i don't often pick up new music because i don't hear too darn well. in fact i ought to be that old lady in the chair, with the giant cone held up to her ear. i'm partially deaf, and if you know me well enough, you stay on my right hand side.
if you don't know me that well, you'll probably stumble at some point when i dash around to your left, to make sure i can hear what you're saying. i do read lips, but not well enough to get by entirely on that alone. it's all about positioning myself; in the good times when i'm not unhappy to be deaf, i think of it as a sunflower just getting in the way of the rays, turning and twisting.
at other times, when i'm laughing at a joke i can't hear, or sitting at the wrong end of a table confounded by the conversation, it's a burden, one that i don't want to carry.
in the scheme of things, it's a pretty small burden--all my limbs work, my eyesight is fine, etc. it's just this bum ear.
anyway, at work, the gal to might right (the good side) turns on her radio every day. i can hear the words if the singer is the right pitch; most of the time i just tune it out, because i'm on the phone or concentrating on something else entirely. lately there's a song that's played over and over and all i can hear is the chorus: just breathe.
who is the singer? what does the rest of the song sound like? the deaf girl knoweth naught.
last saturday i met my sister downtown for a concert. she's pressing me to get a myspace account, because she has one and is addicted to them. while waiting between bands i glance at the up and coming posters--who's travelling through. one name sounds interesting.
so a few days later when i finally give in and set up my my space account, i look up the name. the song playing on the account is not familiar; i click on the next one available.
and there it is--just breathe.
so yesterday the deaf girl bought a cd. listened to it for a good three hours last night. and i really, really like it. the words are well wrought, and anna nalick's voice is a little smoky, a little husky, a little young. there's something warm about it that appeals to me in the same way that norah jones did, years ago.
strange turns take you to where you need to be. this isn't my normal listening music--generally i like heavier rock, and recently i just keep listening to the same Disturbed cd over and over. so it was time for something new, i suppose. it's just strange the path that you can see, once you have arrived at some stopping point on the journey.
***
Breathe (2 am) -- Anna Nalick, off "Wreck of the Day"
2 AM and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake,
"Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?,
I don't love him. Winter just wasn't my season"
Yeah we walk through the doors, so accusing their eyes
Like they have any right at all to criticize,
Hypocrites. You're all here for the very same reason
'Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button, girl.
So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe... just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe
May he turn 21 on the base at Fort Bliss
"Just a day" he said down to the flask in his fist,
"Ain't been sober, since maybe October of last year."
Here in town you can tell he's been down for a while,
But, my God, it's so beautiful when the boy smiles,
Wanna hold him. Maybe I'll just sing about it.
Cause you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table.
No one can find the rewind button, boys,
So cradle your head in your hands,
And breathe... just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe
There's a light at each end of this tunnel,
You shout 'cause you're just as far in as you'll ever be out
And these mistakes you've made, you'll just make them again
If you only try turning around.
2 AM and I'm still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it's no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to
And I feel like I'm naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you'll use them, however you want to
But you can't jump the track, we're like cars on a cable,
And life's like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button now
Sing it if you understand.
and breathe, just breathe
woah breathe, just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe,
Oh breathe, just breathe.
Saturday, July 29, 2006
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
running in place
so tuesday was my last appointment with my psychologist, helene. i'm terribly bummed that she's moving. at the same time, i feel like i'm entering some kind of graduate area in which i may be able to not see a therapist all the time.
that being said, i already have another one lined up. just need to find time to call my insurance provider and make sure that she's covered, even tho it says she is on the site. oh well.
there's this ongoing list of shit that i have to get done--around the house, with bills, you name it. living just as an adult is a freaking full time job--without the regular nine to five cubeland drudge. it's invoices for your heat, credits and debits, paperwork and filing and stamps and envelope licking.
i need an assistant.
course the job description would suck, and i doubt that i'd want it, myself.
"amateur thirty-year-old looking for professional assistant to organize, de-clutterize, and manage her life. must be willing to do dishes, vacuum the stairs, pay bills online, clip coupons, and clean out the litterbox as needed. other duties may apply, including pedicures, facials, general primping in the morning prior to work, and ironing. this is a volunteer position. if you are interested, please call...blah blah blah..."
yeah, sign me up for that one.
when i was a kid my sisters and i all shared a room--the three of us, pretending we were in college and in a dorm room all at the same time. you grow up and find out that you actually can't live with your sisters anymore, not because of the miles between you but because of the time between you--the time spent with other friends, growing up in your own ways.
my sisters and i are like three shrubs at the nursery. we're all marked with the same tag. but we're all different shapes, too. i'm short and round, my sister is tall and lovely, and another is slender and svelte. we all belong in different places--perhaps i'm for under a window, beth is for near the stairs, and sara's for sitting by a doorway, framing the height.
or something like that. it's been a long week, cut me some slack.
anyway, i think back on those days and i wish that it could be as easy as we dreamed--living together, going out dancing, sharing all our secrets between us. the bond is still strong--apparently mitochondrial dna is a much more solid glue than anything else. i don't usually see men figuring these things out on their own, let alone being able to voice them.
last night we went out to dinner for craig's birthday, at ichiban's, a japanese steakhouse downtown minneapolis. dan and i took the train; it was cheaper and easier--no battling traffic or finding a parking space. the dinner was a great deal of fun, although a bit pricier than i'd normally imagine spending. afterwards we walked back to the train, as the rain pattered down, and then got on the train and meandered home.
sitting here making a mental list of the stuff to be done around the house, i think of how i would like to be able to curl up with a cup of cocoa with my sisters, and share the story of such a lovely night--holding hands in the rain, laughing at the teppanyaki chef, drinking ice cold chilled sake. it's something that i will always remember.
nowdays it's harder to share things with my sisters. i think it's that pool of unknown time between us, the fact that we are shaped so differently after all these years. sometimes i feel as though i have run in place--that i am still running in place--being the oldest, wanting to help them, protect them, pick them up.
at night, sleeping in the same room as children, we shared the same air. we woke up talking to each other in our sleep. when i got to college and slept alone in the room for the first time, i slept poorly, waking often without the reassuring hum of siblings. i suppose that is where i would find that same childhood solace again, sleeping dark and formless.
it makes me wonder if they also feel that same marathon, neverending adulthood, the scales balanced?
that being said, i already have another one lined up. just need to find time to call my insurance provider and make sure that she's covered, even tho it says she is on the site. oh well.
there's this ongoing list of shit that i have to get done--around the house, with bills, you name it. living just as an adult is a freaking full time job--without the regular nine to five cubeland drudge. it's invoices for your heat, credits and debits, paperwork and filing and stamps and envelope licking.
i need an assistant.
course the job description would suck, and i doubt that i'd want it, myself.
"amateur thirty-year-old looking for professional assistant to organize, de-clutterize, and manage her life. must be willing to do dishes, vacuum the stairs, pay bills online, clip coupons, and clean out the litterbox as needed. other duties may apply, including pedicures, facials, general primping in the morning prior to work, and ironing. this is a volunteer position. if you are interested, please call...blah blah blah..."
yeah, sign me up for that one.
when i was a kid my sisters and i all shared a room--the three of us, pretending we were in college and in a dorm room all at the same time. you grow up and find out that you actually can't live with your sisters anymore, not because of the miles between you but because of the time between you--the time spent with other friends, growing up in your own ways.
my sisters and i are like three shrubs at the nursery. we're all marked with the same tag. but we're all different shapes, too. i'm short and round, my sister is tall and lovely, and another is slender and svelte. we all belong in different places--perhaps i'm for under a window, beth is for near the stairs, and sara's for sitting by a doorway, framing the height.
or something like that. it's been a long week, cut me some slack.
anyway, i think back on those days and i wish that it could be as easy as we dreamed--living together, going out dancing, sharing all our secrets between us. the bond is still strong--apparently mitochondrial dna is a much more solid glue than anything else. i don't usually see men figuring these things out on their own, let alone being able to voice them.
last night we went out to dinner for craig's birthday, at ichiban's, a japanese steakhouse downtown minneapolis. dan and i took the train; it was cheaper and easier--no battling traffic or finding a parking space. the dinner was a great deal of fun, although a bit pricier than i'd normally imagine spending. afterwards we walked back to the train, as the rain pattered down, and then got on the train and meandered home.
sitting here making a mental list of the stuff to be done around the house, i think of how i would like to be able to curl up with a cup of cocoa with my sisters, and share the story of such a lovely night--holding hands in the rain, laughing at the teppanyaki chef, drinking ice cold chilled sake. it's something that i will always remember.
nowdays it's harder to share things with my sisters. i think it's that pool of unknown time between us, the fact that we are shaped so differently after all these years. sometimes i feel as though i have run in place--that i am still running in place--being the oldest, wanting to help them, protect them, pick them up.
at night, sleeping in the same room as children, we shared the same air. we woke up talking to each other in our sleep. when i got to college and slept alone in the room for the first time, i slept poorly, waking often without the reassuring hum of siblings. i suppose that is where i would find that same childhood solace again, sleeping dark and formless.
it makes me wonder if they also feel that same marathon, neverending adulthood, the scales balanced?
Saturday, July 22, 2006
i feel like karma tonight.
today has been a mishmash of memory and future.
i had to stop at work this morning and actually work for a few hours--which wasn't bad, and will get me ahead and reduce stress next week. both of which i can appreciate. on the way home, i hit some garage sales for my dear friend cathy, who's expecting right around my mom's birthday in november. i got a lot of great baby stuff, including toys and a few clothes and books. and my fave buy: a graco pack and play crib, used very little, for only $20! to give you an idea of my elation: usually those sell for about 70-90 clamshells.
being the bargain hunter that i am, it was a warm fuzzy. thinking of the future of this little one, whose nose looks just like its mommy's, even in utero.
at the same time, this morning was a meditation on the past. my youngest sister and i were talking about friends whose relationships were taking unexpected dips and sways--spouses unsure of their feelings, or feeling things for someone other than their intended.
i never thought that i would be entirely glad about discovering what i did last summer. at the same time, if i had not explored this territory, the dark parts of my soul and the forgotten, dusty arena of my relationship withdan, i would not be where i am: learning.
i'd be stuck with one foot in the mud and the other in a solidifying vat of cement.
i admit, i have a long way to go. i'm still re-imagining my self, and my role in kim and dan, inc. but my eyes are more open now; i'm not deluding myself, and when and if i drift into excuses, i can discuss it openly.
when i was a kid, about 5 or 6, my sister and i had a little table. it was from the seventies, so the legs were metal and the top was metal. the legs had little white rubber feet on them, but this was no lightweight plastic thing that kids have nowadays. we decided to move the table; halfway across the room, my sister dropped her side, and it fell on my right foot, second toe in from my big toe.
when i look at that toe now, if the nail is unpainted, i can see the fissure from back then. whatever i spliced apart healed up, but it grows with a line down the middle of my nail, something you can see and feel, if you run your finger over it.
the toe works just dandy--it's not like i lost feeling in it or anything like that. it just looks strange, unpolished. it doesn't look like all the other toenails.
whenever i remember that toe it brings back a twenty-five year old memory of pain--so dim that i can barely remember it. but i've stubbed toes since then, accidentally dropped other things on them, etc. i know how much it smarted then, and i know how much it would hurt now.
i don't think i learned the same things from the table that i obviously am learning from the unveiling of my mental state; toes cannot compare to feelings. but the idea is the same, if on smaller scale: i was careful after that to watch where my feet were, and learned to keep them out of the way whenever i could. i could warn others if i noticed that they were in danger, too.
i have that feeling now, looking back at last year. i think of what avenues have been torn up and are still under construction, the bridges that i am rebuilding. it takes time and patience, which is something i need to remember more often when i am cursing orange construction signs and the smell of hot tar. (;
anyway, i have all this information about living my own life. i thought it was something unique to me, something that someone could interpret and apply to their own life. but it also is something i can share, a lesson that is generally applicable. it's different--but everyone IS different.
the thing i guess i have learned is that while everyone has that toe that's a bit different, they still have the foot--they still understand the cause and the pain, the growth and the joy. those are things that are universal.
in a few months there'll be a new little body and mind in the world, a combination of darin and cathy, small and precious. that child has so far to go--i'm only part of the way through my journey, and i have come a long ways. i don't envy the pain of that still-sheltered life, but i envy the cocoon of safety that child enjoys now, and the joy that child will know in life, too.
my dad always says, "what goes around, comes around." i suppose it always will.
i had to stop at work this morning and actually work for a few hours--which wasn't bad, and will get me ahead and reduce stress next week. both of which i can appreciate. on the way home, i hit some garage sales for my dear friend cathy, who's expecting right around my mom's birthday in november. i got a lot of great baby stuff, including toys and a few clothes and books. and my fave buy: a graco pack and play crib, used very little, for only $20! to give you an idea of my elation: usually those sell for about 70-90 clamshells.
being the bargain hunter that i am, it was a warm fuzzy. thinking of the future of this little one, whose nose looks just like its mommy's, even in utero.
at the same time, this morning was a meditation on the past. my youngest sister and i were talking about friends whose relationships were taking unexpected dips and sways--spouses unsure of their feelings, or feeling things for someone other than their intended.
i never thought that i would be entirely glad about discovering what i did last summer. at the same time, if i had not explored this territory, the dark parts of my soul and the forgotten, dusty arena of my relationship withdan, i would not be where i am: learning.
i'd be stuck with one foot in the mud and the other in a solidifying vat of cement.
i admit, i have a long way to go. i'm still re-imagining my self, and my role in kim and dan, inc. but my eyes are more open now; i'm not deluding myself, and when and if i drift into excuses, i can discuss it openly.
when i was a kid, about 5 or 6, my sister and i had a little table. it was from the seventies, so the legs were metal and the top was metal. the legs had little white rubber feet on them, but this was no lightweight plastic thing that kids have nowadays. we decided to move the table; halfway across the room, my sister dropped her side, and it fell on my right foot, second toe in from my big toe.
when i look at that toe now, if the nail is unpainted, i can see the fissure from back then. whatever i spliced apart healed up, but it grows with a line down the middle of my nail, something you can see and feel, if you run your finger over it.
the toe works just dandy--it's not like i lost feeling in it or anything like that. it just looks strange, unpolished. it doesn't look like all the other toenails.
whenever i remember that toe it brings back a twenty-five year old memory of pain--so dim that i can barely remember it. but i've stubbed toes since then, accidentally dropped other things on them, etc. i know how much it smarted then, and i know how much it would hurt now.
i don't think i learned the same things from the table that i obviously am learning from the unveiling of my mental state; toes cannot compare to feelings. but the idea is the same, if on smaller scale: i was careful after that to watch where my feet were, and learned to keep them out of the way whenever i could. i could warn others if i noticed that they were in danger, too.
i have that feeling now, looking back at last year. i think of what avenues have been torn up and are still under construction, the bridges that i am rebuilding. it takes time and patience, which is something i need to remember more often when i am cursing orange construction signs and the smell of hot tar. (;
anyway, i have all this information about living my own life. i thought it was something unique to me, something that someone could interpret and apply to their own life. but it also is something i can share, a lesson that is generally applicable. it's different--but everyone IS different.
the thing i guess i have learned is that while everyone has that toe that's a bit different, they still have the foot--they still understand the cause and the pain, the growth and the joy. those are things that are universal.
in a few months there'll be a new little body and mind in the world, a combination of darin and cathy, small and precious. that child has so far to go--i'm only part of the way through my journey, and i have come a long ways. i don't envy the pain of that still-sheltered life, but i envy the cocoon of safety that child enjoys now, and the joy that child will know in life, too.
my dad always says, "what goes around, comes around." i suppose it always will.
