"There's plenty of sense in nonsense sometimes, if you wish to look for it."

- Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Angel

I love receiving things in the mail, especially random packages. I still remember one my friend Amy sent me my senior year of college, one Emily sent me toward the end of our MFA, one Dani sent me last fall. My derby wife often sends me random things (usually with some connection to garden gnomes).

Because these deliveries have brought me such joy, I try to remember to send people random things in the mail, too. Sometimes, it's just a little plastic monkey from a gumball machine (or, in one case, an envelope FILLED with little plastic monkeys). Sometimes, it's a whole box of stuff aimed at each of the senses (except smell -- I have almost no sense of smell and it's a pain in the butt trying to track down something to represent smell anyway). I can't even remember all the ninja socks I've mailed people when it seemed like they were having a hard time (it's a scientific fact that you feel braver with ninja socks on).

Yesterday, a link to this article came across my Twitter feed, and I was struck dumb with delight by this:

The boxes! I’m always looking for clever, novel things to send but my favorites are boxes of chocolates. They seem like such a luxury. The oddest thing ( thing? ) was some of the cremated remains of the writer Shirley Jackson, who wrote “The Haunting of Hill House.” Her daughter sent me the ashes, and I sent them ( in a carved antique box ) to my editor, Gerry Howard. I wish I had more of the same to send my editor at Byliner, Amy Grace Lloyd. She deserves some baked writer ashes … Sometimes I takes me days to compile a box. Usually — and I’m getting more careful about this — I look for clever, useful, beautifully packaged things. My theory is that if I vary them it’s more likely at least one thing will occur as a delight for you.
( secret? I try to send smells, sounds, flavors, and i avoid sending more words. gosh i hate to type. )

And now I feel like I want to make friends with Chuck Palahniuk. (I've never even read any of his books -- lots of my friends love him, have recommended him, quoted him in ways that make me think I'd love his writing, but I've just never picked up a book of his.)

Oddly, the same day friends of mine who have been hit by a grief train this year received my latest box of fun stuff and right now I've got stuff for three little mailings ready to go. 

It's just a coincidence, but I feel like I experience way more coincidences and fewer deja vus than, apparently, is normal. 

Well, okay then

First grade. That's when I decided I wanted to be a writer (when Mrs. Bauer let us practice our letters by making up stories on that fat gray paper with the turquoise lines). I've been telling stories since before that, but it wasn't until I started writing them down that I knew the power that words have over me.

Few of the adults in my life took that desire seriously, even as I got older and spent most of my free time writing. It wasn't until I got my MFA in creative writing that it seemed like all the grownups in my life finally had this moment of, "Oh, she's really serious about this."

And then it got complicated, because the grownups had all these expectations that I would write a book and it would magically appear at the bookstore and I would be famous.

My mom used to say things like, "When you sell your book, you can buy...."

And I'd say, "Ma, I'm going to have to publish about 50 books to afford all the things you think I'll be able to buy after publishing one." I would tell her all the depressing stats I'd learned about the publishing industry, how few manuscripts ever get out into the world, and how much writers really make. (I didn't mention all the other things I let get in the way of ACTUALLY WRITING, which is the first step in getting a book finished, much less published.)

The last time we talked about it, she stunned me to silence by saying, "Other writers don't have your talent." (It was so surprising because my mom wasn't a gushy lady. The joke in our family was that she only told my sisters and me that she loved us when one of us was getting on a plane.)

I spent this weekend at my grandma's house. Gram will be 90 at the end of May and her memory isn't what it used to be. In the two hours between when I woke up on Saturday morning and when my sisters arrived for lunch, I must have told her ten or twelve times that "the girls" were coming for lunch at noon.

This morning, Gram and I had breakfast before I hit the road back home. Over the course of the weekend, we'd talked a little about work, about derby, about what's going on in my life. She'd already asked about my writing, and I'd told her how I've written every day since Nov. 1, how I want to get the book I'm writing done by the time we scatter Mom's ashes in July.

