worth

i struggle often with being worthy--of people, of things, of attention. i have a difficult time rationalizing spending money on my self. usually my purchases are the marked down bits, the ones where you spend a good solid hour picking off the orange clearance tag when you get said object home.

it's a habit in my family to do this. we take pride in one-upping each other with "i-got-that-for-less" tales. i'm not sure if it's genetic--my father loves flea markets, and my mom is an inveterate garage-saler--or perhaps just learned. who knows. but it translates into my life and often makes it difficult for me to see things i buy for myself as necessary, with the obvious exception of clothing and shoes, which i still will only shell out when items are half-off.

take, for example, my new bracelet.

at work recently i've notice that i wear rubber bands around my left wrist on a regular basis. they come off of whatever folder is crossing my desk and just remain there, indefinitely. i've considered buying a bracelet, but i'm picky about jewelery. i suppose the devil is in the details, and perhaps my being drawn to shiny things just means that satan is somewhat sparkly.

today i indulged in three (yes, three at one time!) brassieres, which are a necessary evil that need not be too terribly vile, even for those of us who require valkyrie-supported battle garments just to keep the girls in place. after that i spent an astronomical amount of time in the jewelry department, shopping for a birthday gift for a friend. i found the perfect item and then thought, when was the last time i spent any time looking for something for me?

i thought about my ubiquitious rubber bands and decided that i'd look for a bracelet. after half an hour of looking at all things ovoid and stretchy and clingy, i was ready to call it quits. i kept rejecting the ones that are hard and require the dislocation of your thumbs, and the ones that are so tight once on that they leave a dent in flesh.

"can we help you, ma'am?"

usually i say no. usually i decline, figuring that someone else needs assistance more than me. but today, riding high on my handful of hangers, i said, "yes."

she showed me the sterling silver chains and i'm now wearing one, sitting here typing and feeling slightly more elegant.

this is by far the most expensive piece of jewelry i've ever bought. my two rings were gifts--my right hand pinky ring is a spoon ring that was a dollar at a church rummage sale, and the ring on my left ring finger is a small picture of sea, mountains, bird and sun, made of different stones. it's unique and lovely, with a thin band. but it was free.

i have oodles of earrings, purchased on sale, and necklaces from the clearance rack. but nothing new, nothing bought just for me full price. twenty dollars--i am worth that much, i concluded, standing there in bright ceiling lights. i'm worth enough to purchase something just because it's pretty, something that makes me happy simply because it is unnecessary.

cravings

this week has been about cravings--cravings for all kinds of odd bits. randomly yesterday i wanted to sit at my desk and listen to my new amy winehouse cd and eat a package (yes, the whole package) of cherry pull n' peel twizzlers. instead when i was done with work, i was whisked north into the city, to meet an old friend.

teresa was at a conference for the blind; she's a grad assistant to a very well-known professor in the blind community, and they were staffing a game called "power showdown." there's not a lot of games out there for people who are blind; this one is a cross between air hockey and ping-pong, a large, oval table with edges rising about six inches on all sides. in the middle there is a large board, poised over the surface, to block hits that could potentially harm your opponent. players are positioned at each end, with a hard wooden paddle and a protective glove for the hand holding the paddle, protecting a net at their end. the ball has a distinct rattle, and games become quite explosive--the ball shoots off the table, a guide dog jerks to retrieve it, or the ball hits the middle board with a crack.

as i stood there watching two sisters slam the ball back and forth i considered how much fun the game looked, and how, if playing, i'd be at quite the deficit: when you're sighted and playing, you're given a blindfold, so that you are on par with your opponent.

even half-deaf, i can't discern where sounds are--they are everywhere, all at once. sirens in the distance attack from north and south, east and west. someone in a neighboring townhouse shuts a door and i jump, thinking that it is in our own home. when i was a kid and received my very own radio, with ear-buds, i popped them in and immediately wondered what the attraction was: it was a stereo radio, so in my right ear i heard the drums, and in my left ear i felt a rumble, as if all the music was there.

on the way home, i opened the window and shut my eyes, rested my head against the seat as dan drove. i felt the wind brush over my shut eyes and the hot glow of lights as we passed gas stations. i thought about walking through life with my eyes shut, and never really knowing the full depth and breadth of color and beauty.

at once i corrected my own thoughts. my life has been an experience in half-heard noise, in missed jokes and lost sentences.

do i miss those words, those moments? perhaps i would, if it was something i craved daily. but when you live at a different pitch and level than your neighbor, you become comfortable with the place you are in.

one of my ex-coworkers was nearly fully-deaf; she had hearing aids that did help considerably, but despite having them, she always said she forgot to put them in, or would just leave them on the counter on purpose, because it was frustrating to have to listen to the whole world and not just her own small and familiar corner.

i am sure that it would be nice, to fully hear. and i cannot possibly equate my experience with someone who is fully deaf or blind, and cannot pretend to crave the same things they might. i can only say that standing there, watching that ball shuttle and slap against the paddles, i had a depth of understanding about my own cravings--that the craving to taste licorice was transitory, as transitory as breath, while the craving to hear and not feel that i have missed things--that is a craving that perhaps i will never satisfy, but that in itself perhaps is satisfactory.

the crack in my eye

this week i was privy once again to the fact that sometimes my view is skewered by my own paranoia and imagination. i'm one of those kids whose mothers handed her a paper lunch bag when she was seven and said, just keep breathing, or you're going to faint.

what was i so worked up about? no clue. a few years back when i saw my therapist for the first time and described the horrible feeling of trying to suck air in over some invisible wall in my lungs, she said it was a nice way of describing anxiety.

my powers of description abound.

i imagine that most paranoid folks have a vivid sense of imagination. you're always wondering what's around the corner, and whether or not your own invisible monster is going to gobble you up. i imagine these things at the obvious times, like when the floor creaks at night, but even when i'm sitting on the sofa watching television in broad daylight, or shopping for paper toweling at target. the lurking fear creeps around behind me, dogging my heels.

and this is what it's like when it's better.

i've had this constant companion for so long that most of the time i can ignore the red maw waiting to envelop me. i can talk myself into falling back asleep, i can walk without always looking over my shoulder. i don't know what it is in me that imagines these things, but whatever it is, it is probably the strongest muscle in my body, due to its consistent exercise.

***

when i see the world it is through rose colored glasses. rose colored because i enjoy that romantic sense of hope and innocence, but rose-colored too because the world takes on a distinctly bloody overtone. i see carnage around me at times when perhaps it is something simple.

take, for example, my drive into work the other day.

along the highway, where sometimes you'll see the remnants of shredded tire, there was a cardboard box. it was torn up, a large box, perhaps something that had housed a microwave or washing machine. it was plain and brown, warped and ragged.

and when i saw it, at first, i thought it was the body of a doe. i couldn't see the blood yet, or the soft white of her underbelly, but i was certain that it was a carcass.

as i pulled closer i realized that it was just that box.