Sunday, July 16, 2006
girlfriends and the space-time continuum
so a week ago we went out and watched the latest installment of plunder and dirty boys, pirates of the caribbean: dead man's chest. i loved the movie--it was a frolic, something fun and light and beautifully filmed. that and the boys are pretty easy on the eyes, if i do say so myself. YUM.
this weekend i got to see it again, and loved it just as much, and want next summer to be here NOW instead of...well, days away.
i keep thinking what a very long time that seems, one year. a turn around the sun, the earth has danced this dance for eons. to the rest of the universe it's probably a drop in the bucket, and moves by faster than i can blink in rain.
this weekend i got to see my girlfriends from the north, all former co-workers at the grocery store. all of us have since moved on into new positions, new places. time seems to stop when the four of us get together, and coalesce into a moment that stops and fudges on the record, just a blip.
it's not just distance that separates and joins people--i can drive anywhere and map out the mileage, and that does not change. it's still the same number of miles, if the crow flies or if i put tire to pavement, as it always has been. i feel blessed that i live in an age where it doesn't take more than a few hours to arrive up north and be welcomed into that group again, and make a new memory to sustain us on the miles between.
it's been two whole years since the summer of amanda's wedding--all the chaos and laughter on the canadian border, and the tears, too. impossible that time has moved so swiftly. stephen hawking postulates about black holes--the folding of time in on itself, to close the distance. sometimes i don't think that applies to space, insofar as space is usually considered as the conglomeration of stars and moons and galactic rickrack. i think that the black holes are more likely to occur between people--the closure of memory, sewn tight and broken and resewn.
when i get together with my friends, time no longer exists. the fact that we have been apart in distance that can be mapped and days that can be counted no longer matters--the distance is closed, the time removed, and we are all the same bodies that gathered once before, long ago.
how did it become us four people, a solid front, a net between? then again, how does the universe decide to create a star?
i can't remember when things gelled into place and simple became this way. i have other friends as dear, and other friends closer, siblings of blood and of heart, but these three are like their own small pocket of sanity for me.
one of my friends is in crisis now, has been for some time. the pocket that gathered around me in my time of need has gathered around her, in hers. i thought that perhaps it was something that could only contain one person at one time, that we were only strong enough to hold up one at a time as she stumbled. this weekend my reminder became that together we are far stronger, even with our own individual weaknesses, even if our weaknesses are all at the same time, than we are apart.
it is not only with this handful of women that i feel this net, reaching out in all directions. it is with everyone who has reached out a hand in my time of need, or to me in theirs. a great web extending over time and space. when i reach out my hand i write that theory of mr. hawkings', i prove that it is real.
there's no equation, nothing that is tangible, nothing that you can touch or see. can you prove love? is it just some chemicals, tossed together, or something more, something that can only be mapped by hands not yet born?
this weekend i got to see it again, and loved it just as much, and want next summer to be here NOW instead of...well, days away.
i keep thinking what a very long time that seems, one year. a turn around the sun, the earth has danced this dance for eons. to the rest of the universe it's probably a drop in the bucket, and moves by faster than i can blink in rain.
this weekend i got to see my girlfriends from the north, all former co-workers at the grocery store. all of us have since moved on into new positions, new places. time seems to stop when the four of us get together, and coalesce into a moment that stops and fudges on the record, just a blip.
it's not just distance that separates and joins people--i can drive anywhere and map out the mileage, and that does not change. it's still the same number of miles, if the crow flies or if i put tire to pavement, as it always has been. i feel blessed that i live in an age where it doesn't take more than a few hours to arrive up north and be welcomed into that group again, and make a new memory to sustain us on the miles between.
it's been two whole years since the summer of amanda's wedding--all the chaos and laughter on the canadian border, and the tears, too. impossible that time has moved so swiftly. stephen hawking postulates about black holes--the folding of time in on itself, to close the distance. sometimes i don't think that applies to space, insofar as space is usually considered as the conglomeration of stars and moons and galactic rickrack. i think that the black holes are more likely to occur between people--the closure of memory, sewn tight and broken and resewn.
when i get together with my friends, time no longer exists. the fact that we have been apart in distance that can be mapped and days that can be counted no longer matters--the distance is closed, the time removed, and we are all the same bodies that gathered once before, long ago.
how did it become us four people, a solid front, a net between? then again, how does the universe decide to create a star?
i can't remember when things gelled into place and simple became this way. i have other friends as dear, and other friends closer, siblings of blood and of heart, but these three are like their own small pocket of sanity for me.
one of my friends is in crisis now, has been for some time. the pocket that gathered around me in my time of need has gathered around her, in hers. i thought that perhaps it was something that could only contain one person at one time, that we were only strong enough to hold up one at a time as she stumbled. this weekend my reminder became that together we are far stronger, even with our own individual weaknesses, even if our weaknesses are all at the same time, than we are apart.
it is not only with this handful of women that i feel this net, reaching out in all directions. it is with everyone who has reached out a hand in my time of need, or to me in theirs. a great web extending over time and space. when i reach out my hand i write that theory of mr. hawkings', i prove that it is real.
there's no equation, nothing that is tangible, nothing that you can touch or see. can you prove love? is it just some chemicals, tossed together, or something more, something that can only be mapped by hands not yet born?
Thursday, July 13, 2006
land of a thousand geeks...
...give or take a thousand.
i think there were actually about 2600 geeks all at a lovely and very patiently staffed Sheraton hotel last weekend in minneapolis. on the 2nd floor in a very serene room, were my fellow girly geeks, the Galactic Geishas House of Tea...and A.
yes, tongue in cheek. we all wore kimonos of various origin (mine was acquired hastily at Ragstock in the mall of america on thursday evening, and embellished with beads on thursday night...) my dear friend tish made her own and a few more for others attending(she's quite the seamstress, and does her own renaissance festival outfits too!) she also cooked fried rice and egg rolls, and asian cucumber salad, which was all just yummy.
for a few moments on friday and even saturday morning, before heading over, i was nervous--just a vague, persistent uneasiness. probably all the people--i'm a hermit a lot of the time, at heart. anyway dan asked me at some point if i was nervous and all of a sudden i realized that i wasn't nervous, not one drop.
why, you may ask, this sudden lack of nerves? perhaps it was the dawning of comprehension: i would be a girl, dressed up pretty and with tits and a brain to boot, in the land of a thousand male geeks.
i would be a goddess, for one shining brace of hours.
i'm not being egotistical here--i know what i look like, and for the most part, am terribly self-concious about my looks. but the hotel would be full of people who thought the same way i do: geeky. nerdy. and in the strangest of ways, i think that makes them more accepting than a church group.
anyone can hide in a crowd at the mall, or downtown. anyone can pull up their hood or shove their cap low to disguise features.
but at con, everyone is on display, or in various stages of presentation. it's like a living museum, an exhibit in which all bodies partake.
it didn't matter that i was not as kitted out as the man dressed as Willy Wonka, or did not have a wild, gravity-defying foot-high blue and green mohawk. the whole day was a blur of sights and sounds, tastes--bright and shiny, a kaleidescope of humanity.
for a while i tagged along with a few friends and checked out the dealer's room. we ended up in a panel discussion as it ended: asians and minorities in science fiction. we were only there for the last twenty minutes of the panel; but it was interesting to consider.
i enjoy science ficton because it bends the mind, and allows for imagination to bridge off on different pathways that perhaps alone you'd not consider. it's a springboard. science fiction blends things--it's the combination of human and robot, the fact that superman can fly, the faery folk with gossamer wings. all these things make science fiction a universal and yet so very individual clique.
in the panel, the discussion dissected and branched from asians as the minority to encompass the gay community, and then hearing impaired people. the discussion posited that every community shares culture in a way that another community can never comprehend--ie, only another half-deaf person could completely understand my corner of the world.
for the most part, my friends all belong to this universe of geeks--they all know what i'm talking about when i say "World of Warcraft," and the importance of dice and clipboards and sunday afternoons.
mainstream media struggles with topics that i think many sci-fi geeks have an innate and intimate knowledge--the feeling of being the minority. if you were a geek in grade school, you were the minority. even now, at work, when i explained what i was doing last weekend, people got a little smirk on their face: "oh, a science fiction convention. nice."
no one would have blinked twice if i said i was going to the Home and Garden Show.
anyway, the point that i'm coming to is this: last weekend was fun. and it was an eye opener for me--to understand more fully and appreciate more fully the friends that i do have, for their geeky world.
being a geek is wonderful. it allows you to revel in your knowledge, to flaunt your Klingon makeup and toast Wonder Woman as she skips down the hall. there was no one who was not accepted--for race, for creed, for thoughts, for costumes...or lack thereof. (;
perhaps that is the best of show--not the art pieces or the weaponry on display, not the party rooms in all their creative genius. it was the fact that no matter what form you were as you shuffled through a hotel, you were accepted just as you were.
in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, they say. in the land of a thousand geeks...well, cripes, anyone can be king, even if your name is Eleanor, you're 4'10" and you're wearing a t-shirt that says: "if you don't talk to your cat about catnip, who will?"
i think there were actually about 2600 geeks all at a lovely and very patiently staffed Sheraton hotel last weekend in minneapolis. on the 2nd floor in a very serene room, were my fellow girly geeks, the Galactic Geishas House of Tea...and A.
yes, tongue in cheek. we all wore kimonos of various origin (mine was acquired hastily at Ragstock in the mall of america on thursday evening, and embellished with beads on thursday night...) my dear friend tish made her own and a few more for others attending(she's quite the seamstress, and does her own renaissance festival outfits too!) she also cooked fried rice and egg rolls, and asian cucumber salad, which was all just yummy.
for a few moments on friday and even saturday morning, before heading over, i was nervous--just a vague, persistent uneasiness. probably all the people--i'm a hermit a lot of the time, at heart. anyway dan asked me at some point if i was nervous and all of a sudden i realized that i wasn't nervous, not one drop.
why, you may ask, this sudden lack of nerves? perhaps it was the dawning of comprehension: i would be a girl, dressed up pretty and with tits and a brain to boot, in the land of a thousand male geeks.
i would be a goddess, for one shining brace of hours.
i'm not being egotistical here--i know what i look like, and for the most part, am terribly self-concious about my looks. but the hotel would be full of people who thought the same way i do: geeky. nerdy. and in the strangest of ways, i think that makes them more accepting than a church group.
anyone can hide in a crowd at the mall, or downtown. anyone can pull up their hood or shove their cap low to disguise features.
but at con, everyone is on display, or in various stages of presentation. it's like a living museum, an exhibit in which all bodies partake.
it didn't matter that i was not as kitted out as the man dressed as Willy Wonka, or did not have a wild, gravity-defying foot-high blue and green mohawk. the whole day was a blur of sights and sounds, tastes--bright and shiny, a kaleidescope of humanity.
for a while i tagged along with a few friends and checked out the dealer's room. we ended up in a panel discussion as it ended: asians and minorities in science fiction. we were only there for the last twenty minutes of the panel; but it was interesting to consider.
i enjoy science ficton because it bends the mind, and allows for imagination to bridge off on different pathways that perhaps alone you'd not consider. it's a springboard. science fiction blends things--it's the combination of human and robot, the fact that superman can fly, the faery folk with gossamer wings. all these things make science fiction a universal and yet so very individual clique.
in the panel, the discussion dissected and branched from asians as the minority to encompass the gay community, and then hearing impaired people. the discussion posited that every community shares culture in a way that another community can never comprehend--ie, only another half-deaf person could completely understand my corner of the world.
for the most part, my friends all belong to this universe of geeks--they all know what i'm talking about when i say "World of Warcraft," and the importance of dice and clipboards and sunday afternoons.
mainstream media struggles with topics that i think many sci-fi geeks have an innate and intimate knowledge--the feeling of being the minority. if you were a geek in grade school, you were the minority. even now, at work, when i explained what i was doing last weekend, people got a little smirk on their face: "oh, a science fiction convention. nice."
no one would have blinked twice if i said i was going to the Home and Garden Show.
anyway, the point that i'm coming to is this: last weekend was fun. and it was an eye opener for me--to understand more fully and appreciate more fully the friends that i do have, for their geeky world.
being a geek is wonderful. it allows you to revel in your knowledge, to flaunt your Klingon makeup and toast Wonder Woman as she skips down the hall. there was no one who was not accepted--for race, for creed, for thoughts, for costumes...or lack thereof. (;
perhaps that is the best of show--not the art pieces or the weaponry on display, not the party rooms in all their creative genius. it was the fact that no matter what form you were as you shuffled through a hotel, you were accepted just as you were.
in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king, they say. in the land of a thousand geeks...well, cripes, anyone can be king, even if your name is Eleanor, you're 4'10" and you're wearing a t-shirt that says: "if you don't talk to your cat about catnip, who will?"