I was halfway through with my breakfast sandwich when Gram looked at me and said, "When are you going to publish your book?"

The tone of her voice reminded me of the time we were visiting Mom in the hospital just before she died. Gram leaned over to me and said, "You know, I'd like to go to a wedding BEFORE I DIE." I told her she'd better talk to one of her other single grandchildren (only two of the seven of us are currently married), because I have no intention of ever marrying. (At least this time she didn't mention the fact that she'll be 90 next month and, well, if I want her to see a book I've written in print, I better get moving....)

I explained that the publishing industry is in a weird place right now, and that I doubt I'd be able to sell the first book I wrote in the traditional market (it's just not commercial enough). I do think I'd have better luck with the pair of books I'm working on now...I just need to finish.

And, I guess I just got another reason to stick to this crazy timeline and get Ramona's books done....

"There are melodies that speak as eloquently as words, that flow logically and inevitably from a single, pure emotion."

- Rachel Hartman, Seraphina

(That was a really, really good book, by the way.)

I keep getting the song "We Are Young" by fun. stuck in my head. It's a catchy tune. Even the (very attractive) hygienist who cleaned my teeth couldn't help singing along a little when it came on.

But this song is pretty much the antithesis of the title quote. And I don't want to like it. Here's why: In the first verse, the POV character says that some guy is asking his girlfriend about a scar and then goes on to say: "I know I gave it to you months ago / I know you're trying to forget / but between the drinks and subtle things / the holes in my apologies / you know I'm trying hard to take it back."

Um, really?

I guess it's possible a guy could accidentally scar his girlfriend, but if that's the case, you'd think there wouldn't be any holes in his apologies. You'd think he'd feel pretty damn terrible. So, the only conclusion I can draw here is that there's some kind of abuse going on, and it just doesn't seem okay to like a song about that.

(It's worth mentioning that the whole idea of carrying this girl home could be a lot less than chivalrous, especially given the context.)

I think in pictures (a fact some people abuse). As much as I'd like to say I feel in words, I think that's not true -- I think words are how I understand things, including the things I feel. The truth is, the only thing I've ever encountered that can skip my brain entirely and go straight to my heart is music.

...And maybe that's why it bugs me that I can't think my way out of liking this song.

"…and though you can have grief without adventures, you cannot have adventures without grief."

- Catherynne M. Valente, The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making

My best adventures have been an answer to a grief so deep it could have swallowed me whole and remade me into something different (in a dark and terrible way).

Today is my 150th consecutive day of writing. Since day 82, I've been working on a book all about grief and adventures.

To celebrate this writing milestone, Emer and I planned to go to a town called Hope (yes, really) to see a couple of elephants (yes, living, breathing pachyderms).

I got up this morning, and I wrote a little more than 500 words and then I started getting myself ready to go pick up Emer. I was in the shower when my phone rang to notify me I had a text message. When I checked it, there was a message from Emer: "Surprise!" She'd decided that since I "always have to drive," she'd surprise me by picking me up. (It was a terribly kind and thoughtful gesture that I truly appreciated.)

We stopped at the grocery store to pick up elephant snacks (apples and carrots) and then made our way to Hope. 

Rosie and Opal are majestic and beautiful and playful and so very smart. It was amazing to stand there and watch them for 45 minutes while learning all about elephants.

Afterward, Emer and I meandered into Camden for a yummy lunch. While looking for ice cream, we found a nice little bookstore where I bought a book intended for children but which pretty much screamed my name: Unbored: The Essential Field Guide to Serious Fun. 

We found ice cream in Rockland and then wandered through the midcoast to make our way home. We made a quick stop to buy Girl Scout Cookies (and I haven't eaten any yet, because once that box of peanut butter patties gets opened, they will be gone in seconds flat). 

I took a nice little nap, did some shopping, and now I'm settling in to continue the scene I worked on this morning.

It was a beautiful day, weather-wise -- the first time this year I could go out in just my derby sweatshirt, instead of a coat and hat. 

