Written by Sunshine

Shatter

2010-03-05T11:54:00.000-05:00

I am tall and strong. Sturdy, like a warrior princess. But that seems to be only my appearance, not an actual truth. I think it's possible that I'm made of delicate china, my fragile milk-white frame ready to crumble at the lightest blow.

Evidence:

My lower back is a torn-up battlefield. An extra vertebrae, bulging discs, muscle spasms, inflamed bursa... a wasteland of pain and crunchy tissue. This is not new; I've learned to make accommodations, and with the right stretching routine, the pain is relieved. Still, the degeneration started about 30 years too early, and that makes me uneasy and difficult to insure.

On Sunday, I sprained my ankle. This is not my first sprained ankle. Oh no, this same ankle and I have done this dance many times before. The last serious sprain was in college, and I couldn't afford the physical therapy, so it healed sort of lumpy. But it healed nonetheless. In the years since, I've turned it here and there, and it always bounces back. It's healing again (as I write this, I am standing up), though I don't recall ever seeing it so bruised as it is. There was no adventure to cause my injury. I tripped, fell. I'm hoping R.I.C.E., Advil, and arnica will do the trick. I don't think it's broken, but if you told me I had some pretty pissed off connective tissue, I wouldn't be surprised. I do not like sitting still, and while I've enjoyed watching TV while I work (because I've had to sit on the sofa to elevate), I am frustrated that I am not taking 10,000 steps a day, nor sweating through TurboKick. I want it to be better already.

I have this pesky little hand numbness thing that happens when I lie down. I was willing to ignore it, until it decided to stick around for months and months. Since that's not a good sign, I went to the doctor. My MRI showed that I have several herniated discs in my neck. I had no idea: I have no neck pain, no symptoms at all (except, maybe, hand numbness? Still too soon to know for sure). But what it does mean is that the pain could start at any time -- one false move, and my oozing disc goo could slide around some nerves. Then my neck would start to feel like my lower back, and I'd have to start eating Advil like candy.

So, like, now I am scared to move. What if I bounce too hard and rupture more discs? There are only 23 in your spine, and I'm out 5, and still not old enough to be President. Can you imagine what things could be like when I'm -- gasp -- 50? Am I going to be a cripple? Before all this, I was starting a nice running routine. I wasn't a particularly good runner, but it was pleasant. I stopped because I had pain in my hip. Crap, is that the next joint to go? I wake up with stiff, clawed fingers, sometimes unable to open lids until after I've had my coffee. What's next?

As much as I hate sitting still, I'm afraid to do anything else. I did not realize I could break so easily.

Hello Mudda, Hello Fadda

2010-03-03T16:55:00.000-05:00

Dear Congress,

Hi! What's going on? I hear you've had a lot of snow in DC lately; please know that you're welcome to visit sunny Florida any time. It's been a little chilly here lately, but there's no shoveling required. Well, enough small talk. Let's get to it.

I need you to get on task with this whole health care thing. I understand the "big government/socialized medicine" arguments y'all have going on, and while I agree that both sides make valid theoretical points, mostly what I hear is bickering and sniping. But I wonder, if we could look past politics and posturing for a minute, what you would say if I were your daughter.

Seriously, Congress, just for a moment, pretend you're my parent. You brought me into this world, me, this tiny helpless, incredibly sweet baby. You raised me right: I floss regularly. I went to college, got a good job, and learned to provide for myself. Even better, I registered to vote and checked the little box marked "organ donor." It makes you proud, doesn't it?

But now, there's a little problem. You see, for some reason, despite my rule-following and best intentions, my body is starting to fall apart. (You know, Congress, I did some research, and my condition appears to be genetic... but I digress.) I am going to doctors, trying to figure out what's wrong, and how I can be fixed. Except my health insurance company has decided that I have a pre-existing condition, and will not pay for any diagnostic testing nor treatment of my degenerating discs.

This is my fault, right? Because I quit my corporate job (with a good group plan) for a job that satisfied my ideals. And now that my idealistic job is suffering in the poor economy, it's my fault for sticking with it and not finding another job with benefits, because I'm holding tight to my dream of being a playwright. The message I get is "Because I want what I want, I must pay the consequences." Is that what you say to your child?

I actually wish I hadn't gone for a check-up. I would rather live with my symptoms, instead of knowing that I am not worth fixing. Because that's what it feels like the insurance company is telling me.

Would you allow your own daughter to settle for suffering or financial stress? I hope that you wouldn't, Congress. Even my own less-than-stellar parents haven't been so negligent. They worry for me, they offer advice, they refrain from judging my choices, and they hand me money to pay for my care.

I know that it's your job to look at the country as a whole, to do what is best for millions of people. But sometimes, we're not just the masses. We're individuals, human beings. Many of us are good people. I am a good person, Congress. And I need your help.

Ok, I guess that's all. I hope the weather gets better for you -- those cherry blossoms will bloom before you know it. Write back soon!

Love,
Miranda Sunshine

Swim on, little fish

2010-03-01T11:59:00.000-05:00

Happy March! I did not meet all of my goals in February. Also, February has way fewer days than any other month. I'm not looking for excuses. Ok, yes, I am. In some ways, February was not my best month ever. But in other ways, maybe it wasn't so bad. Ask me at 1pm, when I can take another dose of Advil to soothe my sore, inflamed sprained ankle.

I did read an extremely awesome book: The Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler. Oh, honey mustard, do I love this woman's writing. I didn't want the book to end, and was fairly annoyed that it had to. Also, it energized my "disaster planning" neurons (which hardly need stimulating), which is always exciting. So, if nothing else good happened all month, I had that experience. Mind enriched, outlook enhanced, so on and so forth.

If sharks stop swimming, they die. If fish stop swimming, they get eaten by sharks. No matter whether you're a big fish or a little one, the best thing to do is to just keep swimming. Thanks, Dorie.

Step by step, ooh baby, gonna get to you girl

2010-02-22T10:52:00.000-05:00

So I recently purchased a pedometer. It's a very basic, very cheap model from Target. Regardless, it's amazingly powerful. The pedometer has taught me that I am ridiculously sedentary. Like, the first day I got it, I took only 1100 steps. The recommended daily goal is 10,000. Getting the mail is what managed to push me across the 1K threshold.

In order to reach 10,000 steps a day, I pretty much have to go for a walk. Like, get up, put on real pants (pants without rainbow-colored reindeer), and real shoes (shoes that aren't sold in the slipper section of the LL Bean catalog), and walk around for about an hour. Because if I don't go for a walk, I'm just never going to be close. My commute? Uh, 57 steps from bedroom to living room. Lunch break? 34 steps from desk to kitchen. No, actually, I do putz around the house A LOT during the day, and it does add up. It just doesn't add up to 10,000.

It is sort of fun to see how many steps I can take. And looking down to check it feels so nostalgic, back to the days when I had a pager. The only real obstacle is an unfriendly waistband. Certain pants don't allow the pedometer to hang properly, and it cheats me out of HUNDREDS of steps. Bah.

Why put off until tomorrow what you could do next week?

2010-02-05T10:22:00.000-05:00

Alternate title: procrasti-nation.

I have procrastination issues. Part of me thinks that's because I might be ADD. No, really. I saw a commercial the other day about children with ADD, and they visually described his symptoms (which is good, because there's no audio at the fitnessy center), and I totally have all of those. The other reason I think I procrastinate so much is because I have an overdeveloped lizard brain which recognizes 4/5th of everything I want to do as "terrifying" and tries to protect me from it all. Bad lizard! Bad!

So it's February now, and it's time to dive in to my February books. It's a shorter month, so I need to be a little more on the ball if I want to get things read. And that would be a lot easier if I could stop reading Percy Jackson and the Olympians books. They're similar in style to my Dresden Files books, but geared for YA and involving Greek mythology. Pretty darn great. I tear through them in about a day and a half, and because they're on the Kindle, no one has to know what I'm reading. Good thing there's only one more left in the series.

I've decided for February, being Black History Month, that I need to read more by African-American authors. For my non-fiction, I've downloaded a great collection from the Kindle store: W.E.B. DuBois, Booker T. Washington, essays by Zora Neale Hurston. And for my classic, I have an Octavia Butler book on my shelf that I haven't read yet, The Parable of the Sower, which I'm excited to read. "That's a classic?" you ask. Yes, it is. It's on HS reading lists... lucky kids. Octavia Butler is fantastic. If you haven't read her yet, I highly recommend Fledgling. It is to vampire stories what Twilight is to a McDonalds Two-Cheeseburger Meal. I adore the Two-Cheeseburger Meal, but feel completely sick and ashamed after eating it. Lucky for me, it's not available outside of the NY/NJ area.

Ok, enough procrastinating for now. I have a bunch of other stuff that I've been putting off that I really should get to. Ironically, I'm also putting off napping (something that people usually use as their procrastination tool). I'm stupefyingly tired. While I can do more if I get up earlier, it feels like I'm doing all of it in a pool of molasses. Maybe I need more coffee. Mmmmm... coffee. Chick-Fil-A has free coffee. I'm just saying.

The Books of 2010: January

2010-01-26T12:04:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I'm on this reading thing, wherein I make sure I read a "classic" book and something non-fiction each month. This month's books: The Art of War by Sun Tzu (both a classic AND non-fiction!), The War of Art (non-fiction), and The Picture of Dorian Grey by Oscar Wilde (my classic for the month).

I was disappointed in my translation of The Art of War. There was more commentary than there was text, and the commentary was annoying. I would have much rather have just read the original, in a giant numerated list, as it appeared to have been written. But I suppose you get what you pay for: it was free for the Kindle. I'm not planning on leading an army any time soon, so I don't have much use for the strategies it contained, but I could see how it could be useful. I would imagine this book being used today for philosophical discussions and cherry-picked aphorisms.

Speaking of aphorisms... seems like people have been mining the pages of Dorian Gray for years. I liked this book, but then I like Oscar Wilde a lot. Such pretty words... no pretty doesn't even begin to describe it. Lush, humid language. I did find a few paragraphs that I read aloud to Cabana Boy, and found my own quotes that I want to explore in more depth. However, I did skip over the catalog of fancy things that Dorian began to acquire after reading the "poisoned book." As one chastised for cataloging in my own writing (yeah, except for this here bloggy-blog), I'm not likely to seek it out in others. Having seen Gross Indecencies, the play about Oscar Wilde's trials, I feel primed to look for homoerotic subtext in every chapter. But I don't think that matters too much, and there's no need to add to what's already there. I don't think Dorian and Harry were shtupping. With Dorian and Basil, probably some oral. Dorian and those other pretty boys he corrupted? Most definitely.

I did want to capture this quote: "A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of all creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes are, the picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets makes a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry that he cannot write. The others write the poetry they dare not realize."

It's very common to see writers, actors, general creative types who are wacky on the outside. Ostentatious clothes, hipster trends, disdain for normal grooming habits, ridiculous nicknames, and a deliberate cultivation of a low-rent lifestyle... the visual identifiers for so many artsy types (especially when I was in college). Some of the most talented writers and artists I've met are the most unassuming, nondescript people in a crowd. This is not to say that one shouldn't follow one's own style, just that Burning Man is no longer counter-culture. In other words, stop trying so hard.

If I can find the time between today and Sunday, I will try to throw in a classic play too. I've also selected my books for next month, but more on that, uh, next month.

Lady Who Lunches

2010-01-21T11:06:00.000-05:00

Yeah, like I need another blog to read. Like I need another distraction. Well, at least this way, I can claim that I'm well-rounded.

Anyway, I've added this blog to my feed: Fed Up: The School Lunch Project. It's another one of those annual "stunt" blogs, wherein the person does something completely out of the ordinary for a year, blogs about it, and then gets a book deal. I don't mean to sound overly cynical... I think many of the stunts are very interesting, I read a lot of them, and I would love to discuss, over coffee, how this is becoming performance art for the technology age (but I fear that most of you would zone out after the first cup). Plus, this one is an actual school teacher eating the lunches fed to her students, so right there, that gets my attention.

Luckily, I found this blog in January, so I didn't have too much catching up to do. I've read through the whole site, and two things are glaringly apparent:

1. Why are all of those lunches covered in plastic? Back in the day, when I was a kid, all of our lunches were served on plates or in bowls, with real silverware on actual trays. Sure, the plates and bowls were plastic, but they were the washable, reusable kind. It was institutionalized fare: probably mostly from cans, boxes, and mixes, but still required someone to assemble or cook. This crap looks like vending machine food. The pizza we got was equivalent to what you could by in the frozen food section of the grocery store. Which is to say, probably not the healthiest for you, but at least recognizable as pizza. I'm utterly appalled at what passes for student lunch these days, so I will watch this blog with keen interest.

2. The author interjects with posts about her own upbringing. Though her family was not wealthy, she had a mom at home, who reviewed the school lunch menu with her, and packed lunches for her on days she didn't want to buy. These lunches were nutritious, and filled with the encouraging love notes that parenting magazines like to suggest. This is completely foreign to me. No one packed me lunch, no one wrote me notes. Lunch money was given to me at the beginning of the week. It was my responsibility to make it last until Friday. Fortunately, this was not looked on with pity in my school: buying lunch was cool, packing lunch was not. We were a middle-class district with a very small reduced lunch program, very different I think from the school where the blog-teacher works. I'm curious to see how her background will influence her project. Already, she is anti-fast food and soda (which seems a little sad to me... I feel like the moderate use of McDonalds and Burger King is a fun rite of passage for children and teens, the youthful versions of a local bar or coffee shop).

So, lunch on, Mrs. Q. Can't wait to read your book next year!