Saturday, July 01, 2006
the few, the proud...the bra-less.
i've got a big chest. i'll be the first to admit it. it's not always one of my features of which i'm that terribly proud--without good support, they're just the same boobs with which every other female on the planet is blessed.
i'm glad they're a nice size, don't get me wrong, but i think at a certain level, it doesn't matter so much about size any longer, and more about...apparatus.
by that i mean exactly that: structure, form, something to keep the girls at bay.
last year in a fit of fashion pique i purchased a halter top. it's white with little red cherries and green stems all over it. it covers my middle and all that jazz, but it's something i'd have to wear with a strapless bra, which, in my size, is the equivalent of the Brooklyn Bridge, condensed and made of latex and snaps.
needless to say, it's somewhat uncomfortable.
my youngest sister said, well, just wear it without a bra. i rolled my eyes. riiiiiiiiight.
i can pinpoint the exact last time i went into public without a bra on--last year at about 6 am, wearing a t-shirt and a very, very baggy gray sweatshirt. i felt covered and i was so ill at that point that i just didn't give a shit.
today, however, i'm lucid. i'm awake. and about fifteen minutes ago, i decided that it was much, much to warm out today to strap myself into another contraption that keeps both flesh and heat carefully in line.
so i put on the halter top.
i'm still in the house. i'm not sure i can leave, like this, everything contained only by the ties behind my neck and the grace of god. gravity's not going to work with me.
so say some web-related prayers for me, i'm going to home depot. and i'm not going to add more padding.
living on the edge--just another day in the life of kim. (;
i'm glad they're a nice size, don't get me wrong, but i think at a certain level, it doesn't matter so much about size any longer, and more about...apparatus.
by that i mean exactly that: structure, form, something to keep the girls at bay.
last year in a fit of fashion pique i purchased a halter top. it's white with little red cherries and green stems all over it. it covers my middle and all that jazz, but it's something i'd have to wear with a strapless bra, which, in my size, is the equivalent of the Brooklyn Bridge, condensed and made of latex and snaps.
needless to say, it's somewhat uncomfortable.
my youngest sister said, well, just wear it without a bra. i rolled my eyes. riiiiiiiiight.
i can pinpoint the exact last time i went into public without a bra on--last year at about 6 am, wearing a t-shirt and a very, very baggy gray sweatshirt. i felt covered and i was so ill at that point that i just didn't give a shit.
today, however, i'm lucid. i'm awake. and about fifteen minutes ago, i decided that it was much, much to warm out today to strap myself into another contraption that keeps both flesh and heat carefully in line.
so i put on the halter top.
i'm still in the house. i'm not sure i can leave, like this, everything contained only by the ties behind my neck and the grace of god. gravity's not going to work with me.
so say some web-related prayers for me, i'm going to home depot. and i'm not going to add more padding.
living on the edge--just another day in the life of kim. (;
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
disaster is the spice of life. or was that variety?
i love my enchilada recipe; it brings back memories of a hot summer kitchen, my dear friend nathan and his boyfriend at the time, federico. federico was a chef in mexico city, and spoke very limited english, so nathan translated whole meal preparation, since we were in my kitchen.
it was an ongoing chatter--federico asking for a colander, nathan translating, me fetching. the kitchen was humid and sticky, full of the fresh snap of cilantro and mellow garlic.
it was the first time i'd used tomatillos--dried husks peeling off, we boiled them until green faded to yellow, and then tossed them in the blender with onions and serrano peppers. the resulting sauce was poured over two warmed corn tortillas full of steamed chicken, covered in sour cream and cheese and lettuce, and garnished with avocado.
the food was hot enough to leave your mouth tingling, your lips feeling flushed and swollen; cold coronas tasted divine.
i've made the recipe since that august many times. added too many peppers one time and it was nearly inedible.
last saturday night at spoon's house we made enchiladas--the kind you stuff and bake. she used flour tortillas, and a meat substitute called "quorn" that was so good you honestly could not tell the difference between that and chicken. i made the sauce; sarah stuffed the enchiladas. the resulting dish was delicious--flour shells curling around tasty filling, verdant sauce spilling onto the plate. lovely.
so last night i decided i would make the same for my lunches this week. i spent a good hour and a half in the kitchen, making the filling and sauce, boiling and chopping and blending. i rolled and stuffed, dumped sauce over the top and sprinkled with cheese. the pan was full and in my opinion, looked delicious.
what emerged from my oven later appeared tantalizing as well. the cheese had crisped and browned on top. i let it cool and then dug in, separating out amounts for lunches this week.
and that, my friends, is when my meal went from wonderful to FEMA qualified.
i didn't have the neat enchiladas of saturday evening; i had a mound of enchilada filling mixed with disintegrated corn tortilla.
today at lunch when i dumped the mixture onto my plate, it smelled just like that august dinner from years ago. i covered it in sour cream and lettuce. from the outside, it looked the same, too.
but when i dug into it, it did not taste quite the same.
it wasn't my ingredients--those were all the same. the difference was in the texture of the food concealed beneath toppings and cheese.
last year at this time i was still struggling with truths that i didn't want to face. all the ingredients--the people, the emotions--they were all things i had experienced before. but presented in a different light, they were raw and unsavory.
i think for a long time i garnished the truth so that it would be palatable, edible, you name it. i wanted it all to be the same. i didn't want to imagine that what i was removing from the oven was anything other than wonderful, was anything painful.
my lunch-shaped lump of enchiladas went in the garbage half way through today. i'll probably try the other lunches but i don't have my hopes up; i know now what lies beneath the greenery and dairy. i've got the option to chuck the whole batch, start over some other time. it's a waste of money and time, true enough. and i'm struggling with that, small as it may be.
but the result doesn't have to be hidden. the result doesn't have to be the end result. i can change--my emotions, my path, my enchilada recipe. the change i made last night to my recipe didn't turn out quite as intended. i need to tinker with it.
make it better.
because glossing over the disaster that is my enchiladas isn't going to make them any tastier.
it was an ongoing chatter--federico asking for a colander, nathan translating, me fetching. the kitchen was humid and sticky, full of the fresh snap of cilantro and mellow garlic.
it was the first time i'd used tomatillos--dried husks peeling off, we boiled them until green faded to yellow, and then tossed them in the blender with onions and serrano peppers. the resulting sauce was poured over two warmed corn tortillas full of steamed chicken, covered in sour cream and cheese and lettuce, and garnished with avocado.
the food was hot enough to leave your mouth tingling, your lips feeling flushed and swollen; cold coronas tasted divine.
i've made the recipe since that august many times. added too many peppers one time and it was nearly inedible.
last saturday night at spoon's house we made enchiladas--the kind you stuff and bake. she used flour tortillas, and a meat substitute called "quorn" that was so good you honestly could not tell the difference between that and chicken. i made the sauce; sarah stuffed the enchiladas. the resulting dish was delicious--flour shells curling around tasty filling, verdant sauce spilling onto the plate. lovely.
so last night i decided i would make the same for my lunches this week. i spent a good hour and a half in the kitchen, making the filling and sauce, boiling and chopping and blending. i rolled and stuffed, dumped sauce over the top and sprinkled with cheese. the pan was full and in my opinion, looked delicious.
what emerged from my oven later appeared tantalizing as well. the cheese had crisped and browned on top. i let it cool and then dug in, separating out amounts for lunches this week.
and that, my friends, is when my meal went from wonderful to FEMA qualified.
i didn't have the neat enchiladas of saturday evening; i had a mound of enchilada filling mixed with disintegrated corn tortilla.
today at lunch when i dumped the mixture onto my plate, it smelled just like that august dinner from years ago. i covered it in sour cream and lettuce. from the outside, it looked the same, too.
but when i dug into it, it did not taste quite the same.
it wasn't my ingredients--those were all the same. the difference was in the texture of the food concealed beneath toppings and cheese.
last year at this time i was still struggling with truths that i didn't want to face. all the ingredients--the people, the emotions--they were all things i had experienced before. but presented in a different light, they were raw and unsavory.
i think for a long time i garnished the truth so that it would be palatable, edible, you name it. i wanted it all to be the same. i didn't want to imagine that what i was removing from the oven was anything other than wonderful, was anything painful.
my lunch-shaped lump of enchiladas went in the garbage half way through today. i'll probably try the other lunches but i don't have my hopes up; i know now what lies beneath the greenery and dairy. i've got the option to chuck the whole batch, start over some other time. it's a waste of money and time, true enough. and i'm struggling with that, small as it may be.
but the result doesn't have to be hidden. the result doesn't have to be the end result. i can change--my emotions, my path, my enchilada recipe. the change i made last night to my recipe didn't turn out quite as intended. i need to tinker with it.
make it better.
because glossing over the disaster that is my enchiladas isn't going to make them any tastier.
Friday, June 23, 2006
grief and your basic potted plant
i got a pot of impatiens last week. not that i don't have a planter, seeds and soil in the garage...but they're seeds. they need time to germinate and grow, and then eventually bloom. and it's almost july.
in minnesota, 1/3 of summer is dashing away. so starting plants from scratch just doesn't seem feasible.
henry stared at the patio with a tail the size of my grandma's rolling pin for a good half hour after i put the pot out there. the flowers are light lavender colored, some darker pink. it's just a nice spot of color. of course to him it's an interloper, and he was panicked and prepped for business.
i'm not sure why the flowers are called impatiens. i suppose i could search on google or something akin, but i'm just not up to the task today--i don't feel like reading latin plant names, or thinking of flora in general.
this week i'm remembering a few years ago, when my cat quinn died--died as impatiently as she lived, or perhaps as patiently. cats don't seem to be very patient creatures--at least my two, yowling in the morning when their canned food isn't on the floor as quick as they'd like. at the same time, i've seen shiva wait by my pillow for hours while i'm sleeping intermittently on a saturday morning, just for the stir of an eyelid.
i miss the smell of honey in between quinn's shoulder blades, the way she cuddled into your body, her little purr. i've got two new purrs in my house since then. i guess sometimes i'm just impatient to see my quinn again.
that said, i see her every day, in the graceful leaps and twirls of my other furry companions.
***
i had an attack of curiosity last week. suddenly just HAD to know what serena was doing now. i searched and found her site, read a little bit of it.
the thing that struck me was that it was just a brochure for a life--this is what i'm doing.
no feelings, no response beyond the shallow pool of necessary motions. at least not shared.
sharing things is what links you to another being--it's what i miss when i remember my cat, or my grandpa, or corey. i saw it yesterday when cari said she loved to drive, that she'd gotten that love of driving from her mom. it's the sharing of your burden, the sharing of another person's burden, the compassion and comprehension.
it annoys me, like a mosquito in a quiet summer bedroom, that serena doesn't seem to feel. or that she doesn't seem to share. or that she never shared, or that she did, and i didn't notice.
no one asks about her at work anymore. no one bothers me about what she's up to. it's somewhat of a relief, because i'm not constantly bombarded by the panic of not knowing how much to say.
i can be as curious as any National Enquirer reporter, and just as nosy. i know this, because if i'm honest with myself, i like to know these things about other people. i don't want to pry--i don't want to poke. but i don't mind knowing, either.
this impatient need to know--the burning desire to see if she missed anyone here--that is what caught me offguard. was it grief? do i grieve for someone who, at this point, i feel cared less about me than my cat?
***
right after the car accident, cari's dad was hospitalized and in serious condition, and she had to deal with that in addition to relatives and funerary rites. for a long time, she said she felt like she was in a bubble--her "god-bubble," she called it. protected her until she could deal with her own emotions, allowed her to function when she had to.
at some point we were on the phone, talking about the struggle of living without someone you care about. she was challenged daily to keep going, and not just sit down and cry.
i had an epiphany, at that point. i could remember the grief i felt, after corey died--how it would suddenly appear, lightning on a cloudless day.
"cari," i said. "i think grief is like gas."
"gas?" she asked.
"yes, gas. now go with me on this. when you have gas you're uncomfortable; you're perhaps afraid that you'll embarass yourself in a public place. sometimes you let fly and you really DO embarass yourself. but at the same time that you're ashamed, you're relieved a bit from the uncomfortable feeling from before."
"kim," she said, "you're the only person i know who would compare grief to methane, and make it work."
i feel often like i'm grieving for things that i am not sure i miss. i was ashamed that i just HAD to know what was going on with serena, in the same way that paparrazi peek into Brangelina's bassinet. and at the same time, the glimpse i got of her life was relief. as impatient as i was with myself for being so impatient, for not being able to let it go--i learned that i had to be patient with myself because this whole life thing is a process, and i certainly can't jump ahead of that process.
henry, now that he's over his initial terror of the white pot with bright blossoms, now sits and watches birds, just like he did before the flowers arrived: pressed into carpet, chittering at the birds as they pick at seed. patience where there was impatience; peace where there was grief.
in minnesota, 1/3 of summer is dashing away. so starting plants from scratch just doesn't seem feasible.
henry stared at the patio with a tail the size of my grandma's rolling pin for a good half hour after i put the pot out there. the flowers are light lavender colored, some darker pink. it's just a nice spot of color. of course to him it's an interloper, and he was panicked and prepped for business.
i'm not sure why the flowers are called impatiens. i suppose i could search on google or something akin, but i'm just not up to the task today--i don't feel like reading latin plant names, or thinking of flora in general.
this week i'm remembering a few years ago, when my cat quinn died--died as impatiently as she lived, or perhaps as patiently. cats don't seem to be very patient creatures--at least my two, yowling in the morning when their canned food isn't on the floor as quick as they'd like. at the same time, i've seen shiva wait by my pillow for hours while i'm sleeping intermittently on a saturday morning, just for the stir of an eyelid.
i miss the smell of honey in between quinn's shoulder blades, the way she cuddled into your body, her little purr. i've got two new purrs in my house since then. i guess sometimes i'm just impatient to see my quinn again.
that said, i see her every day, in the graceful leaps and twirls of my other furry companions.
