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.