And it was a beautiful day in so many other ways -- in the kindness of a good friend, in the presence of incredible creatures, in wandering about and having fun.

Signs of doing too much, too fast

I talk about my klutziness like it's an inevitability -- I walk into walls, I bump up against corners, I trip over my own two feet. I have slipped in the shower and nearly fallen into (but thankfully not OUT OF) the bathroom window in this apartment more than once.

It could be inner ear stuff messing with my balance. Every time a new doctor looks in my ears for the first time, they gasp at all the scarring from years of infections and the scrapings my very first pediatrician did with a scalpel (yuck) because my ear canals are extra specially twisty.

It could be, but it's probably not.

It's probably that I'm running around half paying attention and bang into everything in my environment like a giddy, oblivious cow. (I don't mean that in some derogatory way, other than cows have always struck me as a bit oblivious. I grew up around a lot of cows, and I am quite fond of them.)

I usually notice that when I'm covered in bruises, it's because I've been trying to do too many things at once or just generally rushing around. Slowing everything down helps and the bruises fade like magic.

I am not sporting any bruises (that I can think of) right now, but the doing-too-much-too-fast is showing in other ways. Like, having headaches on days when the barometric pressure is high and holding steady. Like, having really vivid nightmares that make me feel like I haven't slept at all after I wake up from many, many hours tucked into my bed. Like, forgetting things -- from where I put something in the tangled mess of my apartment to saying thank you for some kindness someone showed me (I think most people will agree that's not normal for me). Like, getting irritated with people and ruminating on things that upset me way more than usual.

Like this:

I was a notary for seven years. I applied because of my job. I was a good notary, followed all the rules and requirements. And then my commission expired, and I couldn't be bothered to jump through the hoops to have it reinstated. Until a good friend asked me to officiate her wedding. So, I reapplied. And then I got my test back with a letter saying that I wasn't being denied a commission, but I had to resubmit my test after reviewing a specific page and citation in the manual and correcting an answer. That answer had multiple choices. I'd selected four. Someone wrote in red "3 answers." I was mortified to have my test returned (that didn't happen when I first applied years and years ago -- and I'm pretty sure the test hasn't changed). I quickly crossed out the wrong answer (because I know you can't use a birth certificate for identification -- why had I even checked it in the first place?) wrote, "Correct answer," and circled the three remaining choices, then popped the test back in the mail.

About nine hours ago,  I got home after spending many, many hours in the car (driving about 512 miles total) and reffing a bout (not one of my best). In my mailbox? My notary application returned again, same letter. WHAT? Then I looked at the answer I'd corrected. Somehow, in my embarrassment at having missed an answer and my rush to correct it, I crossed out one of the RIGHT answers and left the wrong one.

I am mortified by this.

I feel humiliated even THINKING about fixing the answer (driver's license, military ID, passport!) and sending it in AGAIN. (Third time's the charm?)

Maybe I need to reevaluate ALL THE THINGS that I want to accomplish. Maybe I need to be a little gentler with myself (something people who care about me have often reminded me to do and which I completely and utterly suck at in every possible way).

I hate even the idea of letting someone down, of disappointing them or inconveniencing them. But the thing I need to remember is that when I try to take on too much (like I am apparently doing right now), I'm not very dependable and my output is way below my normal standard. It's a disappointment and an inconvenience to get someone at less than their best, and that's what I'm offering to everyone lately.

I still don't know what pieces to move around to make things more manageable (I always think I can do more than I can) or where to draw the boundary lines, but this is obviously a sign that I need to change something. I can't keep going at warp speed making jokes about the tiny pockets of free time I have and doing everything half-assed while I am, at best, semi-present.

Last night, I forgot to thank a friend for giving me chocolate when I said I was feeling a bit light-headed (it helped, and it was kind of him to share). I forgot to wish my derby kid luck on her third public bout ever until long after I'd said goodbye to her. I forgot to bring a friend a goodbye present, even though I knew it was likely to be the last time I saw her before she moved very far away.