***
i had an attack of curiosity last week. suddenly just HAD to know what serena was doing now. i searched and found her site, read a little bit of it.
the thing that struck me was that it was just a brochure for a life--this is what i'm doing.
no feelings, no response beyond the shallow pool of necessary motions. at least not shared.
sharing things is what links you to another being--it's what i miss when i remember my cat, or my grandpa, or corey. i saw it yesterday when cari said she loved to drive, that she'd gotten that love of driving from her mom. it's the sharing of your burden, the sharing of another person's burden, the compassion and comprehension.
it annoys me, like a mosquito in a quiet summer bedroom, that serena doesn't seem to feel. or that she doesn't seem to share. or that she never shared, or that she did, and i didn't notice.
no one asks about her at work anymore. no one bothers me about what she's up to. it's somewhat of a relief, because i'm not constantly bombarded by the panic of not knowing how much to say.
i can be as curious as any National Enquirer reporter, and just as nosy. i know this, because if i'm honest with myself, i like to know these things about other people. i don't want to pry--i don't want to poke. but i don't mind knowing, either.
this impatient need to know--the burning desire to see if she missed anyone here--that is what caught me offguard. was it grief? do i grieve for someone who, at this point, i feel cared less about me than my cat?
***
right after the car accident, cari's dad was hospitalized and in serious condition, and she had to deal with that in addition to relatives and funerary rites. for a long time, she said she felt like she was in a bubble--her "god-bubble," she called it. protected her until she could deal with her own emotions, allowed her to function when she had to.
at some point we were on the phone, talking about the struggle of living without someone you care about. she was challenged daily to keep going, and not just sit down and cry.
i had an epiphany, at that point. i could remember the grief i felt, after corey died--how it would suddenly appear, lightning on a cloudless day.
"cari," i said. "i think grief is like gas."
"gas?" she asked.
"yes, gas. now go with me on this. when you have gas you're uncomfortable; you're perhaps afraid that you'll embarass yourself in a public place. sometimes you let fly and you really DO embarass yourself. but at the same time that you're ashamed, you're relieved a bit from the uncomfortable feeling from before."
"kim," she said, "you're the only person i know who would compare grief to methane, and make it work."
i feel often like i'm grieving for things that i am not sure i miss. i was ashamed that i just HAD to know what was going on with serena, in the same way that paparrazi peek into Brangelina's bassinet. and at the same time, the glimpse i got of her life was relief. as impatient as i was with myself for being so impatient, for not being able to let it go--i learned that i had to be patient with myself because this whole life thing is a process, and i certainly can't jump ahead of that process.
henry, now that he's over his initial terror of the white pot with bright blossoms, now sits and watches birds, just like he did before the flowers arrived: pressed into carpet, chittering at the birds as they pick at seed. patience where there was impatience; peace where there was grief.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
hummingbirds in my veins
my passenger side windsheild wiper flew off my car on thursday. i looked up in time to see it crunch under the tire of the burgundy chevy tahoe behind me.
it was one of those weeks.
not where anything unexpected happens. just where small unsettling things make your nerves feel a bit jangled.
i've got a to-do list for saturday. not sure how much i'll accomplish; just a list.
just a bit under-over-whelmed, for some reason. i'm trying to put my finger on it, but it's like trying to pin down a cloud. my thought process is wandering.
lost sheep, anyone? i've wandered away from the herd. or i'm still camoflauged by the herd, but my wool's dyed green.
just disconnected. it's been a busy week, i'll give it that--one of those weeks that caters to my addled kaleidescope of a brain. too many things going on--but not so much that i can't handle it.
sometimes i see my spotty thought process as a blessing--i'm rarely bored by life. and sometimes, like today, i can sit in retrospect be frustrated by my own distraction.
at cubeland this week i did my job. i typed up an additional training guide for one of our systems, drafted and sent an email regarding a new process, emailed so constantly that i started to wonder if i was being paid to email my own friends.
i had a dream last night that i was cleaning the house in a complete frenzy. when dan asked me to slow down, i told him i couldn't, i had hummingbirds in my veins.
the wiper seems like a physical expression of my thoughts this week: unexpected, unhooked, arching through the air end over end. i can see my blog is following the same frayed pattern, with short sentences and paragraphs.
manic? or just terribly distracted? is there a med for this endless mobius of thought, a medical explanation that sums me up?
"The Ouroboros often represents self-reflexivity or cyclicality, especially in the sense of something constantly re-creating itself, the eternal return, and other things perceived as cycles that begin anew as soon as they end. It can also represent the idea of primordial unity."
nature has its own cycles. i am a product of the natural world; some amoeba in my past crawled out of the primordial ooze and managed to slouch into humanity over a bit of time.
who is going to say that nature is wrong, that the river doesn't run the right course, that the tree is misshapen, that the rabbit runs a jagged journey for no reason?
why is it so horrible that i am so distracted? the avenues it opens for me are often as unexpected as that wiper, and as fleeting as a hummingbird--but they are the natural product of my self.
and where does self end, and the chemical being take over, and be flawed in the eyes of society?
it was one of those weeks.
not where anything unexpected happens. just where small unsettling things make your nerves feel a bit jangled.
i've got a to-do list for saturday. not sure how much i'll accomplish; just a list.
just a bit under-over-whelmed, for some reason. i'm trying to put my finger on it, but it's like trying to pin down a cloud. my thought process is wandering.
lost sheep, anyone? i've wandered away from the herd. or i'm still camoflauged by the herd, but my wool's dyed green.
just disconnected. it's been a busy week, i'll give it that--one of those weeks that caters to my addled kaleidescope of a brain. too many things going on--but not so much that i can't handle it.
sometimes i see my spotty thought process as a blessing--i'm rarely bored by life. and sometimes, like today, i can sit in retrospect be frustrated by my own distraction.
at cubeland this week i did my job. i typed up an additional training guide for one of our systems, drafted and sent an email regarding a new process, emailed so constantly that i started to wonder if i was being paid to email my own friends.
i had a dream last night that i was cleaning the house in a complete frenzy. when dan asked me to slow down, i told him i couldn't, i had hummingbirds in my veins.
the wiper seems like a physical expression of my thoughts this week: unexpected, unhooked, arching through the air end over end. i can see my blog is following the same frayed pattern, with short sentences and paragraphs.
manic? or just terribly distracted? is there a med for this endless mobius of thought, a medical explanation that sums me up?
"The Ouroboros often represents self-reflexivity or cyclicality, especially in the sense of something constantly re-creating itself, the eternal return, and other things perceived as cycles that begin anew as soon as they end. It can also represent the idea of primordial unity."
nature has its own cycles. i am a product of the natural world; some amoeba in my past crawled out of the primordial ooze and managed to slouch into humanity over a bit of time.
who is going to say that nature is wrong, that the river doesn't run the right course, that the tree is misshapen, that the rabbit runs a jagged journey for no reason?
why is it so horrible that i am so distracted? the avenues it opens for me are often as unexpected as that wiper, and as fleeting as a hummingbird--but they are the natural product of my self.
and where does self end, and the chemical being take over, and be flawed in the eyes of society?
Friday, June 09, 2006
pigtails and porn stars
i've got the day off. lots of errands planned. this morning i'm blog surfing while listening to the morning show on 93X, where they're interviewing Mandy Starr, a local porn star.
can you search on monster.com for movie roles like this? or do you find an actual agent?
it makes me wonder what other jobs i could have attempted, if i didn't get into the payroll industry. which is, by the by, quite a sedate and boring business, but one at which i do see all kinds of varied jobs. consultants, exotic dancers, waiters, lab rat attendants, people who make stained glass. it's interesting to see what different people do for a living.
one of the gals at work showed up the other day with her newly dyed bright red locks pulled into pigtails. it looked so cute that when i got home yesterday, i had to put mine up too. my hair's much longer than tish's is.
at what point did i stop wearing my hair in pigtails? how old was i, did i make a decision that pigtails were childish? at what point did i not take the same road as Ms. Starr?
sometimes i look back on the life i've lived and feel that it's so mundane and boring that i don't even want to think about it. i'm a cog in the wheel; i'm a gear, i'm a leg on the table.
then again, if this cog didn't show up every day, things would be difficult. the world wouldn't run the in quite the same pattern. i'm sure that my teammates at work are pulling together just fine, and that it's going to be a normal old friday for them. it's not going to be a life-changing experience to not have me there, but it's not going to be the same, either.
this morning i'm taking a break from my strenuous bitching schedule to appear in blogland. this morning Mandy Starr took a break from her strenous moaning schedule to appear on a radio show with three radio personalities.
what's the difference? i'm sitting here in pigtails, listening to a porn star talk about orgasm-induced foot cramps. two hours from now, what's not to say that she's not sitting in pigtails, reading this blog?
the world really is as small as my parents always postulated it was.
course, that being said, i'm still rather glad that i'm sitting here, in my pigtails, being content in the fact that my job doesn't involve lube or lingerie. it's the little things in life, really.
can you search on monster.com for movie roles like this? or do you find an actual agent?
it makes me wonder what other jobs i could have attempted, if i didn't get into the payroll industry. which is, by the by, quite a sedate and boring business, but one at which i do see all kinds of varied jobs. consultants, exotic dancers, waiters, lab rat attendants, people who make stained glass. it's interesting to see what different people do for a living.
one of the gals at work showed up the other day with her newly dyed bright red locks pulled into pigtails. it looked so cute that when i got home yesterday, i had to put mine up too. my hair's much longer than tish's is.
at what point did i stop wearing my hair in pigtails? how old was i, did i make a decision that pigtails were childish? at what point did i not take the same road as Ms. Starr?
sometimes i look back on the life i've lived and feel that it's so mundane and boring that i don't even want to think about it. i'm a cog in the wheel; i'm a gear, i'm a leg on the table.
then again, if this cog didn't show up every day, things would be difficult. the world wouldn't run the in quite the same pattern. i'm sure that my teammates at work are pulling together just fine, and that it's going to be a normal old friday for them. it's not going to be a life-changing experience to not have me there, but it's not going to be the same, either.
this morning i'm taking a break from my strenuous bitching schedule to appear in blogland. this morning Mandy Starr took a break from her strenous moaning schedule to appear on a radio show with three radio personalities.
what's the difference? i'm sitting here in pigtails, listening to a porn star talk about orgasm-induced foot cramps. two hours from now, what's not to say that she's not sitting in pigtails, reading this blog?
the world really is as small as my parents always postulated it was.
course, that being said, i'm still rather glad that i'm sitting here, in my pigtails, being content in the fact that my job doesn't involve lube or lingerie. it's the little things in life, really.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
hibernation
i'm a bear in reverse.
during the winter, i'm out in force--give me some crunchy snow, a pair of good boots, and a chill wind, and i'm your gal.
anything over 65 degrees, or 70% humidity--and i hibernate.
when it gets too warm i just don't want to leave the house. AC creates a bubble of comfort, in which i curl and relax. it's my own personal den.
for the past week i've been dreading those calls--"do you want to picnic/go for a walk/barbeque?"
blech.
a week ago monday i ventured out to my aunt's house, for a memorial day lunch. of course in minnesota nothing lasts for under two hours--it's all a marathon. the hello period is short...but the good-bye sequence is EPIC. i drove up with my sister and brother in law, waded through the heat into the backyard, and tried to imagine that i wasn't sweating.
of course my sister said she only wanted to be there for a few hours. since we got there at 1 i had high hopes we'd be on the road at 3.
nope. due to the nature of the gathering--familial--there's this unspoken agreement that you'll do certain things while visiting. the following is a guideline, but for the most part, breaking the chain is like breaking some ritual, at which point the powers that be will crash sun into moon and the sky will darken and the earth will quake...blah, blah, blah.
anyway, here's my take on it:
1. arrive 10-20 minutes late, staggering under a salad and/or dessert that you were told not to bring.
2. eat about an hour after the host/hostess originally indicated, listening to your uncle tell off-color jokes about obese women and harpoons.
3. stay and visit--which consists of either playing scrabble, in my family, or cards, or some yard game like bocce ball or croquet.
4. play again, as my sister's a poor loser and cannot fathom how she could have lost the first time.
5. announce that it's about time for you to be heading out.
6. try to beg out of dessert but get stuck in a lemon meringue pie. yuuuuummmm.
7. have ONE MORE cup of coffee and/or iced tea.
8. hug everyone in the room, put on your shoes, and realize that your purse is AWOL.
9. search through the house to locate purse; find purse.
10. on way out, are ambushed by aunt pawning food off on you in re-used cool whip containers.
11. hug everyone in room AGAIN.
12. finally leave at a dead run, scramble into the car ala the dukes of hazard, and burn rubber.