***

one of the reasons i dislike walking on my own, at least here in the big city, is due to this overactive and shaky view i have. it is as if little red riding hood and the big bad wolf are waiting around each corner, perhaps playing a hand of gin before leaping into character as i round the turn: young and naive and sweet, and large and ferocious and toothy, both of them grinning for different reasons.

perhaps it is why i am reticent to make friends: i am always hoping but consistently waiting for the proverbial other piece of footwear to fall from above. perhaps it is just a story i tell myself, so that i can remain silent and shy, and keep to myself, a hermit wandering the streets. leftovers of a childhood spent on edge? the malfunctions of a brain drenched in unbalanced chemicals?

personally i find it all quite lovely--what is there not beautiful about the shiver of a sob, or the crack of laughter?

***

during my drive home i have to wait in line on the on-ramp, watching the light and the car in front of me, waiting for my turn to speed up and get home. on my right there is a house, next to the wetlands in the middle of the city, that has a large, sloping yard leading to the ditch between the ramp on which i'm parked and their home.

i've seen wild turkeys there, strutting around. but that day, after imagining the worst in a cardboard box, i can perhaps appreciate better the innate grace of the living doe, slender neck bowed to lawn.

perhaps that is my own secret: that to live with the dark on your shoulder, even if it is imagined, makes you more able to wonder at the light.

round trip

so saturday we went camping.

camping was delightful. dan grilled some melt-in-your-mouth steaks, and my mom made cake, and we had a blast just playing bocce and rummikub and tramping around the lake. it rained cats, dogs and farming implements on saturday night, but the tent stayed dry. sunday we had a great breakfast, packed everything up, and went home.

the campsite was 1.5 hours away. i planned a road-less-traveled route, which we discovered was under construction. the detour for that route was, yes, also under construction. it took twice the scheduled time to arrive.

sunday when we were driving home we took the road more traveled, the major highway in the area. the sun beat down and we were warm and tired, so were looking forward to a quick arrival. about half an hour from home i glanced down and my heat needle was buried.

fabulous.

for about five miles we drove on the shoulder, hazard lights flashing. pulled off and filled up the antifreeze, which was nearly empty, and then drove home with the heaters on full blast and windows open. our travel time on the final leg was tripled.

***

it's not the destination, they say, but the journey. and the journey this time was arduous, to say the least.

it got me to thinking about most of the journeys i've taken, alone or with my family. it is the truth--the journey is the long part, and the destination often doesn't hold the glow it did when you began. or else perhaps you've seen something more remarkable during the voyage, and the destination is not the hoped-for miracle.

then again, maybe my definition of destination needs to change, if for no other reason than there is no true stopping point--you are always, always moving, forward or backward. the actual distance, the direction, the place you turn around--those are just markers. even stationary, the human race is just that: a race.

the only destination is when you lay head to soil and end your journey, for good.

***

during the weekend we laughed over memories. i remembered being young, riding on top of my father's shoulders as my parents walked around the lake near my grandparents' home. halfway there, dad stirred up a snapping turtle. this is probably my earliest memory--watching a stick brush leaves over the turtle's beaked snout, hearing the harsh snap of its mouth clamp shut. i can smell the lake and the sweat on my mother's skin, and see the shine over her tan. my father's arm is all i recall, jabbing outward, not hurting the turtle, but showing off the whip-snick crush of its jaws.

i think i was around two years old, then--almost three decades ago. my father's beard is white now. in talking it was made clear to me that, as then, if he came across that turtle now, he would do the same demonstration to some other child--beware, caution, this is a small animal but even it can be vicious, and you must respect it.

that turtle will no doubt outlive my entire family, if it hadn't already by that time. i cannot imagine going through the world so low to the ground, hauling my home around on my back, moving that slowly.

then again, the turtle's journey will end the same way mine will. i suppose it is not so different, then, when it comes to the journey.

things that look like other things

when i was a kid i used to love watching clouds. it was just relaxing and such an easy way to exercise my own imagination--and oh, the things you could see: a pig riding a bike, a ceiling fan, the antlers of a moose.

i enjoy too the words that sound alike but mean entirely different things: pane and pain, there and their.

on my desk today there is a printout dan found for me, a showing of "serenity" at the riverview theater in minneapolis. it's for charity. it reminds me of the word serenity, and how now it has two meanings: the direct, pure, clean-of-soul meaning, and the movie, based on the television show.

this week my word is solitary. i feel the need to insulate my self with emptiness--the absorbing power of the void. empty has two meanings, too--empty and never to be filled, empty and to be filled in the future.

the empty space i crave right now is simply that: empty. it could go either way. sometimes it lingers for a long time. sometimes for just an hour or two, long enough for me to need a hug or a touch from dan, or to hear the voice of a friend, the meow of an insistently hungry feline, the caress of simply seeing humanity all about me.

i think it's the double edge of being human, this need. as a person you are individual, solid and solely of your self. your world is limited by the confines of your flesh, your mind unlimited. it's this mind that ties us all together, something unnamed and invisible. as much as you can understand the depths and meanings of what another person experiences, you cannot walk in their actual shoes. you are connected and yet separate.

on wednesday when i got home i went for a walk, just around the block. i enjoy walking for many reasons--mainly the health benefits, but also because i enjoy being outdoors a great deal, and i haven't had too many run-ins with gnats and mosquitoes yet this season. it won't be long, i know, before i'm swatting as i walk, and sweating in the dusk, and i dislike doing either of them.

anyway, i went for a walk, alone. it felt nice to just be outside, nice to be my self, nice to be separate from the world at large. wednesday it was windy--violently windy, gusts that moved my two-ton car around on the road and had trees flailing like children. i like the wind. when i lived up north, it would call to me. as soon as i was done with work i'd run home, put on my hiking wear, and trek out to the state park. i'd stand on the beach, winter or spring or whenever, until my cheeks were chapped. it was better than taking a shower, just to stand in the wind.

wednesday i remembered how long it has been since i walked in the wind, and savored the feel of it enfolding the limits of me--each and every finger, the small line of hair that i missed shaving on my shin, the bowl of my ankle bone. it was beautiful, plain and simple. while i walked i saw kids riding bikes and parents fetching the mail, all of us experiencing the same blustery atmosphere, all of us alone in our own pockets of life.

i had a silly theory once that the wind is just imagination--you cannot see it, but you can feel it, just like love or anger--and that perhaps the world and our bodies conspire together, bending limbs and follicles, in the pretense of being blown about by the wind.

it does not look like anything, wind. it moves around and tosses gravel to sky, violently strips homes from earth and uproots whatever is in its path--and yet for all this result, there is no hand that you can see, moving it all about. at least if it rains you can see the flood, rising.

something that looks like something else. wind doesn't look like anything. perhaps that is why i enjoy it so.

cleansing

i always read about these cleanses people go on, wherein they imbibe things that clean out the insides of their bodies. it works for some, and i won't knock it, but i personally figure that nature works well enough on its own.

