Go. Run with it. Make trouble.

I graduated from therapy in my last session, mostly because I told my shrink that I am more okay with who I am and my place in the world right now than I’ve probably ever been in my life.

Even as she told me that she didn’t think I need to come back, my therapist reasserted her belief that I need to write about my grieving process and all the wacky things I’ve been doing the last couple of years (from the Lovely gatherings to the misadventures with the Box o’Ma to the Smash-a-thons to the Pink Letter Project to Operation Mailing Chocolate). She told me more than a year ago that she thought these things were beautiful and life-affirming and inspiring, that it was all of those things in part because I am not a super model or super athlete -- I'm just an ordinary girl with a somewhat unique perspective and a desire to share the things that inspire me with the people around me.

Somewhere at the beginning of this calendar year, I decided to start keeping track of all the books I read. I wanted to read 50 books in 2011 (and, if I finish The Schwa was Here by Saturday, I will have accomplished this.) Book #46 was Daughter of Smoke and Bone, which I loved partly because it's beautifully written (really, there were so many lines and images I wished I'd written as I was reading it) but mostly because it's all about hope. Even the main character's name means hope. I'm not sure when I became this ridiculously hopeful optimist - Eeyore was always my favorite Pooh character, because I used to relate so much to him. Now, I dunno. I hope. I hope a lot. And it makes me a better/happier person. As Laini Taylor writes in Daughter of Smoke and Bone, "Hope is true. Hope makes its own magic."

Book #47 was The Night Circus, which I also loved because it was fantastical and fun and there were really interesting characters. I seem to love any well-written story that involves a circus, and especially magic. Plus, I really liked the epigraph at the beginning of the book and when I went to the writer's website, I liked the other information and brief tales she'd posted -- she made me think she's somebody I could sit with for hours, drinking tea and talking about books.

It was mostly coincidence that I read these two books back-to-back. But, I see magic in that. I see magic in hope and in inspiration and in coincidence and in strange and beautiful moments. I see magic in plans that go awry but become spectacular anyway. It's basically WHY I've been doing all these wacky things that my shrink thinks are so awesome: For me, it's all about the magic -- not the Harry Potter kind or the kind Celia and Marco practice in The Night Circus, but the kind I have a hard time explaining and quantifying, I just know it when I feel it.

And I felt it when I read the 49th book of the year: Dash and Lily's Book of Dares. It's about two teenagers who pass a red moleskine notebook back and forth, daring each other to do brave or uncomfortable things.

Yesterday was the second anniversary of my getting the letters DFTBA tattooed to my right wrist, to remind me to always at least TRY to be awesome. And so, I went and bought myself a red moleskine notebook. I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with it, just that I wanted one of my own and that I wanted to do magic with it.

(Oddly, I carried what I called "the magic red lunchbox" in high school. I named it that because it had fun stuff in it, like pink bubbles in a bottle shaped like a bear and a deck of tarot cards I never got good at reading and other fun stuff I can't remember now. In The Night Circus, the biggest fans of the circus -- the people who were drawn into the magic -- all wore red scarves to identify themselves. All just coincidence, of course. But also? Magic. At least, my kind of magic.)

After spending seven hours driving home from visiting my family yesterday, I should have unpacked. I should have done the cleaning I didn't get to do in my rush to leave on Friday. I should have gone to bed early, because I was exhausted and had to get up early. I should have read more of The Schwa was Here to make sure I finish it before Saturday. Instead, I spent more than an hour writing an email to an insanely large group of people. (I kept adding people to the list, because I was worried no one would want to play -- in the first 12 hours post-email, I've already gotten eight people responding that they want to.) I proposed an adventure where the red notebook gets passed from person to person, each one filling it with something fun that somehow makes the world suck a little less. My hope is that the notebook will make its way back to me -- filled -- by my birthday at the beginning of March (seemed like a good arbitrary deadline -- not to mention the most awesome birthday present EVER).

A friend wrote back that she was willing to participate, but she wasn't sure what I wanted. I replied, "Really, it's all about creating magic. Do something fun and inspiring -- how ever you choose to interpret that."

It's like Patrick Ness wrote in the introduction to A Monster Calls: Go. Run with it. Make trouble. (Only, I'm hoping for a little more hope/inspiration/magic than trouble....)

I have no idea how this is going to turn out -- I never do when I set these things in motion, but they always turn out so much more beautiful and amazing (and, yes, magical) than I dared to dream.

"Stories are important, the monster said. They can be more important than anything. If they carry the truth."

- Patrick Ness, A Monster Calls


There was this time my mom was driving and she looked over at me and she said, "You look like you're having an entire conversation in your head right now." Then she paused and said, "You do that a lot." I was maybe still in high school, maybe just started college.

Never before or since have I felt so completely exposed and vulnerable.

I like being mostly invisible -- just barely sparkling in some people's periphery every once in a while. Those sparkly moments are nice, too, but only because of the part where I'm mostly invisible. Sometimes, being seen -- really seen -- hurts. It's scary and uncomfortable and makes you feel too real. Too breakable. Like maybe you're breaking already.

And that's how I felt when my mother so accurately summed up what I was doing, what I do all the time. Because I'm constantly having conversations in my head -- I'm replaying conversations the way I'd wished they'd happened, or I'm making up conversations that will never happen, or I'm scripting out what I'll say to someone the next time I see them (even though it NEVER goes according to script).

It was especially weird, because it was such an off-hand remark. She said it as if it barely registered as something she'd observed. And it was so exactly true of me -- this was during the period of my life where my mom was trying desperately to convince me that she knew who I was (better than she supposed I did) but she was stuck on the me I was when I was about 14 and although I'd grown and changed, she couldn't see any of that. So, here she was, barely even trying, and she'd just nailed it completely on the head.

And I think maybe that's why I tend to be really open about things -- not everything, but most things. (I don't have a single secret to mail into PostSecret anymore. Everything -- even the deepest, darkest, most hidden things -- has been told to at least one other person.) I put things out there, like a way to protect myself: Here, it's right on the surface, you don't need to dig so deep, get so close. It's misdirection at its finest. It keeps me safe from those observations that slice so close I can feel myself bleed with them. But every so often, it still happens.

Last night, as I was struggling to sleep, I wrenched myself out of bed and stumbled to the computer to write the paragraphs above, because I knew once I got the words out of my head, I would stop playing with them enough to quiet my mind and sleep. Otherwise, I would be reconstructing thoughts and sentences until they sounded MORE right, THE MOST right, until I had it the way I wanted (and then when I was sure it was how I wanted, I would try to take a snapshot in my brain, so I could remember it in the morning -- most times, if it works at all, I only hold on to fragments).

And I don't know if this is about me (because it is) or if it's for the story I'm writing now (because it really could be). Or maybe it's me continuing to argue with the friend who said that writing was basically talking to yourself; maybe I so violently disagreed with that sentiment because it cuts a little too close.

Rant, Rant, Rant

A friend of mine sent me a very innocuous email yesterday that happened to be about writing, expressing an opinion very contrary to most of my own. And even though I don't think the intent was to say, "Writing is not a worthwhile way to spend your time" that was kind of how I took it. To say I overreacted would be a bit of an understatement. I kind of lost it. (And by kind of, I mean I did.)

