it is in giving that we receive,
and it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

good fences make good neighbors.

when i was a kid, probably around 9 or so, i was obsessed with popping a wheelie on my purple bike with the orange-and-purple flowered banana seat, and the little white basket up front. it was a normal looking bike, one that fit the shape of my persona at that time: young, innocent, fresh. why i was so obsessed with popping a wheelie now escapes me; all i know is that i wanted to be cool, to fit in, and just having a normal bike did not allow me entrance.

i'd been an outcast all my life. often i blame it on my deaf ear--i could never hear things, and therefore, i probably was not much of a communicator until later on when i learned how to keep up in a conversation--or at least make it look like i was. my childhood probably was quite separate from others insofar as just that simple fact alone. i think i miss a lot nowdays, but then--a redhead is enough of a pariah without being plump and deaf, too.

i guess you could say that i lived in my own little world for many, many years.

anyway, i wanted to pop a wheelie. my mom warned against it since she'd probaly done it as a kid and skinned some portion of her own body, but as a kid you have to try it and find out the worst before you can believe in it.

i popped my wheelie and then promptly flew over the handlebars. skidded down the pavement on my head. when i looked in the mirror, it looked as if i had a large, red, scabby area in the shape of lake superior and lake michigan. if only it'd been on purpose.

in my mmeory i remember wobbling home, crying. i remember that i was wearing maroon courderoys, and a white shirt--a blouse, with buttons up the front. mom came racing across the lawn, and eventually we went to the hospital, where i threw up before being examined. then i had to stay up for at least 8 more hours, as i'd had a concussion.

the whole memory is tinged with reminders of what happens when you take a chance. i learned on many, many occasions that it's just not good to stand out, but with the genetic predisposition of 1% of the population, i didn't stand a chance of blending in. i could ignore insults and i could actually turn a deaf ear towards bullies, but i heard enough to know my place in the pecking order.

when we were at the mall months ago, my friend rene and i saw a place selling hermit crabs. she put one finger to the glass and the little legs and slender antennae withdrew into a shell the size of a quarter. now when i think of me as a child--ungainly and unknowing--i think in terms of that crab, pulling back, hiding.

i've been hiding a long time. it's something i'm good at. being ignored--it's an art form, really, a form of camoflauge to which the navy seals will never ascend. it's one thing to blend in with the crowd, another to fade into the walls and exist on the fringe.

escaping notice was my own great insulator from the world. some days, lately, i question its necessity, and whether or not that insulator can ever be removed. perhaps at one time it was needed, but now i find that it's a wall over which i cannot see.

i know that other people have these same issues--i've been to the self-help section at barnes and noble. there is so much information regarding building confidence and removing all the blocks people like me erect in order to protect themselves. i've read my own share of those books, listened to therapists, tried to question my behavior.

to remove this wall would take years. it took years to build. some of the spots are patchy, made up of whatever was at hand--holes plugged with gum, caulked with a handful of mud. other parts are solid and smooth, fear and anger poured solid. all of it surrounds me, protects me in the same way that the Great Wall in China protects people living on the other side.

what i suppose i realize, when staring up at my own inner insulator, is that this thing that has kept out invaders and withstood all that crap the post office plods through, has also kept me, quite ably, in.

the question i'm pondering is whether or not i want out.

home, home on the range...

it's been a while since i last blogged, which isn't surprising as it's been a nuthouse around here again. go figure. (; this week we've been on vacation, and for the first time in 15 years, we actually LEFT the state for our vacation week. as in, on a plane, left the state.

on a plane 3 times, no less. we flew out last sunday, after ditching my car in the lot at work and hoofing it to the MOA, where we took the light rail to the airport, boarded our plane, and jetted to vegas. there were two items of import on that first day: one, the shortcut we took while walking to the mall, in which i "gave in to the terrorist demands of gravity," to quote myself, and did a slo-mo fall, during which one foot collided with one shin and left quite a mark.

and two, that during our first leg of the flight to denver, we heard the ubiquitous announcement requesting that if medical personnel were on board, they were needed for the passenger in seat 12D, who was either drunk or just plain old ill. who knows. by the time we landed he must have been fine because no one who'd sworn a hippocratic oath emerged after the request.

our second leg of the flight was on the united airlines subsidiary called "Ted." the only notable on that part was that the staff were attempting to be funny, and failing horribly. ungh.

