i packed my gym bag, took it downstairs, set it by the bathroom, and then i climbed the stairs and went to bed.
just before achieving sleep, i realized i hadn't put a bra in my gym bag.
i muttered something to the effect of "goddammit" into my pillow.
wondered briefly if i would remember to get it in the morning.
recalled all the times i did not. (nor my underpants, nor socks, nor shoes).
i got up.
fished a bra out of the drawer.
thought about all the time and energy it would take to walk all the way down the stairs, put it in my bag, and then walk all the way back up.
so, i threw it down the stairs
and went back to bed.
i lay in bed thinking about what a classy lady i am
and about what chris will do when he is on his way to bed and finds a bra sprawled across the bottom step.
then i realized this image would no longer faze him.
6 years ago, maybe he would have thought, "huh? what's this doing here?"
but now… he would think nothing of it.
chris will no more wonder why my bra is sprawled across the bottom step
than i wonder at the sight of his boxers on top of my piano.
this might be marriage.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
alyssa milano never wrote me back.
I've thought about writing a million times. And then I didn't, and now I don't remember what I had to say in the first place (So it probably wasn't important.). Thoughts are like that. They just float in and out; I bet 3/4 of them aren't even mine--just remnants of some universal thought bank, wafting, passing through our membranes like smoke through clothes. I wish we had a way to track that (cross-country thought traveling). I guess we do. I guess it's called stories and art and music and dance and stuff. You know, expressive stuff. Maybe that's why the arts are so important--they connect us--maybe more so than banking does.
Although, that's not fair to say. I once had a pretty interesting connection with a lady who worked at a bank. Many many years ago I lived alone in a tiny apartment on the ground floor of an old house. The Mormons came a-knocking: a young woman about my age, and her mother. There was something about the young woman that I instantly liked (I think it's pretty easy to tell if someone is bringing you light.); plus it really interests me how people develop such strong convictions. I mean, it doesn't really matter what you think about Mormons: knocking on people's doors uninvited because you feel like you have a very important thing to tell them is a pretty ballsy thing to do.
Wait. Not Mormons. She wasn't a Mormon. Mormons are young men in black slacks and white button-downs. She was… I don't remember. But there was a kid in elementary school in Kansas who was this, too, and he had red hair and wasn't allowed to participate in any Christmas stuff.
It doesn't matter. Balls.
So, this young woman, I said, "Sure, come on in." And we talked for a while, and I learned that she had really explored different faiths extensively--traveled, read, experienced--and arrived at these convictions thoughtfully. I was impressed by that. She asked if she could come back, and I said "Sure" to that, too. So, for several weeks, she would come over, usually just by herself after that, and we'd hang out and talk about God and her faith. It wasn't a debate. I didn't agree with her, and I wasn't going to convert, but I liked hearing her talk about it. I think we just both kind of enjoyed the shared time. Then she left for a year-long mission trip.
Anyway, all that to say she worked at a bank. So you can work at a bank and still connect with humanity in meaningful ways. Actually, one thing my mom always told me, which I understand more and more, is that it really doesn't matter what you do for a living--that you always always always have an opportunity to make a difference to someone. (Relatedly, my dad always says it doesn't matter what you do for a living as long as you do it well and with integrity: doctor, attorney, barista, garbage collector, cable man, pizza delivery dude… whatever) I think that's why it's important that no matter how you earn your paycheck, you should try really hard not be an asshole while you do it.
[I don't know where this crap comes from. Sometimes I sit down to write, and I have no idea what I want to say until it starts coming out, and then I think, "What? What's that doing in there?"]
My body feels gross. It needs to get back to the gym. It needs me to stop putting so much garbage in it. It needs me to cut back on the wine. Really, I've been drinking too much wine. It needs me to rein it in, for crying out loud. It needs several days of fruit and veggies and water. It needs me to not stop at Walgreens on the way home from Chrispy's gig at midnight because I have a sudden overpowering urge for Milanos.
Which reminds me that I once wrote a letter to Alyssa Milano asking for advice about becoming an actress, and she never wrote back.
Jehovah's Witness. That's it. Man, I'm glad we got that squared away.