Callous

2010-01-20T11:34:00.000-05:00

I'm working on developing a thicker skin. Not literally, though you wouldn't know it from the pea-sized callus I have below the pinky finger on each hand. These are from drumming, and they're a good thing! They keep my hands from blistering from the friction of the drumsticks, exacerbated by my constantly sweating palms. Finally the calluses are in the "correct" place... before, I used to blister and callus around my thumbs and forefingers too, but those were a sign of improper grip. These calluses are a sign of protection -- even if they cause Cabana Boy to recoil in horror whenever he sweetly grabs my hand. Sorry, honey, I'll sand them down.

No, I mean a thicker emotional skin. I'm what's known as "overly-sensitive." Can't stand teasing, take everything too personally, blame myself for every bad thing that happens. Technically that makes me a "negative narcissist," but that's enough name-calling for one day. I need to toughen up.

I show signs of improvement. Last week, I got notification that a short play was not selected for a festival in New Orleans. (I had to rewrite that sentence... swapping "I" for "short play." "I" am not my writing.) I had a moment or two of, "oh, that's too bad. That would have been fun." I'd like to take more credit for my placid response, but really I was too busy stressing out about a work/career crisis that hit at the same time. My panic doesn't like to multi-task.

Last night, I a portion of my new play got critiqued. I have learned, after many, many years of writing classes and writing groups, that workshop/critique groups are highly subjective. The work is never presented in the ideal setting (usually a cold reading against type with no staging) and those critiquing you may not be your ideal audience (um, does anyone know of a playwriting group for the pre-AARP in SoFla? Maybe I should start one...). There were some extremely negative responses. I think people started to feel bad for me.

You know what? I didn't feel bad for me. In fact, I played kind of a mean trick on my audience. I deliberately gave them the middle portion of the play, the part with very little exposition or character development, because I needed guidance on the overall shape and tone of the piece. Most importantly, I needed to hear the piece out loud. I did not want to get bogged down with comments like "Why isn't your 30-year old character married?" or "Grown women don't eat cupcakes!" Yes, that's actual feedback I've received in writing groups, but not last night -- I just threw that in there for effect. I've learned that if I want these workshops to be useful to me, I need to decide ahead of time what I want to get out of them, and determine how to best get it.

I did get useful feedback, mostly from the people who understand how to give useful feedback. Information about verb tense/action, and guidance on where to cut and where to build. The other thing I got, almost from every single person was "You write beautifully." That was usually preceded by "I have no idea what you've just presented." Afterwards, more people came up to me: "You have such respect for the English language!" and "You put your words together with such care!"

In fact, glowing praise for my talent was not the feedback I had wanted to elicit, but it sure was nice to hear!

PostScript

2010-01-13T15:43:00.000-05:00

Ok, I no longer feel so bad about liking Dave Brubeck so much since Wikipedia just told me he had an integrated band.

I just always want everything for everyone to be fair. Like, I hope that Miles Davis wasn't really, truly bothered by the whole cool jazz thing. I want everyone to be happy and to get along, and for everyone to get the credit that's due to him or her. Cuz... "Unsquare Dance" is just... killer. Ka-ta-ka, ka-ta-ka-ta-ka-ta-ka! See, that's when you play on the rim of your drum. And it's a whole ka-ta-ka song!

Big Thelonious Monk fan too. Maybe it's as simple as I prefer a strong piano and bass presence over trumpet or sax. And then I can safely leave all the cultural criticism behind.

I promise that, in my brain, all of this makes sense.

The Music of 2010

2010-01-12T11:23:00.000-05:00

So another of my goals is to listen to more music. In this arena, Cabana Boy is a huge asset, because he's a music lover and has a fantastic music collection. So after I listen to my Mid-morning Musicale on the radio (where they play random music for an hour... generally classical, but also some Enya and ABBA thrown in), I pick one of Cabana Boy's CDs. I'm also trying to make sure I've listened to all of the albums I have on my iPod, which I know I haven't done. We won't discuss why that's the case, because it might be illegal.

Anyway, I've started with jazz. I'm fairly ignorant about music, especially when compared to things I know a lot about, like books. Last week was a lot of Miles Davis, a lot of John Coltrane, some Duke Ellington, and a little Count Basie. I also threw in some Ella and some Dinah Washington on the weekend, because they're already on my list of faves.

Here's what I know about myself. I like patterns, I like layered orchestration, I like melodies and harmonies. So a lot of what I've listened to has been very different for me. I'm not great with improvisation as a performer, so when I hear it, I'm flummoxed. I don't know if free jazz is for me. The Coltrane was a little intense. There were some songs that I thought were great, but others that I couldn't wrap my head around. I enjoyed "Blue Train" more than "Giant Steps."

Miles Davis was very pleasant to put on while I was working, or while I was reading. I could just float along on the music, while my brain was focusing on other things. I found it very relaxing... almost too relaxing. It didn't draw me in... it sort of mellowed me out. I'm not accustomed to music doing that. I'm used to music being the main activity that captures my focus. I often find it hard to listen to new music and do other things. So, like, I guess it worked? I was definitely calmer. I just can't describe what I was listening to.

I find that I have a similar reaction when I listen to the jazz program on the radio at night, driving home from drumming. It's mostly contemporary music, generally people I've never heard of, and it's a mixture of styles. Some of it I like a lot, some of it, not as much. As a rule, I could not describe to you what I've listened to. I just know that my 35 mile, tedious, exhausted drive home passes unbelievably quickly, and with virtually no road rage. It's amazing.

So maybe there's something going on here... like... beta waves or frequencies or something. I'm so used to having a tune stuck in my brain or a rhythm trapped in my hands, that this Zen-like emptying is entirely unexpected. At first, I thought that maybe I wasn't cut out for this type of jazz*, but in fact, it might be better for me than I realized.

* See, I feel awkward here, because I like Dave Brubeck a lot, and Harry Connick Jr, and then I start wondering if this is some sort of unconscious "race" thing. Which is ridiculous, but Miles Davis got so angry at Dave Brubeck for co-opting the term "cool jazz" when he really had started the movement, that I feel guilty.

Brrrrrrr, Baby, Brrrrrrr

2010-01-06T11:28:00.000-05:00

It's cold here. I know it's colder up north, but just pity me for a moment. We have frost warnings. Iguanas are freezing to death. If our orange crops fail, we all might get scurvy. It's the perfect morning to curl up on the sofa in flannel pajamas, snuggled under blankets, drinking coffee and reading a candy book on the Kindle. Which is exactly what I did.

Yeah, I've lost your pity now. Now it's full-blown Grrrrr. But I have to do something to balance out the loss in income, the delayed paycheck that won't arrive until AFTER my taxes are due, and the drumming teacher who thinks that push-ups are the newest and greatest thing in the world.

In other words, I am trying to make the best of it. Please don't hate me. I would rather have a portion of your job than carry around this anxiety.

I've made a promise that tomorrow I will get back to work. Not my actual income-bearing job, such as it is, but the work that showers my soul in riches (ooooh, isn't that a pretty phrase). I cannot express how much this promise terrifies me. I don't think I've ever avoided anything more than this innocuous chartreuse folder on my desk, ever in my life. Plus, this promise cost me $100. That's now 10% of my weekly salary. So I'll be frittering away money if I bail.

Reading the candy book on the couch is comfortable, warm, and pleasurable. Getting back to work is scary and surrounded by the unknown. It's fully, ultimately, out of my control. On the sofa, I arrange the blankets and turn the pages -- I'm in charge. The green folder could lead to hardship, angst, and rejection. Or it could just as easily lead to fortune, glory, and adulation (ok, that's perhaps a bit much). There's no way to know.

Reading my candy book, I know exactly what is going to happen. The book's heroine is going to catch the bad guy, aided by her plucky partner and her dreamboat millionaire husband. There's no glory and adulation for me in it -- in fact, I'm too embarrassed by the title to even reveal what it is -- but it just feels so good. There's the nagging portion of my brain that says to stop. Like an emotional eater on a binge, "Put down the pint of Ben and Jerry's!" it begs me. But it's hard to stop. I read because I cannot face the reality of my own words.

Book Me

2010-01-04T09:19:00.000-05:00

See that new list that's appeared in the left nav? One of my goals for the year is to read a non-fiction book each month. Another of my goals for the year is to read a "classic" each month. So I'm tracking the books here, to be accountable. It will help that I have a shiny new Kindle, and also that there's a shelf of books in the house that contains both non-fiction and "classics" that I haven't read. Please feel free to leave suggestions for me.

Note: I keep putting "classics" in quotation marks, because there's always the question of "What is a 'classic'?" The traditional canon of Dead White Men is quickly fading, as writers like Sandra Cisneros and Chinua Achebe have been on reading lists for almost as long as I've known how to read.

I've chosen a list to use as a guide. It's from a library in Wisconsin, which seems very normal and not something pretentious or political. It's called the College Bound Reading List, and I would assume that it's for students planning on going to college. I went to college, several times, so I really should have read all of these books by now. I chose this list because it's straightforward, because we already own some of these books, and because I've already read a lot of them (hey, I only have a year!).

Maybe I'll create a Google Doc version and share it, crossing off the ones I've already read -- although maybe I will decide to reread some of them -- it's my curriculum. That's also why I'm not going to read The Scarlet Letter. Life is too short for Hawthorne and maligned women.

Happy New Year!

2010-01-01T10:11:00.000-05:00

It's 2010. Can you even believe it? I can't. Of course, that's probably because I'm so tired from being up until 2am. I'm, like, old now. I can't do that any more. Oh, sorry... I was just informed that I won't be old until TOMORROW. Ok. Party on.

I have new goal things I'm working towards this year. In lieu of resolutions, I'm actually planning goals and creating action items and metrics. Lest you think it's something lofty, some of these goal are "Moisturize face twice a day" and "Always carry reusable bags when shopping." Sure, there are a couple of lofty things on there, but I'm not going to tell you what they are. Because if I fail, you might make fun of me. No, you wouldn't do that. That's nice.

But I figure I can use this blog to track some of the goals, like the ones about the books that I read and the music that I listen to -- that's fairly interesting. Plus, one of the goals is (as before) to blog more regularly. Maybe all of these things will work together, in a seamless integration of time and action.

Or maybe I just need more coffee.

2010 is going to be great!

Prick

2009-11-04T12:59:00.000-05:00

On Monday, I had acupuncture. It's awesome, life changing, etc. We open my chi, we redistribute my energy when it's gone all gooey, and we explore the energies of various other things... emotions, toxins, allergens, medications, etc. Generally, the results range from stellar to "well, at least I feel relaxed" and it's part of my overall treatment, so there's nothing to lose. It could be hoo-haa, or it could be the stuff of the subtle body and whatever makes the brain light up in a functional MRI.

So Monday, she had me choose three vials representing energy. I chose "discouragement," "success," and "low self-esteem." I figured that I fear success because of feelings of low self-esteem, and so I get easily discouraged (that's an interesting word, no? Like, it's the anti-courage). I'm sure this is all a part of my ingrained Puritan work ethic (which in this instance makes my father "theater"... it's a different post, you can look it up if you want). Like... I can only be successful if I work really, really hard. But there's no end to hard work, and one can slave until one collapses, and it may not ever be enough. And ultimately, I have to work so hard because I am no good, because if I were to be any good, I wouldn't need to work so hard (damn you, recursive data!).

During the treatment, I felt amazing. Unstoppable. I could see my creative future clear as day, and it was gilded in bright, shiny success. I visualized what I wanted to see happen, where I would travel to (and how I could bring Cabana Boy along), what I would do, what I would have. It was fantastic. My acupuncturist mentioned how great I was going to feel.

Eight hours later, I felt lower than low. Basement low. Coal shaft low. Secret plutonium storage facility low. I lost all energy, I cried, I moped, I clung to Cabana Boy like he was my glass elevator. I fell asleep at 9:30pm and slept until well past 7am the next morning. That morning, I couldn't do any writing. I couldn't do any work. I just felt mopey and slow and uninterested in doing anything other than lying in bed.

Later that day, success called. Great news! I'm a finalist! My visualization is working. Do I credit my acupuncture treatment? Yeah, I kind of do. Did I feel better? No, not at all. I felt worse. Much, much, much worse. I couldn't let the good news in. I pushed it away as hard as I could. What if I were to only be a finalist, and not a selection? I would feel sad. I would feel disappointed. Instead of letting that happen, I decided not to feel anything good. Well, that's really damn stupid of me. No one ever died of sad or disappointment. It doesn't negate the fact that this year I am a finalist (while last year, I was flat out rejected). Nor do I look at all of my amazing friends trying amazing scary things, and think poorly of them if they get rejected. That's assinine. I just don't know what is wrong with me.

I'm tempted to call my acupuncturist and ask her what she thinks is going on. Why I don't feel powerful, successful or brave anymore, even though success arrived as I'd planned. It could be nothing, it could be unrelated. My body is battling a cold. My employment situation is having some issues that will impact my future finances. I have recently eaten entirely too much white sugar, and yesterday I had to have my cervix prodded. I could just be a normal, stressed-out American. Or I could be a self-sabotaging wombat stuck on a crazy emotional frequency who needs to be pricked with more needles until I have less static.

I don't know... should I call her? Should I just take a St. Johns Wort and get on with my day? Should I just suck it up and write, like my good Puritan work ethic demands? Or should I go take a nap? I am open to suggestions.

Red-headed Stepchild

2009-11-03T17:01:00.001-05:00

Yes, bloggy-blog, that's you. Sorry, but you will always come second to playwriting deadlines. I don't mean at all to be disparaging as my hair borders on red and I was at one time a stepchild. It's just one of those facts of life.

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Hell on Wheels

2009-10-22T12:02:00.000-04:00

I guess women's roller derby is hip now. There's a major movie out about it, and since it's starring Ellen Page, it gets instant hipster cred. But we like to think, down here in Florida, that we're slightly immune to hipsterism. I mean, sure, there are small outbreaks of it around FAU and the Whole Foods in Boca. But generally, our demographic skews... older. Well, Fort Lauderdale is a slightly different story. Much wider array of people, larger population, etc. Well, Broward County has its own roller derby league. Hip has come to Florida.