due to winds, both flights were delayed, and the turbulence was glorious.

the first day in vegas--sunday night--was fine. we stayed at the stratosphere, so we ate at their buffet--which was quite tasty, imho. and then we went to the top and i roamed gleefully whilst dan sipped coffee, lest his vertigo get the better of him and i would be forced to haul him back down the express elevator single-handedly. thank heavens he knows his limits and didn't test my ridiculously absent upper body strength.

i think we were asleep by 930. it was kind of sad. (;

monday we trekked to the monorail after coffee and took the train all the way to mandalay bay. all the casinos, after a while, look the same on the inside. it's the outsides that are different, and in magnificent fashion, too. in minnesota, contractors regularly build lake cabins that rival Graceland, but in vegas, they erect shiny black glass pyramids and bathrooms with marble dividers. it's just not the same, there.

we got to eat at tom collichio's restaurant for lunch, 'wichcraft. so tasty. monday was st pat's so we cabbed to fremont street, during which our cabbie regaled us with tales of his five ex-wives and three offspring. he was in his early sixties and claimed that women were poison, and that wedding cake caused them to not want sex any more. you just can't make this shit up.

then back to the hotel for a show--bite, the same one dan had previously seen. it was amusing and changed my mind a great deal about the way in which i will henceforth view "erotic dancing." those girls were ATHLETIC, in the way that triathalon participants are athletic. they truly were dancers who just took off more clothing than your regular prima donna.

tuesday was somewhat a repeat of monday, but on a much, much slower basis, as both of us had aching feet. we stayed at the hotel in the morning and got a roulette lesson, and then tromped back to the monorail to view the remainder of the strip. by the end of the day, we'd been spritzed by the bellagio fountains and awed by the Wynn, which is just far too lavish a place for anywhere other than perhaps next door to the taj mahal. that night we had grand plans to perhaps find a show--but that did not happen, as i couldn't decide on anything. also planned to see the mirage volcano--which was out of commission--and the sirens of treasure island--which was such a press of people that we decided to skip it. side note: when we got back we found it on youtube (which is where you can find everything. honest.) and it was awful, so it was a blessing in disguise that we missed it.

wednesday we rented a car and drove to hoover dam, took the tour, and got to see lake mead at such a low that it resembled a wading pool instead of a lake. interesting place, that.

we drove across las vegas to red rock canyon after that. it was beautiful and strange--i kept likening it to another world, something alien. you can see for miles and miles there, since there are no trees to obstruct your view, and the mountains (which we discovered were really just old, old sand dunes...who knew...) were lovely, if a bit dusty. after that we drove back into town and tried our hands at red rock casino's single-player video roulette, which was not much fun at all. i believe i lost a total of 30 clamshells gambling in vegas, and that was a total of probably 15 minutes. dan made out a great deal better--at the roulette wheel on fremont street he made 45 bucks. (:

our flight departed around midnight and was so hot that we alternately drowsed and sweated in our blue leather seats. during the descent, however, the gal in the middle seat directly in front of dan had a seizure. i keep remembering her husband's face, panicked, as he slapped her cheeks lightly, asking "honey, honey, wake up, honey, what's wrong, honey, honey..." luckily there was a nurse in first class who came back and took things in hand. i believe our plane was landed more quickly, and when we landed, the paramedics boarded to remove the poor woman. she was sensible by that point, and from what dan gathered, had a case of extreme heat stroke, which had resulted in the seizure. but really i suppose we'll never know.

***

i did not expect to like las vegas. much like my trip to new york city, i had pre-conceived notions about how it would be, how it would look (despite having seen numerous pictures, television shows, you name it.) it was loud, it was flashy, it was awake twenty four hours of the day, every minute blurring and whirring into the next.

on sunday night, one-hundred and eight stories above pavement, there is a ring of light--flashing, smudged, blinking, scattering. the circle is edged in black velvet--the mountains, where the lights cannot climb further. in the day the city is dwarfed by the mountains, craggy dusky peaks, some dabbed with icy snow.

out in the middle of nowhere, this place has sprung up. it seems like only in the middle of the desert, where there is no need for something this bright and shiny, could this possibly belong. it needs that balance of space in order to exist--the sand is yang to the city's bright yin.

surrounded by those hills, vegas is a small cup of weird, but it accepts all the weird that can be tossed to it. people were dressed in tuxes and ripped jeans, painted with tasteful cosmetics and made up as clowns, singing and smiling, crying--everything, all at once, everywhere you looked.

i had the perverse feeling that of all the places in the country, vegas would open its arms and welcome you. "no room at the inn" is simply inconceivable, there.

i'm not slighting any other place in the world, mind you. the midwest is my spot of choice, and i'm comfortable here in a way that i'd never be in the land of scorpions and tarantulas and low-growing mesquite. i think the difference is the fact that there, in vegas, you are not judged, you are not labeled, you are not named. you're anonymous and on the stage, and celebrated for being both.