no, my cleansing is cleansing of the household. there's a good bit of cleaning to be done, and with the day stretching like a waking cat before me, i find myself lingering in front of the computer, knowing that this is another part of my cleaning--just like restocking the paper towels in the kitchen, i need to get out on paper the little beasts that live inside my mind.

one of my housemates, a seventeen-pound mass of short white fur, gingery-tabby spots, and a rumbling purr, is trying to annex my lap. why he only wants to do this while i type is beyond me, but in deference to his random affection, i'm going to type fast and then try to fill his cuddle tank, just like i often ask dan to fill mine with an even spent leaning together on the couch.

at any rate, the carpet is vaguely crunchy and in need of vacuuming, and the kitchen is a mess. i suppose it's a cycle that will go on forever, just like the sun coming up every darn morning.

then again, i welcome the sun each day, and i suppose in the end that it's cathartic to clean up the outer areas of my existence, and do some internal straightening, too.

hair

grandma

i remember when you lost your hair
all the wispy silver twirls, whirling
at your nape.

you were scared, i think, because you thought
it signaled
the end.

my sister and i found a hat for you, blue denim.
it made your eyes
pop
out of pale face, startling and lovely.

by the time your hair grew back, the circle
was complete: your hair in pure white curls,
pressed into the pillow
as you died. quite morbid, that thought.

i'll endeavor to forget
all that hair, sprouting anew, and instead
recall the easter hat, and your smiling eyes.

***

cousin

when i was young i slept in your room, on your
waterbed, when we visited. my parents
sat outside the room, your room, which had
no door. at the table they drank black coffee and told
off-color jokes, things i shouldn't have heard. i think
they hoped i slept, or thought i did. leftover perfume
on your comforter, the steady pipe of smoke from your
mother, my aunt. it was dim in the room and i could
see little--i don't remember the color of the blanket,
or the carpeting, nothing. just the light between table legs,
and your picture, near the closet--the crinkle of smiling cheek,
the blonde feathered locks, which you'll be losing, come Monday.

***

red

when i was a child i longed
for darkest, sleekest, wavy midnight--
but it all remained, this rust.

it's thick--it always has been. things have
changed, though--names that childhood bullies chose
evolved
into red-haired woman: the stigma of passion,
desire, temper, fire.

i blame my genetics for this hair--what
else?
there is no box from which i pour this color.
as i age it fades, slowly, a dense auburn.
twined about are thick fishing lines--
bleached with age, heavier than the rest.

in time it will all wash away, and all the names
that cracked pride like dry tinder
will be forgotten, gone gray as ash.

burned

i'm a fair-skinned person. i don't tan well at all; usually i just burn. i can tell when i'm going to burn by looking at the number of freckles that appear underneath my nose. when i'm going to burn, suddenly i have a lot more freckles there, regardless of where on my body i'm burned.

in the summer, i shun the sunlight. i'll venture out in early, early morning, or dusk--but midday is poisonous. my mother's italian skin just didn't make it to me. i often wish, especially in summer, that i could have inherited her skin tone--that soft olive that tans instantly in sun, and rarely, if ever, burns.

saturday i went garage saling. i should have known better--i remembered to wear a hat, and my sunglasses, since my eyes are very light sensitive as well. (dan calls me the "movie star" because i'm always wearing my sunglasses, rain or shine.) anyway, i forgot to put on sunscreen.

this usually happens at least once at the outset of summer, before i've slapped the coppertone 60 on the counter as a reminder. and inevitably, after i burn, i get sick.

i don't know what it's called--sun poisoning? heat stroke? heat exhaustion? all i know is that i'm sick, and the burn aches. this time i've burned just the back of my neck, and part of my shoulders. it makes turning my head agony--the burn is tight across my skin, and everything that comes in contact with it feels huge and painfully scratchy.

my hair has been up since saturday; i haven't been able to take it out of a pony tail, because each little strand is like a teeny, tiny brand. yesterday i wore a tank top all day--just to avoid the agony of a collar--but today i need to take a short jaunt to walgreens for something to help with the pain, and so i am sitting uncomfortably straight in my chair, trying not to look sideways at my cats, my neck frozen as i type.

why is it that, as a child, if you stick your hand in fire and you are burned, you remember not to do it again...but if you are burned by the sun, a much further-from-you flame, you forget? from year to year, month to month? is it because it is so much farther away than a campfire?

today i'm staying home from work. my stomach is still upset with me, and my neck hurts so badly that i cannot imagine sitting at my desk and looking about. this is the last time this will happen. at least this year.

attack of the overzealous cleaning fairy

every month i go through a week of ups and downs. it's generally the week prior to my period, so i should have an idea of when this will occur. however, i have selective amnesia, which is a boon to my existence.

this week kicked off with the usual suspects: insomnia, a ravenous appetite, and the activation of my genetic "clean the freaking house" gene.

my mom's mom is known as "the white tornado," since she's super fast and kept her house immaculately clean, when she was still living at home. my own mom cleans every saturday morning; my sister cleans on mondays. i generally stick to the saturday or sunday morning routine--clean, clean, clean, then shower and nap, and then start the day. i know, makes your heart race, doesn't it?

anyway, thursday night i slept for shit--par for the course. after four or five hours, my brain pokes me awake and i have to get up and start the day. which i did--i was at work by 630, and home by 1230. at that point, i thought i should take a nap. but there was a cat vomit stain next to the entertainment center, and i couldn't slumber in good conscience until it was clean.

as usual, this turned into an hour-long marathon, in which i vacuumed and steam-cleaned the whole living room, took out all garbage and recycling, cleaned the cat restroom area and the human bathroom, and got the dishwasher loaded and running. by the time i was done i had to shower, but all i could think was, what else can i get done?

this will wear off shortly. but for this last week, my kitchen has been clean, and now the carpet in the living room is not covered with fine layer of shiva.

i suppose i should look on the bright side: if i do this once a month, the house will stay clean.

but it does get me thinking about cycles--the earth has a cycle, which dictates to humanity how we shape our lives. for the most part, the modern primate can live however they want to--regardless of weather, your house can be filled with light and cool, or dim and warm: it's your choice.

i think this gives humanity the false sense that they are more in control of their existence than they really are. i also think it separates us from our direct environs, which in turn can be confusing to the system in general.

anyway, this morning i woke up smelling the leftover linen refresher spray that i'd doused the bedroom drapes in yesterday, during the scouring spasm. i lay there, listening to the world wake up--the birds chirping, the random hum of a vehicle. i remembered when i was a kid, waking up in the summertime, cool air on my face, and the smell of roses blooming below the window, warm beneath my blankets, the soft snores and rustlings of my sisters melting into the coo of fifty doves on the line outside. i thought of five years ago, waking up in the little cabin and hearing my cat purr on my chest, and the loons on the lake sharing their eerie music.