Today, I apologized.

But then I got an email from another friend who was having a severe crisis of confidence related to writing, and I embarked on another epic rant.

(I am not normally this ranty. Do I get a little dramatic and flaily when I talk sometimes? Yes. But, I'm also Italian. We talk with our hands and make big gestures. Everyone knows that. I think I am ranty because my hormones are all out of whack thanks to me finally being a grown up and treating my PCOS and also because I have been EXHAUSTED all week due to said treatment. Ugh.)

Anyway. I railed at this second friend because we've been in this place before. Months ago I said something to the effect of, "I don't want to hurt your feelings, but I swear it's like there are a thousand negative Jiminy Crickets sitting on your shoulders." (This made my friend laugh, and now we just talk about "the crickets" whenever this friend is crippled by self-doubt. Unfounded self-doubt, I might add.)

And then I remembered this:


And that reminded me of this:

And you don't stop yourself for fear of being imperfect or being judged. You just do it, and it's as good as it can possibly be with all of your energy and soul and brains and guts and hands and eyes, and then you go on to the next one.
- Damian Volpe

And then this, too:

And it was then that it came, though I think it had been coming for a long time and I had been choking it and hoping it would die. But it does not die. It kills you first. I knew there would be no other way to do it. No one says you have to paint ultimate anguish and torment. But, if you are driven to paint it, you have no other way.

- Chaim Potok, My Name is Asher Lev

But the thing that best describes why I want to share my writing with others comes from my favorite book:

"What I mean is, the world is an awful place, isn't it? Magic makes it less awful for a moment or two." He felt like he'd torn away a bandage, and confirmed that an old wound was indeed still there. "If I can shake the world off a man's shoulders, I feel better."
- Glen David Gold, Carter Beats the Devil

Signs from the universe

I believe in signs from the universe (more accurately, I often say, "THAT is the universe speaking to you."). Sometimes, really, truly, there is just no other explanation for things that happen. At least, that's what I think.

This month is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). You can Google it if you want to know about the word counts and the guy that decided November should be the month to try to write a novel and why. I've looked it up before, but I forget. Doesn't interest me. Last year, I made a point to write every single day in November. It was HARD. And EXHAUSTING. But I got a ton of work done on my book. And it was AWESOME.

Last month, my writing partners and I agreed we'd all do NaNoWriMo together this year. Just before the end of October, Ben and I met to set the ground rules. For whatever reason, he named me Commissioner of our little group. (I don't know if that affords me any special privileges, I just like that I get a title.) We selected code names -- because our friend in Chicago just legally changed her last name to France, Ben decided he wanted to be Germany. To keep with the country-name theme, I am Iceland. That's Commissioner Iceland to you.

Our rules were pretty simple. We all have to write or edit SOMETHING every day (we decide how much is enough, a day ends when you go to bed, even if it's technically the next calendar day). If we haven't emailed the others by 9 p.m. eastern, the designated "task master of the week" gets to work with emails and texts to make sure no one forgets to write. On Sundays, we have designated write-a-thon hours (when we're writing and potentially chatting on gmail with each other) and then we send each other something we've written during the week.

Honestly, I've been writing more emails than fiction in the last 15 days. My NaNoWriMo output has been disappointing, to say the least. (Admittedly, I've been getting my ASS KICKED by the 3-week cold from hell, but still.) I was averaging about 2 pages a day (which would mean I'd have about two chapters worth of work to show at the end of a month of writing every day during a month dedicated to producing a full novel). Yeah, that's just great.

The writing hasn't been coming easily and I've been doubting myself, doubting my stories (I've been ping-ponging between two, to give myself an out when I feel stuck with one or the other). I know that I am a writer -- geez, just look at all the email I send, look at these blogs, listen to me ramble. I tell stories. Even when I try to reign myself in, I'm not very good at getting to the point without giving all the important context. (Details matter, dammit.)

Today was especially bad. I was reflecting on the fact that we are now halfway through NaNoWriMo and although I wrote more last night than I have all month, it was slow-going and agonizing and I'm not sure I have any direction. I'm still not sure what the hell I'm doing or if I should be doing it. I was in full-on self-doubt mode.

And then I got an email from Madame France (who happens to be the task master this week), in response to two very rough pages I'd sent her to read:

IAMCRYINGINMYOFFICEIAMCRYINGINMYOFFICEIAMCRYINGINMYOFFICE.

TARA.  Tara.  tara.  This is beautiful.  (This is beautiful!)  It's just so beautiful.  And terrifying.  And wonderful.  My mouth was open and I was holding my hands over it and my eyes are wide, SO WIDE.  It's stunning.  It's important.  GO GO GO.  Go.  Drink caffeine.  Take drugs.  Whatever you have to do to write this story- do it.  We'll pick up the pieces later.

Sign from the universe. Just when I was feeling like I couldn't go on, that maybe I needed to stop writing all together for a while (til I could figure out what the hell I'm doing, if it's even worth continuing), I get this amazing email telling me not only that I'm on the right track, but more importantly that I need to KEEP GOING.

I don't know why people who are artistically inclined seem to do this to themselves all the time (maybe others do it, too, but I know a lot of artistically inclined people and we all torture ourselves -- some more than others -- but definitely all of us). But thankfully the universe (and amazing writing partners) are there to steer us back on course....

This just keeps getting better

I've been very amused by certain lines in emails lately and last night I got an email that started with a line that sounded like something I'd hear at a particularly heated poetry reading (which made me a little nostalgic, because I haven't been to one of those in YEARS). So, I thought I'd make a weird, random, poem-like thing out of these emails, all in chronological order -- each color change denoting a new email. And it's already growing....

It's amazing what you'll find doing a Google image search for "stop sucking" and "sad cheerleader." But, here's the question: Is that really weird? And people wonder why I believe in MAGIC. Watch out for sasquatch! And donkeys with dreads! What the hell kind of answer is THAT? You can scream my name all you want! I will just sit here and be your pet optimist. But, seriously, I really DID invent THE BEST trivia game related to STDs EVER. I'll be wearing my black funeral dress with purple tights, because that's what I wore to work today.... YAY gelato! This morning in the shower, I did it again. WAIT. That wasn't ME, it was YOU. So, right now, I'm looking at my latest Google search terms, "Woman vaporized," and I'm glad no one knows the password to this computer but me. You can be afraid - for your hypothetical daughter and for yourself - just don't let that fear stand in the way of what makes you happy. Soooo, I begin my reign of terror tomorrow as your French Task Mistress.  This sounds more than a little kinky. You forgot the 'g' in the write-a-thonging!!! Ok, so here's my plan: I'm going to write for about 30 min. Then I'm going to read your stuff. The porn will have to wait. It's kind of like ack and ugh and just all that random grunting I do. Everyone's burning out like crackheads and Occupy Wallstreet protestors. Um, I think he's a douche. I approve of dinner! Ok.  Then I'll close my can of whoop-ass. Dude, I'm at the annual infectious disease conference. And I have a message from the universe:  O-M-G. I am here and thonging along. I'm also salty like pretzel, yo! Wee wee wee bits count. I put the wrong thing in parentheses and the wrong thing in caps.  (It's just a matter of time.)  AND NOT QUITTING. (and possibly a valet to steal your clothes.)  Just got out of the mullets movie.