***

the mystery of what happened to our fellow airline passenger is akin to the feeling i now carry about las vegas. it is odd to consider--but neither of them make too much sense. i'm sure that with research i could pin point both--the woman's need for more water, the city's bizarre mix of gourmet and 99 cent shrimp buffet.

i'm glad to be home; this morning we woke to a foot of snow, falling and blowing, clean and white. i had my peanut butter toast and a glass of orange juice, and cuddled with a purring cat. it was quiet and silent here. i fell asleep on the couch, relaxed and warm.

i fully expect that i could have done exactly the same thing, in the foyer of the Pallazo hotel, and no one would have thought twice, and i think that, in the end, is what made sin city somehow endearing.

yes, i would like some cheese with my whine.

i'm kinda...crankily this morning, if that's a word. i've got a half-hearted cough--just a cough, no stuffy nose or any of that shit. didn't sleep that well, and woke to henry playing in a plastic bag and then getting stuck in said bag. then when i got downstairs i see that he's been playing with one of his favorite toys, poo, all over the living room floor--which will now require the steam cleaner. i enjoy a good cuddle, but henry came and sat on my chest so now i've got itchy cat-dander eyes. i really, really would like to visit the newest addition to the owen household, but since i've got no idea of whether or not the cough is developing into something or if it's just a cough without basis, i don't want to do that, either.

last night i foraged at my favorite thrift store, unique, and came home with books and a cd of piano music. it's quite mellowing so i've been listening to it for the last bit here, hoping that it will soothe whatever demons are bothering my head today.

hearing piano music reminds me of going to DL a while ago, and sitting in the foyer of a beautiful log cabin hotel, listening to my friend amanda play the grand piano, and beautifully so. that thought alone is enough to remove some of the sharp edges of my mood.

total eclipse of the...moon

tonight there's a lunar eclipse, so every half hour or so dan and i run outside to see where it's at, grin, and run back in again. due to the sporadic nature of this, and the fact that my other blogging option is my uncle paul's death and funeral tomorrow, i'm going to go with something fun: a meme...that i stole from goldilocks... (;

***

1. What is in the back seat of your car right now?
about 15 canvas bags, stuffed everywhere, a jug of antifreeze, a pair of mittens, and possibly flip flops from last summer

2. When was the last time you threw up?
that would be january, when the dr told me to use this nasal aspirator in my nose when i had a sinus infection. she didn't mention that water would come through my nose and out through my mouth. DISGUSTING!

3. What's your favorite curse word?
Fuck, and variations thereof, my favorite being: pumpkinfucker.

4. Name 3 people who made you smile today.
tish, dan, sara (to clarify: goldilocks sara)

5. What were you doing at 8 am this morning?
leaping into the shower after toiling away on my treadmill (and by toiling i mean watching cnn while i walked...)

6. What were you doing 30 minutes ago?
un-bundling from a run outside to view said celestial event

7. What will you be doing 3 hours from now?
hopefully sleeping!

8. Have you ever been to a strip club?
no, although i suspect that i will eventually. you only live once, really.

9. What is the last thing you said aloud?
something about how i need glasses

10. What is the best ice cream flavor?
bailey's irish cream

11. What was the last thing you had to drink?
milk, duh. (;

12. What are you wearing right now?
white t-shirt, blue sweatshirt, red track pants, fuzzy pink slippers

13. What was the last thing you ate?
a cinnamon heart, leftover from valentine's day.

14. Have you bought any new clothing items this week?
this week, no. last week? yes.

15. When was the last time you ran?
probably tonight when we were walking outside

16. What's the last sporting event you watched?
hockey game, last night. unfortunately the wild did not show up to win the game. :(

17. To what extent do you recycle?
i recycle all the time. i'm sometimes one of "those people" who picks recyclables out of the trash to recycle them. and i'm positive that 3/4 of the stuff i recycle is probably not even recyclable. (;

18. Who is the last person you emailed?
someone at work, about some work related item.

19. Ever go camping?
oh yeah. i like camping, but i despise the bugs and especially the showers at campgrounds. *shudders*

20. Do you have a tan?
no, because there is no such thing as a healthy tan. that and i don't tan--i burn and then i freckle.