If you had asked me if I wanted to go see roller derby, of course I would have said yes. What a great example of female empowerment! Woman-on-woman violence doesn't really count as violence, not like it does if men and women were beating on each other. Just like boxing is an old and esteemed sport. Well, turns out that one of Cabana Boy's friends is an MC for several derby circuits, and would be working the gig in Broward. Now I had a legitimate reason to attend!

Doors opened at 5pm. We got there around 5:15. Parking was a nightmare. Getting in to the rink was a nightmare. Maybe these girls are hell on wheels, but they're not so great at working a door. Finally we get inside. I don't know if you went roller skating as a child. I did. I was just the funnest thing, but the rinks weren't exactly high-class joints. This particular rink was firmly rooted in roller disco, and maintained the requisite decor. We ended up sitting in the snack bar, as there was no more room on the rink (either in the folding chairs or sitting cross-legged on the floor, hoping not to get crunched). I watched the entire match standing up on a banquette.

However, the clientele didn't seem to be firmly rooted in anything. There was a mix of hot lesbians, not-hot lesbians, fanboys who wanted to see some fishnets, goth kids, a few hipster couples swigging from flasks, and, strangely, many babies and toddlers. If not for the children, it would have felt like I was back at Lilith Fair. Michelle mentioned to me that she was the only person there without a tattoo. I offered to draw on her with the Sharpie in my purse, but I don't think she was interested. Two little girls selling baked goods to raise money for the team wore cat ears and tails. The place was a social anthroplogist's dream come true.

The match itself, once I figured out what was going on, was very exciting. It's not always about punching some chick in the face, or pushing her into the wall. It's more about a nimble weaving in and out of moving bodies, balanced on wheels and going fast. All while wearing fishnets. It's very high scoring, and includes a "halftime." My favorite part was when our goth MC would call out plays, and count "1, 2, 3, 4, 5... Yahtzee!" I don't actually know why he would say that, but he would, and it made me smile. Clearly, I have to look up more details on the scoring.

Everyone's attention was focused firmly on the flat-track when the paramedics had to be called over with their stretcher. A girl went down, and she didn't get back up. But, sadly, no blood, no need to actually put her on the stretcher. Looked like -- from where I was standing in the snack bar -- that she had the wind knocked out of her. We all clapped as she was gently tugged off to the sidelines.

I am excited for the next season to start. I look forward to getting there early, not dealing with parking nightmares, and getting to sit right up front. I look forward to learning exactly what's going on. This seems like a sport I can totally get into.

Those Sagacious Spice Girls...

2009-10-20T09:42:00.000-04:00

So tell me what you want, what you really really want, / I'll tell you what Iwant, what I really really want, / So tell me what you want...

I actually really like this song. It's upbeat, catchy, danceable, little hint of girl power. It came out at a time in my life when we were young and silly, and doing fun things. I feel the same way about Hanson's MMMBop.

The crux of this actually comes from my mother, who is hoping to take on a second job. Partially because she's on furlough and needs the money, partially because she needs human interaction over the holidays. "I hope I'll have the energy to do this, but I guess we find the energy to do the things we want to do." Incidentally, she was telling me this as I was driving the thirty miles home from drummy at 9pm on a Sunday night.

BAM! Insight much?

It's true. If you want to do something, you'll do it. If there's any doubt, any nagging tug, it doesn't. I want to learn taiko, so I drive an hour round trip twice a week. I want to go to acupuncture, so I will get myself up for my 9:30am appointments. I want to go on vacation, so I will save my money and do the research.

But also, ick. Does that make the opposite true? I did not go to the 8:30am Latin Impact class at the gym this morning, even though I want to brush up my salsa skills before our trip. I must not have wanted it that badly -- is that a fair thing to say? I did not write anything yesterday: I must not want to be a writer very badly, eh?

I don't know. It feels mean to say that about myself, that I'm deliberately sabotaging my good intentions. However, it very much might be true. But I also feel like I got off the rails a little bit over the weekend, and am now trying to catch up. Friday night, I was up extremely late, drinking German wine and planning for Puerto Rico. Saturday morning, I lost several productive hours due to computer malfunctions. Sunday, I had to recover from Saturday's late night (it was like an exhaustion piggy-back ride), go to Costco and go grocery shopping, head down to drummy, and generally feel like I was coming down with a cold. Monday, ditto. Cold-like symptoms continued all day, and I went to bed at 8:30pm.

So, this is all fine. I had a really fun weekend, and there's no crime in resting. But... resting takes time. Resting is not getting things done. Resting doesn't write plays. Nor is multi-tasking is very good for us, all the blogs say. I guess there are things that I want, but there are many things that I want. And I'm also fairly easily distracted. THAT is my great fear... that I'm not really going to be successful because I'm not focused enough or committed enough. The singularity of focus they talk about writers having... I don't have that. I don't know if it's willpower, or what, but I don't.

Or maybe I'm afraid to want. Patricia Moreno tells us during IntenSati (I totally feel cool like Amanda for being able to say that): "Desire, focus, intend, become." But we have to admit what it is we desire. I want to write plays. I can't say if I want that more than vacation, more than taiko, more than love, more than bike riding, more than Glee, more than Halloween, more than having a clean home and healthy food. But I do, I want it. Is that a start?

10/16/09 Friday GO!

2009-10-16T09:07:00.001-04:00

1. Yes, this is cheating. Guess what? It's my blog, and my rules. I am doing it more for the symmetry of an index than for any other purpose.

2. I am getting a vacation! Cabana Boy and I are going to Puerto Rico for Thanksgiving. Traveling over Thanksgiving is really the greatest thing: never have to deal with family obligations, don't have to cook, aren't tempted to shop on Black Friday, and usually have to take fewer vacation days. I am ridiculously excited about this vacation. Of course, it warrants new shoes.

3. I have a stability ball which I now use as my "writing chair." Before, I had the "Chair of Literacy" -- my Ikea chair where I read or wrote. Now I have this great little nook behind the dining room table for my office. My desk and my official Aeron chair, where I sit for actual work, are next to the corner where I sit for my writing. Before, I was sitting on a folded up blanket with a cushion -- very futon like -- and it was fine. Until a lizard got into the house and leapt for safety into those cushioned folds. Now I have something that lifts me off the ground AND works my core.

4. Today is my friend's birthday. She often said she wanted to celebrate for a full month, or at least for a week. A "12 Days of Christmas" sort of thing. Another friend got very outraged, that this girl might be comparing herself to Jesus. Yes, some of the people in my life are crazy. Other friends hate their birthdays, and refuse to divulge the actual date. But I think extended birthday celebrations are rather nice. Before I turned 30, I did a "30 Days Til 30" campaign, and scheduled a massage, bought some new shoes, etc. We don't do enough in this culture to celebrate birthdays. I'm not really talking about the whole "Hey, it's me! Look at me!" thing, because, um, Facebook? But instead the celebration of life and, yes, of aging. Because not everyone gets to age, and we never know when it's going to stop, so each new year really does deserve to be a party.

5. Cold fronts in Florida are funny. I saw a woman at the grocery store wearing Uggs. Now, I do love my Uggs, and do occasionally wear them in Florida, because my actual slippers don't have rubber soles. But, it was about 70 degrees. Still, I was the one wearing a fleece jacket later that night, when it dropped to about 62.

Wednesday JU!

2009-10-14T19:46:00.000-04:00

Well, crap. It's Wednesday, and I'm supposed to write something today. And, uh, I also was supposed to write something on Friday. Normally, on Fridays I post a list of 5 things. Because I'm making up for lost time, I will write 10 things.

1. It's annoying that my neighborhood is not pedestrian-friendly. Even though I'm walking on the sidewalk and in crosswalks, cars pull all the way up to the curb, blocking my path. These are the same people, I can just feel it, who go to NYC and walk around Times Square and just suddenly STOP on the sidewalk to gape at something.

2. I walked past a McDonald's -- most of the cars cutting me off were on their way there. It smelled SO good. The last time I had McDonald's food was at Newark Airport in February, returning from my harrowing visit with my mother. I had my very favorite: the 2-cheeseburger meal. Now, I understand that it's not good for me, and I actually do know how many calories are in it, but it's what I wanted. I ate it, and it was so, so delicious. Every time I'm in an airport and I try to eat healthy -- thinking I'll have a turkey wrap or a salad with grilled chicken -- it ends badly. Chicken like latex strips and some sort of mucilaginous sauce in the sandwich. Also, I needed something to fortify me after my ordeal.

3. In fact, that was probably why I often ate very poorly in NYC. I needed fortification, whether from the cold, the miserable working conditions, or the stressful life I was leading. I remember so clearly, when deciding where we should go for lunch, my co-workers and I chose the burrito place. Oh, they're fantastic burritos, authentic and fresh, smothered in cheese and packed with rice and beans. We needed that food for sustenance, needed the feel of something nourishing, warm, and heavy in our bodies.

4. Florida's certainly good for that. It's hard to eat a heavy meal when it's 90 degrees out in October. Like at Oktoberfest on Sunday. There were probably 10 different kinds of -wersts, plus pork and chicken, mashed potatoes and various slaws. And, of course, the good German beer. Ja! I had a hot dog with sauerkraut -- I don't think I'd ever had sauerkraut before -- and mustard, a fantastic soft pretzel (being from Pennsylvania, I know me some good pretzels), and a pickle that was actually a whole cucumber. Yes, I could actually fit the whole thing in my mouth. I fear there are pictures, but I hope that they miraculously disappear. Can we change the subject now? I'm blushing.

5. I've taped the "race number" from my bike ride onto the back of my desk chair. As if suddenly my chair was going to go racing off! But I like it -- I feel very official. I am ready to get back on the bike too, now that my delicate sitting areas have recovered. After we went up the first hill (really the overpass to the highway -- there aren't hills in this part of Florida), I felt like an Ironman. It was such a great day, and such an amazing experience. I credit the Bike America people for being so patient and pleasant. And what great swag! A Trek water bottle, socks, a t-shirt AND I won a groovy prize in the raffle! So, yeah, well on my way to being an actual Ironman... though they probably don't need to ice their soft tissue.

6. This has been an odd week. Some days have staggered forward, others have zoomed past. I woke up nice and early yesterday and got so much done. Of course, by 9pm, I was completely exhausted. This morning, my body protested. "You starved me yesterday! Now it's payback!" It paid me back by binging on sleep for an extra two hours. Not sure what to make of tomorrow or Friday. Maybe my body and I can work something out. Or, I'll settle for not having my hands fall asleep during the night. I researched that... it's most likely a postural problem, or maybe carpal-tunnel, which would suck, but also wouldn't be shocking, considering I'm a writer who plays the drums.

7. On Monday night, we went to see The Laramie Project: Ten Years Later. It was the world premiere, and part of the "simultaneous opening night" -- it was being performed at about 100 theaters around the country. Sadly, the preshow from Lincoln Center featuring Glenn Close wasn't working, so we just launched into it. Overall, I thought it was well done. My background is in performance studies and dramatic criticism, and I find these sorts of productions very interesting. Definitely political, definitely had an agenda, but very creative and evocative. Saw a headline today for a Newsweek blog post calling this piece "theater-as-journalism." I haven't read the article yet, but that title concerns me. Journalism is unbiased... theater is not. I hope that blogger knows the difference.

8. Wow, doing a list of 10 things is exhausting. I'm drained already, and am only on 8. Glee is on tonight. I love Glee. Mostly because I am a giant musical theater dork. Ok, not really... because, sadly, I have seen and even know people who are just in too deep. The ones who have seen the play 20-30 times, who line up outside the stage door, who know exactly who's in the cast, even in each supporting role. But, admittedly, I'm a sucker for Andrew Lloyd Webber. Phantom rocked my world in junior high, and Miss Saigon was all I could think about in high school. I have seen Les Miz maybe... 3-4 times? And, yes, I know every word to every song on the Rent cast recording. So sue me. (Will stop now, before I start singing Guys and Dolls)

9. I am starting to work on the next play. I've actually told several people about it. This is huge for me. I know that all the productivity sites say not to overshare your goals, but in the past, I've been almost secretive about my work. Not exactly shame, but more like... waiting for the disapproval or for the comments indicating that I was incapable. But now, I've mentioned it, given a short 1-2 sentence thematic overview. It exists. I even told scary people! And you know what? Nothing scary happened. The scary people were nice. Everyone is actually nice.

10. Ok, super. Last one. And, also, luckily, time for dinner. I will have my regular Friday GO this week, because, damn, this is hard! Also, this weekend, we're going to roller derby, so there definitely will be much to discuss.

Gooooooaaaaalllllll!

2009-10-08T10:08:00.000-04:00

Well, I am a day late (but hopefully not a dollar short). But that's ok, because a day late is better than nothing, and we get up on that horse and we just keep swimming, etc, etc. I gotta say, I feel better than I have in years. I credit the warm Florida sun, my comforting home with Cabana Boy, and lots and lots of acupuncture.

Each session, we do all sorts of things and stick needles in the craziest of places. Like, did you know that a needle placed in your outer thigh can relieve TMJ symptoms? Seems crazy, but it WORKS. Last time, I had needles threaded through my hairline and one stuck directly in the palm of my hand (insert your own Jesus joke here). No matter where I get pricked, I always end up feeling better.

Instead of wasting unquantified amounts of energy fretting over this or that, over wallowing in self-pity, and maintaining paralysis in the face of fear and opportunity, I am able to do other things. Like write, and exercise, and sleep. But now, having erased all that crap, I have this blank page just waiting to be filled up (with good things).