"I'm starting to think that it doesn't matter what people believe in -- it's the way you treat people that counts."

- Elizabeth Kelly, Apologize, Apologize!

I'm only less than 100 pages into Apologize, Apologize! but I'm enjoying it a lot. Elizabeth Kelly writes quirky, fun characters. She describes incredibly mundane things I feel every day in this vivid, completely right on -- and beautiful -- way.

And then, this evening, I stumbled on that quote above. And it reminded me of my friend Nora's video:



I had so much fun handing flowers to random strangers. The man in the wheelchair -- he said I made his day.

It's easy to get caught up in the day-to-day, the deadlines, leap frogging from one commitment to the next. But it's important to stop and think about what really matters and remember to work those things in when you can. It's usually something simple that takes very little time or effort that makes all the difference....

Make the most of your time here

I often say Twitter has changed my life in profound and beautiful ways. It did. On Sept. 9, 2009, John Green tweeted about The Beckoning of Lovely, and it inspired me to send this e-mail to some friends:

Disclaimer: I’m going to ramble a little, because that’s what I do, but I promise it’ll be worth it.

It's no secret that my mom is dying, which is as hard as you can imagine (and harder). So, it’s a big deal that I have found something that has inspired me and made me excited to DO SOMETHING.

If you don't know who John Green is, you really should visit http://www.brotherhood2.com/index.php and also read his book, Paper Towns (just released in paperback!)

A couple of weeks ago, I discovered that John Green is kind of my hero, and through him, I discovered The Beckoning of Lovely. Impossible for me to sum up, so just go here: 17 Things I Made, then go here: The Beckoning of Lovely

I think most people know of my obsession with Matt Harding (http://www.wherethehellismatt.com/) and so it all kind of ties together. (Or, maybe it doesn’t, but it makes sense to me.)

And here’s where the “I’m inspired despite being in the darkest place of my life” part comes in: Make. The. Most. Of. Your. Time. Here.

I want to DO SOMETHING fun and somewhat spontaneous and somewhat beautiful and adventurous and and and…lovely.

And, I need your help to do that.

1 p.m. this Saturday (9/12), Deering Oaks Park in Portland, on the hill overlooking the tennis courts.

Right now, you’re thinking, “That’s, like, two and a half days from now. That’s not enough notice.”

Or, you’re thinking, “The weather says ‘Mostly cloudy’ and ‘Few showers’ for Saturday.”

My answer? Make. The. Most. Of. Your. Time. Here.

Like Amy Krouse Rosenthal, I don’t really know what I want to do (although I've been developing all kinds of lovely ideas over the past few hours...).

Please bring something (anything) you love.

I will be prepared for something epic, and I hope that you will be, too.

I hadn't checked the forecast before hatching this plan -- I just went with the inspiration as it struck. It rained. It rained quite a bit. And yet, several of my friends showed up. One friend brought her son (the sweetest, smartest, most beautiful boy on the planet -- not that I'm biased or anything), another friend brought her dog. Everyone brought something they loved. We sang the chorus to “Alice’s Restaurant” (that was mostly me, but still), we all pulled random directives out of a plastic bag and followed them (examples: Remember; Make magic happen; What’s the oddest thing you can do? Do it now!).

My mom's health really started to fail shortly after that, and she died less than a month later. So, the video I filmed that day sat on my computer.

Ten months later -- on my mom's birthday -- I tried to organize another Lovely event. Fewer friends showed up, but it was still pretty magical. (That time it didn't rain, but it was INSANELY hot.)

Amy Krouse Rosenthal went on to post videos on 09/09/09 and 10/10/10. Tomorrow is 11/11/11, and the Beckoning of Lovely movie will be released. So, I finally got around to playing with my own lovely videos, and they made me smile and laugh and even get a little misty. They reminded me how much I care about the people who came out to play with me on those rainy and hot days and all the other people who indulge my whimsy (and even encourage it). I am a lucky girl to love and be loved by so many amazing people. We are all one.

 

(The song in the video is "All is Love" by Karen O and the Kids, from the Where the Wild Things Are soundtrack.)

Sometimes, all I can say is "wow"

I am completely humbled by the response to Operation Mailing Chocolate.

All week, I've been receiving messages from people who received my packages. They were spread out over days - texts and emails and cards in the regular mail - like little gifts to make each day this week a little brighter, a little easier to manage.

And then came today. I woke this morning to a gazillion Facebook notifications (okay, that's an overstatement, but there were A LOT) from friends offering kind thoughts. In my physical mailbox, greeting cards from two good friends - one who knew my mom for many years and said she was "funny and wacky and didn't take any crap" and then said the same about me (which was AWESOME).

Then the texts. One friend took her chocolate TO THE GRAND CANYON (I mean, yeah, she lives in Arizona, but still). Another sent me a picture text of her eating the chocolate I sent. Others sent virtual hugs and love and all kinds of goodness.

At today's bout, my derby wife presented me with a bag of baked goodies that would've made Ma (who taught me to show my appreciation in baked goods) exceptionally proud. I shared Ma's favorite cookies (which are A BITCH to make, but I made them anyway) with some of my favorite derby people. Our announcer, Pixie Quikenwitty, said that she could feel Ma there. I think I could, too. At the very least, I could feel her in all the love and support that seemed to be overflowing from all angles.

Back home, I had emails waiting for me from two of my Top Five Favorite People on the Planet -- even though both had emailed me earlier in the week -- reminding me once again why they are so dear to me.

And here I sit, marveling at how a day I thought would be really hard and painful turned into something beautiful. I've still got another 25 years of loan payments before I pay off my MFA in creative writing. I should be able to come up with more to say than, "Wow." But it's the one word that just keeps rattling around in my head right now.

It still sucks to be motherless, but it stings a little less knowing that there are so many good, kind people in my life. Take the night off, Jonathan Livingston Seagull, because we've worked on love A LOT today....

"You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart."

- Steve Jobs



Steve Jobs died yesterday, the same age my mother was when she died almost exactly two years ago.

Your time is limited, so don't waste it living someone else's life. Don't be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people's thinking. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.

 Even in a life that is much too short, even fighting your own body to keep it going, even without a formal education, you can change the world in miraculous ways. Thank you, Mr. Jobs, for setting that example. For reminding me and so many other people to never settle, to stay hungry and foolish.

“Showing gratitude is one of the simplest yet most powerful things humans can do for each other.”

- Randy Pausch, The Last Lecture

I was reminded of this quote the other day while looking at a picture of some of the sticky notes Daniel, John, and I posted around New York City during my Memorial Day weekend 2010 trip.

It was well-timed, because I'd just sent my Operation Mailing Chocolate packages, but I'd realized that I left something out of the notes I included in the packages: Why I chose the people who received them.

Part of it was practicality: I had their mailing addresses and none of them were people I would be seeing in person any time soon.