i am in a different place now, a different part of the world. and yet the cycles of life--seasons, genes, my very own pair of X-chromosomes--still control the memories that are triggered, the scent of my comforter, and the cleanliness of my linoleum.

the anatomy of pancake syrup

we have this place that we love to go to breakfast. i say "we" because it's usually me and dan. but the collective "we" also encompasses our friends with the new baby, and corpse, and eero too. pretty much anyone who sips of their delectable syrup is inducted into a select group of people who then crave said liquid from time to time in the future. we haven't indoctrinated devin yet, but judging by her enthusiastic five-month-old response and the resulting amount of drool, i'd say she's well on her way. excellent choice, little one. excellent choice.

the reason for meeting this morning was dan's big three-one birthday. we all pretty much had our usual fare: scrambled eggs, thick pepper bacon, breakfast potatoes, and something porous to sop up the syrup.

the syrup isn't sold in the cafe itself. we tried to break down the ingredients and came close to what the waitress said it was, but in reality, i doubt we'll ever replicate that same jarred bliss at home. sweet with a hint of salty; maple with a hint of praline and cream. there's just nothing like it.

they also have good coffee, which is an added bonus, and the staff is always quite friendly.

we're not there every day because then we'd get tired of the syrup. i'm sure of it. this way, imbibed infrequently, it's a treat, and stays just as miraculous with each forkful.

***

this last week has been nice to have off. we got to attend the only wild hockey game that they won in their series against anaheim--and had the best seats in the house. i'm not kidding, either--third tier, first row. the view was fantastic.

then on thursday we met a friend for a big-screen showing of "ghostbusters." it came complete with a new rendition of Ecto-1, this time in a ford crown victoria station wagon, outfitted with all the requisite flashing lights and details. the movie itself was just fun to see; i cannot count the number of times i've seen the stay-puft marshmallow man, but never that size! it made me feel like i was eight again.

then yesterday we met friends to see "hot fuzz." i probably won't be the first to say that it was brilliant, nor the last, but quite possibly the most vehement. (with the exception of dan, i'm sure...he's taller and has a deeper voice and just more resonant all around.) there were guns. there were one-liners. it's british humor; what's not to love?

i got my car cleaned out, and the garage straightened up. not swept yet, but that can wait until the wind dies down some.

i also did a TON of reading this week. i think in all i read 6 books, and just one more on the docket. today we're heading into minneapolis and braving the Big City to hit Uncle Hugo's, a used sci-fi/fantasy book store. it smells just like a book store should: fibrous.

so despite the fact that i didn't do all the things i thought i would get accomplished--mopping the kitchen floor, watching the three chick flicks that have been collecting dust on the entertainment unit, getting a haircut and a massage, steamcleaning the living room carpets, and going through the boxes of childhood memorabilia that's been stuffed into the storage unit for almost two years now--despite avoiding all that like the plague, i had a good week off.

my only gripe right now is that now that i've had a week off, i feel rested enough to actually HAVE a vacation. i'm finally unwinding, only to get all wound up again by tomorrow morning.

***

it's times like these that i dream of a day when i win the powerball and can relax for a good solid month before i get bored and have to find a job, just to keep myself occupied and out of the trap of becoming one with my computer.

or becoming one with a book. that was my biggest splurge this week: i hit half price books, unique thrift store, and the library, and i've read everything i got, already, and then some. when i read books i feel compelled to devour them, in the same two-gulp manner that my sister's dog wolfs her dinner. i sit down, i read the book, i finish and then i'm onto the next one.

during the week, when i'm back at the grind, i don't have the time or energy to devote simply to falling into the pages of a book. it's a reprieve to find that i can sit with my feet propped on the coffee table, one cat curled at my left side and one purring like a muscle car on my stomach, sipping pulpy, cold orange juice, and flipping idly through the pages.

i have another vacation coming up in july. another week off. i suppose that in the end my vacations are dispersed throughout the year much like our syrup-tastings--something to keep me moving forward through the sludge of day-to-day cubeland.

so despite the strong urge to call in tomorrow and say, "i'm taking another week off, now," i'll resist the siren song and wade back into the fray. which will make my next vacation all the lovelier.

i hope. (;

scattered

yesterday there was a shooting; the biggest massacre in our country's history. (at least by the standards of school shootings--i am reasonably sure that other massacres have happened, undocumented and off of school grounds, perhaps even prior to the founding fathers setting foot on north american soil.)

it's something that catches people off guard. and well it should; i would hate to be so numb to these things that i didn't care. part of me is reminded of columbine; it's that time of year, so on and so forth. part of me is reminded of corey; today is the day he passed. and part of me is reminded of my own youth, spent hating school.

yes, hating. i hated school--grade school and high school, to a lesser degree. i hated it because i was one of the kids who was always bullied and teased. it bit.

i continually find it of interest the way that kids group together; is it some leftover herding instinct? like finds like, and blends in? who knows. there is inevitably a group of children in any yard at recess who are the cast-offs: for whatever reason available, the other children cut them off, don't pick them in gym, you name it. everyone in the "in" crowd is just that: in. everyone in the group to which i consistently belong was out. out of fashion, out of sorts, out of the picture. we were a solid group, a group held together by the fact that all of us were ignored for some different reason. that was what made us alike--not the same jeans, or the shirt with a certain logo on it--a feeling, an emotion.

i was always a member of this group, due to my red hair and hand-me-down clothing. i could go on and on about the hair issue--when you're older, everyone wants it, when you're a kid, it's nothing but trouble, etc--but that's another story for another day.

being part of the cast away portion of the recess crowd meant that i learned certain lessons quite early. my dad would repeat the time-old mantra: "sticks and stones can break my bones, but words will never hurt me." and over time, you try to ignore the slurs and insults. you learn to be innocuous in other ways--you are quiet, you blend into a crowd, you could be anybody.

dan was one of those kids too, at our high school. his boys ran around wearing black and playing roleplaying games, and being scoffed at for those reasons. they were the "nerds"; my group of girls were just the ones who didn't wear guess jeans and couldn't afford anything from ralph lauren unless it came from a thrift store.

you make your own group, you make your own rules. but you are separated from the whole; you are scattered about, and have to take the time to come together. some people never do find that niche, even if it is the group of forgotten and teased. they prefer the army of one mentality that comes with the solidarity of self.

those kids are the scary ones, nowdays--the ones who are pushed to the side for being too intelligent, too off-mark, the ones who never find people that allow them to be who they are and allow them the acceptance they seek. they're the ones termed "loners."

a song that we sang in grade school comes to mind. it's to the tune of "glory, glory hallelujah."

glory, glory hallelujah
teacher hit me with a ruler
standing behind the door
with a loaded forty-four
and there ain't no teacher no more.

there's more on this at wikipedia, of course: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Burning_of_the_School

school violence is nothing new, i guess is what i'm saying. it's nothing to be forgotten, either. i loved kindergarten; it was the grades between then and graduation that i despised. when i got to college i fell in love with school again, because it was a place where everyone was forgotten, and your clothing ignored. everyone was on a level playing field, at least at my university.