It's the goal setting process that freaks me out a little bit. I'm not going to tell you what my goals are, because studies show that doing so weakens one's resolve (because you feel productive just by mentioning it... like if I were to say "I've met Edward Albee" and then think that I can skip a day of writing because I'm that much closer to being a playwright). Like, because I am naturally a bit high-strung, I have lots of things I want to accomplish, and thus yield many, many goals. Great! Except I still have the same amount of time in the day that I did when I was moping.

I am reading a bunch of blogs on the subject, and I'm trying a bunch of strategies. I'll report back if any of them work. Right now, I'm considering breaking them into small chunks, so that I do a little bit each day. Sort of like with a box of Mini Bite-Size Chocolate Frosted Mini-Wheats... they're really small, but you'd be amazed at how quickly you can consume an entire box.

10/2/09 Friday GO!

2009-10-02T11:03:00.000-04:00

1. Happy October! I love autumn. It's sort of different here in Florida... there's not really a "cold snap" but we do start to notice a cool breeze, which is always welcome. Mostly it means that we go from shorts to jeans. Plus, October holds my favorite holiday: L'Halloween (I like to say it en francais). We have many fun things planned for October, so there's a lot to look forward to. November is pretty great too, because Thanksgiving is delicious and we may actually take a VACATION. At this point, I don't really care where we go... Rome would be nice, Costa Rica would be super, but I'd be just as happy staying in a hotel in Central Florida somewhere and going hiking and bike riding and kayaking and swimming with manatees. I sure would like to see a manatee before the end of 2009.

2. This is going to be a short list of five things, because I have to go to Georgia in a little while. It's a very straight, easy trip. Just drive north, and get off the highway at the exit for the hotel. Also, I've timed it so that I have a full afternoon of NPR to get me through. I will pack healthy snacks, though I'm not too tempted to stop at the service plazas now that they got rid of Starbucks and only sell hot coffee from Dunkin Donuts. Oh, I love DD, but hot coffee while driving = bad idea. I'm actually a very safe driver... no texting, no using the cell phone handset. The most I'll do is sip from a handy water bottle or iced beverage, and mess with the radio. It helps to have cruise control.

3. Solved my mobile crisis. Bought the iPod Touch, which is what I wanted from the beginning. I love it so, so, so much. I cannot imagine what I did without it. I've synced all of my email accounts, my calendars, added music and a bit of video, some fave photos, and my Evernote app (that I can't live without). Love, love, love this thing. Now all I need is a MiFi, so I'll be wireless wherever I go.

4. Working on getting up earlier. Trying not to stress out when I don't quite manage it. Plus, every day is a new opportunity to try again. I think it will be a huge help that my entire household is going to try to get up early too. We can do this! Yes, we can!

5. Am getting closer to my goal of "run a straight mile by November." Last night, I was able to do 3 consecutive parking lot laps (we run in the parking lot of a storage facility for drummy). Normally, I run one, then walk one. So that I do a minimum of 3 running laps, and still make the "required" total of 6 laps when I add in my walking. Last night, I was able to do 4 running laps total: the 3 consecutive, plus one more after a walking lap. This is great, because I remember a time in the recent past when a 20 minute set of run/walk intervals left me nearly unable to function normally (because of the pain in my back). But by going slow and working up to it (plus stretching, massage, ice, and acupuncture), my back has had the time to acclimate to the pounding.

Mobile issue solved!

2009-10-01T11:04:00.000-04:00

Holy crap! This thing is the greatest. Steve Jobs, I will never doubt you again.

- Posted using BlogPress

The Jung and the Restless

2009-09-30T10:31:00.000-04:00

I've been slowly reading this book about the hero's journey for writers. It basically synthesizes Jungian archetypes, Joseph Campbell's The Power of Myth, and basic plot/characterization tips for writers. Anyway, however you feel about this "pop psychology," these roles do seem appearing over and over again in life, no? This seems as good a way as any for organizing the chaotic experience known as life.

I mostly have two recurring figures in my life: my mother and my father. I would say this is true for most people (unless they have large families with siblings or other important people... though I would argue that those people might be stand-ins for mater and pater). And this discussion isn't like how strippers have daddy issues, or how my failed female best friend relationship probably relates to my failed mother relationship. This isn't actually about people. It's about the things in my life that I've assigned these parental qualities to... keep reading... I really do plan to make sense.

See, my father is work. He was the one who took care of the day-to-day necessities: food, shelter, medical care. The kinds of things that we need money to procure. As a child, I got that from my father; as a grown-up, I get that from a job (or its resulting income). This is neither good nor bad, it just is. Unfortunately, my father also was sort of tight with money, and had a killer work ethic. These things lean a bit more towards the bad. I had to work for my allowance (which was also my lunch money), and if I didn't do my chores properly, I lost money and priveleges. It also meant he got to comment on how I spent my money, and how I took care of my meager finances. If he didn't agree, I received critical lectures. Add to this the fact that he spent more than half of his life working in one job, which he occasionally loathed. I learned that money was vital, work came first, and self-fulfillment would come later.

And now? Now I am terrified about money issues. So scared that I'd rather put my head in the sand than actually educate myself and take charge. I have an almost slavish devotion to my jobs (which is the epitome of irony now, since I'm a consultant). During my last corporate gig, the managers were mostly men. This certainly didn't help. In fact, we jokingly called my last boss "Papa" -- mostly because he had kids and dressed like a dad even though he was our age. But having to ask him for a day off, or when approaching our annual review? I was 9-years old again, standing small in the doorframe of my father's office, being instructed on the importance of saving.

It's not all bad. I am fairly good with money: I carry no debt but my grad school loans, I have savings and retirement accounts, and an accountant. I have a strong work ethic, and it seems to serve me well. But I feel entirely too responsible. I have trouble making large purchases (uh, mobile device decision still pending), and even feel guilty about a $5 lipstick or a $12 t-shirt from Target. I'm preparing for a business trip and trying to get some guidance on the travel budget; my contact has basically left it up to me, clearly assuming that he's dealing with an adult, and not a math-phobic 4th grader. How do I do what is frugal, convenient, and right all at the same time?

***

My mother is theater. This is potentially very bad, as writing is what I love most, but my father is the one I actually get along with. Or, actually, maybe it makes complete sense. I wanted to have my mother so desperately in my life, but it didn't always work out. For so long, I treated my writing as something that other people had to sign off on, approve of. This isn't completely erroneous, as there are a fair amount of gatekeepers and threshhold guardians involved: critics, festival adjudicators, producers, MFA admissions officials, etc. But it doesn't have to only be that way. I can do my own work, I can produce my own plays, and generally, it's ridiculously satisfying.

Except... it's hard work. Sometimes, it's easier just to sit and sulk and wallow. As in, "Why did my mother leave me? Why can't she be better?" Or, "This is too hard! I'm so stressed! I'm a hack and I'll never be any good. Playwright X over there is way more successful than I am!" There are such deep wells of emotion trapped here... I want to be the best, I want to be successful, I want that approval, whether it's her attention or a good pull-quote from a reviewer. "If I'm not the best, then I should quit" is equal to "If I were the best, she'd treat me better." Then I get trapped in my self-sabotaging ways, doing just enough work to get by, but not enough to really shine. What do I think would happen if I did that, cracked open that shell and let everyone be dazzled by me? I think it would hurt her, maybe. And because she never really let herself shine, I shouldn't let myself do it either. If I can't actually have her, then the next best thing must be to become her, right? Wrong. Very, very wrong.

There is another way. Stop fighting it... let it all go, and it will all come back. If I can accept that she's not perfect, that she's doing the best she knows how to do, and it's not actually about me, then I can drop the giant hurt-boulder I've been carrying around. I can just write what I want to write, and follow the paths and opportunities that will make me happy and give me the most joy, I can stop trying to follow Playwright X's path and have a happy little stroll down my own. It's easier said than done, of course, but saying it is a pretty good start.

***

There are things we're supposed to learn from these recurring archetypes. Usually, in the hero's journey, the mentor appears, teaches things, and then dies, leaving the hero to assimilate those lessons on his own. In some variations, the mentor eventually becomes a threshhold guardian, or even the shadowy enemy to be vanquished. But in none of these stories does the hero ever just stop, sit down in place and say "No thank you, I think I'll stay here." He keeps going, and accomplishes something, even if it wasn't his original goal. I will close with some words by one of the best-but-undervalued mentors of recent times: "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming."

(That's Dorie, from Finding Nemo. Not all mentors have to be smart. Did you except me to quote Yoda?)

9/25/09 Friday GO!

2009-09-25T15:44:00.001-04:00

1. This is the "road" edition of Friday GO! I'm on the west coast (of Florida). Actually, I'm in the place where that photograph hovering somewhere in the left nav was taken. Currently sitting in the Ritz Carlton. Can't complain. Free wi-fi, comfy sofas, convenient electrical outlet. Worked for a while, then walked down to the beach. Stayed there for about 5 seconds; long enough to dip my ankles in the Gulf, and then headed back up to the safety of the shade. It's too bad, because I would totally swim in the Gulf: it's clear, it's flat, it's not too crowded. And I do have a swimmy suit with me, but it's in the valet-parked car along with my sunscreen. So... maybe later. When it's dark. Don't worry, I'll still be able to see because I'm so blindingly white that I'll glow.

2. My uterus is doing really, really well. I am so pleasantly surprised. I think that's all I'm going to say about that, because everything is TMI for such a short ordered list. But maybe a longer post later, because I think it's all pretty interesting, and I wish that I had found a normal person who blogged about the whole thing, instead of all the crazy people who posted on the message boards.

3. Dodged the layoff bullet. Extremely thankful. It's not necessarily permanent, it's good for now. See, I don't have what you would call a career path. I love my job, and enjoy this field that I'm, but it's not something that I've specialized in nor spent excessive time and money to study. If you asked me about my 5-year plan, I'd say: PlayFest, SPF, Humana Festival, and the domination of theater in Florida. While those are awesome credentials, they're not exactly going to earn me big bucks... so I'll add another one: royalties. I need royalties.

4. Uh, what else? I had a fruit plate, sitting outside on the shaded patio. It came with fruit dip. I like dips... ranch dressing, onion dip, hot spinach dip, as well as hummus, babaganoush, salsa, and all manners of tapenade. So fruit dip is pretty close to awesome. Usually, it contains marshmallow fluff or peanut butter, possibly some cream cheese. Delicious. Dips tend to counteract the healthiness of whatever you're putting in them, no?

5. Last night at drummy, we had some new people. They weren't strangers, but friends of other students, so they weren't completely unprepared. Of course the skin on their hands shredded like cheap chiffon. Imagine my shock when I heard myself giving them counsel! I was, for a moment, the knowledgeable senior student! Mostly just grateful that my hands no longer rip open. The secret: Corn Huskers Lotion. Seriously. Changed my life.

(I have a lot to be grateful for.)

Hysteria

2009-09-22T18:14:00.000-04:00

I've spent a lot of time over the last few days thinking about my uterus. Yes, if there are any boys out there, you can be excused now. Did you know that the word "hysteria" is derived from the Ancient Greek word for "uterus?" Both hyster- like hysterectomy and hest- like Hestia, goddess of the hearth. Wherein hearth also was a representation for a woman, which makes having a bun in your oven make a lot more sense.

Lots of my friends are involved with bun-making these days. One is pregnant with her first, another just announced that she's expecting her second (shhh, don't tell, it's still a secret). Several others have fresh baked goods at home. Cabana Boy and I once went to a big, riotous, alcohol-soaked party and it was filled with pregnant women and/or their recent offspring. It was the strangest thing. (I decided to abandon the "baking/bun" metaphor. You'll see why in a minute.)

I love babies. They're cute! All round and sweet and cuddly... and those toes! Those chunky thighs! And I generally like children too, though I find them less interesting from about age 10-18. I think children, as a concept, are super. But it's just not something I really want for myself. It's not that I can't nurture; I just know how much work it is, and frankly, right now, I don't have that much energy.

(See, I had to drop the "bun" metaphor because I really wanted to say "I love to eat bread, but I prefer for someone else to do the baking." And that sounds awkward and slightly cannabalistic, though I'm not necessarily averse to baby-eating humor.)

Thus, I spend a lot of time thinking about my uterus and how I can ensure that it remains vacant. Ultimately, what I've come up with is that "The Man" (or whatever you like to call the Judeo-Christian-political-industrial complex that controls the world) wants women to reproduce, and they make it as hard as possible to opt-out. As with telemarketers, I struggle to get on an effective "do not call" list. I think Margaret Sanger was a super-duper fierce rock star, but I worry about what dabbling with hormones will do to my body. All of the other options, from sheath to sponge to the big snip-snip, have some sort of negative side effect. It doesn't seem quite fair.

If I were a very strong feminist, I would say that this is also a way for "The Man" to prevent women from getting joy from their bodies. All because they need us to bear their heirs and ensure lineages! Have to keep us in line, while the men are blissfully frolicking around unzipped! But I'm not really that much of a feminist. It is what it is.

Still, it would be nice not to worry. Nice to not have to think about it. And maybe it's not such a big deal. Just pick a method; if it doesn't work, try another one. It's nothing to get hysterical about, right?

9/18/09 Friday GO!

2009-09-18T10:48:00.000-04:00

1. Happy anniversary to me, happy anniversary to me, happy anniversary to me-ee, Happy anniversary to me! And many more! Today commences my third year of living in this flowered place, the Sunshine State. I believe that I flourish in the warm climate. This also marks two whole years of Cabana Boy and I living in a one bedroom apartment without having killed one another. Go us.

2. The mobile technology battle may be coming to an end. Looks like I'll be getting a Palm Pre, and with it, switching to Sprint. I feel ridiculously loyal to Verizon. I don't know why, since they charge me a lot of money. And for what? I do have awesome cell phone service... but how often do I actually TALK on the phone? I hate talking on the phone. Mostly, I use my cell phone for text messages. So this shouldn't be a big deal. Besides, really, I joined Bell Atlantic Mobile for my first cell phone, and they became Verizon, so it's hard to say who I'm even loyal to. I will miss using my beautiful, extremely purple phone though.