Although, that's not fair to say. I once had a pretty interesting connection with a lady who worked at a bank. Many many years ago I lived alone in a tiny apartment on the ground floor of an old house. The Mormons came a-knocking: a young woman about my age, and her mother. There was something about the young woman that I instantly liked (I think it's pretty easy to tell if someone is bringing you light.); plus it really interests me how people develop such strong convictions. I mean, it doesn't really matter what you think about Mormons: knocking on people's doors uninvited because you feel like you have a very important thing to tell them is a pretty ballsy thing to do.
Wait. Not Mormons. She wasn't a Mormon. Mormons are young men in black slacks and white button-downs. She was… I don't remember. But there was a kid in elementary school in Kansas who was this, too, and he had red hair and wasn't allowed to participate in any Christmas stuff.
It doesn't matter. Balls.
So, this young woman, I said, "Sure, come on in." And we talked for a while, and I learned that she had really explored different faiths extensively--traveled, read, experienced--and arrived at these convictions thoughtfully. I was impressed by that. She asked if she could come back, and I said "Sure" to that, too. So, for several weeks, she would come over, usually just by herself after that, and we'd hang out and talk about God and her faith. It wasn't a debate. I didn't agree with her, and I wasn't going to convert, but I liked hearing her talk about it. I think we just both kind of enjoyed the shared time. Then she left for a year-long mission trip.
Anyway, all that to say she worked at a bank. So you can work at a bank and still connect with humanity in meaningful ways. Actually, one thing my mom always told me, which I understand more and more, is that it really doesn't matter what you do for a living--that you always always always have an opportunity to make a difference to someone. (Relatedly, my dad always says it doesn't matter what you do for a living as long as you do it well and with integrity: doctor, attorney, barista, garbage collector, cable man, pizza delivery dude… whatever) I think that's why it's important that no matter how you earn your paycheck, you should try really hard not be an asshole while you do it.
[I don't know where this crap comes from. Sometimes I sit down to write, and I have no idea what I want to say until it starts coming out, and then I think, "What? What's that doing in there?"]
My body feels gross. It needs to get back to the gym. It needs me to stop putting so much garbage in it. It needs me to cut back on the wine. Really, I've been drinking too much wine. It needs me to rein it in, for crying out loud. It needs several days of fruit and veggies and water. It needs me to not stop at Walgreens on the way home from Chrispy's gig at midnight because I have a sudden overpowering urge for Milanos.
Which reminds me that I once wrote a letter to Alyssa Milano asking for advice about becoming an actress, and she never wrote back.
Jehovah's Witness. That's it. Man, I'm glad we got that squared away.
Friday, December 10, 2010
mr. wednesday and the poop filled sock
I feel like writing, but I don't feel like connecting any of my thoughts. Poor you.
My workout this morning was pitiful. The only way it could have been any more pathetic was if I had curled up on a weight bench with a bucket of fried chicken and a pillow. But you know, I went and all that.
I've had a lot of delightful moments this week. I say "delightful moments" because they were relatively insignificant blips in the day that made me happy. The first was when I was stuck behind a school bus on the way to work. We stopped at an apartment complex, where a group of elementary school kids lined up to board. Then, other kids came running out of buildings. Right in the middle of a flashback to my own school bus days, the very last kid busted out of a door, half the coat on, half the coat flapping at her side, hair a mess, and papers popping out of her unzipped backpack. And then I thought, "Ah, yes. There I am." And then I laughed loudly in my car for at least another 5 blocks.
I've been painting this week. I've been painting instead of practicing guitar and trying to write songs for the COFFEE project. (I've decided to call it "resting" instead of "avoiding.") I am not a good painter by any stretch. I don't paint things that look like other things. I just like to play with colors and brushes and see what happens. Yesterday, Chris compared my painting to "a sock filled with poop." He will deny this. But here is exactly what happened:
Chris: [Stands above painting, which is lying flat and in-progress, on the kitchen table.] Huh. Is it finished? [He smirks.]
Patresa: [Laughs.] What, can't you tell?
Chris: [Laughs.] Sure. [He continues to stare at the painting.]
Patresa: Do you love it? Is it your favorite? I think you love it. I'm going to hang it from the ceiling above your side of the bed, face down. So, you can look at it every morning and every night.