But, really, it's more than that.

The joke in our family was always that my mom only told my sisters and me that she loved us if one of us was getting on a plane (she was TERRIFIED of flying). It was a joke, but it was also true. (Until the last few months of her life, when she also started telling us she loved us before surgical procedures and when she was admitted to the hospital.)

It's part of why I've made such an effort in the last two years to make sure people know what I think of them. (And why in the last two years I've ended more conversations with "Love you" than I had in the cumulative 30 years prior -- to paraphrase Neil Gaiman "because it's a good thing to say if you can mean it.")

Love, gratitude -- simple but powerful, and good to express if you mean it.

And I do.

Because every person who received (or has yet to receive) one of those packages has made it possible for me to believe in kindness and magic and the goodness in this world after an experience that left me feeling, well, not so sure about any of those things anymore. It was a collection of gestures large and small (and, honestly, even the "small" ones were pretty huge to me) that made me laugh and made me feel loved and made me a better, kinder, braver human being.

And so, OF COURSE, these would be the people I turned to when I needed some happy thoughts to counteract all the sad ones, when I needed to feel connected (even if it was only in a metaphorical sense).

“When we're connected to others, we become better people.”

- Randy Pausch, The Last Lecture

I’ve been incredibly distracted for a while now. On Wednesday, I almost made it out the door to practice WITHOUT MY DERBY GEAR. I made it to the bottom of the stairs, realized something was missing, stopped to think what it could be, and then marveled at my own absent-mindedness for a minute.

I shouldn't marvel. In the weeks before my mom died, I was so forgetful I kept putting my underwear on inside out, so I hung identical lists on hot pink paper next to the front door and bathroom mirror to remind me not to leave the house without brushing my teeth, putting on deodorant, giving Mazzy her thyroid pill, remembering my ID badge for work, and remembering my lunch. (Brushing my teeth is the only thing I managed to remember every time.)

Last fall, it happened again. The underwear going on insideout, I mean. I didn’t make a list of reminders that time. Instead, I had a meltdown at practice a few days before the first anniversary of my mom’s death. On the actual day, Rehab and I saw a movie, I got my Jonathan Livingston Seagull LOVE tattoo, and we had dinner. It was fine - I was fine.

This year, I’d been going back and forth about what I should do on the second anniversary. When I talked to my shrink about it, she asked why I felt like I needed to do anything, that I should just treat October 8 like any other day and instead focus on my mom’s birthday as the day I remember her every year.

I explained that I can’t treat October 8 like any other day. It’s not that I want to solemnly mark it on my calendar and make a point of acknowledging it, but I know that it won’t just pass by without me realizing what day it is. “I know I’m going to feel bad on that day,” I said, “so I want to do something that will make me feel less bad.”

So, Dr. B asked about something my mom and I both liked. First thing that came to mind: Chocolate. She said, “Why don’t you get some chocolate – really good chocolate – and just take a few minutes to enjoy it and think of your mom on that day?”

It was so simple, it was brilliant. I walked out with a plan and I felt better…until I didn’t anymore. Until the distractedness started becoming way too noticeable to ignore, until I started feeling completely disconnected from the people I love, from myself. Sort of like this:

Out and into the loneliest place that you’ll ever know

I carried the world just as far as I could

But the damage had taken its toll

- Motion CitySoundtrack, "The Worst Part"

And then I had an idea so simple, it was brilliant – combining so many of the things I’ve done over the last two years to make myself feel whole again. I bought some chocolate, I used up a bunch of the blank notecards that have been sitting in my desk for YEARS, and I hand wrote some messages to people as far away as Arizona and Wisconsin and as near as Yarmouth and Portland, to people I've known since I was three and people I've met since I got that Jonathan Livingston Seagull tattoo last year. (And I'll be bringing a big bag of chocolate to our bout on the 8th to share with my derbymates in person....)

The notes explained that I will be taking some time on October 8 to eat some really good chocolate and think of my mom and asks the person receiving the accompanying chocolate to basically do the same (although they don’t need to feel pressured to do it on the same day). In all of them, I quoted an episode of The X-Files I saw in high school that had this line that has stuck with me half my life: “You only live as long as the last person remembers.”

And so, Operation Mailing Chocolate helps me keep my mom alive, it helps remind people I care about that they are important to me (yay for mail! and being included! and chocolate!), and it helps me feel connected again -- we really ARE better people when we're connected to others. At least, I know I am.

"I used to dream about escaping my ordinary life, but my life was never ordinary. I had simply failed to notice how extraordinary it was."

- Ransom Riggs, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

I think I'm falling in love with my mailbox.* And, okay, my inbox deserves some credit, too.

So, I've been experiencing about nine different types of emotions all at once lately (I attribute this to being so grossly overwhelmed by my job in addition to a gazillion crazy things going on in general, plus the time of year. I love the fall -- it's always been my favorite season -- but it's hard to reconcile my love of the fall with all the memories of two years ago....)

Every day last week, when my alarm went off, I would drag myself out of bed with the consolation that I only had to get through X more days until my vacation. I have never needed a vacation so badly in my working life, which is saying something when you consider that I've been working since I was 15.

So, Monday was my last work day before FOUR VACATION DAYS (during which I have no specific plans, other than to try to unknot my brain a little). It was a tricky day - I spent most of it training some new staff, then answering A LOT of emails, wrapping up a couple of projects, etc.

Just after noon, my incredible friend Daniel sent me an email that said simply: "just a quick reminder that you are loved and beautiful." (This is one of the many reasons I adore Daniel - he seems to always KNOW when I need stuff like this. Not because I've said anything. He just knows. Like the time he sent me a random text to "Keep going" on my book THE SAME DAY I'd gotten interest from an agent, but before he'd heard anything about that.)

Yesterday was my first day off. I spent most of it just lounging around the apartment. When I finally went out to run some errands, I checked the mail. The usual junk mail, a statement from my pathetic little IRA, and a card from my derby wife. It was one of those "just because" notes she sometimes sends me but it wasn't just a "hey, I was thinking of you" note -- it was a "hey, do you know how awesome you are?" note. Again, impeccably timed.

And then today, I slept until almost noon, because my mom was right when she used to say I could "reverse my days and nights" without even trying as soon as I had any time off. I finally just went to check the mail and there was a package from Sock Dreams. I order from them a lot, but I was pretty sure I didn't remember having placed an order recently. And then I opened the package. They were cupcake socks from my friend the amazing vegan cupcake maker. So THAT was why she messaged me for my mailing address over the weekend....

It is mind boggling to think that randomly these three people (who do not know each other and who live in three different states) just happened to time things so well to make me feel loved and special exactly when I needed it. And yet, that's exactly what happened.

I've got two more days off, so maybe this is a good time to send some mail to people who are important to me, to thank them for being who they are and for being in this world. Yay for mail and for remembering to be awesome....


* I should probably be more careful about making statements like this. Like, when we got the new color printer at work that prints ON BOTH SIDES and prints super fast and I said, "I want to have the printer's babies" and our Hepatitis Coordinator looked at me very strangely (as if I meant it literally). For the record, I do not ACTUALLY want to have babies with the printer at work and I am not TRULY falling in love with my mailbox. Geez.