13. get home at 7 pm, four hours later than anticipated, but knew you'd be back then anyway.
when i got home on monday i didn't want to see ANYONE.
for a week.
friends, family, roommates. my cats were even iffy, and they don't even talk.
insult to injury, i've been working far too many hours to be healthy in any given week. this weekend we had the opportunity to go see a movie on saturday night, or go and sit around a fire with friends--neither of which happened, as i was still hibernating in layers of air conditioned comfort, nice organice incense, cat fur and the glow of my new computer monitor.
today dan and i ventured out of the house and actually took a mosquito-infested walk. it wasn't too bad in the shade and i really do like the woods. but it was nice to get home.
i'm not antisocial, really.
it's just summer. and summer, for me, equals weather that makes me feel gunky, and gatherings in said weather. i feel guilt carried over from childhood when i look outside and see sunlight glinting off windshields, or the long, peach-colored shadows of dusk.
luckily, it passes. i think it's about time i came out of hibernation, for bits and pieces of summer.
hugs to anyone i've inadvertently ignored, while evading sun. i'm not a vampire, honest.
during the winter, i'm out in force--give me some crunchy snow, a pair of good boots, and a chill wind, and i'm your gal.
anything over 65 degrees, or 70% humidity--and i hibernate.
when it gets too warm i just don't want to leave the house. AC creates a bubble of comfort, in which i curl and relax. it's my own personal den.
for the past week i've been dreading those calls--"do you want to picnic/go for a walk/barbeque?"
blech.
a week ago monday i ventured out to my aunt's house, for a memorial day lunch. of course in minnesota nothing lasts for under two hours--it's all a marathon. the hello period is short...but the good-bye sequence is EPIC. i drove up with my sister and brother in law, waded through the heat into the backyard, and tried to imagine that i wasn't sweating.
of course my sister said she only wanted to be there for a few hours. since we got there at 1 i had high hopes we'd be on the road at 3.
nope. due to the nature of the gathering--familial--there's this unspoken agreement that you'll do certain things while visiting. the following is a guideline, but for the most part, breaking the chain is like breaking some ritual, at which point the powers that be will crash sun into moon and the sky will darken and the earth will quake...blah, blah, blah.
anyway, here's my take on it:
1. arrive 10-20 minutes late, staggering under a salad and/or dessert that you were told not to bring.
2. eat about an hour after the host/hostess originally indicated, listening to your uncle tell off-color jokes about obese women and harpoons.
3. stay and visit--which consists of either playing scrabble, in my family, or cards, or some yard game like bocce ball or croquet.
4. play again, as my sister's a poor loser and cannot fathom how she could have lost the first time.
5. announce that it's about time for you to be heading out.
6. try to beg out of dessert but get stuck in a lemon meringue pie. yuuuuummmm.
7. have ONE MORE cup of coffee and/or iced tea.
8. hug everyone in the room, put on your shoes, and realize that your purse is AWOL.
9. search through the house to locate purse; find purse.
10. on way out, are ambushed by aunt pawning food off on you in re-used cool whip containers.
11. hug everyone in room AGAIN.
12. finally leave at a dead run, scramble into the car ala the dukes of hazard, and burn rubber.
13. get home at 7 pm, four hours later than anticipated, but knew you'd be back then anyway.
when i got home on monday i didn't want to see ANYONE.
for a week.
friends, family, roommates. my cats were even iffy, and they don't even talk.
insult to injury, i've been working far too many hours to be healthy in any given week. this weekend we had the opportunity to go see a movie on saturday night, or go and sit around a fire with friends--neither of which happened, as i was still hibernating in layers of air conditioned comfort, nice organice incense, cat fur and the glow of my new computer monitor.
today dan and i ventured out of the house and actually took a mosquito-infested walk. it wasn't too bad in the shade and i really do like the woods. but it was nice to get home.
i'm not antisocial, really.
it's just summer. and summer, for me, equals weather that makes me feel gunky, and gatherings in said weather. i feel guilt carried over from childhood when i look outside and see sunlight glinting off windshields, or the long, peach-colored shadows of dusk.
luckily, it passes. i think it's about time i came out of hibernation, for bits and pieces of summer.
hugs to anyone i've inadvertently ignored, while evading sun. i'm not a vampire, honest.
Sunday, May 28, 2006
a memorial to heat
this might get a bit long...but that's the way i write. (;
***
years ago on may 29th, my grandfather passed away; my dad's dad. they called him the red oak. when we built our house in northern minnesota, not long after he passed, my mother bought dad a red oak tree for the yard. we planted it the year after we planted about 125 trees that mom got from the forest service for WAY cheap. most of those trees didn't make it, and for a while, we didn't think the oak would make it either. but it did. in their new house in central minnesota they've got another red oak, which is behaving the same way--expected to die, but hanging on and flourishing.
i remember a lot about my grandfather, and i always foray into the world in a way that only can be shaped by him--with quiet. my grandpa was a listener. he was a a kind, humble man, with an endless sense of humor. he was bald, like my dad. sometimes now, as dad gets more and more white beareded, he reminds me so completely of my grandpa that i wonder what parts were actually my grandmother. (;
grandpa died of colon and skin cancer, out in arizona. my dad had been out the week before. my uncle, dad's oldest brother, was there with my grandma. bob said that for a few days grandpa hung on, for whatever reason there was, propped up by morphine for the pain. he passed on after they had last rites, but in time to hold the hands of my grandma and uncle and let go as they prayed beside him.
it's been 16 years since then. the day that i spoke to him, knowing that i'd never hug him again, i walked up the dirt road on which our house had been built, searching for agates. i usually found the small clear red agates, the size of my pinky nail. that day, however, i found an agate the size of my fist--the size of a heart.
***
so last year i call home on the 29th. my mom says she's taking my dad out, to celebrate.
confused, i ask, "celebrate?"
"yes," mom says. "celebrate."
i cautiously ask, "what are you celebrating?"
mom says, "the day your dad came home from vietnam."
i laugh and say, "wow...i didn't know that. i was wondering why you'd be celebrating, when all i knew was that grandpa passed on the 29th."
we both giggle about this. was it bad of us? nah.
that's another reason i thank my lucky stars on memorial day. dad's back, across the water. he sobered up, he met mom, he wanted to be a dad. he's cut from the same fabric as my grandfather--would give you the shirt off his back. when i see him with his brothers, though, i see the difference that facing a war creates in you, the dichotomy of loving life and knowing that you have taken life, as well. on my uncles' faces, i do not see the same lines, the same knowledge.
thank you, dad. thank you ever so much--for coming back, and for being you.
***
last year at this time my uncle jed, my dad's younger brother, had the stroke of all strokes. at this time last year, we didn't think he'd make it much longer at all. dad and my uncle tim flew out to california, where jed was recovering in hospital. they wept, they laughed, they hoped.
and this year, jed is still alive. jed's one of those people who just perserveres: despite all that the world throws at him, pelts him with, smothers him under, he keeps going. he can't walk, and he can only push himself backwards in his wheelchair with one foot, but he keeps going.
his motto is little by slow. sometimes when life is moving too quickly, and i don't feel i can keep pace, i repeat this mantra in my mind until i remember that any pace is a good pace, as long as you keep going.
***
last year on last thursday, there was a different kind of hope and pain that flushed my life. i came home mid-day, after receiving some strange emails from dan, to find him having what the therapist called a "psychotic break."
kind of like the earthquake overseas, and just as damaging, on a humanely individual level.
that day i went to work feeling good about my self. as a girl you have days where you are happy to be girly, happy to match your clothes and have hair in place. that day i remember exactly what i was wearing: capri jeans with pink flip flops, a red shirt and a pink baseball cap, and little flower earrings with pink petals and a red center. my hair was in a pony tail. i felt put together, and despite the fact that home was difficult, i felt good.
it was like a punch in the gut, when i got home and realized how far gone dan was.
and now, a year from then, i realize not only how far dan has come, but how far i have come, and for that matter, how far we have come.
the dam broke, last year. it had some far-reaching affects, between friends and family. but in the end, no matter how difficult it was at the time, it turned out for the best, in ways i could never imagine.
***
up north in the mississippi headwaters park, lake itasca state park, there is a stand of trees on the drive in called preacher's grove. they're norway pines--towering far, far above my head. the branches look like green clouds, pressed high up into the blue, and the ground beneath the trees is orange and crunchy with their needles. you can imagine how it smells--fir trees and lake water.
settlers came to this grove and prayed--hence the name. at some point, before or after the prayers, a fire ran through. the trees are marked now, big black holes at their bases, their shiny bark marred. they were burned so badly that they should have withered and died--but they didn't.
in the past year and past years, i've stood in the fire around this day. this memorial day is no longer just a memorial for the men in my life--my father, my grandpa, my uncle, my dan.
it's a memorial to me and for me--it's a memory that is painful, but that reminds me that i can withstand.
***
years ago on may 29th, my grandfather passed away; my dad's dad. they called him the red oak. when we built our house in northern minnesota, not long after he passed, my mother bought dad a red oak tree for the yard. we planted it the year after we planted about 125 trees that mom got from the forest service for WAY cheap. most of those trees didn't make it, and for a while, we didn't think the oak would make it either. but it did. in their new house in central minnesota they've got another red oak, which is behaving the same way--expected to die, but hanging on and flourishing.
i remember a lot about my grandfather, and i always foray into the world in a way that only can be shaped by him--with quiet. my grandpa was a listener. he was a a kind, humble man, with an endless sense of humor. he was bald, like my dad. sometimes now, as dad gets more and more white beareded, he reminds me so completely of my grandpa that i wonder what parts were actually my grandmother. (;
grandpa died of colon and skin cancer, out in arizona. my dad had been out the week before. my uncle, dad's oldest brother, was there with my grandma. bob said that for a few days grandpa hung on, for whatever reason there was, propped up by morphine for the pain. he passed on after they had last rites, but in time to hold the hands of my grandma and uncle and let go as they prayed beside him.
it's been 16 years since then. the day that i spoke to him, knowing that i'd never hug him again, i walked up the dirt road on which our house had been built, searching for agates. i usually found the small clear red agates, the size of my pinky nail. that day, however, i found an agate the size of my fist--the size of a heart.
***
so last year i call home on the 29th. my mom says she's taking my dad out, to celebrate.
confused, i ask, "celebrate?"
"yes," mom says. "celebrate."
i cautiously ask, "what are you celebrating?"
mom says, "the day your dad came home from vietnam."
i laugh and say, "wow...i didn't know that. i was wondering why you'd be celebrating, when all i knew was that grandpa passed on the 29th."
we both giggle about this. was it bad of us? nah.
that's another reason i thank my lucky stars on memorial day. dad's back, across the water. he sobered up, he met mom, he wanted to be a dad. he's cut from the same fabric as my grandfather--would give you the shirt off his back. when i see him with his brothers, though, i see the difference that facing a war creates in you, the dichotomy of loving life and knowing that you have taken life, as well. on my uncles' faces, i do not see the same lines, the same knowledge.
thank you, dad. thank you ever so much--for coming back, and for being you.
***
last year at this time my uncle jed, my dad's younger brother, had the stroke of all strokes. at this time last year, we didn't think he'd make it much longer at all. dad and my uncle tim flew out to california, where jed was recovering in hospital. they wept, they laughed, they hoped.
and this year, jed is still alive. jed's one of those people who just perserveres: despite all that the world throws at him, pelts him with, smothers him under, he keeps going. he can't walk, and he can only push himself backwards in his wheelchair with one foot, but he keeps going.
his motto is little by slow. sometimes when life is moving too quickly, and i don't feel i can keep pace, i repeat this mantra in my mind until i remember that any pace is a good pace, as long as you keep going.
***
last year on last thursday, there was a different kind of hope and pain that flushed my life. i came home mid-day, after receiving some strange emails from dan, to find him having what the therapist called a "psychotic break."
kind of like the earthquake overseas, and just as damaging, on a humanely individual level.
that day i went to work feeling good about my self. as a girl you have days where you are happy to be girly, happy to match your clothes and have hair in place. that day i remember exactly what i was wearing: capri jeans with pink flip flops, a red shirt and a pink baseball cap, and little flower earrings with pink petals and a red center. my hair was in a pony tail. i felt put together, and despite the fact that home was difficult, i felt good.
it was like a punch in the gut, when i got home and realized how far gone dan was.
and now, a year from then, i realize not only how far dan has come, but how far i have come, and for that matter, how far we have come.
the dam broke, last year. it had some far-reaching affects, between friends and family. but in the end, no matter how difficult it was at the time, it turned out for the best, in ways i could never imagine.