Chris: Oh yeah? Well, I'll fill a sock with poop and put it on your side of the bed.
Incidentally, no, it isn't finished; and I have no idea what it is, but it might turn into a bird. Note: Chris is actually my biggest fan and super supportive. He is also very honest.
We got a new dishwasher this week. The delivery/installation guy called me to set up a time to deliver/install. He left a message. Listening to his message, I jotted down some notes:
TIM WEDNESDAY
555-5555
DISHWASHER
Chris saw the note and said, "Who's Tim Wednesday?" No, he wants to come over Wednesday. That's not his name. But we referred to him as "Mr. Wednesday" for the remainder. Tim came over on Wednesday and installed the dishwasher. He handed me his business card before he left, and I had a moment of genuine confusion when the last name printed on the card was not "Wednesday."
In anticipation of Mr. Wednesday's arrival, I told Chris, "I hope he has a nice crack."
Chris replied, "Nobody has a nice crack." I thought that was quotable and true. Nobody has a nice crack. It's not a remotely sexy part of the body. Butts are weird.
I wish grocery store produce aisles would label the produce more clearly. I had a recipe for sauteed parsnips and turnips. Standing in front of the produce, I didn't know which was which, only that they were one and the other. So I took one of each and figured, well, they'll both go in the pan. Covered. But they didn't have stickers, and the cashier asked me what they were. I said, "I don't really know," which I'm sure she found strange.
My workout this morning was pitiful. The only way it could have been any more pathetic was if I had curled up on a weight bench with a bucket of fried chicken and a pillow. But you know, I went and all that.
I've had a lot of delightful moments this week. I say "delightful moments" because they were relatively insignificant blips in the day that made me happy. The first was when I was stuck behind a school bus on the way to work. We stopped at an apartment complex, where a group of elementary school kids lined up to board. Then, other kids came running out of buildings. Right in the middle of a flashback to my own school bus days, the very last kid busted out of a door, half the coat on, half the coat flapping at her side, hair a mess, and papers popping out of her unzipped backpack. And then I thought, "Ah, yes. There I am." And then I laughed loudly in my car for at least another 5 blocks.
I've been painting this week. I've been painting instead of practicing guitar and trying to write songs for the COFFEE project. (I've decided to call it "resting" instead of "avoiding.") I am not a good painter by any stretch. I don't paint things that look like other things. I just like to play with colors and brushes and see what happens. Yesterday, Chris compared my painting to "a sock filled with poop." He will deny this. But here is exactly what happened:
Chris: [Stands above painting, which is lying flat and in-progress, on the kitchen table.] Huh. Is it finished? [He smirks.]
Patresa: [Laughs.] What, can't you tell?
Chris: [Laughs.] Sure. [He continues to stare at the painting.]
Patresa: Do you love it? Is it your favorite? I think you love it. I'm going to hang it from the ceiling above your side of the bed, face down. So, you can look at it every morning and every night.
Chris: Oh yeah? Well, I'll fill a sock with poop and put it on your side of the bed.
Incidentally, no, it isn't finished; and I have no idea what it is, but it might turn into a bird. Note: Chris is actually my biggest fan and super supportive. He is also very honest.
We got a new dishwasher this week. The delivery/installation guy called me to set up a time to deliver/install. He left a message. Listening to his message, I jotted down some notes:
TIM WEDNESDAY
555-5555
DISHWASHER
Chris saw the note and said, "Who's Tim Wednesday?" No, he wants to come over Wednesday. That's not his name. But we referred to him as "Mr. Wednesday" for the remainder. Tim came over on Wednesday and installed the dishwasher. He handed me his business card before he left, and I had a moment of genuine confusion when the last name printed on the card was not "Wednesday."
In anticipation of Mr. Wednesday's arrival, I told Chris, "I hope he has a nice crack."
Chris replied, "Nobody has a nice crack." I thought that was quotable and true. Nobody has a nice crack. It's not a remotely sexy part of the body. Butts are weird.
I wish grocery store produce aisles would label the produce more clearly. I had a recipe for sauteed parsnips and turnips. Standing in front of the produce, I didn't know which was which, only that they were one and the other. So I took one of each and figured, well, they'll both go in the pan. Covered. But they didn't have stickers, and the cashier asked me what they were. I said, "I don't really know," which I'm sure she found strange.