"And I think something is beautiful if it reveals something important about what it means to be alive."

- Maureen Johnson, The Last Little Blue Envelope

Yesterday at lunch, we were sitting around the table talking about something that prompted me to say, “My precious” in the Gollum voice (which was completely spot-on appropriate, I just don’t remember the context).

My boss was sitting across from me and made a motion with her hand to show how close I was to getting forcibly committed for psychiatric observation. She’s been keeping an eye on me ever since I threatened to start speaking ONLY in the voice of Copernicus, the taxidermied monkey with half a face. We’d agreed that it was okay for me to make little Copernicus sounds here and there (like my “woohoo” has pretty much been completely coopted by Copernicus at this point), but much more than that would definitely be cause for concern.

It’s just been A LOT lately. On all fronts. And I am exhausted down to the tips of my toenails and up to the roots of my hair. For real.

In the last week I: read a book and a half, chipped my front tooth, reffed a double header after a whirlwind of travel, had to separate my guinea pigs because one had a fast and dramatic weight loss that seems to be in direct relation to the other’s weight gain, got rejected by the agent who was interested enough to read my first five chapters, and ran over a raccoon on the highway. (In addition to all the work stuff that is making me want to talk in the Copernicus voice nonstop….)

And then this morning, I saw this on Twitter, and it made me laugh out loud (okay, okay, I sort of snorted, because I surprised myself with the laughter).

And then I saw this, which restored my faith in humanity a bit.

See, the thing that has kept me going through the craziest, hardest parts of the last several years is this one very small thing: I believe in magic. Not the Harry Potter kind – although I truly hope that kind exits, too. I mean the everyday kind, the kind of magic that exists in ordinary people who do extraordinary things just because it’s the right thing to do, the magic that exists in a moment where you’re sure the universe is conspiring to put something you NEED in your path, the magic that exists in simple, beautiful things, places, people.

I was thinking about that – about magic and the things that cheer me up when I feel beyond cheering – when I heard about all the upsets at the WFTDA Eastern Region Playoffs today. #10 London beat #7 Carolina by almost 100 points (yay for underdogs!). Although #8 Dutchland beat #9 Maine (my home league’s all-star team), they forfeited their game against #1 Gotham. So, Maine stepped up to play Gotham in a half-hour scrimmage, a move that has earned them tremendous pride and respect from people far and wide in the derby community. (I am just really, really disappointed that I couldn’t see that scrimmage – even with a huge point spread, I bet it was a great game to watch.)

See? Magic.

And although it’s been a hell of a long day, week, month, I’m going to bed feeling mostly okay. I can’t really ask for more than that….

Granny panties, geekiness, and funny socks

I’m wearing my purple, pink, and blue swirly tights today (you can see them in the “Bad Bad World” video) and lots of people have commented on them. I have whimsical taste in tights and socks, so I get that a lot.

The thing that kills me, though, is that I often hear people say, “I could never wear something like that.”

Why the hell not?

I mean, okay, some workplaces may have extra-specially strict dress codes. But outside of that?

I think maybe people are afraid of looking dumb or having other people laugh at them. Me? I think it’s healthy to be able to laugh at yourself. I give myself ample opportunity to do so – and then I invite others to join in.

For example:

I was visiting family two weekends ago, so naturally that meant using my aunt’s washer and dryer (because I am still not grown up enough to have my own). I was just about ready to pack up my stuff and go when my grandma says, “Did you find my underwear?”

This is not a normal statement one expects to hear from one’s grandmother, even in the context of laundry. Or, at least, it’s not something I expected to hear. So I said, “Uh…no?”

She then says that she had noticed the washer going earlier and just threw her underwear in, so I say, “Well, it must be in my basket then. Let me check.”

A quick paw through the clothes, and I find said underwear.

At this point, my aunt says, “Didn’t you notice when you were folding them?” No, because I tend not to fold underwear or socks – just toss them in the laundry basket.

But, my sister got to the much more interesting point: “Didn’t you notice that they weren’t yours? Unless…YOU WEAR GRANNY PANTIES.”

Now, it’s an odd thing to discover that you and your 88-year-old grandmother do, in fact, wear pretty much the same underwear (mine is several sizes smaller, though, thank you very much). And, since I feel like I need to defend myself about this whenever I bring it up, let me say this: I like to be comfortable; I don’t wear underwear that crawls up my ass. I also don’t see the need for wearing flashy underpants (other than the ruffled undies, which are really outerwear, because they go OVER my regular underwear); no one sees them but me (and, well, anyone else who did would likely be much more interested in getting them off than what they look like on).

So, there you have it. I literally wear granny panties.

Yesterday, I was telling some co-workers about an e-mail I’d received from our great-grandboss asking me a grammatical question related to the proper usage of serial commas. I am a great fan and supporter of the Oxford comma. As I was explaining this (and what an Oxford comma was) to L and E, I suppose I got a little animated.

How do I know this?

Because E said this: "Your geekiness is refreshing. It makes me feel normal."

One of the three best compliments I ever received was in sixth grade when Sarah DiMarco said, “I like your oddness.” Life is too short to spend it worrying what other people are saying about you. Wear the funny socks.

Best. Blog. Ever.

I love The Bloggess. She makes me laugh, she makes me cry, she makes me want to do silly, joyful dances.

I do some seriously amazing dramatic readings of her blogs at work. (Especially the one about Copernicus, the taxidermied monkey with half a face. My Copernicus voice is especially creeptastic.)

But this one is the best blog I've ever read. By anyone. Ever.

Read it. As Sam says to Large when they first meet in Garden State, "It'll change your life, I swear."

(Okay, maybe not CHANGE YOUR LIFE, but it should make you believe in magic and wonder and amazingly weird and good people -- at least for a little while.)

Addlepated redux

I’m feeling the need to rant.

Power was out for 7.25 hours yesterday evening/night. Came back on for a couple hours, then went out again in the middle of the night. Got up this morning, took a cold shower, went to work. Came home at lunchtime, power is still out. Okay. Go to the office to eat the sandwich I bought and IT’S GOT HAM ON IT. I've been a vegetarian for 22 years. I pretended not to be revolted, peeled the ham off, and ate the sandwich anyway. And, yeah, I’m still pretty grossed out by this. Go to my fourth meeting of the day, and it’s interrupted by the fire alarm.

My job is stressing me out in about 18 different ways right now, but at least my co-workers promised to come visit me if I have to go to the booby hatch because of it. (Yes, I like the term "booby hatch" better than "funny farm" or "looney bin" or "nut house.")

Come home, and my downstairs neighbor tells me that the power is expected to be out for two to four days. A transformer exploded the next street over, so it’s going to take a while. (Of course this couldn’t happen during any of the many days in the next two weeks when I’m supposed to be out of town anyway….)

And, okay. Two to four days is still less than a lot of the more rural areas will be without electricity. My apartment isn’t flooded (which would really be something, actually, since it’s on the second floor) and it’s not winter. It’s also not oppressively hot. The wind could have certainly done much more damage. I’m lucky enough to have a friend who is willing to let me come to her house for electricity, an Internet connection, and, best of all, hot water for showering.