i fear for my sister, who teaches middle school. i fear for her because no amount of protection or security can ensure that someone, somewhere, isn't hating and feeling alienated, by their peers or teachers, parents, siblings. there are any number of reasons why people do what they do, and hindsight is 20/20, and makes it seem as though these things could be prevented.

but it starts earlier than anyone remembers--it starts when you are walking to school at the age of six with your twelve year old neighbors, and suddenly you are the target.

twenty five years down the line, i can see it for what it was--children being cruel. but at that time, it was painful. it was abhorrent. it shaped the person i am now, in ways that i cannot fully explain. i'm one of the lucky ones; my father had guns in his house, but i never got to the point where i thought that was even the remotest option.

my struggles, my violence--was aimed solely at me. i can see it in the suicidal poems i wrote, and the books into which i disappeared for days.

yesterday the first footage that we saw was of people, running away, and police, closing in, on great stone-gray buildings. bodies in motion, united in a common cause.

is it only then, at those times, that the divisions of thought and action are forgotten? that you cling to whoever is closest, for support? that you forget about the barriers that have been erected, and just accept others for the sheer need of it?

it annoys me that it has to come to that; and it terrifies me that more and more often, it does.

cousin

all around me, you falter,
you fall
leaves in autumn, drifting
in winter wind.
in the spring you are heavy
leftover snowflakes,
gathering in april descent.
i have fallen, too--many, many times,
perhaps not nearly so far. but
i know what it is like to feel
the ache in your knees, your hip
where it connected with bruised pavement.
i find as time runs hand over hand
that it is harder
to watch as
all around me, you falter.

***

my cousin donna was diagnosed with cancer about six months ago. it was right as my friends darin & cathy welcomed their new little daughter into the world. donna was being treated for a bladder infection, and when the pain got to be too much, she was flown south to larger hospitals, where it was determined that she was far gone with colon cancer. they took her uterus, part of her stomach, part of her intestines. 90% of the cancer was actually removed; she is now going through chemo.

since i seem to have either allergies or a cold that's been coming and going, i've been afraid to visit her, for fear that i'll pass along bacteria or virus. she has a caring bridge site, just like my uncle jed's, where she updates from time to time; i try to read whenever i can, as she chronicles her path.

this last round of chemo was particularly rough. she says she knows it is working. when i read what she has written i see the demoralizing aspect of medicine, how low you must go.

when you're young they don't tell you these things. how could anyone draw a map of suffering, or of comprehension? there is no outline for how to be compassionate, no directions on what joy or fear or loss feel like.

donna wrote that she could not believe the sounds that were coming out of her body, when she sobbed during treatment. there is no describing them--they are the unholy side of your self, the darker half that is hidden with makeup and a smartly matched outfit. but to each there is a balance.

sometimes it is just hard to see that balance.

i forget that the trees must lose their leaves, in order to withstand winter. i forget that fire sometimes scours the earth, burning back life only to allow room for the new. i get mired in the here and the now, the suffering of those around me, their pain. it is more difficult, i think, to watch your friends and loved ones in agony, than it is to undertake that pain yourself.

unbidden my throat tightens; if i speak now, my voice will be harsh and rough. my eyes are warm, ready to weep. the line is so fine between weeping for joy--that the chemo is working--and weeping in sorrow--that she must go through this process in the first place.

under the weather

yesterday i think i had a fever. (i think i had a fever because i was all hot and cold, but when i got home i just went to sleep...and was too tired to rummage around for the thermometer.) anyway, after sleeping the afternoon away and spending the night tossing and turning, i feel better. not "i'm Wonder Woman!" better. but better.

as far as the title goes--aren't we ALL under the weather? it's it kind of...above us? around us? out of our immediate control?

easter in minnesota is usually warmer; it's when you see kids running around in their easter clothes. this year it's sunny, the skys are a washed-out blue, and it's freezing cold; so over the lacy yellow dresses and little sailor outfits, i'm sure that parents will be zipping up coats and squashing hats onto heads.

ah, the frigid north. i love it. (:

april is always a touchy month, a weird time. it's a month of memory and some silent times, and also a lot of laughter. to paraphrase khalil gibran, the same thing that makes you cry, makes you smile.

april is when i remember dan's brother, corey--his birthday and his death. it's when i celebrate dan's birthday--on earth day--even though he's never been much into it, and since it's only 4 days off from when corey passed, it's hard to celebrate. i celebrate because his mom decided to have him, and raised him into the guy who made sure i ate dinner last night, when i was still feverish.

april is also the month that my uncle, jed, suffered his last stroke, the one that has incapacitated him. he clings to life with a tenacity that i cannot help but admire, even two years later.

a year ago this month, dan got his job.

happy and sad; sweet and sour.

***
i drive using things to navigate. by things, i mean points of interest--a gas station, a church spire, a strange house. my dad long ago gave up writing down directions in terms of milage, since my mom drives the same way i do. they say that it's a female tic, to navigate this way.

when i think back on my life, i have a hard time remembering what year something occurred. i have to think about what was going on at that time--where did we live, for whom did we cook dinner, what happened that year. even then, it gets blurred. memory is faulty; the memory of traumatic times, even worse.

it is strange how clear your mind can be, when remembering certain parts--but then other parts are a dream-memory, slipping out of your fingers. i remember corey's sly smile; i remember driving back to bemidji with all the leftover after-funeral cake, a box sliding around the back seat, bumping into a rubbermaid container of cold lasagna. but i cannot remember the sound of his voice.

in duluth you live under the thumb of the weather--you get lake effect snow, strange twists of temperature, and fog, thick and soft. that is what i picture, overlaid on my own mind--that heavy, touchable mist, coalesced into clouds, drifting over the ground.

***

two years ago on easter my sister and i took my grandmother to church. at the time, her meds made her lose most of her hair. beth and i found a very cute denim cap for her to wear, one that went with her outfit and brought out the blue in her eyes, so vivid. she was terrified that it would fall off during mass; we kept reassuring her that it would not. she argued that she had no hair to pin the hat down; we replied that it fit just right, she did not need pins.

all through mass i watched the dome of her head, watched her long, slender fingers fiddle with the brim. she had trouble moving it; her joints were knobby with arthritis. the church was cold and warm at the same time--the heat of bodies pressed into pews, and the breeze on ankles of a door, opened somewhere to alleviate the heat.

i remember walking outside after mass that day, and the sun beating down, hot on my skin. i remember grandma saying that she was glad for the hat, all of a sudden.

grandma didn't pass away until thanksgiving, that same year. her hair had grown back in by then, shining silver and white. but i remember her in april, when i remember all things that have lived and passed, when the weather reminds me that i am small and insignificant, and my memories, ephemeral as time.

christmas nougats

as usual, i'm behind the times. it's now the end of march, and i'm just now cracking open a bag of what used to be my all time favorite holiday candy, the minty christmas nougats by brachs. if you don't mind having sugary candy stuck in your teeth for a while after eating them, the peppermint taste is quite strong. again, if you like peppermint...