I was spacey and I felt like crap and I pushed myself too hard. Okay, I've learned the lesson. Now I just need to come up with a solution and find a way to implement it....

Book spine poetry is a lot of fun

I like making collages, always have. I made a quilt as part of my honors thesis for undergrad (also fun, but a lot of work) and have dabbled a bit with quilting since. I recently started making mosaics out of the glassware I smash with my friends when the mood strikes. I guess I like putting random bits of things together to make something new.

The other day, I saw something online (I think it was a Brain Pickings article, but the source doesn't really matter) that had pictures of book spines lined up to tell a new and different story. Some of them were more abstract, like poems. I thought it was awesome.

So, tonight, I foraged through my own library, pulling books off the shelves if I'd always liked their titles or if they seemed like they'd go with something else. (I discovered that poets are way better at titling their books than pretty much everyone else.) I mixed up my nonfiction, my text books, and my children's books with my poetry, short stories, and novels. IT WAS SO MUCH FUN. (But, man oh man, I made a huge mess. There are books ALL OVER the floor of my library. I really don't want to have to reshelve everything.)

Here are my favorites:

Ten seconds on justice, power, and human nature atop an underwood.

The Garden of Eden. East of Eden. Supernaturally imagined communities.

A death in the family. SLAM! You suck.

A monster calls devilish bloodsucking fiends, "I don't want to go to jail."

A prayer for the dying, endlessly fragile things. (Beside small gods of grief, inheritance, and four tragedies small as an elephant.)

The last good kiss on the road. It's kind of a funny story on the nature of human romantic interaction.

You know where to find me - the realm of possibilities.

What if grammar snobs are great big meanies?! (Let's pretend this never happened.)

Nice girls finish last. My heart is an idiot. LIAR!

Free women slouching towards Bethlehem this side of paradise, after long silence SPEAK, daring greatly.

I am the messenger of gravity and angels, except for one obscene brushstroke.

A question of existence, where cats meditate on lies, secrets, and silence.

What the body told the girls next door the day I swapped my dad for two goldfish.

It's gonna be a long week

This is Emmett, also known as Muppet (or Muppy), because he is named after a muppet (Emmet Otter) and because he kind of looks like a muppet.

See?

Emmett is eight and a half. When he was two, he got a blockage from crystals in his urine. He was at the vet for three nights. He came home, and he needed pain meds and antibiotics for a few days (maybe a week). Since then, he's been on prescription food. No more problems.

Until last week, when he got blocked again.

This time, it was due to a staph infection in his bladder. He only stayed at the vet one night, but he came home with pain meds, antibiotics, steroids, and a drug to help with spasms in his bladder. (He also came home with a cone of shame. Poor kitty.)

The first week, he was quite cooperative as I gave him his pills and squirted the pain meds in his mouth. (Okay, he was "cooperative" for a couple of days. He tolerated it the rest of the week.)

Once he started feeling better, he stopped wanting to play nice. He started cheeking his meds. I bought some of those pill pocket treats. I never give him treats, because I worry they might cause crystals (he ONLY gets prescription food). He ate the treat and spit out the pill. The next morning, I tried again, this time mixing the treat with the pill in it in his regular food. Again, he ate the treat and spit out the pill.

So now, it's on. This morning, he made me chase him around the apartment and drag him out of his favorite hiding places (behind the dresser, IN the couch) until I finally tricked him into going into the closet (every. damn. time. I open the door, he has to run inside) and caught him. I wrapped him in a towel like they recommended at the vet. I shoved the pill in his mouth. He spit it out again. It took two more tries to get it down.

Tonight, I had to straddle him to get the pill down. (And this is no small cat, mind you. He's 14 pounds.)

He has to take the antibiotic twice a day through Friday. (Not only does he have to take it, but I have to cut it out of the foil pack it's in, because these drugs are not packaged in a friendly way.)