It could be a lot worse.

I know this.

But, I can’t help kind of hating today. Like, kind of a lot.

Addlepated

Almost immediately after posting that last one, my power went out. It’s creeping up on four hours. I’ve got candles (although the flashlight in the house looks like it may not have much battery life left and I don’t have any more D batteries – there are a couple flashlights in the car if I get desperate). I’ve done some reading. I took a pretty solid nap (although it’s probably a sign you grind your teeth way too much when you dream about grinding your teeth and needing to put your mouth guard in).

And, it’s just getting on to sunset now. I’ve never really been afraid of the dark, but I realized this is the first sustained power outage I’ve had during waking hours – usually they’ve been late enough at night that I go to bed (or they’ve lasted less than three hours).

There was the time my last landlord didn’t pay the bill, so I went without electricity for two days – I spent those nights after work reading or using my work laptop and a neighbor’s unsecured wireless to check my email.

This time, I have my own laptop and no unsecured wireless in the vicinity. I’m typing this while I watch Serenity until the battery dies. I could work on the revisions I was supposed to do this weekend (I officially blew my first self-imposed revision deadline yesterday) but the wind and the darkness are making me anxious and distracted. The only way to deal with it is to make myself MORE distracted, hence movie time.

Plus, I have a splitting headache.

And, I’m missing my mom again. I’m missing the way she would check in before, during, after severe weather. How she would watch the weather channel obsessively and then call me and argue about what weather I was experiencing (even when I was looking out my own window) if I dared to contradict the weather forecast.

It’s officially four powerless hours now, which means I should probably throw out everything in my refrigerator as soon as the lights come back on.

I’d never really thought about the fact that we refer to electricity as “power” until just now. Because I DO feel powerless right now, more so than I have in a long time. Maybe because it’s dark or the wind is really something (although it seems to have calmed quite a bit) or because I’m alone and feel disconnected.

Less than a week ago, my office shook from an earthquake hundreds of miles away. It was a gentle rumbling – most people didn’t notice it – but it was enough to make me so dizzy I thought I might throw up for a few minutes there.

Today, I watched as the sea roiled and crashed into the rocks because of a hurricane that was still miles off. The wind tore two trees in half and left them in my driveway, knocked the power out for hours.

It’s scary to be reminded that we’re just tiny little beings on top of this spinning globe in the middle of space. It’s like how Kaylee just described the Reavers in Serenity: “They was men who reached the edge of space, saw a vasty nothingness and went bibbledy over it.”

***Power came back on about 7.25 hours after it went out. I'm still feeling pretty addlepated, though.

Chasing hurricanes

At work on Friday, E and I were discussing weekend plans. She said she wanted to go to the beach to see the waves when Hurricane Irene arrived. Being a good little public health communicator, I advised against this. I quoted the language from Emergency Management about how people can be swept away in seconds, how you shouldn't go watch the waves.

And then my brain exploded.

(Not literally.)

Because WHILE I was quoting all this safety stuff, the other part of my brain was jumping up and down yelling, "Let me come with you! That sounds fun! I want to see the waves!"

Sometimes, I really wonder if I wasn't supposed to be twins and then absorbed the other one in utero -- hey, it happens and it might explain why I am so constantly torn and indecisive and not just feeling like I'd be happy going either way but actually WANTING polar opposite things in the same space and time.

Yesterday was very stressful for me. When I get overly stressed out, I tend to get excited about doing things that might cause me harm (like drinking until I throw up or signing up for a trapeze lesson or riding waterfalls or going to the beach in a hurricane). And so, E and I made a plan to drive to the beach this morning at high tide to see the waves. I emailed her, "You realize, we are completely and utterly out of our minds. Should we get someone to chaperone us?"

So, last night, A agreed to come along and said her niece could be our chaperone. And then this morning, I got up early (practically unheard of for me on a Sunday), posted this handy message under my work social media account: "Respect the power of the high surf. Large crashing waves and rip currents can be deadly." And then I picked up E, and A and her niece, and drove a little more than an hour to see the waves.

'Round about 45 minutes into the drive, I started whining that it wasn't so rainy or windy (we're not supposed to see the worst of Irene until later) and that if I was going to drive more than an hour in a hurricane to get to the beach, I definitely wanted to see something more than I would on any other day.

And, I did.





Hey, look! It's Jonathan Livingston Seagull! (Jonathan, keep working on love! And also, consider taking shelter. That wind is getting NASTY.)

What does it mean?

It’s interesting to hear what other people think of you.

Yesterday, I was with a bunch of co-workers and I got incredibly gleeful about something small that would not impress any rational human being. I pointed out that I’m very easy to please, and my co-workers agreed that that’s one of my better qualities.

Later, my boss noticed that I was wearing matching socks. She seemed slightly concerned, more so when I pointed out that I’d worn matching socks the day before as well.

My answer: It happens.

I’ve been mismatching my socks less than two years, people. (It started because I couldn’t decide between ninjas and aliens before a bout two Septembers ago and then I realized I didn’t have to choose – I could wear one of each! – and then I just figured that mismatching worked well for my indecisive nature.)

Sometimes, the mismatched socks mean something with the preferred sock (or the one that better suits my mood) going on the left. But sometimes, it doesn’t mean anything. Sometimes, it’s just two socks I pulled out of the drawer and how they end up on my feet.

Sometimes I wear matching socks, because I just can’t find something that goes with the sock I really want to wear. Sometimes, like this week, I wear matching socks because they are new and I want to break them in.

It doesn’t have to mean something.

But, it freaks people out. People equate me with mismatched socks. Which is fine. But also interesting, since it’s such a relatively new phenomena in my life.

I’ve been listening to this song “Clouds” by The Morning Light pretty obsessively lately. There’s this one part I love:

And I figured it out

I'm not the person that I used to be

Washed away

Please someone make me okay

It fits how I’ve been feeling a lot lately, and so I added that to the list of quotes in the draft email that holds random quotes that I sometimes attach to the bottoms of my emails. Sometimes, the quotes on the bottoms of the emails mean something. Lots of times, they don’t. Lots of times, they are words that are stuck in my head or that struck me as pretty or relatable or funny or interesting at some point and are only now randomly being pasted to the bottom of a message about something completely different.

As someone who is ALWAYS wondering “What does it mean?” (not in a double-rainbow way), I promise that if there’s something I want to tell you, I will say it. You don’t need to troll through my sock drawer or my latest pile of quotes to find answers that aren’t there.

I was hanging out with a friend last weekend and we were talking about reading people and she said I’m hard to read. I scoffed at that. But then she made a good point: I have little problem saying what I’m thinking (and if I haven’t said it and you ask me what I’m thinking, I will almost always tell you exactly what’s in my head), but I’m not so forthcoming with emotions.

Hmmm.

I keep working on love, but I guess I’ve still got pretty far to go.