21. Do you formally set the table each night?
hahahaha...the only thing i set every day is the food dishes of my small but demanding cats.

22. Name a favorite TV series from a) your childhood b) your teen years and c) your adult life. Why did you enjoy them?
a) Scooby-Doo, and as to the why, who the hell knows. although i despised scrappy. ugh.
b) saved by the bell? no idea, really...
c) top chef and csi: las vegas. they're both about chopping things and whatnot. (;

23. If you aren't married yet, describe your dream wedding. If you are already married, and you could go back and change something about your wedding, would you?
family and friends only, no extended relatives, a state park, and breakfast. shortest service ever: do you? yes. do you? yes. okay, done. (;

24. Do you drink your soda from a straw?
no, unless i'm forced to.

25. What did your last IM say?
i was at work so it said something about taxes.

26. Are you someone's best friend?
yup

27. What are you doing tomorrow?
funeral, sadly.

28. Where is your mom right now?
probably settling into the hotel for the evening, after the wake.

29. Look to your left, what do you see?
the entertainment center, our crap-laden coffee table, my rocking chair...

30. What color is your watch?
it's called a cell phone...and it's silver.

31. What do you think of when you think of Australia?
"i come from a land down under...where women blow and men chunder..."

32. Would you consider plastic surgery?
only if it was pain-free.

33. What is your birthstone?
amethyst--prettiest stone, imho...

34. Do you go in at a fast food place or just hit the drive thru?
in, when and if there...

35. How many kids do you want?
i have 2 cats, which are the equivalent of two-year-olds with fangs.

36. Do you have a dog?
no, and after puppy-sitting my canine niece, it ain't happening anytime soon. dogs are so...needy.

37. Last person you talked to on the phone?
dan

38. Have you met anyone famous?
define "met"--we nearly trampled garrison keillor but that's different i'm guessing...

39. Any plans today?
keep tabs on the moon and go to sleep.

40. How many states have you lived in?
three--new york, wisconsin, minnesota

41. Ever go to college?
indeed i did...bills and responsibilities were a few years off, and we could stay up until the wee hours doing nothing. it was fabulous.

42. Where are you right now?
in the living room, typing and watching my cat sleep

43. Biggest annoyance in your life right now?
work

44. Last song listened to?
rob zombie, i think, in the car

45. What do you wish you could bake/cook?
i think perhaps i just wish i could do so on a more regular basis...

46. Are you allergic to anything?
sometimes cats, all the time pennicilin and sulfa, and sadly, most beers and wines...*sniff* but not guinness!!! YAY!

47. Favorite pair of shoes you wear all the time?
right now my red and black slip ons. they're so retro. LOL

48. Are you jealous of anyone?
people who can hear, skinny people...

49. Which do you prefer: bath or shower?
shower. my grandma always says that taking a bath is marinating in your own dirt, and i agree.

50. Is anyone jealous of you?
not that i know of!

51. What time is it?
934 pm

52. Do any of your friends have children?
yup

53. Do you eat healthy?
i try...

54. What do you usually do during the day?
um, work, which requires me to do math. which sucks.

55. Do you hate anyone right now?
i have no idea...i'm annoyed with people...but that's run of the mill.

56. Do you use the word 'hello' daily?
oh yeah...

57. Name something you admire and something you dislike about your country of origin (or country of residence - your choice).
a) admire: the freedoms i have, which i too often take for granted
b) dislike: the hypocracy of living in an immigrant nation and having the melting pot try to "keep out" immigrants.