Monday, December 6, 2010
a pair of items
items:
1. Mr. Ebu Pants got into a fight last night and came home with swollen puncture wounds in his neck and poop on his drawers.
1. Mr. Ebu Pants got into a fight last night and came home with swollen puncture wounds in his neck and poop on his drawers.
He's all better now. He's stretched out atop the length of my legs, and I feel his pudgy kitty belly rising and falling against my shins. A trip to the vet, some antibiotics, and he'll be right as rain. His neck is still swollen. But I think, if I may speak for Mr. Ebu, it would be shatting oneself while fighting that is the biggest injury.
Incidentally, I don't really appreciate it when I get bombarded with "cats should stay indoors" messages. Cats should stay indoors? Really? Why? Because they are descendants of… tupperware and sofas, and so it is their nature to lay around, clawless, on rugs? Maybe some cats are content to live that way, and maybe there are neighborhoods where a cat really can't (or shouldn't) go out… but Ebu isn't one of them, and this neighborhood is fine. He goes absolutely batpoop crazy locked inside. Batpoop. If I kept him inside, maybe he would live longer, but he certainly wouldn't be happier. There is something to be said for joy in the place of longevity. I have never seen a cat more joyful than one laying in the grass eating bugs.
While I'm at it, I don't like this declawing business. I do not like it at all. Please stop doing that.
We have a 2nd cat, Smokey, who is Chris's cat. Smokey is declawed. Smokey does not go outside. Smokey is neurotic, annoying, and psychically twitchy. And if you think I am being too harsh, I invite you to come live with us for a week.
2. My insurance company has refused to pay the last 2 months of orthopedic related medical visits. Why? Because for some reason, they thought it was a work-related injury. They thought the torn tendon in my ankle and my fudged up knees was a result of my job analyzing data and monitoring contracts. What? No, I wasn't sitting at my desk too vigorously. I RAN A F***ING MARATHON!
Seriously? Why in the world would they think this was work-related? That makes no sense.
I was a lot nicer than this when I called the insurance company, by the way.
3. I lost a filling while eating an Andes mint many months ago. I ignored it. Now, it is starting to hurt.
4. I had an excellent massage today.
The end.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
spinach enchiladas.
taking note.
i don't know if this will make any sense. i'm in a hotel room in Waterloo. more travel. the last of the road trips. one more air trip (to D.C.). then december will end, and i intend to go home and stay home for a very long time. possibly forever. you may never see me leave my house again. ever. except to buy bananas. because i love bananas, and chris is not very good at picking out produce.
sidenote: my jeans are fitting more snuggly. this is concerning. end of sidenote.
today is World AIDS Day. prior to my current job, my only related experience with HIV/AIDS was to tell the students i worked with to use a frickin' condom, for God's sakes (but then i was really only thinking about how horrifying it would be if they brought children into their chaos. admittedly, i wasn't thinking about HIV. i wasn't even thinking about herpes. i just didn't want them procreating.). without detailing every nook and cranny, i have landed in this position within HIV Prevention through a strange and not-coincidental series of universe-nudges. at the risk of sounding like a total corndog, i was led here, and i wasn't exactly sure why. i'm still not exactly sure why (i still can't talk about s-e-x without blushing), but i always assume divine guidance happens because one has both something to offer and something to learn. when you feel the hand of God poking you in the ribcage, you should shut your big fat mouth and listen close.
and i have learned a lot in the past 1.25 years. HIV is so deeply embedded in context and complexity. so many large, dinosaur human systems at play, layered, and shifting (yet unmovable, oddly)-- so much overlap (spirit, economics, education, faith, culture, cognition…). roots incomprehensibly deep. HIV preventable, behaviorally based. but what's below that? and what's below that? and under that? and then still, go deeper. good god, the undercurrents of us… can't you feel them? how do we ever get to the root of why we do as we do?