"I could write it / better than you ever felt it"

- Fall Out Boy, "Hum Hallelujah"

I love the idea behind "I could write it better than you ever felt it." Sometimes, I think this is absolutely true. Sometimes, I think that I can't really feel anything until I've written it down. It's way too easy for me to get overwhelmed by emotions in a moment in time and space. I get overwhelmed and I shut down and dive deep inside myself. And writing is what propels me back out of that deep, dark, inner place.

Sort of.

I've been having some serious trouble revising my book lately. It's going at a way slower pace than I'd planned. The basic revising is easy, but when I have to completely rewrite (or newly write) a scene, I find myself completely incapable of writing a single sentence. I can literally stare at my computer screen for HOURS with nothing to show for it. Not even a single sentence.

And yet, that has not stopped me from sending endless emails and writing more blogs than I have all year. It's not a short in the wiring, so it's got to be the book itself that's shutting me down.

I guess it's because now it feels more real. When I saw John Green and David Levithan at the Will Grayson, Will Grayson signing last year, they made a point that if you write, you are a writer. You don't have to wait until you publish something. But, the truth is, even though I've told stories my WHOLE life, even though I've written stories since I first learned to string sentences together on paper, even though I saddled myself with a 30-year student loan for a degree in writing, I have always considered myself someone who "wants to be a writer."

And now it's starting to feel more like I am one.

And it scares the living daylights out of me.

Sometimes, this is just how it is

Dear Ma,

There’s this picture of you pregnant with me that’s tucked into the French memo board in the living room with bunches of other pictures of you. The memo board used to hang in the library. Before that, it was in the living room in the apartment in Gardiner. In all three locations, for some reason, that picture of you keeps falling down.

I’ve finally moved it to another space on the board, in hopes that it will keep the picture from falling down.

But really?

I’m not sure I want that.

See, I know it’s ridiculous (although, that term is funny to use considering I’m writing a letter to you and you’ve been dead almost two years), but every time I find that picture on the floor or somewhere else it’s not supposed to be, I think it’s you trying to tell me something.

I have no idea what.

And I feel stupid thinking it.

But I can’t help believing.

See, I believe that energy never dies. I believe that your energy is still here – just as all the energy of all the people who came before us is still here – still influencing us in both positive and negative ways. That’s why I was so enamored with the His Dark Materials trilogy – because Philip Pullman’s idea of “dust” was pretty much spot on with my own spiritual beliefs (which I’d always thought were just some weird, flaky thing I’d cobbled together with my way less than scientific brain). The thing I’ve never been able to sort out, though, is if I believe that that energy has consciousness. Part of me wants to believe that (and my longing makes me think it couldn’t be so).

Anyway, I see the picture of you pregnant with me on the floor or randomly stuck somewhere that it fell, and I wonder if that’s you trying to tell me something. And then I wonder what the something could be. I wonder a lot. More than I should. (I wonder a lot – more than I should – about A LOT of things….)

Even if it is you, maybe it’s just your way of saying hi, letting me know I’m not alone.

I’ve had a good, long run of feeling okay. The last couple weeks have been crazy-busy and there have been some frustrations and some disappointments and a significant lack of sleep, and it’s all added up to me feeling not so fabulous right now. To feeling alone.

This friend of mine sent me an email just after your birthday that included this sentence, “I hope others who can care find their way into your life.”

I’m still not totally sure what that meant, but I think it was a reference to the fact that no one else had remembered your birthday or checked in with me. I explained that there are truly beautiful, amazing humans in my life – people who make me feel loved and appreciated and humbled by their caring on a regular basis. I am incredibly lucky. And, it’s okay that they didn’t remember your birthday this year. It’s okay that very few people thought to wish me luck this past Mother’s Day (especially because I myself didn’t think to check in with several of my motherless friends – both those who lost mothers long before I did and those who lost them after me). It’s been almost two years since you died, and it seems unfair to expect anyone to still be checking on me to see if I’m okay (especially when I am not always – in fact, I rarely am – good at doing that with others in the same position).

My point: I don’t feel unloved, even when I feel forgotten. I think there’s always at least a handful of people I carry in my heart who remind me that I am loved and that I matter.

But sometimes, I still feel very alone.

Like now.

I’m sitting here in this quiet apartment, literally listening to crickets outside (except when my typing drowns them out). I know that there are people – unbelievably loving, creative, smart, observant, giving, strong people – who love me. But none of them are here. None of them are here right now. And I feel alone.

And I miss you something awful right this minute. I miss talking to you about stupid little things and great big things and all the nothings in between.

Now I regret moving that picture, because it hasn’t fallen since I moved it. Even though it made me feel foolish to wonder if you were sending a message, a sign, it was still nice to just be reminded that you’re still here. That you’re all around me. That you’re holding me right now.

I was lying in the tub earlier, thinking about all of this stuff and wondering why I’m feeling like this now. Why this day? It’s no special day. It’s more than a month since your birthday. It’s not any kind of anniversary. Sure, I’ve let stuff accumulate (work stress and book stress and all kinds of other stress), so maybe that’s all it is.

Maybe, no matter how good I feel, no matter how long I’m feeling like a real person again, there will always be times when it gets like this. Times when the wounds open right up and bleed like brand new. Times when I think too much about things I said and did (or didn’t say or do) and how unchangeable it all is. Times when I just wish I still had you to call when I feel sad or lonesome.

Tonight, I miss you. Just like every day that’s passed since you died. But also different. Somehow, right now, believing that you’re still here with me just isn’t enough to make the loneliness go away.

...with deadly consequence

During the second summer residency of my MFA, my workshop was assigned to eavesdrop on people and write down the most interesting dialogue and then report back the next day. (It's supposed to be a tool a lot of writers use.) I didn't end up doing the assignment, because I got distracted by a friend who needed me. (Several of my writing group friends DID complete the assignment - by quoting me. This still seems unfair.)

So, I may have missed one night of eavesdropping and noting people's dialogue for future use, but it's a habit I've picked up in the ensuing years.

Say something interestingly odd around me, and I'm going to write it down. I just am. And it's possible I'll use it in something I write someday. It's also funny, because as much as I love context (and overcontextualize EVERYTHING), I like it best when I only write down one tiny snippet of the conversation and leave the rest to the imagination.

For example:

“Okay, I'm a little scared, but I trust in your judgment enough to be okay with you ruling the world.”

“Nobody puts up little masking tape arrows for no reason.”

"You'd make a good flapper. You have the knees for it."

"Actions speak louder than words and those actions SCREAM. They do a little dance, too."

"Your head is like the TARDIS - bigger on the inside!"

Waitress: We’re out of sour cream.

E: I’ll have bacon!

And then there are just the random, fun conversations that maybe no one else will find as amusing as I do:

me: I think you should go home so we can run amok.

grandboss: What would you do?

me: Yeah, that's the problem. I like the idea of running amok, but I never know what to do

-LATER-

grandboss: I'm leaving, so you can run amok and cause mayhem.

me: Ooh, I hadn't even THOUGHT of mayhem. but it's no fun if you give permission.

grandboss: I think that's the only way you'll run amok is with permission.

me: I break the rules sometimes.

*grandboss snickers*

me: I do. Really.

me: You know you never honk at a moose, right?