58. How old will you be turning on your next birthday?
32, but really, 28...again.

59. Have you ever been to Six Flags?
no

60. How did you get one of your scars?
you wanna hear a good one? i've got a scar on my nose, and here's how i did it. this one year i went home for easter, while at college. i had your proto-typical boil on my nose from eating crap--pop tarts, mello-yello, assorted greasy grub--and was whining to mom about it. "put a hot washcloth on it, and it'll go away," she advised. so far too late that night, after kibbutzing with my sisters, i run the hot water and put it on my nose. feels hot but the boil eventually goes away. in the morning i wake up and have a GIGANTIC blister on my nose. it's beyond gross, i tell you.

i go to mass and have to sit behind my high school english teacher, and then return to college, with a 2nd-degree burn healing nicely on my nose. i go into student health to make sure it's coming along and the doctor asks, "how did you get this?" and then stares at me like i'm covering for a crack-pipe accident when i tell her the truth.

turns out that mom and dad's water heater was on the fritz and was pumping out water that, when run hot, was well over the safe point. my bad.

and that's why i've got a red splotch on my nose. fabulous, eh? (;

so are the days of our lives...

i'm feeling terribly procrastinational this morning, if that's actually a word. my taxes are sitting here on my desk, just waiting to be electronically filed, and i've got about ten loads of laundry upstairs, also in a hold pattern.

the problem i'm having is simply the lack of energy that spikes so often on saturday morning. i feel like i need to slouch away the am hours simply in revenge of the week of mornings in which i'm forced to awake, wash and garb myself, and hurry out the door to be productive.

being productive on the weekends, however much it would be for me alone, is just out of the question.

and thus, at 1059 am, i'm sitting here in my shorts and giant shirt, barefoot and toes cold, too freaking lazy to roll upstairs and shower, or even go in search of slippers.

it happens every weekend. it's not like weather, either--you hear the weather report and think, perhaps i ought to wear boots, since we're getting two feet of snow. there is no preparing for this rout of inability. i can't promise myself coffee--which tastes ever so good and is also a fantastic version of wake-kim-up--because my blood pressure goes through the roof.

perhaps it's that i look forward to little during the weekends--during the day, that is. during the week i have the impetuous to leave the house, immerse myself in the ugly, and then return home to my safe and secure cocoon, filled with two purring cats and my very own adoring spousal equivalent.

on weekends, i wake and do not need to leave.

does that mean i take less pleasure in being home on the weekends? i don't think so. i just like the opportunity to retreat so very much--hide in my own den, whatever have you--that it takes away the rush of the week, the momentum that keeps me going long enough to get the kitchen cleaned up and the litter boxes emptied.

today as i sit here i am lost in the realm of possibilities. i could visit friends--i could clean--i could read--i could write--and it all becomes so overwhelmingly within reach that i close down and sit here in my filth, playing fetch with my cat and listening to the furnace turn on and off in a futile effort to keep the house warm.

usually by one o'clock i'm up and running. i'm done with being a laz-about and want to move, stretch limbs, accomplish something or other. it's now 1105, and my feet are one degree chillier, and i'm staring half-heartedly at the screen while my fingers tap out discontent on the keyboard, a song unto themselves.

all the days in my life are numbered--this is just another one of those days, and just as watch the evening forecast and see that tomorrow calls for a 60% chance of snow, i can forecast my own day to day feelings. monday through friday there's a good chance that i'll be motivated enough to show up at work, every day, and exceedingly motivated to return home each night. but on saturday and sunday, the two days in which i've no one to please but myself, the batteries run out and i pretend that i am plugged into home, recharging for the coming week.

***

as a side note: in january i was sick for a good week, actually missed 4 days of work, and had a sinus infection. after that i threw out my back. per the dr i get to have physical therapy, starting whenever it is that i get around to finding out which pt actually is covered under my insurance...yet another thing to do, on another day.

my very own civic duty

i've been called to jury duty a total of four times. twice in duluth--once i sat a jury, once i didn't. another time when my parents moved to st cloud. and now again, for federal jury duty.

as luck would have it, i finally set up my dr's appt (which i loathe doing) for january 22, and guess when my first day is? you got it.

part of me is actually glad for this, since it's year end and right now i despise my job with the hate of a thousand-strong mob. that being said, it's going to be a bitch to balance what's on my plate at work with leaving work randomly and traveling downtown to sit and wait and see if i get placed on a jury.

i wish, very very very much, that i could choose a replacement. dan would love to sit on a jury and he's never even been called.

then again, my mother had never been called either, and she's twice my age. she finally was called last year but i don't think she actually got to sit on a jury.

you just never know.