3. This does not mean I still don't need a new iPod. I sure would like a purple iPod Nano. That would be really handy to take to the gym, or out walking (because it has a pedometer), and good for hurricanes (FM radio). Also, voice recorder! I can dictate blog posts and other writing ideas to myself as I drive. This probably doesn't count as a new number, does it, since it's still on the topic of mobile technology? No, I think it does, since now we're talking about portable music players. So in keeping with this new, very separate topic, I think it's time for some new music from iTunes. I know that I get into a little music rut, and stay stuck in the 90s. Of course, the first thing I'm going to download is that Cat Stevens song from Harold and Maude, which isn't exactly fresh and new. I think the last new album I got was maybe Feist? And the Allison Kraus/Robert Plant collaboration. Oh, and of course a taiko CD. So, yeah, perhaps I need a little Lady Gaga and some Cobra Starship.

4. Hmmm... running out of topics. Oh, I know! Movies! I like movies. The new Megan Fox movie opens this weekend. I have a major girl crush on her. And not even because she's ridiculously gorgeous. Mostly because she speaks her mind and doesn't apologize for it, even when she says stupid things. She's not a manufactured Hollywood product (unless they're grooming her to be the bad-ass rebel?), and admits that part of the reason she's so skinny is because she just doesn't eat. Honesty is so refreshing. Also, it's written by Diablo Cody, with whom I have a love-hate relationship. I liked Juno a lot, but I found it also a bit deliberately hip. Still, I enjoy her EW column, where I find her very down-to-earth and approachable. There aren't too many female screenwriters out there doing interesting work, so I do want to support that. Also, this movie was directed by the woman who brought us GirlFight, which is a fantastic movie (if you haven't seen it, go get it now. Now!).

5. Finally, a fond farewell to Patrick Swayze. I was in the 6th grade when Dirty Dancing came out. I saw it in the theater -- despite the icky-sounding title. Somehow, I also had it on VHS... I must have copied it from TV? I don't think it was a store-bought copy. Well, I watched that movie nearly 30 times. I wanted to dance like Baby. I wanted to lip sync to "Love Is Strange." I wanted that pink dress she wears in the finale (I still do, actually). When the film's anthem was played at school dances, we would do our pre-teen best to emulate their routine... which mostly meant putting our hands together above our heads. That's also the movie that gave me Jerry Orbach (my constant companion through Law and Order, years later). And then... Ghost. Major chick sobfest, as I recall seeing that in the theaters with my mother and best friend, and yielding another anthem to play at school dances. Oh, and Point Break, which aforementioned best friend and I watched many, many times, mostly for Keanu Reeves, but also because it was a good movie. Thank you, Patrick, for entertaining my adolescence.

You Mind Now, You Hear?

2009-09-16T17:34:00.001-04:00

Yeah, I'm crochety and old. I have a weak spine and an occasional grey hair. Get off my lawn! But really... is it just me or has the world been infected by rudeness?

First, Joe Wilson. Sure, there's a long-standing tradition of booing, grumbling, sour face-making, and general low-volume kvetching from both sides of the aisle. (P.S. I hate that phrase. Ban it.) But we do not yell at our President while he is making an important address. No, we do not. Rude!

Days later, Kanye. I'm not much of a Taylor Swift fan: while I believe she's genuinely talented, her kind of talent grates at me. However, she's behaved admirably in the public spotlight, and as she's from my hometown, I do hear the occasional report from the locals that she's a genuinely nice person. Still, I don't care if she's a coked-up skank. You don't climb up on a stage when it's not your turn, interrupt, and then insult the person standing there. Rude!

Today, a double-dose: my neighbor turns his radio up to 11 and Cabana Boy's co-worker can't get her iPhone back because the woman who found it won't return the messages they're sending.

Is there no consideration for other people anymore? And this doesn't even include the "innocuously rude:" the bored waitstaff at Alley's, every single driver going south on 95, the preoccupied desk attendant at the gym. We're so used to being given a gruff attitude or crappy service that these things hardly register.

Rude behavior was not tolerated when I was a child. One did not sass one's parents, or one had one's mouth smacked. You were taught to behave in stores, sit quietly at restaurants, and in general to not be a brat. Say what you want about my father, but he has manners. He is as polite and as gracious as he can possibly be. Probably because his father would have kicked the living crap out of him if he had disobeyed.

Which brings me back to Joe Wilson of South Carolina. A Southern boy without manners? That's just unheard of. Unless this really is a race thing after all? But that's a post for a different day. Until then, please enjoy this freakishly cute cat picture. Thank you.

9/11/09 Friday GO!

2009-09-11T22:44:00.000-04:00

1. I'm watching Trinny and Susannah on TLC. They've come to America and are making us over one by one. I adore them... probably because their accents make them sound less bitchy than Stacy and Clinton. Plus, Trinny and Susannah AND OH MY GOD THEY HAVE AN AIRSTREAM! Sorry, I was distracted. I meant to say, also, they're willing to embrace their own flaws too. Still, I've warmed to Stacy and Clinton, and honestly, I'd be pretty happy if any of them showed up on my doorstep carrying new bras.

2. Went to the farm to pick up my vegetables. I love my CSA (Community Supported Agriculture). You've never tasted vegetables until you've had them just picked. It's like the greatest corn on the cob ever. And the black-eyed peas? Smack my ass and call me Shirley, they're delicious. Of course, the dish also includes ham. My father called one night while I was making them, and he didn't understand what I was doing... "I hate black-eyed peas... used to have to put ketchup on them. Recipe? What are you talking about" Apparently, his mother just boiled 'em down and slapped 'em on a plate.

3. Amanda's Friday list had themes for each number. Are mine supposed to do that? I do not know. One of the commercials on TLC was for some pageant show (not the one with the babies, which I watched once, in the same way you watch the news after a train wreck), and some man said the following: "You can't put 10 pounds of sugar in a 5 pound bag." High class.

4. Still reeling from the news that the new iPods Touch do not come with cameras. Sigh. I think I'm still going to do it. I have 48 hours to decide (that's when they hit the street). It's between that and a Palm Pre, and Sprint has this ridiculous deal that practically pays me to make phone calls. Such a tough choice.

5. Today is the day we're supposed to be remembering. I do not want to. I want to wipe it clean... the sight of burning towers, the long walk north, the subsequent days of chaos and smoke. I heard that it was cold and rainy today... so much more fitting, I think.

About Other Things

2009-09-09T16:55:00.000-04:00

I think I was going to write about something... but I can't quite get a handle on it. Instead, I am preoccupied again with my technology conundrum, with my workshop that is happening next week (and the pre-reading reading I am supposed to be holding?), and especially with politics. This is an extremely new condition for me.

Yesterday, I turned to CSPAN on purpose. Granted, I didn't actually know what number to go to (whereas I've memorized Bravo, TNT, USA, FX, The Food Network, Comedy Central and Fox Family... I know that's weird, but sometimes they have fun movies on the weekends). But fortunately, all channels now have little identifiers in the bottom of the screen, so it didn't take too long.

I wanted to watch Obama talk about education. I didn't understand why there was going to be such a fuss. He was telling kids to stay in school, to do their homework. What's all the hubbub? Seems pretty innocuous and straightforward to me.

Really, what's bothering me is that my cousin (she's a second cousin, really, and is about 15 years older than I am) had a Facebook message about it being inappropriate for schools, which then led to several comments from her friends about Obama that ranged from just negative to downright racist. Racist and hateful, and joyfully so.

I voted for Obama, I support Obama, and I support his policies. However, I don't think he's our savior, as some in my "liberal peer group" appear to believe. He's just a politician. Fortunately, a very bright man, but a politician nonetheless. And in this country, politicians don't really have a lot of options. They can only do so much. I feel like he's catching hell for not having actually been the "chosen one" and for not changing the world, and that the condemnation is coming from both sides. We're such a bi-polar, contentious society... people used to hate Bush, and now people hate Obama. This shouldn't be new or surprising.

Yeah, I didn't like George Bush. But that's because I thought he made really bad choices, like engaging in torture, interfering with women's reproductive rights, and starting a war on false pretenses. Also, he was sort of a dummy. Still, I always maintained that he'd be fun at a party, and in innocuous areas of public policy, he seemed quite amiable. And I remember that members of my "liberal peer group" did compare him to Hitler, which also is unjustified, but seemed vaguely more fitting because his policies killed people.

But this hatred... like the comments from my cousin's friends... this has nothing to do with the man's behavior or with his policies. They hate him because he's educated, well-spoken, successful and Black. Over the weekend, someone joked about an "Impeach Obama" rally. What in the hell for? He hasn't been in office long enough to have done much of anything, let alone something worthy of impeachment. It makes me feel sick and scared.

I wanted to un-friend my cousin. But that doesn't seem fair... she's simply expressing her opinion, and I don't feel like her comments were the inappropriate ones. Maybe I will limit her updates from showing up in my Friend Feed. I can't hide from people I don't agree with, and maybe what's really surprising is that these seem to be the first people I've encountered who think so differently from me! That definitely doesn't sound ok... we're supposed to be a diverse nation.

Perhaps I'm taking it personally, but those racist comments made me want to cry. As if I were being personally attacked. And I couldn't hit back, because they weren't making a statement that could even be debated or reversed. Their comments were personal, from something in them that causes those negative beliefs. It reflected as much about them as my reaction does about me.

I shouldn't let this bother me, but I just really, really want healthcare reform. I've given up my dream of actual universal healthcare. I will settle for not being dropped for a pre-existing condition, for not having my rates go up every quarter, or for a plan that gives a crap that I'm a woman.

Friday's List

2009-09-04T11:03:00.001-04:00

1. Amanda wrote a post the other day, about her recent trip. It was a great piece, and it was so nice to see her blogging again. It's funny, seems like there was a blogging boom, and then a bust. Now so few people are writing regularly. I miss writing regularly. Amanda has challenged me to write on my blog twice a week, based on a plan that she herself is following. One regular post, and on Friday, a list of 5 things. That seems very doable. Plus, if it's good enough for Amanda, it's definitely good enough for me.

2. I do not know what to call this list. Hillary, someone who IS still blogging regularly, calls her Friday stuff "Faff." She speaks Canadian... it must be nice to be bilingual. I could call it the "Friday Five" but eh. Don't love that. And then I thought, well, I might not be bilingual, but I know my numbers in a bunch of different languages. There's cinq, cinco, cinque, fünf... the "Friday Fünf?" And then it seemed obvious! Or maybe the pain from last night's drumming was blocking it out... in Japanese, 5 is go. "Friday GO!" Yes, i like that! So, next week, that'll be the title.

3. Oh, I'm only at number 3? This is challenging. I'm out of shape... need to work on my endurance. Speaking of endurance, I'm learning how to run. I'm not trying to be a "runner." Just someone who can run. With my bad back, I'd been avoiding high impact activity for so long... but I think if I take it easy and slow, I can get there. Plus, now I know how to stretch to target the places that lead to pain, and I get massages twice a month, and acupuncture about that often too. So now I have a retinue of wellness experts behind me. My goal is to be able to run a mile (a continuous mile) by November. Ugh. Now that I've told you, I'm going to have to go through with it, huh?

4. I am not working today. This is not really such a monumental thing: I'm a consultant and can basically work or not whenever I feel like. Of course, tied up into that is whether or not I feel making money, and that is then coated in a thick layer of approval and responsibility. So far, I've slept late, had breakfast, had my coffee, and am watching a Monk marathon. Soon, I will start packing for our trip this weekend. I will not check my work email. I must learn to be nice to myself. Plus, if I start being nice to myself, maybe other people will notice and will start being nice to themselves. (What, did you think I was going to say "nice to me, too?" As if! I don't hang out with people who aren't nice to me. But sadly, we all seem to suffer from not being as nice to ourselves as we are to others.)

5. Oh, finally. Number 5. One of my big concerns right now is whether or not my beauty products are toxic. I've gotten sucked in to that Environmental Action/Skin Deep site (Google it, I'm not going to enable you), and am constantly looking up the shampoos and lotions I use to see if they're going to give me cancer. And, of course, everything will. But the site is pretty vague on how that stuff will give me cancer. Like, maybe it's only if I eat it or spray it in my eyes. I'm hoping for the best. I've found this great moisturizer that I love, but supposedly it's deadly. It has a nice fragrance, is reasonably priced, available at Target, and does an awesome job at evening out my skin tone. So, screw it. At least I'll be pretty.

Technobabble

2009-09-02T13:26:00.003-04:00

Oh, poor neglected bloggy-blog. I am so sorry... I have been so absent. It's not that I don't think of you fondly and often. It's just that I am a master of procrastination and avoidance. Or maybe you've been secretly keeping me at bay, retribution for referring to you as "bloggy-blog." Deal with it.

I feel like maybe I would blog more if I had the right tool. Not tool as in software, as I think Blogger is perfectly fine for my low-flash, high-text posts. And not really tool as in computer, since there are more computers in residence here than people. But I want to not be trapped in the house, and yet also not be lugging around heavy laptop bags that I can't leave unattended for a quick potty break or stored in a hot car.

So of course, I think about going mobile. I am not ashamed to admit that I crush on the iPhone. If it weren't for that wretched AT&T service, I would be all over that. And then I seriously considered the iPod touch for a while back around January... and I flipped and flopped all spring long. But I couldn't quite see the value, until I started using Evernote and Sparkpeople, and suddenly there were all of these things that I wanted to do while I was out in the world! So I started flipping again, but I knew I had to wait until September for the new Apple announcement. There were rumors of an iPod touch with a camera (WANT for sure!) and even the potential for an iPad.