E: Nooooooo.

me: You never honk at a moose. It makes them charge.

E: With Visa or MasterCard?

me: With deadly consequence.

...which prompted E to tell me I'm awesome. Sometimes, yes.

No, I don't have syphilis

Because it's A's last week and she likes when I blog about silly work conversations (like this and this and this):

Yesterday:

I was telling A about this Panic! at the Disco show. Click on that link, scroll down, and read about the opening band, Foxy Shazam. If it doesn't make you laugh so hard you cry, I think there's probably something wrong with you.

Me: Foxy Shazam means "cool shoes." Who knew? It's like how I say "Persnickety Phantasmagoria" instead of "I'm tired." We should make a band called "Persnickety Phantasmagoria!"
A: But I can't play an instrument.
Me: But you have a Wii. Get Rock Band and practice.
A: I don't think that's the same thing.

Today:

We had an off-site meeting. It was cold and drizzly. Even though it's August, even though I was wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, I was still pretty cold. So, I announced, "If anyone wants to snuggle in a completely platonic way, I'm open to that."

They laughed.

I was totally serious.

Shortly thereafter, there was a quiz on our privacy policy. I couldn't participate, since I wrote a good chunk of the policy and it would've been unfair. So, instead, I kept track of points. While announcing the current point spread halfway through the quiz, I noticed that I'd gotten a mosquito bite on the palm of my hand (that's a new one for me) and while I was scratching away, our lead Disease Intervention Specialist implied that it wasn't a bite.

Itchy palms are a sign of secondary syphilis.

No, I don't have syphilis.

The team that won the privacy policy quiz got little tiny Mad Libs books. A, E, and I had some fun with the Mad Libs at lunch which somehow led to E saying "If anything needs to be thumped, it's your Box o'Smut."

And then B said, "It's gonna be a long-ass ride home with such a full stomach."
E responded, "Better than a long ass-ride."
She has a point.

(You totally want to each lunch with us, don't you?)

"Millions of people can draw. Art is whether or not there is a scream in him wanting to get out in a special way."

- Chaim Potok, My Name is Asher Lev

I have a really high tolerance for physical pain, which came in handy when the IV sedation wore off 3/4 of the way through getting my wisdom teeth pulled (yes, that means I felt everything when the fourth tooth was ripped out of my head), or when I broke my ankle and kept skating on it for an hour and a half, or when I've ruptured a cyst on one of my ovaries, which are prone to growing them.

And, the thing I've noticed about pain like that is that it's really easy to put out of your head when the pain is over. If you ask me to describe the pain of the nerves I pinched five years ago, I'll tell you that the pain was so bad I had to take a Valium and a Vicodin every four hours, just to knock myself out. "It was agonizing," I'll say. But I don't viscerally remember it, which is just a lucky part of being human, I guess.

Except that I forget how hard writing is, too.

I forget that sometimes (like, say, NOW) I get stuck and it's like that time when Dad dug a hole on the beach and put me in it and Danielle poured buckets of water on the sand as he filled it in up to my neck and I was so badly stuck in the hole, he had to dig another one to get me out.

I'm stuck in the hole, but I'm the only one who can get me out this time. It's terrifying and tiring and feels impossible. I want to do anything BUT dig myself out. (But, I CAN'T do anything else, because that's how stuck I am.)

I stumbled on this awesome quote yesterday:

I write to give myself strength. I write to be the characters that I am not. I write to explore all the things I'm afraid of.
- Joss Whedon

And it reminds me why I want to push myself through times like these, when I feel completely stuck and unable to think or feel or communicate in any way. It reminds me why I need to force myself to sit in front of the computer and shove myself through these revisions, even if it feels like my brain will explode (especially since I'm fairly certain it won't).

I write, because I can't stop...even when it feels like I'm going to tear myself apart.

"Things are shaping up to be pretty odd"

- Panic! at the Disco, "That Green Gentleman (Things Have Changed)"

It has been a phenomenally odd week. Just a few quotes or snippets of conversations to give you an idea:

A hands E an envelope box with a nicely printed label on it “smut.” Inside the box are shirtless pictures of Henry Rollins.

Me: He's in your top five, right?

A: DUH.

E: I don't have a conventional top five, but he's definitely on it. Actually, I don't know if I wanna get it on with him. I just want him to read to me. Naked. Possibly while I'm in the bathtub.

Me: Hold on, hold on, I need to write this down. (Grabs steno pad and pen while E repeats herself slowly.)

Me: Him naked, right? I just want to make sure I have the image right.

E: Him naked. Now *I* have the image right (decidedly devilish grin on face).

E (in sing-songy voice while walking back to cube): I have a smut box.

(If you’re wondering, Henry would be reading selections from Sherlock Holmes, Dostoevsky, Jane Austen, DH Lawrence, Hubert Selby Jr, and the Velveteen Rabbit.)

That night, random text from a friend: I owe you five hundred emails – so I thought in between I would poke you and say I DO love you!

Speaking of poking, the next day I was talking to E about plans we were trying to work out and info she needed to get from a boy to know for sure if she could hang out with me or not.

E: I’ll poke him.

Me: Poke him. Poke him hard.

While laughing quite hard, E just hands me a pen to write down what I’d just said.

Me: I didn’t mean it that way!

E: Unintentional smut is often spur of the moment and off the cuff.

Next day, while walking with the grandboss to get a muffin, he says, “Face it, you don’t have the stones to be a biker’s old lady.” (Apparently, I went to pee a lot on that day, which is what prompted him to ask me if I was pregnant today. Rest assured, there is no chance in hell.)

Today, whilst sitting in my cube, I must have bent funny or something, because I now have this dull ache along the left side of my back, up my ribcage. It’s especially awesome anytime I have to bend to pick something up or sit down or breathe. HOW DO I INJURE MYSELF SITTING IN A CHAIR IN A CUBICLE? This is the second time this year….

Oh, Friday, please be gentle. Please.

Esther Day

It's funny how I was just talking about hope and Esther Earl and I didn't even realize that today was Esther Day. What's Esther Day? you ask. Hank explains it here:



And it's funny that Esther's wish for her day is the same thing I've been working on ever since my mom died, the thing I've come to realize is The. Most. Important. Thing.

Love, and making damn sure you tell the people who matter to you that you love them.

I often sign my emails with some form of the word love (a one-word sentence, repeated three times, or repeating the closing my friend Emily authored a few months back: "Love. And then more love.") Such a small collection of letters for such a complicated sea of emotions, such a variety of manifestations. It's not just a word tattooed on my left wrist. It's not just part of the title of this blog. It's the fine, silvery threads that connect us to each other.

In A Short Guide to a Happy Life, Anna Quindlen writes, "Love is not leisure, it is work." In the book, she talks a lot about her mother's early death.

And maybe that's the thing: I was 30 when my mom (who was only 56 herself) died; Anna Quindlen was a decade younger than me when her mom died; Esther was only 16 when she lost her fight against cancer. Perhaps being young and being so close to death makes you really get that love -- and the expression of it -- really IS the most important work we'll ever do in this life.

Happy Esther Day.

Love. And then SO. Much. More.