***
up north in the mississippi headwaters park, lake itasca state park, there is a stand of trees on the drive in called preacher's grove. they're norway pines--towering far, far above my head. the branches look like green clouds, pressed high up into the blue, and the ground beneath the trees is orange and crunchy with their needles. you can imagine how it smells--fir trees and lake water.
settlers came to this grove and prayed--hence the name. at some point, before or after the prayers, a fire ran through. the trees are marked now, big black holes at their bases, their shiny bark marred. they were burned so badly that they should have withered and died--but they didn't.
in the past year and past years, i've stood in the fire around this day. this memorial day is no longer just a memorial for the men in my life--my father, my grandpa, my uncle, my dan.
it's a memorial to me and for me--it's a memory that is painful, but that reminds me that i can withstand.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood...
today looks like it's going to be lovely out--blue sky streaked with light white clouds, green grass, trees leaning and blurring in the wind. i'm the first one up this morning--at least, human wise. the cats have been up since well before me, awaiting my descent to the kitchen, and breakfast for them. upstairs i can hear dan moving around. it was nice to wake up to the sounds of birds trilling outside, and since it's the weekend, the hum of traffic was barely audible, if at all.
i don't know what's planned for today. yesterday was a fly-by-your-pants day. i got up early and drove around to some garage sales, found nothing of interest, and came home. collected dan and we went to wal-mart for a towel bar. it was so blase and mundane that it barely requires typing.
watched "hoodwinked" and "the family stone." the first was good but could have been a bit tighter; the second was surprisingly a crying movie--good but the balance between tears and laughter wasn't too even, and i would have called it a drama before a comedy.
and now today arrives, sunny and lovely, and i feel this pressing need to DO something--accomplish a task, walk in the woods, hit the farmer's market in st paul, just enjoy the weather. it's so rare to have good weather in minnesota springtime, as it's been raining for weeks. i'm sure this will lead to blistering heat for summer, and stock up the ponds and lakes for mosquitos. yuck.
at any rate, that's the normality of this saturday morning here in minnesota. lounging in pajamas, typing about the normalcy of the a.m., and planning for a good bit of nothing.
today, thus far, is a beautiful day.
i don't know what's planned for today. yesterday was a fly-by-your-pants day. i got up early and drove around to some garage sales, found nothing of interest, and came home. collected dan and we went to wal-mart for a towel bar. it was so blase and mundane that it barely requires typing.
watched "hoodwinked" and "the family stone." the first was good but could have been a bit tighter; the second was surprisingly a crying movie--good but the balance between tears and laughter wasn't too even, and i would have called it a drama before a comedy.
and now today arrives, sunny and lovely, and i feel this pressing need to DO something--accomplish a task, walk in the woods, hit the farmer's market in st paul, just enjoy the weather. it's so rare to have good weather in minnesota springtime, as it's been raining for weeks. i'm sure this will lead to blistering heat for summer, and stock up the ponds and lakes for mosquitos. yuck.
at any rate, that's the normality of this saturday morning here in minnesota. lounging in pajamas, typing about the normalcy of the a.m., and planning for a good bit of nothing.
today, thus far, is a beautiful day.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
underwhere
yesterday we were supposed to do laundry. today, too. however work (where i am now, just logging off my computer) has been intruding on everyday functions for the last week and a half now.
it's been busy--too busy to think. last week on thursday i stood looking at all my pill bottles, wondering if i had just taken my meds...but no, it was yesterday night.
so today, after work, i need to go forage at wal-mart for underwear.
clothing seems extraneous lately. in fact, most of life seems extraneous.
saturday we went and saw the bodyworlds exhibit at the science museum--very, very humbling. the intricacy of the human body is mirrored only in the intricacy of nature. our tendons stretched between bone are twigs, our veins and arteries the root systems of a tiny new plant.
bodies on display seemed at first glance to be something shocking. but by the end of the show, when we were about to leave, i didn't want to go. i wanted to linger, sit down and just look. really, really look.
there was no smell; i've been in a morgue before, at a university, and there's this fabulous odor pervading everything--death and latex and embalming fluid. this smelled vaguely like tupperware.
not to downplay things. this was a serious exhibit, and you could tell that a lot of people were affected. it's one thing in minnesota to hunt and fish, to gut your stag or clean out a trout. it's another thing to be faced with the mortality of the human form, grotesque and lovely.
somewhere in this empty building, someone is yelling and shouting and pounding on a wall; probably bored in the finishing area. it gives me the same feeling in my chest--light and afraid--that remained after we left the museum on saturday.
last week i worked 58 hours. so far this week, after two days, i'm at 22.75. i'm tired. i'm sick of being in this gray cube, four walls and an uncomfortable desk. so why do i linger?
because i'm feeling vaguely overwhelmed, watching my fingers skim over keyboard as i type.
i need to go and purchase a layer of clothing. under this layer of pink skin, under the layers of flesh and fat and muscle, those tendons flex and swing. i cannot see them; they're under so many layers of body that they're hidden.
buying clothing, when you're already clothed in so many layers, seems plain old silly.
then again, i just can't bring myself to go commando. (;
it's been busy--too busy to think. last week on thursday i stood looking at all my pill bottles, wondering if i had just taken my meds...but no, it was yesterday night.
so today, after work, i need to go forage at wal-mart for underwear.
clothing seems extraneous lately. in fact, most of life seems extraneous.
saturday we went and saw the bodyworlds exhibit at the science museum--very, very humbling. the intricacy of the human body is mirrored only in the intricacy of nature. our tendons stretched between bone are twigs, our veins and arteries the root systems of a tiny new plant.
bodies on display seemed at first glance to be something shocking. but by the end of the show, when we were about to leave, i didn't want to go. i wanted to linger, sit down and just look. really, really look.
there was no smell; i've been in a morgue before, at a university, and there's this fabulous odor pervading everything--death and latex and embalming fluid. this smelled vaguely like tupperware.
not to downplay things. this was a serious exhibit, and you could tell that a lot of people were affected. it's one thing in minnesota to hunt and fish, to gut your stag or clean out a trout. it's another thing to be faced with the mortality of the human form, grotesque and lovely.
somewhere in this empty building, someone is yelling and shouting and pounding on a wall; probably bored in the finishing area. it gives me the same feeling in my chest--light and afraid--that remained after we left the museum on saturday.
last week i worked 58 hours. so far this week, after two days, i'm at 22.75. i'm tired. i'm sick of being in this gray cube, four walls and an uncomfortable desk. so why do i linger?
because i'm feeling vaguely overwhelmed, watching my fingers skim over keyboard as i type.
i need to go and purchase a layer of clothing. under this layer of pink skin, under the layers of flesh and fat and muscle, those tendons flex and swing. i cannot see them; they're under so many layers of body that they're hidden.
buying clothing, when you're already clothed in so many layers, seems plain old silly.
then again, i just can't bring myself to go commando. (;
Thursday, May 04, 2006
measure for measure
We learn more by looking for the answer to a question and not finding it than we do from learning the answer itself. -- Lloyd Alexander
there's two tools that are invaluable to me in my tool box: my level and my tape measure.
the level i like just because i like the little bubble in the water; i'm not sure i've ever used it to actually make sure a shelf was even or anything useful. the last time i looked in the toolbox, it wasn't there--gone missing, i suppose, amid moves and such.
i think i have three tape measures, though. one is small enough to fit in my purse. i like seeing how big things are, the scale of them. it's something that can be plotted and figured. i don't know why this is; i'm a fairly unorganized person.
but i do take an inordinate deal of pleasure in measuring things.
perhaps it's because so many things are immeasurable--emotions, feelings, thoughts. there is no weight, there is no yardage. even time is mutable, bent by sunlight and memory.
how much sorrow can i take? how much joy? how much laughter is enough? there is no rule, no way to take stock. can i inventory my stacks of wrongs and rights, my bins filled with shame, file upon file of happiness?
i don't know. i'm not sure there's a balance--i've lost my level. is anyone's life even keeled and safe?
this weekend my great uncle, paul, and great aunt, vernie, are celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary. that is a measure of time--you can chart the course of their years together. you can see the lines on their face that resulted from discovering that they were not able to have children, from vernie going blind. at my grandmother's wake last year, paul stood sniffling, looking so much like my grandpa that i wanted to weep for another reason than knowing that grandma was gone. "i'm the last one," he said. "the last of my generation."
i can't take the measurement of that sorrow, of the loneliness. at the same time, when you see paul look at vernie, you view measureless love, shared memory that is beyond my comprehension.
this last year has been filled with things that i cannot measure, and things that i can. i can take my tape measure into the garage and measure my work in progress, the cedar chest covered in old white paint, and i can go upstairs and measure my new made curtains--6 yards of slate blue fabric.
i cannot take my tape measure and chart my emotions, or the journey on which i started last may.
part of me clings to the hope that like a map on yahoo! dot com i will be able to see in pink highlighter the path i have taken, and how long it has taken me to arrive. "you've gone 23 miles, and it took you seventy minutes."
i can tell you that three hundred and sixty five days have passed--this i can measure--but i cannot explain in any quantitive fashion the measure of what the last year has meant to me. so much has gone on.
the celtic wheel of the year turned on may first, with beltane. in ancient times, druids drove cattle between the flames of two bonfires, to bless them for the coming year.
often i feel that i have been driven between many fires. my skin is puckered and scarred, and every year i start down my path again, blessed to have what i do have, and to know what i know, and still wounded by the flame. i think of how cool the air feels, when you step out of a hot shower--and how both the heat and the cold are wonderful, in their own way.
can i measure what i have learned from this last year? have i shed skin in losing serena's friendship, in losing my naivete about trust? can i measure how much it means to me that my relationship with dan is so much cleaner, so much more honest? can i measure what it is in me that has grown, amidst the death? in the scheme of things, this was a year--filled with all the things a year is filled with: the sum of life.
i think of the sixty-five years paul and vernie have been together--how much they have withstood. all year long i have looked for a reason for what happened a year ago, have wanted there to be something definable about what has gone on since then, and what it means to me.
perhaps it is as simple as those two balefires, and the heat of them singing my skin--am i blessed, just to have stood the test? and are the scars i carry the reminder to me, of how blessed i have been?
i can't tell you, not because it's a secret, but because in the end, the knowledge--good, bad, indifferent--that i've gained over just three hundred and sixty five days is entirely without measure.
there's two tools that are invaluable to me in my tool box: my level and my tape measure.
the level i like just because i like the little bubble in the water; i'm not sure i've ever used it to actually make sure a shelf was even or anything useful. the last time i looked in the toolbox, it wasn't there--gone missing, i suppose, amid moves and such.
i think i have three tape measures, though. one is small enough to fit in my purse. i like seeing how big things are, the scale of them. it's something that can be plotted and figured. i don't know why this is; i'm a fairly unorganized person.
but i do take an inordinate deal of pleasure in measuring things.
perhaps it's because so many things are immeasurable--emotions, feelings, thoughts. there is no weight, there is no yardage. even time is mutable, bent by sunlight and memory.
how much sorrow can i take? how much joy? how much laughter is enough? there is no rule, no way to take stock. can i inventory my stacks of wrongs and rights, my bins filled with shame, file upon file of happiness?
i don't know. i'm not sure there's a balance--i've lost my level. is anyone's life even keeled and safe?
this weekend my great uncle, paul, and great aunt, vernie, are celebrating their 65th wedding anniversary. that is a measure of time--you can chart the course of their years together. you can see the lines on their face that resulted from discovering that they were not able to have children, from vernie going blind. at my grandmother's wake last year, paul stood sniffling, looking so much like my grandpa that i wanted to weep for another reason than knowing that grandma was gone. "i'm the last one," he said. "the last of my generation."
i can't take the measurement of that sorrow, of the loneliness. at the same time, when you see paul look at vernie, you view measureless love, shared memory that is beyond my comprehension.
this last year has been filled with things that i cannot measure, and things that i can. i can take my tape measure into the garage and measure my work in progress, the cedar chest covered in old white paint, and i can go upstairs and measure my new made curtains--6 yards of slate blue fabric.
i cannot take my tape measure and chart my emotions, or the journey on which i started last may.
part of me clings to the hope that like a map on yahoo! dot com i will be able to see in pink highlighter the path i have taken, and how long it has taken me to arrive. "you've gone 23 miles, and it took you seventy minutes."
i can tell you that three hundred and sixty five days have passed--this i can measure--but i cannot explain in any quantitive fashion the measure of what the last year has meant to me. so much has gone on.
the celtic wheel of the year turned on may first, with beltane. in ancient times, druids drove cattle between the flames of two bonfires, to bless them for the coming year.
often i feel that i have been driven between many fires. my skin is puckered and scarred, and every year i start down my path again, blessed to have what i do have, and to know what i know, and still wounded by the flame. i think of how cool the air feels, when you step out of a hot shower--and how both the heat and the cold are wonderful, in their own way.
can i measure what i have learned from this last year? have i shed skin in losing serena's friendship, in losing my naivete about trust? can i measure how much it means to me that my relationship with dan is so much cleaner, so much more honest? can i measure what it is in me that has grown, amidst the death? in the scheme of things, this was a year--filled with all the things a year is filled with: the sum of life.
i think of the sixty-five years paul and vernie have been together--how much they have withstood. all year long i have looked for a reason for what happened a year ago, have wanted there to be something definable about what has gone on since then, and what it means to me.
perhaps it is as simple as those two balefires, and the heat of them singing my skin--am i blessed, just to have stood the test? and are the scars i carry the reminder to me, of how blessed i have been?
i can't tell you, not because it's a secret, but because in the end, the knowledge--good, bad, indifferent--that i've gained over just three hundred and sixty five days is entirely without measure.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
i feel as renewed as a library book.
you know those pictures where it's two of the same picture and you have to pick out the differences?
last week on friday i was overly optimisitic about my living room, and most of the house. i had delusions of steam cleaning and amazing house-cleaned-top-to-bottom hallucinations.
in reality, not much happened. i took a walk, called my sister, retrieved the heat gun, and got a good start on peeling paint off my garbage find, the blue-white painted cedar chest...
all today, sunday, the last day of my vacation.
i look at my living room and it's the second half of those two pictures--the coffee table is in the same place; the piles of crap are moved minutely. not a whole lot has changed, in the reality-based series of "Kim's Vacation." i ate, i slept, i lounged. i read some, watched television, played some online games. there was at least one day that i didn't shower, and just stayed home the whole day, in my pajamas.
i suppose that some people might not call that a vacation. there was no sun-warmed island sand, no museum visits, no tequila or chilled beer.
just me, burning incense and being a layabout.
part of the issue was that i never actually got the steam cleaner, due to some miscommunications. and the heat gun dropped into my hands last night, and i got bored this afternoon and decided to give it a whirl. my biggest accomplishment this week was sweeping and mopping the kitchen. and that was strenuous, let me tell you what.
dan took monday off and we bummed around the house. tuesday i met with helene. wednesday and thursday were kind of a tv-computer monitor based blur. friday dan came home for lunch, after his third interview at the same place, and announced that he was employed as of may 1st; i did a pretty wild happy dance, and suddenly the rest of the vacation was just that--a vacation.
it's the little things about him being employed that are the good things--he can purchase his own socks, he can get non-generic soda, he doesn't have to ask for gas money like a sixteen year old bumming it from mom. for dan, it's a renewal of hope; for me, the same.
and a reminder that i don't have to go to jamaica in order to have a vacation.
the little things--being home by myself, listening to my alice in chains "unplugged" cd, having complete run of the remote--that's what made it a vacation. eating chocolate until i was nearly sick of it. (yes, nearly...) having cats fall asleep on me, while i tested and re-tested the sofa.