Once he finishes the antibiotic, I have to bring a urine sample back to the vet to make sure the infection is gone. (Pleaseohpleaseohplease do not let the vet tell me I have to keep giving him pills.)

At least he's cute, and sometimes he's even quite snuggly.

UPDATE:

You know how at the end of the movie Seven when Brad Pitt gets all whiny and says, "What's in the box?" Imagine me using that exact same whiny tone as I say, "Please pee in the box" to the cat so I could collect his urine sample and get it to his vet (in Portland -- more than an hour away) before they closed.

Sample acquired and analyzed. NO MORE INFECTION!

The universe has a stupid sense of humor

So, I'd finally decided to heed the signs from the universe and plan a trip to Iceland with my friend Anne. But then her cat got really sick and cost a lot of money at the vet and needs to get shots twice a day. So, we decided to delay the trip until next year. "That's okay," I said. "It will give me more time to save."

At the same time, we talked about pet insurance. I even looked up a couple policies and asked another friend for info on her policy.

I thought about getting a policy myself. My cat cost me quite a bit of money when he had a urinary blockage when he was two. Since that incident was more than two years ago and he'd had no trouble since, it wouldn't be considered a preexisting condition.

I didn't sign up.

And then, suddenly, my cat started acting a little weird(er than usual). He couldn't pee. I took him to the vet. Another urinary blockage. (When he was two it was due to crystals in his urine from his food. He's been on prescription food ever since. This time, it was an infection of unknown origin.) I caught it early, the vet said, but he still had to spend 24 hours with a catheter in (ouch). The estimate they gave was about on par to the amount I spent six years ago when he got sick. (The final amount was $200 higher than the high end of the estimate. I guess my vet is as bad at math as I am.)

Thankfully, I just received some birthday money and still had tax return money leftover that I was going to put in my Iceland trip savings, but it's an awfully strange and annoying coincidence that now I'm spending money intended for the Iceland trip on vet bills for a sick cat. (Especially when I was JUST looking at the insurance policies. Gaaaahhhhh.)

The cat is snuggled up on the couch next to me sleeping as I type. He's fine, and I am so grateful. (And his good health and comfort is worth the ridiculous expense, worth fighting him to get his meds down his throat, worth rearranging some plans to make sure he's okay, worth delaying my trip a year.)

After all those signs, I guess the universe thought I was getting ahead of myself planning a trip for this year....

Strangely, I've been finding REALLY good parking lately. It's been more than a week and at lots of random different places, even in different states. Almost like the universe is saying, "Hey, I'm sorry about the cat and the vet bills. At least I can give you a place to park."

Dear Universe: You have a very stupid sense of humor. I'm glad my cat's okay. Thanks for the parking.

Commitmentphobia

Years ago, when I expressed a disinterest in having a derby wife, a teammate called me a commitmentphobe. At the time, I thought, "Wha?" Because it just didn't ring true to me.

A year or so later I got a derby wife (kind of by accident on my part), and I often say I have the best derby wife in all of derbydom (because I do).

Every now and then I think about the term "commitmentphobe" and whether or not it really is an accurate assessment of me. (My answer has always been, "I don't think so.")

I freely admit that I have no desire to ever own a house or get married.

I like that renting means a lot of headaches (insurance, taxes, fixing things like plumbing problems, etc.) belong to someone else, not me. I like that if I decide to move (for a new job, for some kind of major life change), it's a lot easier to stop renting one apartment and start renting another; it's not usually so easy with a house. But I spent 9 years in my first apartment, and I'm coming up on 3 in this one.

I have no problem devoting my time, my energy, my finances, and my heart to people I care about (as evidenced by the way I interact with friends, family, and past relationships).

I just don't like institutionalized commitments. I don't like the appearance that I am committing to something because I have to. Every commitment I make is a conscious, continuous choice. I live in this apartment, because I want to, not because I'm stuck here. If I were involved in a romantic relationship, it would be because I actively chose to be, not because of a ring or a piece of paper binding me.