In the meantime, there was the PalmPre. Pretty sweet! And Sprint has a good value plan, and I'd only have to carry one device. But it would mean switching to Sprint. And then there's the Google phone, which totally owns me now that they use the Cat Stevens song in their commercial. But after yesterday's Gmail outage, I'm wary of commiting all of my online life to Google. Or maybe I just want an old-school Blackberry.

To make matters worse, there are netbooks. I adore netbooks. Except for the typing bit. Which is ironic, perhaps, because I'm pretty sure that heavy typing on the iPhone/Touch is going to be really challenging too. Now there are netbooks that come with broadband cards, and the new MiFi personal wireless hubs. So, so, so tempting. Because then I could be online with my mobile device, or with my laptop, and even hook up several of my friends. Good for work and play!

But then I go back and forth, back and forth. Get a netbook! Just get a smartphone. Get a new iPod! No, you want a netbook! I will wait until September 9th to see what Apple has to offer, and then I will make my decision. But whatever I end up with has to fit in a normal handbag, so I can take it to the bathroom with me and carry it around the grocery store.

P.S. My favorite thing, of course, is actually still pen and paper. But there's that annoying interim step of how to get handwritten things nicely typed up. Yet another tick in the "Hope for an iPad" column.

Don't Ask Me

2009-05-08T09:14:00.002-04:00

So recently, we were test-driving a new gym. I had a free 7-day pass, and wanted to check out some of the classes. I was excited that they had Zumba, something I learned about from a late-night infomercial. They also had a general dance class that was held at a convenient time; my current gym offers only once dance class, and it contains the term "impact." That's something a person with a degenerative disc disorder needs to avoid, so I've never tried it. Still, I like to dance, so I figured this would be fun.

And was it ever! I had the best time! We did the can-can, a little salsa, a bit of merengue, and a whole lot of rump-shaking. I don't usually get to shake my rump in public, as I'm very white and overly tense... I won't say it's as bad as the "Elaine" dance, but I'm not loose and I seldom flow.

So while I'm not the world's best dancer, I was in fact a pretty good martial artist. My favorite part of training was kata, the forms that highlight stances and strikes in a slow, controlled environment. It was about precision, control, strength and endurance. We would often remark in class -- especially when watching the black belts do their advanced kata -- that it looked very much like a dance, and there was a special kind of grace that came from their power. I was good at kata.

But see, it's not exactly a dance. And that's hard for me to wrap my head around. The can-can is all about the high kick, but I guarantee the goal is not to high kick an opponent in the head. While some of the other ladies were wilting from the sustained, repetitive kicking, I was in my comfort zone. Except that my kicks looked... different. They weren't fluid or dainty; they were measured, precise, and strong.

Crap! I was doing karate in a dance class! Other mashed-up techniques followed: an accidental "knife hand" instead of a flirty hand wave, quick punches instead of arm shimmies. And, yes, during the can-can, I was blocking my head when I was kicking. Still, I was able to keep up, didn't faint, and no one seemed to notice that my dancing was a bit more bellicose than bella.

Thus, I was excited for Zumba the following Monday. I was lucky that karate also taught me to isolate my hips, so while my upper body might be a solid, unmoving mass, my lower body was fairly flexible. This would be great for a Latin-themed class. I imagined an instructor wearing shocking colors, Carneval music on the stereo, and a general feeling of fiesta. Ay, no. It ended up being the exact same class I'd taken the previous Friday. Turns out that teacher was subbing on Friday, and I guess did whatever she normally did when she taught. So, Monday was, again, lots of fun... but just another hour of rump-shaking and "knife hand."

I felt a little cheated. Did I Zumba? I have no idea. I was so excited to be part of this dance sensation that, while not exactly sweeping the nation, had made its way to Staten Island where it was endorsed by a good friend. Now I can't say for sure what I did. I will say, though, that there is a particular joy in pretending to be a writhing, lasso-wielding cowgirl while a man chanting "¡Dale, mamí, dale!" blared from the speakers. I mean, when am I ever going to do that again?

Nuts

2009-04-07T08:18:00.002-04:00

I think I am being stalked by a squirrel. Shut up! It's not funny! Ok, I suppose it is a little bit. But squirrels are scary, rodenty creatures who think that a hairy tail will disguise the fact that they're nothing more than rats that climb trees.

I hate rats. Thirteen years in NYC will do that to a person. At first, it was a wretched fascination: watch the rats scurry in the subway tunnels, down by the tracks. Safe distance between us. Later, when the rats were on the platform itself, I knew there was no such thing as safe. I used to weigh invitations to social events by comparing how fun it would be to the likelihood that I'd be coming home after dark on trash night. There, in the pile of garbage bags, rats would cavort wildly, dashing between black plastic Gladware and the vacant lot in the center of my block. I walked in the middle of the street to avoid them.

Squirrels, however, are cute and cuddly. Not to me, of course, but I'm making a point. We teach children to love the little squirrels and sing songs about their bushy tails. They frolic in parks, in backyards, in the safe spaces of sunlight. There is no safe space.

It started when I went to get the mail. I love to get the mail (I lead a quiet life and enjoy the simple pleasures). I would see a squirrel regularly on the path to the mailbox, as it meandered through our well-maintained jungle. It wasn't scared of me, and would wait until the last minute of my approach to scurry off. Until the day it didn't. Didn't scurry off.

Odd, I thought. He's not just going to stay on the path. But he did. Shit. I was going to have to pass him. I imagined that this was the part where he leapt onto my face and tore out my hair with his tiny claws. He didn't do that, of course. But he did not move. He stood, holding his ground, like a gangland warrior. Then, once I'd passed him, he came after me. Slowly, at first. When I turned and realized he was closing the distance between us, I ran. I'm sure he stood there, laughing, shaking his fist: "My turf! My land! Stay off!"

Now when I get the mail, I shake my keys. I am so far from the streets of Harlem, and yet I must resort to my old ways just to survive. I have not seen him for days, but I fear him lurking under every bush, every vine.

Earlier this week, I sat on my screen porch, drinking water and watching life in the parking lot. A squirrel appeared suddenly on the inch-wide ledge of my porch, nimbly running back and forth, though we're two stories up. I did not like this invasion of my territory, but I let him continue, watching with the same wretched fascination I once reserved for his urban cousins. Then he crawled onto the screen, eyes trained on me. "There's nothing for you here," I said aloud. He did not flinch. He was intent on the screen, and I knew he was looking for a way to break through the thin wire mesh. If I didn't act quickly, I was about to full of rabies and missing several toes. I rose, and clapped my hands loudly, hoping the advantage of my human size would be enough. Luckily, it was. He disappeared.

Now when I get the mail, I take my pepper spray. I will not be a victim.

Salve

2009-04-03T08:36:00.003-04:00

Oh, hi. Didn't see you there. Probably because I haven't been looking at this blog in a gazillion years. Didn't I have some goal that said I would write something each week? Um, major fail. But I'm starting to realize the thing about failure is that it's not a once and done thing... you can keep doing it over and over again. And maybe, eventually, one of those times, it won't be fail. So it looks like I'll try again. Once-a-week, here I come!

I don't think I'm living up to my potential. I know that sounds sort of junior high guidance counselor -- I did have a dream last night that I was sent back to junior high, and showed up late and got in all sorts of trouble, but they didn't know what to do with me because I just totally didn't care, because I was already grown up -- but I think it might be true. Actually, it's not that I'm not living up to my potential... I seem to be living up well to everything in front of me. I think I'm avoiding my potential.

For example, I recently had a successful workshop for a play I've been working on forever. I came out of it with tons of helpful advice. And yet... is there a fire under my butt to work on it and get it done? No. Wait --- that's not true. There is a fire... everyday I'm like, "Man, I should really work on those script changes," and then I find something else to do. The fire is there, but apparently my butt doesn't mind getting all charred and blistered. Eww, right? Perhaps I should do something about that.

I realized it most profoundly at work. I love my job, and I get to do lots of really interesting things. One task is working with video editing software to create short training videos. I've been involved in the process from Day 1, previously writing and editing scripts for other people to produce the videos. Now I'm working on all areas. This ought to fill me with joy: it's a fantastic thing to list on my resume, and is fun to do. And yet for some reason, getting me to work on the task requires nothing short of fingernail pulling. I just can't bring myself to do it. Same thing with submitting my monthly invoice. Hello, dumbass! Take 20 tedious minutes to do this paperwork, and people will send you thousands of dollars!!! Nope, I wait til the last minute, needing several prompts from my boss to get it done. Is that normal?

Maybe it is, but I don't think it's helpful. Meanwhile, I have no trouble instantly catering to the demands of the nice-but-crazy people I work with. "Please help me do this simple technical task that I should already know how to do!" It's like there's someone else inside me, diverting the good stuff so the crappy stuff can get through. Some turned-around, potential-blocking bouncer that has no problem with burned butts. I think that guy's getting fired.

Cleaning off my desk...

2009-03-05T15:49:00.002-05:00

I am cleaning off my "desk" (aka a TV tray and the top of a small end table, plus a plastic crate full of peripherals) and came across this. It's sweet: it was given to me in January by Eunice, a woman in my writing group. I have no idea if she wrote it, or if she copied it from somewhere. I'm adding it here, in case I ever want to read it again, and can now be free of another piece of paper.

My Wish for You in 2009
May peace break into your house.
May thieves come to steal your debts.
May the pockets of your jeans become a magnet for $100 bills.
May love stick to your face like Vaseline.
May laughter assault your lips!
May your clothes smell of success.
May happiness slap you across the face.
May your tears be ones of joy.
May the problems you had forget your home address!

March Forward

2009-03-03T09:15:00.000-05:00

I had this plan that I'd blog more. It was going to be great: I'd be writing and actively engaged in creativity. Plus, I recently heard on the radio that people who blog are happier than people who don't. Ok, admittedly, I heard this on Wait Wait, Don't Tell Me but since it's a show about the news, the news they cite ought to be true.

Except that I hardly wrote anything in February. Three posts. And one of them didn't really even count. But I meant to. I had this lovely Valentine's Day post all ready -- a sweet ode to love -- and is in fact partially typed up on my desktop. But I never got around to finishing it. I had this idea that when I was up north I would blog about my experiences, and I've been carrying around this amusing post about cold weather in my brain for over a week now, and just haven't made it happen.

If you've noticed, most of my recent posts have been about my inability to manage time properly, and my oversleeping. Maybe this whole post isn't fair, since I'm extraordinarily cranky about going back to sleep this morning, when I really wish I had just gotten up.

WARNING! I'm going to get very whiny now, because this is my blog and I can. Please avert your eyes. I'll let you know when it's safe to look again.

I know it's not fair to complain, since I have a more reasonable schedule than other people, but it just sucks! Like, already, it's 9:15 and I still have more things I want to accomplish. I just hate this. Can't I have leisure time and writing time and exercise time and personal time? All this makes me feel like a complete failure, compounded with the fact that I'm the person who routinely spills and breaks things (yes, this morning I spilled coffee. No, I haven't broken anything yet today, but it's only 9:15 so give me time). I am so tired and cranky and premenstrual. I want to eat Doritos and drink chocolate milk and just watch TV all day. I do NOT want to call the accountant. WAAAH!

Ok, I am done now. You may open your eyes.

I'm going to wrap this up, because I'm just taking time away from other things. If I hurry, I can get in 2o minutes of yoga and hopefully still be able to take a shower. Maybe I'll try to blog once a week in March. In January and February, I had hoped to blog every day. That might have been too ambitious. So once per week, for now, is what I'll shoot for. Wish me luck.

AM = Anti-morning

2009-02-18T09:17:00.003-05:00

I have been slacking off on the blogging lately. On lots of things, including virtual pet care (though I still manage to feed Lola every day). Because I have been sleeping.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I am so tired in the mornings! Maybe this is because we go to bed later some nights, or we're exercising more, but I just cannot wake up in the morning. The alarm goes off at 6:30, and I turn it off, and Cabana Boy gets up. I roll over, barely conscious, for another 45 minutes. When he comes in after his shower, my eyes open into tiny slits and search vainly for his form. Must focus... must try for sight. It's hard. And then I blink naturally, but the eyes stay closed for longer than they would normally. Sleep is tugging me back, while my longing to embrace him and tell him "drive safely" works to keep me conscious for just a few moments longer. Instantly, I am asleep again, and dreaming. (Is so much REM sleep normal? Should I have this looked at?)

This is not new for me. I've never been a very good morning person. I want to so desperately to be. I want to get up with the sun, and drink my coffee and read and write, go to yoga, and do all of these things before going to work. Mostly, in my life, I was the person who hit the snooze button repeatedly, sometimes for HOURS.

What I need, the moment I hear the alarm, is to dash open the blinds. I know that streaming sunlight will burn off the fog of sleep. This is part of the problem, I'm starting to realize. When the alarm goes off, the sun isn't up yet. Just now, I googled it. Sunrise here is at 6:54AM. Well, that explains it. If I am getting up with the sun, I should be setting an alarm for 24 minutes later. It's like our own Floridian version of SAD.

I will try it tomorrow. Anything to keep me from sleeping until 8:30. It feels gluttonous, and only leads to more dreams, which is never good*. Plus, I wake up groggy. On the up side, the coffee is getting better.

*Random side note: Is this why Freddy Krueger always freaked me out so much? Or maybe it was this movie, which I watched too often on HBO as a child.

Breaking News!

2009-02-12T18:54:00.002-05:00

Swimmy is cancelled tonight. Something mysterious is wrong with the pool, and it will be closed until Saturday. I hate not having my weekly dose of Nancieisms.