i suppose it was a vacation. i think the fact that it wasn't the vacation i had originally intended--not much on my actual list of things to do got accomplished--that's what makes me feel less ready to go back to work tomorrow.
or perhaps it's just that it's work, and i know what's waiting for me there. my week off from there was unfettered and loose, unorganized, chaotic, happy. i might not have gotten all the sleep i wanted, but i did something out of the ordinary, at least for me.
nothing.
and it was quite lovely.
last week on friday i was overly optimisitic about my living room, and most of the house. i had delusions of steam cleaning and amazing house-cleaned-top-to-bottom hallucinations.
in reality, not much happened. i took a walk, called my sister, retrieved the heat gun, and got a good start on peeling paint off my garbage find, the blue-white painted cedar chest...
all today, sunday, the last day of my vacation.
i look at my living room and it's the second half of those two pictures--the coffee table is in the same place; the piles of crap are moved minutely. not a whole lot has changed, in the reality-based series of "Kim's Vacation." i ate, i slept, i lounged. i read some, watched television, played some online games. there was at least one day that i didn't shower, and just stayed home the whole day, in my pajamas.
i suppose that some people might not call that a vacation. there was no sun-warmed island sand, no museum visits, no tequila or chilled beer.
just me, burning incense and being a layabout.
part of the issue was that i never actually got the steam cleaner, due to some miscommunications. and the heat gun dropped into my hands last night, and i got bored this afternoon and decided to give it a whirl. my biggest accomplishment this week was sweeping and mopping the kitchen. and that was strenuous, let me tell you what.
dan took monday off and we bummed around the house. tuesday i met with helene. wednesday and thursday were kind of a tv-computer monitor based blur. friday dan came home for lunch, after his third interview at the same place, and announced that he was employed as of may 1st; i did a pretty wild happy dance, and suddenly the rest of the vacation was just that--a vacation.
it's the little things about him being employed that are the good things--he can purchase his own socks, he can get non-generic soda, he doesn't have to ask for gas money like a sixteen year old bumming it from mom. for dan, it's a renewal of hope; for me, the same.
and a reminder that i don't have to go to jamaica in order to have a vacation.
the little things--being home by myself, listening to my alice in chains "unplugged" cd, having complete run of the remote--that's what made it a vacation. eating chocolate until i was nearly sick of it. (yes, nearly...) having cats fall asleep on me, while i tested and re-tested the sofa.
i suppose it was a vacation. i think the fact that it wasn't the vacation i had originally intended--not much on my actual list of things to do got accomplished--that's what makes me feel less ready to go back to work tomorrow.
or perhaps it's just that it's work, and i know what's waiting for me there. my week off from there was unfettered and loose, unorganized, chaotic, happy. i might not have gotten all the sleep i wanted, but i did something out of the ordinary, at least for me.
nothing.
and it was quite lovely.
Friday, April 14, 2006
scratch and dent
today's my last day of work for a week. a whole week. people asked me what i was doing next week; my pat answer is "staying home. steam cleaning my carpets. making a dent in the house."
if i glance around the living room, i remember why i want to stay home on my vacation--the house is a mess. and most of the mess is mine.
*sigh*
i read somewhere that adhd folks have issues with making piles. termites, eat your hearts out--i've got piles everywhere in the house. tackling them seems like a monumental, spinning-gold-from-straw type of task, but it's got to be done.
looking around again, i'm near to overwhelmed. how can i think to accomplish this in a week? inconceivable!
at the same time, i know it needs to be done. my committment is that it doesn't have to all be done at one time--i don't have to get the mass of mess cleaned up in the span of a week. i just need to make a dent.
lately i've been watching dan make a dent in the world, too. he's gone to an interview that turned out to be a mere testing session, and another this morning, for a job that he never will want, not in a million years. either of them, however, has more potential than nothing, i suppose. and he's temping at another job, at which he's unhappily excelling.
i think he has a sense of pride, in that he is doing so well at it, but to him it's so elementary that he doesn't expect any less of himself.
i see him eyeing up the job market every day, in the same manner as me, eyeing my massive mounds of what will probably turn out to be mostly garbage.
in our own feeble human ways, we're trying to make a dent in something, trying to scratch out existence on the planet. i always think that cavemen, or whoever was scraching the surface for the first few millenia, could never have felt the lack of success that we so often do: they'd have to succeed, just in order to eat.
i'm sure that a mammoth, to your average pre-gunpowder crowd, was the same size as the seemingly insurmountable tasks that are set before us now--my mountains and dan's job search for a good, permanent job that he won't go bald while working at.
i'm sure that someone who woke up now, after living back at the dawn of humanity, would think that we have it infinitely simpler: the mammoth is in nice, pre-cut slabs at the grocery store, and you don't have to do anything other than cook it. there's dentistry and sanititation, life well beyond the age of 40.
it'd be quite shocking, i'm sure.
then again, after a good amount of time, this hypothetical thawed pre-history person would no doubt be hankering for a good romp through the fields with sharpened stick in hand--that seems so much easier than dealing with healthcare plans and a nine-to-nine job. it's just you and the mammoth; you kill it and eat and live, or you get dented by the mammoth.
lately, i see dan being dented by the mammoth. which sounds so ridiculous, but it's my own inner metaphor for the world in which we're now living.
***
i'm a big fan of second-hand items; most of my house is furnished in them. lots of the dents and scratches are not mine, or if they are, i don't remember how they got there. over time, i've become a second-hand item.
does it make me worth any less? or is this how you become human--acquiring the mental and physical scarring that separates you from your neighbor, and yet joins you to that same neighbor? because everyone you know has survived, regardless of the magnitude of odds or obstacles, and your ancestors before them--long or short lives, they lived and you're sitting here, now, reading something brought to you only because one of my ancestors survived a shipwreck.
i must be optimistic this morning due to the impending vacation. but i'm looking at the world through dark glasses, seeing each year etched into my body. in the pattern of dents, i can see the tale of how i've survived to this point, what i've gone up against, how i'm still here.
in this era, the only difference is what you call that mammoth.
if i glance around the living room, i remember why i want to stay home on my vacation--the house is a mess. and most of the mess is mine.
*sigh*
i read somewhere that adhd folks have issues with making piles. termites, eat your hearts out--i've got piles everywhere in the house. tackling them seems like a monumental, spinning-gold-from-straw type of task, but it's got to be done.
looking around again, i'm near to overwhelmed. how can i think to accomplish this in a week? inconceivable!
at the same time, i know it needs to be done. my committment is that it doesn't have to all be done at one time--i don't have to get the mass of mess cleaned up in the span of a week. i just need to make a dent.
lately i've been watching dan make a dent in the world, too. he's gone to an interview that turned out to be a mere testing session, and another this morning, for a job that he never will want, not in a million years. either of them, however, has more potential than nothing, i suppose. and he's temping at another job, at which he's unhappily excelling.
i think he has a sense of pride, in that he is doing so well at it, but to him it's so elementary that he doesn't expect any less of himself.
i see him eyeing up the job market every day, in the same manner as me, eyeing my massive mounds of what will probably turn out to be mostly garbage.
in our own feeble human ways, we're trying to make a dent in something, trying to scratch out existence on the planet. i always think that cavemen, or whoever was scraching the surface for the first few millenia, could never have felt the lack of success that we so often do: they'd have to succeed, just in order to eat.
i'm sure that a mammoth, to your average pre-gunpowder crowd, was the same size as the seemingly insurmountable tasks that are set before us now--my mountains and dan's job search for a good, permanent job that he won't go bald while working at.
i'm sure that someone who woke up now, after living back at the dawn of humanity, would think that we have it infinitely simpler: the mammoth is in nice, pre-cut slabs at the grocery store, and you don't have to do anything other than cook it. there's dentistry and sanititation, life well beyond the age of 40.
it'd be quite shocking, i'm sure.
then again, after a good amount of time, this hypothetical thawed pre-history person would no doubt be hankering for a good romp through the fields with sharpened stick in hand--that seems so much easier than dealing with healthcare plans and a nine-to-nine job. it's just you and the mammoth; you kill it and eat and live, or you get dented by the mammoth.
lately, i see dan being dented by the mammoth. which sounds so ridiculous, but it's my own inner metaphor for the world in which we're now living.
***
i'm a big fan of second-hand items; most of my house is furnished in them. lots of the dents and scratches are not mine, or if they are, i don't remember how they got there. over time, i've become a second-hand item.
does it make me worth any less? or is this how you become human--acquiring the mental and physical scarring that separates you from your neighbor, and yet joins you to that same neighbor? because everyone you know has survived, regardless of the magnitude of odds or obstacles, and your ancestors before them--long or short lives, they lived and you're sitting here, now, reading something brought to you only because one of my ancestors survived a shipwreck.
i must be optimistic this morning due to the impending vacation. but i'm looking at the world through dark glasses, seeing each year etched into my body. in the pattern of dents, i can see the tale of how i've survived to this point, what i've gone up against, how i'm still here.
in this era, the only difference is what you call that mammoth.
Friday, April 07, 2006
does life come in chewable pill form?
first of all, the wedding was lovely. the priest did a jig twice during the service (yes, an actual jig. i thought he was having a seizure at first, but he was dancing. apparently it was his last mass EVER as a catholic priest; he's leaving the priesthood. dan said, "i'd dance too.") and the reception, though a long ways away, was nice. i just wasn't in a mood to dance, all pms-y and tired and feeling like a hermit forced into a social butterfly's costume.
weddings, in my mind, suck. it's a HUGE amount of money being spent on one day of your life--money that in my mind could go towards so many different things. and is it really the happiest day of your life? my mom always said the day she had her kids was the happiest day of her life, and dad agreed. i suppose that's spending money on something different, but still...
that being said, i don't want to get married by a judge in a courthouse. i'd like to have my family near, and a few friends. but not everyone i've ever known, and certainly not my extended family. there's just too many of them, especially on my mom's italian side.
my ideal wedding would be an outdoor party, with orderves and maybe some barbeque chicken sandwiches, vegetarian for friends who don't do meat. i'd like everyone to show up and mingle, have a glass of lemonade, chat, etc. after about half hour or so, have the officiant call attention, and instead of sitting in neat rows, just have the ceremony with everyone gathered around in a circle. then afterwards, cake and bocce ball, or something fun that's not a dance.
or just rent a restaurant--my choice would be stephano's, across the street; it's a little italian place. have dinner and drinks, then the service right there, and ta-da! you're done. course that can't be very cheap, either.
and as dan pointed out, there'd be a lot of miffed family members if they didn't receive even an invite. i just don't want to spend too much on something like this. my mom suggested a cake and champagne wedding, which is what they had--just the wedding and the reception just with cake, etc. but when my sister tried this, my mom vetoed it, and came up with money for sara to have a reception for the whole crew.
it was very nice, and i doubt sara regrets any of it, but it's not my style. i don't want a big church thing; i want small and laid back. i don't want a white dress...well, not necessarily. (; i just don't know what dress i would wear...but that would just require shopping trips, and i'd be fine with those.
but i don't want to just stand in the courthouse, or elope to wisconsin. i like organizing a party; i just don't enjoy being the center of attention.
i wish that the answer could come in the same size tablet as my blood pressure medication--so tiny, but keeping my veins in order all the same. course, if that was the case, there ought to be an answer for world hunger and violence and everything else, too. an answer to questions without answers, and to answers that come with too many questions.
weddings, in my mind, suck. it's a HUGE amount of money being spent on one day of your life--money that in my mind could go towards so many different things. and is it really the happiest day of your life? my mom always said the day she had her kids was the happiest day of her life, and dad agreed. i suppose that's spending money on something different, but still...
that being said, i don't want to get married by a judge in a courthouse. i'd like to have my family near, and a few friends. but not everyone i've ever known, and certainly not my extended family. there's just too many of them, especially on my mom's italian side.
my ideal wedding would be an outdoor party, with orderves and maybe some barbeque chicken sandwiches, vegetarian for friends who don't do meat. i'd like everyone to show up and mingle, have a glass of lemonade, chat, etc. after about half hour or so, have the officiant call attention, and instead of sitting in neat rows, just have the ceremony with everyone gathered around in a circle. then afterwards, cake and bocce ball, or something fun that's not a dance.
or just rent a restaurant--my choice would be stephano's, across the street; it's a little italian place. have dinner and drinks, then the service right there, and ta-da! you're done. course that can't be very cheap, either.
and as dan pointed out, there'd be a lot of miffed family members if they didn't receive even an invite. i just don't want to spend too much on something like this. my mom suggested a cake and champagne wedding, which is what they had--just the wedding and the reception just with cake, etc. but when my sister tried this, my mom vetoed it, and came up with money for sara to have a reception for the whole crew.
it was very nice, and i doubt sara regrets any of it, but it's not my style. i don't want a big church thing; i want small and laid back. i don't want a white dress...well, not necessarily. (; i just don't know what dress i would wear...but that would just require shopping trips, and i'd be fine with those.
but i don't want to just stand in the courthouse, or elope to wisconsin. i like organizing a party; i just don't enjoy being the center of attention.
i wish that the answer could come in the same size tablet as my blood pressure medication--so tiny, but keeping my veins in order all the same. course, if that was the case, there ought to be an answer for world hunger and violence and everything else, too. an answer to questions without answers, and to answers that come with too many questions.
Saturday, April 01, 2006
get me to the church on time
so my friend burt is getting married today. i'm quite glad for him; i didn't think burt the mountain man would ever find a gal, after the last stalker-chick relationship that was so horrible. but kate's perfect for him, and it'll be fun to watch them get hitched.
the bummer is that the reception is about 90 miles away from the wedding. wedding is at noon; reception is at 4. huh? i'm sure it was logistics and all. but with the price of gas...ouch. i'm sure we'll go, because some of our other friends will be attending, and we don't get to see them too often...again, painful pump prices...
so yeah. it kind of shoots the afternoon in the foot, as well as the evening. i don't know how long the reception is supposed to go, but we're going to drive home afterwards, instead of staying overnight in a hotel near the reception. it's kind of a play it by ear type of thing.
the title reflects why i'm typing now, instead of ironing like i oughta be, or showering, primping, all that crap girls like to do prior to events. i'm perpetually late, and i guess it's my penchant for being distracted by EVERYTHING that makes it so.