i can't begin to articulate this…whatever... just yet (it's still forming. it's still a fetus of a notion assuming shape in my melon.), but i really feel like a large part of my cosmic purpose (maybe everyone's, because i don't think i'm unique) is connection. find and form. people, ideas, institutions, movements. there is no them, no there, no other. only us, here, this. nothing is separate. everything is related. everything. i cannot think of a single exception. and the fetus of a notion in my melon is whispering that there is a critical lesson in this connectivity-- an evolutionary, revolutionary lesson. to embrace it (universal connectivity) would be to permanently and profoundly change the way we "do business." we would be kinder, healthier, smarter, sexier, more efficient, awesomer, handsomer, and peacefuller.
foolish that i'm trying to write a paragraph about it. i don't even know what it is. but it makes me want to be very quiet. like if i could get quiet enough, i would understand connectivity as more than just a concept, and then i would live better. i do so want to understand. and i do so want us to be better.
sometimes things just feel too big for words.
i'm babbling because i'm tired, and i am in a hotel room, and i feel full of ideas bigger than my available vocabulary. sometimes i feel so full of ideas that i worry i will never get them all out, and they will die with me and be lost to the cosmos.
i am also full of spinach enchiladas. they were delicious. good job, Chapala.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
pull it together, p
It's Pull It Together, P Day at my house. I'm not sure 1 day is enough, so thankfully tomorrow is Sunday. My shiz scatters to the 4 winds so easily, so regularly. I don't know where anything is. C is patient, but last night, while cursing everything solid as I hunted for lost things (things I needed in order to complete a project I should have finished at least 4 months ago), I realized my mess had kind of buried him, too. I don't understand exactly how my piles get so disorderly; they just do. I am some kind of human hurricane, bumbling bermuda triangle, two-legged typhoon. I am, from time-to-time, a natural disaster. At least I'm nice. And I make good cheesecake.
Surprisingly, I'm really good at setting up organizational systems. I even like doing it. I have color-coded files at work and a "directory" indicating what goes in each color. I don't actually put anything in those files, however. The intended contents are dog-earred and busting out of off-colored folders on my desk.
Yesterday I had lunch with Katie MacDaddy (who isn't "MacDaddy" anymore, but I can't let go), and we discussed our dual personalities -- that likely everyone has multiple personalities; it only becomes disorderly if they start talking with accents and making important life decisions. For instance, I house both an introvert and an extrovert. Sometimes my introvert wakes up and finds that the extrovert has abandoned our person in the middle of a party. That's bad news. Sometimes my anal retentive librarian takes over the wheel to discover that the Bohemian Baton Twirler has filled all the labeled accordion files with leaves and doodles during her shift.
I see a cobweb by the TV. Gross.
And so, today, on local (very local) Pull It Together, P Day I will dig through my crap and organize my crap, and find my lost crap, and throw out some old crap, and crap like that, so that C will not be tempted to go out and find himself a nice, tidy librarian.
Surprisingly, I'm really good at setting up organizational systems. I even like doing it. I have color-coded files at work and a "directory" indicating what goes in each color. I don't actually put anything in those files, however. The intended contents are dog-earred and busting out of off-colored folders on my desk.
Yesterday I had lunch with Katie MacDaddy (who isn't "MacDaddy" anymore, but I can't let go), and we discussed our dual personalities -- that likely everyone has multiple personalities; it only becomes disorderly if they start talking with accents and making important life decisions. For instance, I house both an introvert and an extrovert. Sometimes my introvert wakes up and finds that the extrovert has abandoned our person in the middle of a party. That's bad news. Sometimes my anal retentive librarian takes over the wheel to discover that the Bohemian Baton Twirler has filled all the labeled accordion files with leaves and doodles during her shift.
I see a cobweb by the TV. Gross.
And so, today, on local (very local) Pull It Together, P Day I will dig through my crap and organize my crap, and find my lost crap, and throw out some old crap, and crap like that, so that C will not be tempted to go out and find himself a nice, tidy librarian.
Monday, November 22, 2010
pants.
I'm in Sioux City. I had raw onions on my salad tonight. Bad choice. I wish I'd brought a book; I feel mindless--like my brain is drooling on itself and short-wiring. I brought work, but I don't have the focus to do it. I don't work well in the evenings. Intellectual fatigue. At a certain point every day, I'm done, all finished, zeroed out. I get up at 4:30 a.m. to run around and lift things in repetitive patterns; I expire early. Is this age? I remember "all-nighters" when I was 20. I don't think I could pull an all-nighter if I tried. I would need invasive surgery to keep my eyes open that long.