ZzzzzzZ

2009-02-12T14:36:00.003-05:00

I am not known for having trouble sleeping. Not in the way I am "known" for being an alarmist bundle of stress, or for having headaches or a stuffy nose. Quite the opposite, I am considered a "power sleeper" and can fall asleep easily and stay asleep throughout much noise and activity. Furthermore, while I'm not the cheeriest riser, I am capable of getting up when I need to. All of this is true, until it isn't.

Sometimes, sleep fails me. Or, who knows, maybe I fail sleep. But it's supposed to be a balm, a restorative. It knits up the raveled sleeve of care. Sleep is where you can hide until the bad things are burned away by the rising sun. Sleep is BFF with the terms "good" and "night." Except when it isn't. That's when sleep stops being a safe place, somewhere comforting to go when the waking world is troublesome. The bad things follow you there, and suddenly realize that they can reach you! They show you gruesome, horrifying things, and try to convince you that this is the world that is real.

I have anxiety dreams, usually about work or relationships. In those dreams, the bosses shout, the emails incessantly clog the inbox and the old friends lurk with constant reminders of how you failed them. These are pretty typical and straightforward. Most people I know have these, at least sometimes.

Then there are the dreams with recurring themes: I'm back in my middle school or high school -- though I'm a grown-up with several degrees -- and can't remember my locker combination and never show up for algebra class. These are common, though they often end with my realizing I don't have to do this anymore. Or the dreams set in the house I grew up in, the one my father sold after I graduated from college. I'm sure these dreams are ripe with symbolism and just begging for interpretation. But I don't think I want to know. Will it make a difference?

Finally the dreams full of violence, loss, and death. Loved ones hurl vitriol at me, or people are injured or killed, usually covered with gore. Sometimes there is just the implied threat of violence: someone is hiding to attack, and I search the house, knife in hand, knowing his discovery is inevitable.

Always these dreams wake me. Always. Sometimes I know I am dreaming, sometimes I don't. Worse, though, is not being able to go back to sleep after. That sanctuary is defiled, no longer safe, and instead I lie awake in the dark, hoping I'll forget and drift off again. Sometimes this takes hours. In the morning, I wake up unsettled. I'm tired, and my head can easily recall the terrible snapshots it created. And that is the worst part! This is not some virus, some disease that has invaded to sicken me. These things come from within, and I am not even safe in my own head.

I need sleep desperately. I thrive on 8-9 hours, and can be thrown off by even an hour's deficit. It can take several days until I'm back on my "power sleeper" routine, when the rest finally feels like resting. Those are bleak days, full of overcast skies and chill.

Super Script

2009-01-30T09:18:00.004-05:00

Supernatural may be the best show on television that you're not watching. Seriously. Ok, so maybe it lacks the brilliant writing and ambitious themes of The West Wing, or the quirky charm of Boston Legal or Arrested Development. In fact, one could argue that it ranks up there with Buffy the Vampire Slayer even though it's not a Joss Whedon creation.

What? Those shows are off the air? Then why aren't you watching Supernatural? There's nothing else on Thursdays at 9pm. Huh? There's a little-known comedy on at 9:30? What's it called? 30 Rock? Never heard of it. Ok, I'm lying. 30 Rock is hilarious. Still, I encourage you to give Supernatural a chance.

OVERVIEW (super-short version): Dean and Sam Winchester are brothers who drive around the country fighting demons and monsters.

First of all, Dean (Jensen Ackles) = hot. Seriously. And his co-star, Rory's boyfriend, will do in a pinch. No, actually, Sam (Jared Padalecki) is growing into himself nicely. He's just a little too tortured soul/struggle between right and wrong for my taste. Nobody will ever brood like Angel, so there's really no point in trying. Besides, Dean has that whole bad-ass, machismo, good ole boy thing going on, and it's funny as hell.

But beyond the eye candy deliciousness of the Winchester boys, there's an actual point. Sure, I like spooky plots and supernatural themes. I enjoy ghost stories. Always have. And this show doesn't try too hard. Think of The X-Files in the early years. Or Buffy. In fact, much like on Buffy, the monster-of-the-week is generally a metaphor, or some similar device, for externalizing the emotional struggles our characters face within. The bad guys allow the heroes to reflect on themselves, and in turn, force them to explore their emotions without actually having to initiate vulnerability. "Dude, I'm cool. But that demon sure hurt my feelings." It is a show about two men, after all.

What's even more interesting is the reality these characters inhabit: America. These are working-class boys, flannel-clad, driving the classic car and playing the rock-and-roll. They drive to places like Iowa, Kentucky, and Missouri. You know, red states. They help everyday people plagued by demons and other unfriendlies. Nobody in their world is glamorous; if they are, it's a pretty good sign that they're supernatural beings. The brothers save children, preserve families, and pal around with a guy who wears a trucker hat unironically. As if the evil plaguing these Americans is something that can be defeated, unlike an economic crisis, environmental woes, and the specter of terrorism. Sam and Dean save us from these things, because we need to feel like we're being saved from Something.

So, to recap. You need to watch Supernatural. It's quality television, and besides being scary and touching and funny, it has an interesting message. As its mission, it blurs the line between good and evil, and shows us that the heart of darkness is actually found somewhere in the Midwest. Which is to say, it might exist in all of us -- or we could be our own salvation. Plus, Dean is seriously hot.

NOTES

- Good pedigree: one of the show's regular directors worked extensively on the The X-Files, and one of the regular writers previously worked on Angel.

- One problem with spending so much time in the heartland is that there's a total lack of diverse characters. Pretty much everyone = WASP. Sigh.

- The car is a 1967 Chevy Impala. I don't actually know about cars, but maybe that's an important fact.

- The soundtrack is on of the most brilliant aspects of the show. It plays like a who's who of classic rock, and never suffers any Smallville-style emotional pandering.

Breaking News!

2009-01-29T20:29:00.002-05:00

Nancie -- with an "ie" -- will now be our Tuesday night Swimmy teacher too! Apparently the commute was too much for our regular Tuesday teacher, so she gave notice. I'll miss her: she was a lot of fun.

Pricked

2009-01-29T08:46:00.005-05:00

I've started getting acupuncture treatments. It's primarily for my TMJ, but it does address other conditions (like back pain and hopefully PMS). I was nervous, at first, not so much about the needles, but about adding yet another "thing" into my life. Something else to schedule, something else to pay for. Something else to react to.

The needles don't hurt. They're tiny, and don't feel like needles at all. When they're inserted, occasionally there is a dull throb, like sticking your finger on a bruise. This is where my energy is stagnant, I am told. I was a little freaked out, at first, at the idea of needles in my face, but if you have jaw problems, that's where they have to go. As long as you lie very still, there's nothing freaky about it.

And that's part of the treatment: lying still. She puts the needles in, and then leaves me to rest for about 10-15 minutes. Right there, a challenge: lie still. No, I need to do something. I need to somehow be distracted. Please don't leave me here alone with myself. But she does. Sometimes there is music, which is nice. Also, she puts a heat lamp on my feet, so they don't get too cold. That is nice too.

During my first session, I was overcome by a sense of bliss. So much so that I started to cry. Is this how it's possible to feel? Am I allowed to have this? I felt so calm, so centered. After the treatment, I told her how great I felt. She was pleased -- the acupuncture was working. Her only indications for me for the rest of the day were to avoid vigorous exercise and negativity. Avoid negativity? Have you met me? I came home after my session and went to work. Negativity was in my inbox. Sigh.

The bliss wore off after a few hours, though the overall calm did persist for the next day or two. And then my stepfather died and everything changed irreparably and forever.

My second treatment was in early January. I was really looking forward to it; I was having some trouble getting my groove back, and thought this would be balancing. The needles went in, and I was left to rest. This time, there was no bliss. Instead, behind my closed eyes, I could see a dancing yellow glow. I began to call this the "yellow sun" and I watched it jiggle and twitch. It was very beautiful, and it made me realize how wonderful life is, and how hard I sometimes make it. I thought about the negative things I hold on to, and I tried to let them go. Every time I named one and released it, the sun would surge brightly. It felt wonderful.

Soon, my acupuncturist came in to continue my treatment. She includes in her practice this NAET stuff, and it's about releasing your body's hold on allergies and other "imbalances." I don't really understand it, but it doesn't hurt and I am highly susceptible to New Agey stuff (uh, see incident with "yellow sun" above). Because I was going to be going out of town that day, she didn't focus the treatment on a particular imbalance, but instead applied the "Global Success Formula." Afterwards, I was told to visualize success in my life and I admitted that I was a playwright and she encouraged me to visualize success in that area. And then she left me alone again to rest.

Maybe I broke it. I don't know. I did visualize. I thought about all these great playwright things, about accomplishments and achievements and goals. I repeated positive messages and gave myself affirmations about my talents. But I have never felt like I was a very good visualizer, and it felt... weird. Also, the yellow sun did not come back for this exercise. Still, I did my best. Before I left, my acupuncturist told me to keep an eye out for good things to come! I felt hopeful. Global success sounded great.

After about a week, I could not perceive any sort of good things. The weather was cold and grey, Cabana Boy and I got sick, and I was having a terrible time at work. This made me feel agitated and nervous. Where were the good things? But of course, I was too embarrassed to admit what was bothering me. "Gee, my acupuncturist did this hippie-dippie treatment and I'm supposed be receiving success, but nothing has come." It sounded ridiculous and absurd, even to me.

More weeks have passed, and still no good has come. I wonder if I visualized wrong, if I sounded too greedy. A deep dark fear emerged: what if I am on the wrong path? If I'm supposed to be something else entirely, and I'm fighting against nature and not going with the flow? I am giving this too much energy, I think. It is easier to look for mystical explanations than to deal with reality: sometimes life is just hard. Or maybe it's nothing real, and it's just my raging PMS returning with a vengeance, after a one month reprieve.

I even hope that this is the lesson I am supposed to learn... let go, and there will be good things. My global success will be determined my by ability to stop controlling things. Because if not, I don't want to have to admit that the acupuncture might not be working. At least my back doesn't hurt.

Playing in Traffic

2009-01-27T10:28:00.004-05:00

This morning, I walked to Walgreens. We needed a few things, and, as Walgreens is only a mile away, it felt literally like a crime against nature to drive.

I do not live in a pedestrian-friendly environment. Which is to say, I live in America, outside of a major city. It was very hard for me to embrace being a driver again. I grew up in a suburb, but spent all of my adult life until now in a city. That meant mass transit and lots of walking. Not all of which was good. I love the fact that I no longer have to carry my meager supply of groceries home -- a mile and 1/2 walk -- in the snow. And I'm not against car travel... I love being a passenger, and there is nothing greater than driving down Route 1 on the way to Key West. I just find driving to be tedious and annoying.

Walking isn't much of an option here. There are sidewalks, but the traffic is so intense that you barely feel safe walking on them. At first, I worried that I would feel self-conscious being a walker. There are so few other walkers that you really do stand out. I hated the thought that people would stare at me, especially if I were all sweaty. Then I realized that attention is exactly what you want. If drivers see you, they're less likely to accidentally jump the curb and run you over.

Major intersections involve the dreaded "pressing of the button." You know the crosswalk button? The one that you secretly suspect is not even attached to anything? Yeah, that one. On most roads, there are 4-6 lanes of traffic -- and this can grow to 8-10 lanes if you have special turn-only lanes. I'd be better off trying to cross the Florida Turnpike. Also, U-turns are generally legal, and present a hazard for motorists as well as a pedestrians. See, when you get behind the wheel of a car that is located in Florida, a funny thing happens: your turn signal is rendered non-functional. Add that to overall sense of "right-of-way" entitlement, and you walk at your own peril.

Most of this discussion is pointless. We live in such sprawl that nearly everywhere I want to go is just out of reasonable walking distance. "Reasonable walking distance" means "does not take 2 hours to get there." This is why I want a bike.

I dream of being a bike rider! It is, in fact, one of my New Year's resolutions. I visualize myself on my shiny new bike, dashing around town, rolling past the ocean, cruising through a park. Sometimes this bike is black, sometimes it is powder blue; I have not fully decided yet. I'm not actually a competent bike rider -- yet. I will be! However, I have no experience riding in traffic. My juvenile escapades on a bicycle were brief, and never involved populated areas. I want so badly to ride my bike to Walgreens, to the gym (2.9 miles), to the grocery store (1.4 miles), even to the library (4.6 miles). These all seem like reasonable distances, but are still intimidating for someone with 0 hours of experience playing in traffic.

I must also face the likelihood of the shiny new bike being stolen. There are regular notices posted at the gym about cars being broken into, and a fair amount of petty crime in this general area. What makes me think my bike is going to be safe? Would I end up having to walk home?

So I imagine it like this. I have already located several roadways that lead to my desired destinations with very little traffic, and very wide sidewalks. Yes, riding on the sidewalk is probably a ticketable offense here, but I am going to be a grown woman wearing a helmet and wobbling mightily. I think the police will overlook me. I have counted the number of intersections I need to cross, and I know that I can get off the bike to press the button if necessary. Finally, I am prepared to buy both a U-lock and a cable lock to secure my bike upon my arrival -- several cable locks, if that's what it takes.

I really, really want this to work.

The Wisdom of Nancie

2009-01-25T10:31:00.006-05:00

Nancie -- with an "ie" -- is my Thursday night Swimmy teacher. Oh, let me take a step back. "Swimmy" is what's actually called "AquaFit" on the gym's schedule, which is really "water aerobics" wherein you do fitness activities in the pool, occasionally using yellow plastic weights and "noodles," those long foam things popular with children. See, I call it "Swimmy" because I'm not really swimming, though I am playing in the swimming pool. I do feel a small amount of shame in admitting that I have to take water aerobics because I have the spine of an old person, so I try to reclaim the experience and make it my own.