***

it's been nearly a year since dan started his new job. i am very, very proud of him. when i think of this pride, i have a hard time not weeping, so thankful am i. dan made a decision, at some point, to live, to try, to keep trying. i have great respect for this courage of his, the sheer tenacity of being on the bottom and crawling back up.

i think of organisms living deep in the ocean, swimming slow to the top, breaking the meniscus of water, and gulping in air.

***

in so many ways i feel that i am behind. i am late. i am slow. when i was a kid i got the turtle award for being slow. it was second grade and at the end of the year we had a picnic in a park. under the pavilion, with the taste of cheap hot dog and orange drink from mcdonalds lingering in my mouth, my hands sticky, i remember that green award. other kids got awards for being smart, or speedy, whatever. i got the turtle award.

i guess i think of it with bitterness--why would you reward someone for being slow? but then again i review in my mind the story of the tortoise and the hare--slow and steady wins the race.

my middle sister married three years ago this fall. i hear conflicting reports about how the tedium of every day life and taken for granted-ness is wearing on their union. am i glad that i have not yet made an honest man of dan? i don't know. perhaps it is fate, kismet, what have you, that we did not marry all those years ago when we first spoke of it. perhaps we needed to go through and experience what we did, find our separate selves and the full appreciation for what we have together. it is difficult to see that, when you are living in that moment.

***

with time comes perspective, objectivity even when you are reviewing your self, or at least a semblance of objectivity. yes, i may be slow. and life may not be the headlong race that i often feel i am just watching roll by me, quick and flashy. maybe i'm just running in a different race. the marathon, not the 100 meter dash.

i eat another red striped white nougat, take a long look at the mashed up green pine tree in the middle. the wrappers are a little crisp; i'm sure that they are not meant to wait four months before being used and recycled. sometimes i suppose that me being behind is unhealthy. then again, is it so horrible to be reminded of snow and wind chills and warm blankets, when the sky is low and gray and damp april is in your bones?

i know that dan gets frustrated with me because of the speed at which i manuever through life and its varied obstacles. i know that i get frustrated, with my self and my own meandering. but having been to the points that i have--watching dan grasp at life and find a hold, remembering my own struggles, and contemplating that the struggle in life is constant--at those points and at the ones i can imagine occuring--i am glad that i move slowly through the world.

the earth itself is slow--a creature out of sorts with time. it slumbers for a few months, and upon waking, takes its time to rinse sleep from its eyes. it'll rain for a few more weeks, before blooming hot and humid into the next season. probably by then i'll have eaten the rest of my leftover mints.

the lone four leaf clover

i've spent hours of my life, short and few to be honest, squatting in a patch of clover, searching for that elusive lucky one in the middle of all the normally shaped plants. just that one--searching and searching for that one, as if the rest of them were not symbolic in their own green solidarity.

***
yesterday at this time i was getting into my car, to drive to the st pat's parade downtown st paul. my sister had the brilliant idea to march in it--all you have to do is pay twenty bucks, and make a banner, and ta-da! instant parade group.

a coworker advised me that it was an "irish" parade, which meant it was a generally unorganized crush of people. in the interest of shared genetics, i believed my sister, who told me that the twenty clamshells paid for the organizers, etc, and i figured it'd be like the parades i was in as a teenager, with our high school band: lined up people, someone telling you when to march and how far back to stay from the preceding folks.

what actually transpired was more of a chaotic shuffle of people dressed in green sequins, home-made kilts, tall hats purchased at wal-mart, and irish step dancing groups in sweat suits.

the actual parade was only about half an hour long. once we got started. my family was number 106. due to the fact that it was an irish parade, we marched between numbers 57 and 93. not that we can't count. we just don't much care for organization.

i'd spent the previous night making a banner--three hours with my glue gun and a heap of multi-colored felt swatches, which turned out better than i'd hoped, including our family name and our coat of arms. if my sister emails the pic, i'll post it...i think.

at any rate, we made it to the staging ground at around 1145. we actually started marching at 110 or so. there were about five hundred people all gathered in the shade of a five-story orange brick building, with pale green trim around the windows. in the shade, it was about 25 degrees. in the sun, about 35. the difference was sublime, once we made it into the sun. i actually had an image in my head of people bursting through the imaginary line between shadow and light, coming to life and blooming. it actually reminded me of when people finish marathons, the ones who aren't crawling to completion--these would be the ones with hair swept back in the breeze of their own making, arms flung out and back, head held high, cheeks red with accomplishment.

once we got going we marched happily for the whole half hour, finding three other parade goers who shared our last name and spontaneously joined us on the route. it was amusing to have them just step in, strangers who probably shared all the same name mishaps as we did: "no, it's not pronounced that way...switch the a and the e, and you've got it...well, that works, even though it's not really right..."

***

after wards i was exhausted; we met at my sister's house for irish stew and soda bread and coffee, all of which was quite tasty. after that, i schlepped to the mall of america and shopped for two hours, came home, and collapsed. i think i read for forty-five minutes, and then, with henry curled at my side purring, i fell asleep. i don't remember turning off the light, just that my alarm clock read 9:18 pm.

***

today my face is wind-chapped. my thighs are tired; sitting here i can feel the muscles ache, a pleasant experience that reminds me of the ground i covered yesterday.

the thing i found, amid all those people, surrounded by my family, was how alone we all really are. i usually consider that on clear winter nights, when you can see every star in the sky, and feel small and dwarfed by the universe. yesterday, though, in the crush of parade, with the hogan-logan clan singing and hoisting a st patrick statue above their heads behind us, clasping my home-made banner and trying not to shiver, all i could think was that i was alone.

in the mall, the huge gaping space reserved for capitalistic spiritualism, i rode the escaltor. behind me a mother grouped her children to her, calling names and ordering them close. i pictured geese crossing before my car, goslings cuddling up to their parents.

when does it happen, the division between being a child and being an adult? being able to travel on your own, not being afraid of the big world? when does it happen that you find yourself alone, and are just as safe and comfortable as if you held your mother's hand?