I dressed badly today. Some days I'd like a redo. Relatedly, I lost a pair of pants. Not today. I don't know when I lost them--a couple of months ago, maybe. I also don't know how I lost them. I don't take my pants off in strange places, so where could they possibly be? I could see losing a pair of socks. But pants? No. Pants seem like something you'd keep track of.
This morning I was running late, and I pulled up to a red light behind another car. I was turning right. The car in front of me was not turning right. It was a long light, and I noticed how mad I was that the Toyota in front of me was not turning right. Who goes straight at red lights? Ridiculous. We could have been moving by then--right on red, let's go! Then, I thought, that's a pretty funny thing to be mad about. So I let it go. Then the light turned green, and the Toyota…. turned right.
I dressed badly today. Some days I'd like a redo. Relatedly, I lost a pair of pants. Not today. I don't know when I lost them--a couple of months ago, maybe. I also don't know how I lost them. I don't take my pants off in strange places, so where could they possibly be? I could see losing a pair of socks. But pants? No. Pants seem like something you'd keep track of.
This morning I was running late, and I pulled up to a red light behind another car. I was turning right. The car in front of me was not turning right. It was a long light, and I noticed how mad I was that the Toyota in front of me was not turning right. Who goes straight at red lights? Ridiculous. We could have been moving by then--right on red, let's go! Then, I thought, that's a pretty funny thing to be mad about. So I let it go. Then the light turned green, and the Toyota…. turned right.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
starchy pellets
I'm hungry.
The house is a pit.
Bills are stacked.
I hate the tedium of paying them (stamps and envelopes and logging into accounts and looking up amounts and… gah, just shoot me right in the soul.)
And my guitar needs restringing.
(Because I busted my very first string, which made me feel kind of badass until I told C and he made fun of me for thinking that was badass.)
The printer has stopped communicating with my laptop again.
I don't know why these 2 fuss so much.
And I need to trim and install some fancy new insoles for my running shoes.
Because my back and knees hurt.
I don't know why they fuss so much, either.
The dishwasher is busted.
I've been eating horribly.
And my workout routine is all zoinked up.
My body is complaining (and getting mushy).
More travel this week.
And the week after.
And then that weekend.
And the weekend after that one.
And then it's Christmas.
I'll like that.
I love cookies and cider.
Also, my family is awesome.
C and I haven't seen much of each other since our vacation in October.
Last night we went to dinner.
It felt like a first date, like we needed to reintroduce ourselves and talk about the weather.
Until C started talking about music and music theory and how much he loves guitar.
I like it when C talks about music.
It wakes up his inner-mystic.
Inner-mystics are my favorites (My guess is we all have one. But we get embarrassed when they do the talking.).
I think if we let our inner-mystics steer our big dumb ships, we'd be happier.
We'd be weirder.
But we'd be happier.
I just listed a lot of complaints.
My complaints always make me feel self-conscious and apologetic, because they are about such small things.
My grievances are small potatoes.
Tiny potatoes.
They are basically little birdseed-sized starchy pellets.
It's ridiculous to have them.
But I do.
I feel tired and rushed.
I was built for leisure.
I know this about myself--that I was designed for solitary wandering and musing.
So when I don't have time to solitarily wander and muse, my soul gets sick.
This week, someone gave me an assignment, and I almost cried.
Literally.
I had to quick smile and make a joke so that I wouldn't cry.
I cry when I feel stress-bally.
It's embarrassing.
I cried at the gym once.
It was pretty lame.
The house is a pit.
Bills are stacked.
I hate the tedium of paying them (stamps and envelopes and logging into accounts and looking up amounts and… gah, just shoot me right in the soul.)
And my guitar needs restringing.
(Because I busted my very first string, which made me feel kind of badass until I told C and he made fun of me for thinking that was badass.)
The printer has stopped communicating with my laptop again.
I don't know why these 2 fuss so much.
And I need to trim and install some fancy new insoles for my running shoes.
Because my back and knees hurt.
I don't know why they fuss so much, either.
The dishwasher is busted.
I've been eating horribly.