***
on wednesday i went shopping for a book i wanted to give to the happy couple: the prophet, by kahlil gibran. they're doing a reading out of it, and burt said he'd never read the rest, so there you have it.
anyway, kim the distractable is in the bathroom of barnes and noble when i hear two or three other shoppers come in. i'm putting my jacket on and finding my lip gloss in the neverending pit of my purse, and one of the voices rings in my head and sounds like serena's.
so thursday morning i sent an email to another friend attending, kind of ashamed that i was even asking, whether or not she was going to be coming to the wedding. i was told she couldn't make it.
again, i don't feel like popping her in the noggin. i don't feel like i have much to say to her. but it's annoying--like a mosquito you can't find in the dark of night, humming and buzzing away.
eventually, on those hot summer nights when you're already sapped by the heat, you fall back asleep, knowing that it will bite you anyway, but knowing that it's better than lunging around the room at 3 am with a book and the lights on, springing off the bed at walls and such. the small bite is a sacrifice you're willing to make, just to go back to sleep.
despite all of its loud buzz, the mosquito is very small.
which is how i'm thinking about this. the world's a small place; my dad regularly bumps into people from his hometown of about 500, on various areas of the continental US. it stands to figure that we're all mingling at this gigantic worldwide reception--and i'm bound to bump into people that rub me the wrong way, or people i'd rather avoid.
however, i don't want that to ruin the event itself. i don't want to run away if i see serena. i used to do that, when i was younger--i had this job while in college that i despised, mainly because my boss was a complete bitch-ass. i quit; but again, small town--she came through my line when i started working at the grocery store. my stomach was in knots as i rang up her groceries and made small talk, but afterwards the panic rose and i had to go into the bathroom for a few moments to let it roll over me and onto the next person.
i was talking to my friend nathan, a few days after that. he asked me something that has given me a step towards my own growth of a spine: "kim, why do you give her such power over you?"
i couldn't answer that question at that time. but after i found out that serena wouldn't be there, i chided myself for even worrying. was this going to detract from my enjoyment of the reception, if she was there? probably, to be honest. i'd be worried about dan, and what i would say if she approached.
i didn't want to be the chick on yahoo! news with the headline: GUEST RUINS WEDDING WITH BRAWL; RECEPTION HALL BURNS TO GROUND.
so i have to keep making serena smaller in my mind. i feel like if i say her name enough, it will become as normal as saying "couch" or "plate" or any other word. i have to remember that i'm at this giant party and maybe it took me a while to show up--the perpetually late thing, again--but i'm here, and the tiny buzz of one mosquito cannot control my emotions.
***
so. onto the Location of the Nylons, and the Finding of the Dress Shoes. i still have to decide what to wear.
*sigh*
this is why i'm never on time. too much rustling around in my head. i suppose if i could use an iron on those rustled thoughts as easily as i can on my pants, i'd be in business.
the bummer is that the reception is about 90 miles away from the wedding. wedding is at noon; reception is at 4. huh? i'm sure it was logistics and all. but with the price of gas...ouch. i'm sure we'll go, because some of our other friends will be attending, and we don't get to see them too often...again, painful pump prices...
so yeah. it kind of shoots the afternoon in the foot, as well as the evening. i don't know how long the reception is supposed to go, but we're going to drive home afterwards, instead of staying overnight in a hotel near the reception. it's kind of a play it by ear type of thing.
the title reflects why i'm typing now, instead of ironing like i oughta be, or showering, primping, all that crap girls like to do prior to events. i'm perpetually late, and i guess it's my penchant for being distracted by EVERYTHING that makes it so.
***
on wednesday i went shopping for a book i wanted to give to the happy couple: the prophet, by kahlil gibran. they're doing a reading out of it, and burt said he'd never read the rest, so there you have it.
anyway, kim the distractable is in the bathroom of barnes and noble when i hear two or three other shoppers come in. i'm putting my jacket on and finding my lip gloss in the neverending pit of my purse, and one of the voices rings in my head and sounds like serena's.
so thursday morning i sent an email to another friend attending, kind of ashamed that i was even asking, whether or not she was going to be coming to the wedding. i was told she couldn't make it.
again, i don't feel like popping her in the noggin. i don't feel like i have much to say to her. but it's annoying--like a mosquito you can't find in the dark of night, humming and buzzing away.
eventually, on those hot summer nights when you're already sapped by the heat, you fall back asleep, knowing that it will bite you anyway, but knowing that it's better than lunging around the room at 3 am with a book and the lights on, springing off the bed at walls and such. the small bite is a sacrifice you're willing to make, just to go back to sleep.
despite all of its loud buzz, the mosquito is very small.
which is how i'm thinking about this. the world's a small place; my dad regularly bumps into people from his hometown of about 500, on various areas of the continental US. it stands to figure that we're all mingling at this gigantic worldwide reception--and i'm bound to bump into people that rub me the wrong way, or people i'd rather avoid.
however, i don't want that to ruin the event itself. i don't want to run away if i see serena. i used to do that, when i was younger--i had this job while in college that i despised, mainly because my boss was a complete bitch-ass. i quit; but again, small town--she came through my line when i started working at the grocery store. my stomach was in knots as i rang up her groceries and made small talk, but afterwards the panic rose and i had to go into the bathroom for a few moments to let it roll over me and onto the next person.
i was talking to my friend nathan, a few days after that. he asked me something that has given me a step towards my own growth of a spine: "kim, why do you give her such power over you?"
i couldn't answer that question at that time. but after i found out that serena wouldn't be there, i chided myself for even worrying. was this going to detract from my enjoyment of the reception, if she was there? probably, to be honest. i'd be worried about dan, and what i would say if she approached.
i didn't want to be the chick on yahoo! news with the headline: GUEST RUINS WEDDING WITH BRAWL; RECEPTION HALL BURNS TO GROUND.
so i have to keep making serena smaller in my mind. i feel like if i say her name enough, it will become as normal as saying "couch" or "plate" or any other word. i have to remember that i'm at this giant party and maybe it took me a while to show up--the perpetually late thing, again--but i'm here, and the tiny buzz of one mosquito cannot control my emotions.
***
so. onto the Location of the Nylons, and the Finding of the Dress Shoes. i still have to decide what to wear.
*sigh*
this is why i'm never on time. too much rustling around in my head. i suppose if i could use an iron on those rustled thoughts as easily as i can on my pants, i'd be in business.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
wee hours of dawn
well, more pre-pre dawn. it's about 145 and i'm just NOW home from the airport.
had a good weekend; cari was down, so we bummed around at the mall, had some fabulously fresh vietnamese food, and hung out on the sofa reading people magazine and eating pickles and mint oreo cookies. lovely. people mag was full of the usual celebrity mumbo-jumbo, pictures of horribly dressed but in style skinny bodies, and one of my coworkers.
surprised? tell me about it. we're flipping through--angelina jolie, brad pitt, brooke sheilds...dray?
dray's been having issues because of the city he moved to. his family consists of his girlfriend and their two kids, and his girlfriend's daughter from a previous marriage. they've been together for 13 years, just never tied the knot. anyway, they moved to Blackjack, Missouri, and found a home. bought and moved in. and THEN found out that they were being denied an occupancy permit because they weren't considered a family.
huh?
they're fighting it. the city stated that it was up to them to have unearthed this small code. whatever! who goes looking for something that's going to keep you OUT of a neighborhood? ridiculous. the notoriety has been hard on the kids--you know how kids are--and the principal actually suggested that perhaps they keep their eldest home until things "smoothed over."
the mere notion of it had my office up in arms. and apparently people magazine, too. go dray go!!! we're all behind you up here!
so tonight my dad and uncle flew in from palm springs, ca, where my dad's middle brother jed is recovering from a massive stroke from last april/may. he's got very limited mobility--can roll backwards in his wheelchair, write a little bit with one hand, and speak slowly and with lots of frustration. but at this point, anything is better than the original prognosis last year that had him not making it until the end of june. behold, the power of a stubborn irishman. (;
anyway, their plane was supposed to land here at 959 pm. i tracked it online; dad called and said that the changeover in houston would be late, about half hour, and that they were being forced to check their carry ons, because the overhead compartments were full--more time consumption.
i track it again. plane gets closer and closer...and then veers off and flies about 30 miles west of the cities. it finally lands about 1145. i drive out to meet them at the baggage claim...circle the airport a few times, because you can't wait outside in your car by the claim area. finally park and go in around 1215. dad's luggage didn't make it. my uncle's did, but minus a bunch of electronics. he'd brought a portable dvd player to show jed my cousin's wedding, and the family reunion pics from last summer. of course that was missing, as was his camera, his electric shaver, his cell phone...all kinds of fun stuff. we waited a little while, so that he could cancel his cell phone and file a report, and to see if dad's bag would show up. no such luck. finally gave up and drove them up to my cousins house, about 30 min north of my house. dropped off and drove home.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarg. frustrating! i think this week so farhas been all about frustration and aggravation and annoyance. you don't sit up typing at the wee hours unless there's something fueling your fingers.
at the same time, the frustration i'm feeling--on behalf of my coworker and his family, my dad's missing luggage and lateness, and my uncle's stolen articles, my late arrival at work tomorrow morning (inevitable at this point)--it's all things that i can live with. that they can live with. yeah, they're all frustrating. but they're frustrating because it's all based on things that gave joy.
dad wouldn't be frustrated with his missing luggage if it didn't have pics of jed and the boys on the camera, which is awol. my uncle wouldn't be put out if he didn't know what he had lost. and dray wouldn't be so hurt by the town's reaction if he didn't care about his family and his neighborhood. i wouldn't be awake so late if i didn't have a working vehicle.
i suppose it's all about definition, and reminders. kalhil gibran wrote that what brings you sorrow is often what brought you joy, and what brings you joy sometimes brings sorrow. double-edged sword, this life. sweet and sour.
course, it could just be that it's the wee hours of the morning, and i'm chilled and typing while my pillow is singing its siren song down the stairs...
had a good weekend; cari was down, so we bummed around at the mall, had some fabulously fresh vietnamese food, and hung out on the sofa reading people magazine and eating pickles and mint oreo cookies. lovely. people mag was full of the usual celebrity mumbo-jumbo, pictures of horribly dressed but in style skinny bodies, and one of my coworkers.
surprised? tell me about it. we're flipping through--angelina jolie, brad pitt, brooke sheilds...dray?
dray's been having issues because of the city he moved to. his family consists of his girlfriend and their two kids, and his girlfriend's daughter from a previous marriage. they've been together for 13 years, just never tied the knot. anyway, they moved to Blackjack, Missouri, and found a home. bought and moved in. and THEN found out that they were being denied an occupancy permit because they weren't considered a family.
huh?
they're fighting it. the city stated that it was up to them to have unearthed this small code. whatever! who goes looking for something that's going to keep you OUT of a neighborhood? ridiculous. the notoriety has been hard on the kids--you know how kids are--and the principal actually suggested that perhaps they keep their eldest home until things "smoothed over."
the mere notion of it had my office up in arms. and apparently people magazine, too. go dray go!!! we're all behind you up here!
so tonight my dad and uncle flew in from palm springs, ca, where my dad's middle brother jed is recovering from a massive stroke from last april/may. he's got very limited mobility--can roll backwards in his wheelchair, write a little bit with one hand, and speak slowly and with lots of frustration. but at this point, anything is better than the original prognosis last year that had him not making it until the end of june. behold, the power of a stubborn irishman. (;
anyway, their plane was supposed to land here at 959 pm. i tracked it online; dad called and said that the changeover in houston would be late, about half hour, and that they were being forced to check their carry ons, because the overhead compartments were full--more time consumption.
i track it again. plane gets closer and closer...and then veers off and flies about 30 miles west of the cities. it finally lands about 1145. i drive out to meet them at the baggage claim...circle the airport a few times, because you can't wait outside in your car by the claim area. finally park and go in around 1215. dad's luggage didn't make it. my uncle's did, but minus a bunch of electronics. he'd brought a portable dvd player to show jed my cousin's wedding, and the family reunion pics from last summer. of course that was missing, as was his camera, his electric shaver, his cell phone...all kinds of fun stuff. we waited a little while, so that he could cancel his cell phone and file a report, and to see if dad's bag would show up. no such luck. finally gave up and drove them up to my cousins house, about 30 min north of my house. dropped off and drove home.
aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarg. frustrating! i think this week so farhas been all about frustration and aggravation and annoyance. you don't sit up typing at the wee hours unless there's something fueling your fingers.
at the same time, the frustration i'm feeling--on behalf of my coworker and his family, my dad's missing luggage and lateness, and my uncle's stolen articles, my late arrival at work tomorrow morning (inevitable at this point)--it's all things that i can live with. that they can live with. yeah, they're all frustrating. but they're frustrating because it's all based on things that gave joy.
dad wouldn't be frustrated with his missing luggage if it didn't have pics of jed and the boys on the camera, which is awol. my uncle wouldn't be put out if he didn't know what he had lost. and dray wouldn't be so hurt by the town's reaction if he didn't care about his family and his neighborhood. i wouldn't be awake so late if i didn't have a working vehicle.
i suppose it's all about definition, and reminders. kalhil gibran wrote that what brings you sorrow is often what brought you joy, and what brings you joy sometimes brings sorrow. double-edged sword, this life. sweet and sour.
course, it could just be that it's the wee hours of the morning, and i'm chilled and typing while my pillow is singing its siren song down the stairs...
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