I was writing an email the other day making a plan and almost wrote, "I will definitely be there," but I couldn't. Because I kept thinking, "well, unless we get a freak blizzard" or "as long as my car doesn't break down" or "barring alien abduction" or "unless I develop a sudden severe allergic reaction to the banana I'm eating for breakfast."

I always keep my promises. ALWAYS. Which is why I rarely make them, and why I am really particular about them when I do. Because it feels like lying to make a promise I can't or won't or don't keep.

It feels like lying to say, "I will definitely be there," without adding all the possible things that could keep me from showing up, no matter how unlikely those things might be.

Maybe I pay too much attention to details. But, it's the details that matter.

I try to live my life honestly and actively. I try to be dependable. I keep my promises. I don't make major life decisions lightly, but I do stick with the choices I make (at least until I choose something different). I still don't know if that constitutes commitmentphobia, but if it does, I'm okay with that.

"May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness."

The awesome Cherry Clobber posted the following quote on my Facebook wall this morning:

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.
- Neil Gaiman

Today is my last Fibonacci birthday for 21 years, which I keep announcing, because I feel like that's kind of a big deal. You get all these Fibonacci birthdays piled on top of each other at the beginning, but then they become way less frequent. Assuming I live to the normal life expectancy, I've got two more of these coming my way (55 and 89). So, I'm excited about 34.

I started the celebrating early with a scavenger hunt at the Boston Museum of Science on Saturday. It was fun. My team won (which means we get to do another scavenger hunt at some point in the future for free -- yay!). Then we went trampolining and had dinner. It was a nice outing with several friends, including one who took a bus from Brooklyn just to jump on trampolines with us.

Today, I took part of the day off, got in a nap, and had dinner with my writing partner. Tomorrow, my derby wife is taking me to what looks to be an awesome show.

I am overwhelmed by the number of birthday greetings flooding my Facebook wall and email inbox. I always am (especially when people are much more articulate in offering birthday love to me than I ever am to anyone else). My friend Beth wrote, "Words that come to mind when I think of you: Radiance, sparkle, laughter." It's an incredible, humbling list. And then Jackie sent me an email which included this: "So remember--you are smart and beautiful, wise and wonderful, funny and silly and sweet. Not to mention--AWESOME!" Once again, I am reminded that words matter and that it's important to let people know what you think of them. (It's also a reminder that there are some really amazing people in my life who make me feel loved and special, which is a pretty damn fabulous thing.)

I had an epiphany in the wee hours of my birthday that I've been struggling with the book (today will be the 126th consecutive day of writing...when I get to it) ever since I started READING books I wasn't enjoying as much. I read 9 books from the beginning of January to the beginning of February. It took me a month to get through the 10th book of the year. (I'm still struggling with #11, which I was reading at the same time as #10. Note to self: If you're going to read two books simultaneously, at least ONE should be enjoyable.) Anyway, my writing was flowing really well while I was reading books I enjoyed, but not so much once I got into a reading rut. So, today I started one I think will be good and bought a couple more that look promising. 

I think it's safe to say that in my next revolution around the sun I WILL read some fine books (starting with these). As soon as I finish this, I'm going to work on my writing for the day, which is part of the ongoing art I am creating. I'd like to surprise myself (maybe by doing ALL THE THINGS), and I sure as hell would be surprised to kiss someone who thinks I'm wonderful (or anyone at all, really), but one can never tell what's coming and the universe certainly has a way of keeping me on my toes.

I finally watched Wayne Earl's TED talk  the other day, and it included this bit of advice from his daughter Esther:

Just...just be happy. And if you can't be happy, do things that make you happy. Or do nothing with people that make you happy.

 That, more than anything, is my goal for my thirty-fifth year of life.  

*** I FORGOT THE CUPCAKES! 
My co-worker made these amazing birthday cupcakes -- chocolate cake with whipped peanut butter frosting dipped in chocolate. I just ate the last one. Mmmm.