And my workout routine is all zoinked up.
My body is complaining (and getting mushy).
More travel this week.
And the week after.
And then that weekend.
And the weekend after that one.
And then it's Christmas.
I'll like that.
I love cookies and cider.
Also, my family is awesome.
C and I haven't seen much of each other since our vacation in October.
Last night we went to dinner.
It felt like a first date, like we needed to reintroduce ourselves and talk about the weather.
Until C started talking about music and music theory and how much he loves guitar.
I like it when C talks about music.
It wakes up his inner-mystic.
Inner-mystics are my favorites (My guess is we all have one. But we get embarrassed when they do the talking.).
I think if we let our inner-mystics steer our big dumb ships, we'd be happier.
We'd be weirder.
But we'd be happier.
I just listed a lot of complaints.
My complaints always make me feel self-conscious and apologetic, because they are about such small things.
My grievances are small potatoes.
Tiny potatoes.
They are basically little birdseed-sized starchy pellets.
It's ridiculous to have them.
But I do.
I feel tired and rushed.
I was built for leisure.
I know this about myself--that I was designed for solitary wandering and musing.
So when I don't have time to solitarily wander and muse, my soul gets sick.
This week, someone gave me an assignment, and I almost cried.
Literally.
I had to quick smile and make a joke so that I wouldn't cry.
I cry when I feel stress-bally.
It's embarrassing.
I cried at the gym once.
It was pretty lame.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
undershorts and mortar attacks: a veteran's story
My dad, Paul, enlisted in the Army in the late 60s. He led convoys through Vietnam. I think that's right. I know "muleskinner" and "48th Transport" are significant to him, although I don't know exactly what they mean. My dad didn't talk about his experiences in Vietnam until much later. I don't remember hearing stories until high school in the late 80s. (Maybe he talked about it sooner, and I just wasn't paying attention, but I don't think so.). Here is one of my favorite stories:
Fresh on the ground, my dad was awoken early one morning to sirens for an air attack. He heard doors slamming and men yelling and running. He yelled to his hooch buddy, a guy named John from California, "John! Here we go!" John's response: "Zzzzzzzzzzzz."
My dad grabbed his flak jacket and a steel pot, crawled into the fetal position under the bunk, and wondered what in the hell he was doing there. John slept peacefully until the all clear signal. When the rest returned, my dad learned that no, running to the bunker was NOT just a suggestion; and no, hiding under your bunk in your underpants was NOT okay. "From that point on, I ran like hell."
They were bombed again two days later while my dad was standing in his skivvies at the piss tube. The sirens went off, and he cleared the 40 yards between the tube and the bunker in approximately 3 steps. "I didn't have to pee anymore. I'll tell you that," he said.
For the rest of his time in Vietnam it would seem that "every time they tried to blow us up, I was in my skivvies." I forgot to ask if John ever stopped sleeping through mortar attacks.
I love my dad a lot. I've said this before about my parents--the strangeness of suddenly realizing they are actual PEOPLE who existed before me, who experienced things outside of parenting me. It's strange to think of my dad as some scrawny young 20-something hiding from bombs under a bunk bed. Charming almost, if I am allowed to say something so naive about war. It's strange to know there is so much I don't know about his time there and how that's shaped his life. He has said on more than one occasion that he can't not notice small things--trained to pick out inconsistencies in others dress or speech or behavior. I know he feels deep respect for the new generation of veterans.
He was in the car listening to the radio in 1990 when they announced F-15s taking off for Saudi Arabia at the start of Desert Storm. "The entire car filled with the smell of cordite. All I could smell was cordite. It was the weirdest experience, and it never happened again."
Fresh on the ground, my dad was awoken early one morning to sirens for an air attack. He heard doors slamming and men yelling and running. He yelled to his hooch buddy, a guy named John from California, "John! Here we go!" John's response: "Zzzzzzzzzzzz."
My dad grabbed his flak jacket and a steel pot, crawled into the fetal position under the bunk, and wondered what in the hell he was doing there. John slept peacefully until the all clear signal. When the rest returned, my dad learned that no, running to the bunker was NOT just a suggestion; and no, hiding under your bunk in your underpants was NOT okay. "From that point on, I ran like hell."