***
on my way to my parking spot there was a woman walking in front of me, probably fifteen years ahead of where i am. she sported a wedding ring and from the lines on her face and the size of her purse, i'm sure she had children somewhere--college, home, out underage drinking with friends.

my insecurity lessened as i watched her do the same things i did, unconciously and conciously scanning the parking garage for potential attackers, clasping keys so that they could be used as a weapon.

from the sea of bodies we'd left behind, we separate out, we become individuals, we get into our own cars and lock the doors. the herd thins, parts, and i escape into anonymity.

slouching

the chair i have at work routinely rotates down. today i noticed that it'd done it again. i get so used to having to reach the keyboard in a weird manner that it becomes second nature. i wonder in the mornings why my neck hurts, or my shoulders.

i'm slouching.

at work i slouch because my chair is sneaky about swivelling down. at home i slouch on the sofa, i slouch while doing a crossword before bed, i slouch as i type this. when i slouch my back bows out, backward, and i hunch up a bit.

i feel a lot of the time that that's how i go through life. i'm permanently huddled a little lower, stomach too lazy to lift up my rib cage. or perhaps it's just my abdominal muscles, waving the white flag. or my vertebrae, loose links in their bone chain.

i'm not getting anywhere, at my job. i'm not getting anywhere with my writing, with anything.

when i was seeing my therapist, helene, i felt this guilt to move forward. and when i started to take my meds, and remembered to exercise and watch what i was eating, i felt as if i could move forward. the sun sinks south for winter and i lag--email unchecked, games unplayed, people ignored.

slouching is malicious, i've concluded. if i wasn't slouching my back probably wouldn't hurt, i'd write more often and maybe get published, perhaps i'd be in touch with more people.

it's all a big bottle of What If. i can get stuck in that miasma for days. in fact, i have been.

whenever i drink from that bottle, my slouch deepens. i compare myself to other people in my life--my sister, friends--and i find myself lacking.

and the slouch deepens--it's despair, and it tugs me down quite faithfully.

dan wrote in his blog that he thinks of serena, often, and it keeps him awake. i do too--probably more often than i need to. it's the what if of where she is at--is she "better" in some way, better than i am? better off, better emotionally, not such a mess?

does she slouch, thousands of miles west?

i wonder this about many many many things. does my sister have time to slouch? my homeowning friends? or is it just me, tripped up and spineless?

i feel like an invertebrate--perhaps an amoeba--that's been reformed into this human self, propped upright around a skeleton. my amoeboid nature wants to slouch, and there is more of it than the bony structure upon which it's been molded.

and i slouch.

snow and little sneezes

it finally snowed! now, keep in mind that i never think it can snow enough, so despite the fact that we have a good solid 6-8 on the ground, i'm up for another foot or two. can't help it. i love snow.

last night we braved the weather and drove over to visit darin and cathy and their new little one, who's almost 3 months old now. devin's got a cold and sneezed a few times--these cute little baby sneezes that expelled more baby crap than i thought possible. the sneeze sounded so...small. and yet...large ew. who knew.

i find it interesting that there are some things that stay the same and some things that change, as you move along. the constant is my love of winter--i have an inane need to be buried under 3 feet of snow. i love the feel of the wind crisping my cheeks and the tiny flakes kissing my eyelids. it's beautiful, it's clean, it's cold.

the thing that has changed, with time, is my gross-out factor. i used to have a problem with people puking--i was a sympathetic puker. over time the reflex has died down some; the odor will still provoke a reaction, but it's manageable. snot has ALWAYS been repulsive to me--mine, anyone's. doesn't matter.

last night while holding small devin she heaved up a good sneeze on my face. i was lucky that there wasn't much in it; but what was in it ended up on my chin. i heard dan say, "kim can't stand mucus; i don't know why she wanted to hold the baby now." but i didn't have that first reaction of: drop baby and leap for shower.

i calmly reached over and selected a tissue, and wiped off my face and hers.

***

when i was a kid i didn't like a lot of things. i was honestly a horrid hypochondriac--i thought i had aids, i thought i had leprosy, i wouldn't drink from a soda can in the family car on road trips unless i drank first. i've always had a horrible fear of bees--that heavy hum--and centipedes.

i know i can handle these things logically--i know that i am thousands of times the size of a bug, i know that i haven't fondled any armadillos lately to infect myself and get shipped to a leper colony. is it maturity that allows you to take a step back and say, this is not a Big Thing.

the Big Things in life come at you like the jack in the box of a child--you open the box hoping for chocolate, and you get the four horsemen: pestilence, war, death and famine.

those are the Big Things. when i was young my mom used to tell me that i was "making mountains out of molehills" -- her way of telling me that i was overreacting. when i was seven or so i had a habit of hyperventilating when i was nervous. mom would hand me a paper bag and say, just breathe.

***

i'm still a bit of a germ fiend--i'm constantly after dan to wash his hands--but it's toned down enough that i'm not a fanatic about it. and i will freely admit that i tense up when i hear a bee--but i no longer run off screaming and waving my arms around wildly.

it is of interest to me that the constants in your life can be good and bad--helpful and detrimental, etc. this morning i'll put on my boots and tromp around outside until my nose is so cold that i cannot feel it. i'll make a snow angel, i'll leave some kim-sized footprints roaming around the townhouse area, i'll probably bring my younger cat, henry, outside and put his small pink toes in the snow, since he seems to want to explore so badly.

how does time soften the fear, but not the eagerness? logically i'm old enough to wonder why i have this obsession with snow and this season in general. logically, it's not one of the Big Things, so i put that fear aside--what will people say, what if they laugh and point at the grown woman grinning at suspended water.

the same way that i set aside my disgust of mucus and hold the baby close, hear her heart beat and smell her soft hair--she herself is one of the Big Things in life; her little sneezes are just that: little.

tuesday

tuesday night was the memorial service for the mother of one of my coworkers. i felt compelled, for whatever reason, to attend, even though my coworker is very new to the office. it was just niggling at the edge of my mind--go, go, go.

so i went. the church was packed; one other coworker, a supervisor, showed up, and we sat on creaking, cold metal folding chairs at the back. our coworker spoke, her voice cracking a bit--to be expected.

three years ago, my friend cari's mom was killed in a car accident; she was about the same age as my coworker's mom--early 50s--and people said things about this other woman that applied to vickie very, very much.

i teared up during the service, but it was when i got in the car afterwards that it struck me that i felt as if i had finally attended the service for cari's mom. i think it was when they said that she invited strangers home, and made everyone feel comfortable.

i remember when i met vickie the first time--we played taboo late into the night, with her sister and brother in law, then a version of scrabble that i'd never seen. she was so ready to laugh, to hug--to embrace life, in general.

the pastor said, during his sermon, that it was a break from the day, that this woman's death offered us. a chance to review and breathe.

in the dark of the car, i thought of vickie, i thought of cari and her "god-bubble" that protected her that first year. i thought about how much i had wanted to be there--and yet, i had no idea of what to do.

i suppose that is always true, with grief, that it is as different as the weather. sometimes i think that depression, at least in my case, is like grief, unspecified. a general sadness about my life. can you grieve over your own life? is that what this is, this malaise that settles on me now and again?

even with the little pills i swallow each night, i still ride that wave, fluctuating between dark and light, between drenched and drought. perhaps others find the happy medium; they surf along, falling only when specified by some life occurance. for me it is not happenstance, to slide into the darkness, and climb out again.

i could see grief on many faces, on tuesday past, a group of people gathered to show support. i didn't know my coworker's mother. i was not there to grieve over her; i was there to hug her daughter, the living embodiment of how wonderful a being she herself had been.