i guess in america we don't have to many duties to state or country. we don't have mandatory military service, or anything like that. we don't have to donate all of our paycheck to the government in return for health care and whatnot. but we do have quite the fine sense of justice, in some manner or fashion, since that is what is mandatory in the good ol' us of a.

and even jury duty can be gotten out of, with a plausible excuse.

i'm hoping for a good long courtroom drama, like you'd see on law and order. but i'm guessing that if i'm even selected it will be a day in and a day out, and then i'll be back to the grind.

so i guess that a small vacation from the normal isn't that bad, really, despite any annoyances it might bring. i need to see it as an adventure and perhaps that will change my viewpoint--instead of seeing jury duty as on the same par as cleaning the kitchen, i need to see it as an escape from the every day.

the road to hell

last weekend we went to chicago--i say we, meaning me, my sisters, and our friend shelly. it should have been a fabulous weekend filled with cocktails, sightseeing and laughter, but it turned into an emotional rollercoaster.

i remember getting on the plane and watching the sky move past as we took off, and thinking of the brush of bristles on dan's face as he kissed me good bye that night. if i knew what was going to happen i suppose i'd have turned around and gone back home, but then again, that's the beauty of life--it's all a surprise.

friday night we spent flying, riding the train downtown, finding the hotel, and then finding a cocktail. saturday was fine--roaming into little italy, where we noshed on irish fare and coffee, and then downtown again, where we located a starbucks for additional caffeine.

it was there that the whole weekend came into brilliant and ugly focus. i remember sitting down and seeing beth's face, the muted crimson blush of anger. i could feel the tide of emotion washing off of her, and i knew that the weekend was a loss, not even twelve hours in.

the accusation was that we--being my middle sister and i--had been inconsiderate when we planned this trip, and the fact that we surprised her was unforgivable. we didn't understand where she was coming from--i think the term "you don't get it" was uttered about five hundred times--and then she stomped off down the street. shelly followed, and sara and i were left to wander about by ourselves.

the weekend was supposed to have been a surprise--beth just had sent off her best friend to prague, and her puppies had been adopted out. shelly'd come up with the idea of surprising her with a trip to chicago for a weekend, just to get away, and sara and i jumped on the bandwagon.

and then, in the blink of an eye, shelly was the only one who loved her and sara and i were depriving her of the best part of her day--coming home and seeing her dog's tail, waving hello.

there was the eventual knock down drag out in a bar, until sara stepped in and said she was done discussing this, we were in chicago and we might as well enjoy ourselves. so we all put on our happy faces and had a good-ish time, but the whole weekend was flawed.

i don't understand why it had to happen like that--i know that people are under a great deal of stress, and i know that there's financial strain. between sara and shelly and i, we paid for the whole weekend for her, and the only reply we got was that we were treating her like a charity case.

it hurts--hurts, hurts, hurts. at one point sara and i sat in the upstairs of a brewery, in the two seats near the bathrooms, and tried not to cry. i remember us agreeing that we were enjoying each other's company, but that if we could go home that night, we would, since we'd so obviously fucked up.

i didn't expect that beth would be gushingly grateful, or that the weekend would be utterly fantastic, but the fact that my own sister could be that ungracious, and that angry, over what had begun as a gift--that incensed me.

it still ticks me off, today.

this weekend was admittedly not a good time for me to travel, either. it's the middle of our busiest season at work, and i've been dragging the bottom of the barrel to keep up. i had to work my ass off to get done with work in time on friday to actually make it to the airport, and i'm still catching up on lost sleep. i haven't spent much time at home in the last few weeks, and when i am at home, i'm sleeping.

so, while sara and i were forced into walking in beth's shoes, she neatly avoided walking in ours.

the road to hell is paved with good intentions.

our intent was good, pure and simple. beth found out about the surprise the week before--plenty of time in which to speak up and say "no, i'm sorry, i can't go." i would have been fine with that. flying to chicago to be told i was inconsiderate by my beloved sister was not preferable to being told, honestly, that she did not want to go on the trip in the first place.

i don't want my family to end up being one of those families who are related but do not speak to one another. it's not something about which i dream--in fact i have nightmares about it. but in the end, it's not up to me, not entirely. i can only soothe so many irate people, and i suppose in the end, i do expect that my family, of all the people with whom i have contact, will be a place of harmony and honesty, and not a backstabbing mess of hurt.

an expectation that i need to chuck out the window, another bit littering that god-damned road.