They were bombed again two days later while my dad was standing in his skivvies at the piss tube. The sirens went off, and he cleared the 40 yards between the tube and the bunker in approximately 3 steps. "I didn't have to pee anymore. I'll tell you that," he said.
For the rest of his time in Vietnam it would seem that "every time they tried to blow us up, I was in my skivvies." I forgot to ask if John ever stopped sleeping through mortar attacks.
I love my dad a lot. I've said this before about my parents--the strangeness of suddenly realizing they are actual PEOPLE who existed before me, who experienced things outside of parenting me. It's strange to think of my dad as some scrawny young 20-something hiding from bombs under a bunk bed. Charming almost, if I am allowed to say something so naive about war. It's strange to know there is so much I don't know about his time there and how that's shaped his life. He has said on more than one occasion that he can't not notice small things--trained to pick out inconsistencies in others dress or speech or behavior. I know he feels deep respect for the new generation of veterans.
He was in the car listening to the radio in 1990 when they announced F-15s taking off for Saudi Arabia at the start of Desert Storm. "The entire car filled with the smell of cordite. All I could smell was cordite. It was the weirdest experience, and it never happened again."
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Solitaire Games
Today I am reminded of two games I like to play with myself:
1) The Hibernator
…wherein, I hover over several literal and figurative delete buttons. Delete facebook. Delete blog. Delete emails 1-76. Delete my social calendar. Delete ambitions. Delete plans. Tell everyone, "Nevermind." Delete delete delete. Reduce my life to: gym, work, home, self, sleep.
It happens around the same time--this time--every year. Whether it's cooling temperatures or overwhelmption, I don't know, but something triggers my introversion, and I find myself blushing from overexposure and lunging for caves.
2) Do I Have a Right To?
…wherein, I fall into various levels of sour mood-itis and then debate whether or not I have a right to. Do I have a right to feel irritable when people in the world are starving? Do I have a right to get mad about relatively small bits when the world is riddled with gross civil injustice? Do I have a right to feel blue when I have no overt reason? Do I have a right to feel tired and overwhelmed at my desk job when bomb squads are tiptoeing around the desert?
Because I really like the idea of accepting the full gamut of humanity, which includes sour moods, irritation, fatigue, and bouts of overwhelmption. I don't want to put any more pressure on myself to be perfect than I would on any other person. I really hate the word "should." I really do. I think it's a loaded and destructive word, and I don't like it. Every time I hear it--including from my own mouth--I wince.
But I also really like the idea of always trying to be better, to relax, to keep a healthy sense of priorities, to identify my weaknesses and work to improve. How much improvement is enough? How much improvement is an unrealistic demand for perfection and repression?
Scorekeeping for this game is particularly difficult.
1) The Hibernator
…wherein, I hover over several literal and figurative delete buttons. Delete facebook. Delete blog. Delete emails 1-76. Delete my social calendar. Delete ambitions. Delete plans. Tell everyone, "Nevermind." Delete delete delete. Reduce my life to: gym, work, home, self, sleep.
It happens around the same time--this time--every year. Whether it's cooling temperatures or overwhelmption, I don't know, but something triggers my introversion, and I find myself blushing from overexposure and lunging for caves.
2) Do I Have a Right To?
…wherein, I fall into various levels of sour mood-itis and then debate whether or not I have a right to. Do I have a right to feel irritable when people in the world are starving? Do I have a right to get mad about relatively small bits when the world is riddled with gross civil injustice? Do I have a right to feel blue when I have no overt reason? Do I have a right to feel tired and overwhelmed at my desk job when bomb squads are tiptoeing around the desert?
Because I really like the idea of accepting the full gamut of humanity, which includes sour moods, irritation, fatigue, and bouts of overwhelmption. I don't want to put any more pressure on myself to be perfect than I would on any other person. I really hate the word "should." I really do. I think it's a loaded and destructive word, and I don't like it. Every time I hear it--including from my own mouth--I wince.
But I also really like the idea of always trying to be better, to relax, to keep a healthy sense of priorities, to identify my weaknesses and work to improve. How much improvement is enough? How much improvement is an unrealistic demand for perfection and repression?
Scorekeeping for this game is particularly difficult.
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