the pastor was right; i needed that break in the day. i needed to remember vickie, i needed to cry and attend some kind of service.

sometimes the need to weep builds up within, the urge to sob, to hear my voice crack and gasp, to stretch my lips across my teeth as i keen, until they are swollen. it rises the same way that laughter rises.

i've been going through a dim area again. i remind myself that it is my lapse into depression. but really, is it a lapse, or just a change of the clouds that hang above? is it unnatural, to feel grief? who says that i must be joyful at all times?

dan read a book called lincoln's melancholy, a while back. the book talked about how in his day, lincoln's depression was accepted as just another part and parcel of his self. now a days, it is supposed to be quarantined to a tuesday night.

i suppose it is always tuesday night, somewhere within me.

breaking down

as in a car, folks. no worries.

yes, this weekend was The Weekend of the Car. or perhaps, The Weekend of Kim Being Late. Or maybe even The Weekend of Things Breaking. your choice, really.

friday's office party went well--which was good because i was one of the organizers. then saturday i got up, cleaned up after my pukey and poopy cats, and packed. dan and i ran to target for some last minute items, and then had breakfast, and then i was off on the road north for girly weekend in bemidji.

halfway between home and st cloud, i realized that i'd left my shirts--for that night's festivities, and for sunday's drive home--hanging on the back of the door. great.

then in st cloud, at the first stoplight, i glanced at the instrument panel. all good...except for the temperature guage, which was buried in HOT HOT HOT. i thought, oh, that's not good. then i looked up and saw smoke pouring from beneath my hood. even worse. i pulled into the nearest parking lot and called my dad.

dad called my brother, who rolled up a few moments later and looked at the car. his diagnosis was radiator hose leak. dad arrived, with my sister. it was like a family reunion in the grocery store parking lot. then we ran to the store for antifreeze, filled up the car, and drove it to my parents' house. ran it for an hour and nothing overeheated, however dad didn't want me driving so i borrowed my sister's car and drove north.

later than late--dinner was supposed to be at 6, but luckily the girls pushed it back to 730. it was a most excellent evening--all dressed to the nines, dinner at a fantastic italian restaurant, then drinks next door at the pub. my dear friend amanda rented a limo--for 4 girls in a town of 10,000. it was fabulous! we got chauffered to the next bar, had a few drinks and chatted, and then back into the limo for the final bar.

the last bar was a real winner--out in the middle of nowhere, and late enough that all patrons were one of two states: sobie-cab sober, or drunker than a skunk.

one of the skunks cornered me and cari at the bar and made conversation. it was all quite nice and good. then his three friends moseyed over, and the most foxed one, a guy named lee, was at the huggy stage. "jus a hug, plllllllleeease." "can i have anudder hug? just one more?" dear lord preserve me. he went on to tell us that his wife was actually Satan, which i'm sure may come as a shock to her, and that he was "like snowflakes," complete with a fluttery finger motion remniscent of snow falling, if snow could be drunk and clumsy.

sunday i drove back to st cloud. had dinner with the parents, chit chat with my sister. i broke a glass, whoops. dad showed me how to fill up the antifreeze if needed, and i started up the car.

then my sister backed her car up and planted her right front fender underneath my dad's truck's front fender. lovely!

luckily, getting out of the car to assess the damage allowed my mom to point out that my car was once again smoking and smelled like burning antifreeze.

thus, i am ensconced in my parent's den, typing this post as i await the call from the radiator shoppe, who will probably tell me that i need to replace my radiator, and that the bill comes to $8000.00 with tax.

*le sigh*

at any rate, dad's home, so i'm going to hang with my papa and wait for news. hugs all. (;

danger, will robinson! danger!

i want one of those robots. no matter how cheesy, it'd be nice to have. people might point and laugh at my robot. but i'd be warned about things, before harm could befall me.

so here's your warning. you just have to follow these rules:

1. put your arms out at your sides, raise them over your head, jiggling them as if you are swatting at fifteen angry bees.
2. yell, "danger, dear reader! danger!"
3. and if you're feeling lucky, punk, keep reading.

i had a bad day at work. i find it no coincidence that it happens on a day of the year wherein we are celebrating the death of a saint, a guy who went against the grain and lost his head for it.

yes, valentine. he was jailed for being a bad boy, at least in claudius' eyes. during his time in the pokey, it's said that he wrote love letters to the jailor's daughter, with whom he was in love. and that is why kids hand out little cards with cartoon characters on them, and share chocolate, etc.

when i was a kid i hated valentine's day. in school, we always had to exchange cards. i always got the least cards. it's left me somewhat jaded towards the holiday. that and learning about the apparent progenitor of the day himself. who knows. i'm bitter, and it's leftover from 20 years ago.

i'm lucky that dan likes the day. he found the sweetest cards, and got me the special dread pirate roberts version of the princess bride. he makes it less icky, and over the years, it's grown on me, a bit.

today, though, was one of those days where i was glad i got to come home.

i'm a firm believer in the trickle down effect--the one that says that the shit rolls downhill. so those of us at the bottom of the office chain receive the crappy leftover bits of attention, and that only when the people higher up the stairs are prodded to action.

it just seems like the trickle is always dripping on my head; and then there is this sense of wonder from above, that i could possibly be annoyed by said drip. *sigh*

all in all, it's a much easier life i lead than that of some of my primate relatives. i don't have to club my dinner before eating. i don't have to wrap up in fur to keep warm. i don't have to fear lions, tigers or bears. i've got it better than valentine ever did--my head is still square on my shoulders, and that's an upgrade from his standpoint, i'm sure.

i just have this feeling of anger, twitching along my nerves like the shivers when you're chilled. the day started out so nicely--dan's cards, purring cats, a warm car. about an hour into work there was the first email--one accusing me of something that i don't remember doing, and can't imagine that i would have done, anyway.

this afternoon, it was the approach of my manager. "i have a question about the process..."

and then another email: "this is going to be a mess, if this client isn't happy."

first of all, i didn't do what i was accused of doing. second of all, the process is fine--it just needs to be a tad more flexible, because you're working with human beings, and they're not made of obsidian. and third, and probably most important, if it's going to be a mess, perhaps the client could have gotten her butt in gear last week, when the pressure was on, and not this week, when the office is winched tight enough to produce diamonds from pencil lead.

this, right now--this is when i need that robot with the flailing arms. this is when i need the robot with blinking lights and strident voice--"danger, kim, danger!"

or perhaps just some yellow "caution" tape would do. i'm not high maintenance, really.

you can't go through your life with a safety harness attached, or a life raft at the ready. there's just some days when it seems like it would be prudent to have some kind of warning system. brace yourself, bridget--that sort of thing.

today i was caught unawares. i was floating along, content and peaceful. i don't like to make waves--usually i do whatever it is in my power to avoid being at the epicenter, to keep all ships on top of the water and safe.

right now, i feel as if that is the problem--i am so busy trying to keep everyone else's ships secure that mine is suddenly sinking.