Where were we? Right. Nancie is my Thursday night Swimmy teacher. The Tuesday night teacher is a sassy young lady with multi-colored hair, multiple tattoos, and a bizarre name. I like her because her classes are comfortingly predictable, and because she's very fit and strong, but still suffers from cellulite like a normal human being. She's a fun teacher, but just doesn't compare with Nancie.

Before Nancie arrived, we had a number of Thursday night teachers. First there was Kathy, a sweet, Wonder Bread girl with a southern accent. She lasted for a few months, but ended up changing jobs and had to stop teaching. Next came another lady with a bizarre name. This lady frightened me at first, with her Western Long Island pushiness, but she did run a good class. She didn't give anybody any slack. She's just about 50 years old and has the body of a 26-year old. A very, very tan 26-year old who still wears workout gear from the 1980s. She left because she found the water too cold.

And now we have Nancie. Nancie is probably also around 50... 6 feet tall, with the long, lean body of a dancer. Nancie is from Iowa, and looks like what I imagine my friend Sarah will look like at 50, if she had bigger muscles. Nancie is also deeply, deeply tan (I'm not sure what to make of this trend -- it's not something the younger Swimmy teachers do). Nancie has a new hip and a new knee "and those are the only body parts I've bought that I'll tell you about." Yes, I believe hers are fake: she does look rather pneumatic in her tank suits.

Nancie is tough, but fair. "You grew it, you lift it," she commands, as we high-kick across the pool. Still, she tells people to go at their own pace. "You should be working in your target heart rate. Unless you're having one of those days where you're just lucky to have made it here at all tonight... maybe you don't feel like working so hard. You do what you need to do." She checks on us regularly to make sure we are still breathing, and requires that we make some sort of noise to confirm this. "Woo!" we all yell in unison. She has such enthusiasm that she makes us want to "woo."

Nancie schools us on our target heart rate, giving us charts as handouts, and reminds us to cool down if we ever have to leave early: "Not only can you pass out in the shower, but you can get vericose veins!" She understands what motivates us. She encourages us to activate different muscle groups: "you can keep your knees apart... I've turned off the underwater cameras, so you're safe." When she calls out a new move, she prefaces the change with "And then..." occasionally using a Muppet voice; this makes me giggle.

She tells the same corny jokes every week. "So this class runs until 8:30, right?" It starts at 6:00. At first, some of the new people would pause to evaluate the seriousness of this claim, and giggle nervously when they realize she's teasing. But now, we're more likely to cheer "yes!" and hope for the day it actually comes true. As it is, she often keeps us late, occasionally lying to the irritated lap swimmers waiting to get back into the pool. "Oh, we're just about done here... got a late start because of some swimmers." The Tuesday teacher ends class at 6:50 most weeks, because she has to dash to another teaching gig up in West Palm. Nancie never cheats us of fitness.

"Ladies, you should be in water that's about chest deep. If your chest is up here [she indicates her neck], I don't know what's going on. If your chest is down here [she indicates her solar plexus], then you probably belong in my senior citizen class." She is full of good, solid advice, and keeps us on track, but never threatens or goads us. "Your heart doesn't know if you're on your right foot or your left foot... it doesn't matter if you don't do it exactly right. Just keep moving!"

After we have been in our target heart rate for about 35 minutes, we move to the weights and noodles. We do a few sequences with each, and then begin to cool down. "Leave your weights where they are. Do NOT put them away. This is the hardest thing for you ladies to do... just let go." Nancie instructs us with the wisdom of a buddha. As we come to a close, we do a final stretch: "reach your arms out to both sides, and now wrap them around yourself, and give yourself a hug, just in case no one else does." Nancie understands the importance of self-care.

The other ladies and I love this class the most; I know this because we tell each other in hushed tones in the locker room, and when we gather on Tuesdays and don't want the other teacher to feel bad. One woman drives up from a town about 20 miles away just to take this class; she's hooked. As much as I like the Tuesday teacher, I wish Nancie would teach all the classes. In fact, I think it would be cool if she just hung around all the time.

Time Manager Wanted

2009-01-22T09:49:00.004-05:00

Mornings are my time. My chance to actually get things done. I have about 2ish hours between wake-up time and when I start work, and generally this is when I do the majority of my personal tasks. Of course I never feel like I get things done, and struggle constantly with this.

Of course most of you want to strangle me right now for feeling this way. Yes, I work from home and yes, I have a flexible schedule. But I'm still trying to juggle personal enrichment, health and hygiene, domestic duties, gainful employment, and the pursuit of my dream (which the IRS will most likely decide is a hobby... sigh), and it's just a lot. I'm not asking for sympathy. I swear. Instead, I pretty much know that I don't manage my time well. Just as one creates a budget to track spending, or a food log to track eating, I really ought to track how I use my time.

So far this morning, I...

- Sept for an extra 45 minutes. Sigh

- Ate cereal and drank coffee; took my vitamins

- Listened to Morning Edition

- Finished reading February's RealSimple magazine

- Read another chapter in The Count of Monte Cristo

- Fed and walked Lola, my virtual dog

- Checked 3 email accounts, read my RSS feed, and looked in on my sheep in Facebook

- Reviewed some financial stuff, in preparation for my 08 record gathering

- Made the bed

- Showered and got dressed; flossed

- Wrote this blog post

It's a nice list, sure. I did get things done, and did manage to mix some "acceptably productive" things (financials, showering, flossing, Monte Cristo) in with some less "acceptably productive" things (virtual pet care).

But notice how the list didn't include things like responding to emails that should be answered, finishing the short winter holiday play, or working on the full-length pieces. These things did not move me in the direction of "pursuit of dreams."

Do I need to assign priorities to things? Is this all really just the grating voice in my head of my hyper-Puritan upbringing, where "all Work and No Play makes you Good. Oh, by the way, Work means responsible employment in a corporation where you can be a cog in a machine, even if you hate it." Probably.

Still, there is the undeniable fact that plays are not being written by me. Am unsure how to rectify the situation. I wish I could hire someone to help me... there are financial advisors for money, and personal trainers for fitness, but who can help you better manage your time?

Random Stuff

2009-01-21T09:44:00.003-05:00

In no particular order...

I cried during the inauguration. I didn't think I would. But to see Obama walk down the stairs of the Capitol towards the platform with such self-respect and dignity, well, my heart just swelled with pride and the tears started to fall.

My father, on the other hand, was extremely emotionally invested in this election. He grew up in southern Virginia during the 1950s and saw racism and segregation first hand. He sends ebullient emails about Obama and how proud he finally is of our country. "If my father were still alive," he said, "this would have killed him."

I finally feel proud of our country too. My generation has been an amazing witness to history: 9/11, Obama... I can't imagine what comes next. I hope it's more good stuff. Still, I think my father might be beating me: he got all this PLUS seeing a man on the moon. That would have kicked serious ass.

I have had to turn on the heat. I'm tired of being just a little too chilly. It kicks in quickly, and already I feel less prickly. However, it's accompanied by that terrible burning-dust smell. If only we could make the heater smell like flowers, or freshly-baked cookies. Well, I suppose I could make that one happen, though that involves the oven, not the heater.

Lola does not like to be walked in the mornings. I don't know why, just that it's supremely annoying for me. She stops, sits there, scratching her ears and staring at me. I have to yank on her leash sometimes, which I know is bad dog parenting, but she gives me no choice. It is extremely frustrating. Maybe it's too early for her. Tomorrow, I will try walking her around noon to see if she behaves any better. Fortunately, because she is electronic, she will not poop in the house.

I am seeing a new accountant today. I'm a little nervous: financial things stress me out. Not only am I bad at math, I have all sorts of baggage when it comes to money. Maybe I would feel better if the baggage were designer and made from soft leather.

I don't know why more people at the inauguration weren't wearing hats. It was very cold there! William Henry Harrison died as a result of exposure during his inauguration. That should be a lesson! There are many classy pieces of headgear available out there... don't know why people couldn't have found themselves some. At least Aretha was on the ball.

It is cold enough here that I may wear a hat to meet with my accountant. My "hat of hiding" that I used to wear to the office and put on when I was having a bad day is in storage. But I have several nice hats here that I can use. I wore one to my playwrights' group last night, both to keep me warm, and because I was feeling artsy.

I am supposed to work on "taking up more space."

Info-tainment

2009-01-20T09:01:00.004-05:00

I am one of those people who need blinders. Again, I think this goes back to my focus problem. Too much information, and off I go, in any direction. This is why I hate the news.

I don't actually hate the news. Just... I try not to watch it. Because mostly, I feel like they're trying to sell me the Bad News. Really, I don't need to see so much Bad News. So I don't watch the local news, nor the national nightly news programs. And I really never, ever watch CNN. Except for right now (because it's historic) and when I'm at the gym (because I don't have a choice and can't change the TVs and it's always on).

CNN gets me all worked up. Usually, what's on there is not actual "news." It's frothy panic, delivered by some random shellacked lady, or Wolf Blitzer. All that Casey Anthony stuff? CNN. Financial crisis? They'll serve it to you 100 different ways. I worry enough as it is -- I don't need new reasons delivered to me 24 hours a day.

However, I listen to the radio pretty much all day long. Every few hours, Carl Kassel comes on and tells me what's happening. That doesn't seem to bother me. He is soothing. Add in a few hours of Morning Edition, Fresh Air, and All Things Considered, plus On the Media at bedtime (which is... news about news?) and I am probably getting more information than I would if I just looked at CNN all day.

Occasionally, I get annoyed at NPR for being complacently liberal. Often, I get annoyed at all the other channels for being too full of hysteria. When this happens, I read my Google news feed. It is nice to be reminded that there are other sources of information besides the New York Times.

What's my point? I don't know. Sometimes it gets overwhelming. I get all worked up about an issue that I only know a little bit about. I have just enough information to cause a panic. And then I lie awake at night, wheels churning, or I subject poor Cabana Boy to my aimless rants. I guess I could dive in, learn more, and be truly informed. Or I could tune out completely and live in blissful ignorance. Eh, neither solution sounds reasonable. Maybe I could try the most radical of all: stop worrying.

The one source of news I do love, and will always believe in? The Daily Show.

Can we really?

2009-01-19T09:39:00.004-05:00

Today is supposed to be a day of honor and of public service. I have to work. Technically, I don't. I could say, "I'm swapping days this week, so I can take a day of service and support my community." But I didn't get my act together, and am more focused on making sure I get all my hours done so I can be sure to get paid.

I don't think I am hurting financially. I have the same job I had last year. Sure, my insurance premiums just went up. But I'm also not going to be spending thousands of dollars to produce theater, so my expenses should be way lower. Still, I can't get the accountant to call me back, and it doesn't help that all of the news is about our piss-poor economy. I'm starting to think that Steve Inskeep and Renee Montagne are waging their own terror strike on the people by continuing to report such dreadful news.

Last night, at bedtime, though I was exhausted, I couldn't sleep. My football team lost their championship playoff in the 4th quarter, and now two dumb teams are going to the Super Bowl. Also, I was overwhelmed by, again, all of the financial woes happening around me. By the story featured on On the Media about the dark, seedy underbelly of cloud computing. By having to start another work week. By the lull in my creative process. By the fact that we've been sick since Thursday night. To calm me, we played my favorite Storytime (uh, a.k.a. Selected Shorts for those of you not in my household): "Wes Amerigo's Giant Fear." I listened to the entire thing, and eventually calmed down enough to fall asleep by the time David Rakoff came on to read. Before I slept, I noted that I will never be able to tell a story as beautiful as this.

I woke up feeling like I had swallowed a thumb tack during the night, and it was now lodged in the bottom-left part of my throat. I am hoping the two cups of hot coffee will melt that sensation away. All weekend, we did nothing but be sick. We did not exercise, we did not go to the bike store. I did manage to work for an hour, because, as before, I am concerned about meeting my hourly requirement. We did make a delicious cajun-rubbed pork butt and watch many hours of The Discovery Channel.

And now here we are. It's Monday. Everyone is so excited for MLK Day and for tomorrow's inauguration. I'm terrified at how much pressure we've put on this poor man before even giving him the power to lead. Everyone is heralding Change! Hope! I just want to get things done. I've always felt that my biggest shortcoming is my inability to focus, to accomplish things. Or maybe I just think I should be accomplishing more than is reasonable. This isn't even the blog post I meant to write. I had this whole great thing planned about getting a new bike. It could have been TAL-worthy. Instead, you get this. Sorry.

Still, it means I can cross it off my list. It wasn't what I wanted to do, but it was something. Ugh. Is that what progress feels like? It's like being hungry for lasagna, and having to settle for carrot sticks. Ok, I'm going to try to call the accountant again. Hopefully one more thing I can accomplish. Yes, I can.

Skinned

2009-01-09T10:21:00.005-05:00

(This was originally written 7/24/08, on my super-secret blog. I have a point; bear with me)

I have a skinned knee. It feels strange and mildly inappropriate, like wearing a Hannah Montana t-shirt to a bar. I am thoroughly ensconced in adulthood. Skinned knees are the purview of tomboys and soccer teams. They're a badge of pre-pubescence.

And yet, there it is: pink, scabby, and still tender on my left knee. How did I get it? I fell off a bike. Yet another throwback to what should have been a childhood rite of passage. Except I never passed.

My first bike was a red Schwinn. It came from a yard sale. I don't think it's because we were poor. Just that we were thrifty. Why spend scads of money on a first bike for a child? She'll just outgrow it. Better to start her off on something disposable. Besides, my father's bike came from a yard sale too. I was maybe six or seven? I track the time by whether or not she shows up in the memories; she does, so I know it was younger than eight.

The bike had training wheels, which were pretty much my saving grace. Training wheels made it all better. These were the days before helmet laws, and nobody worried about kids cracking their skulls open because it happened all the time -- like when I was rollerskating in my Batman rollerskates (plastic, adjustable, blue) on the curb -- and they were just fine. Did I mention that was an adult supervised activity? So really, a little tumble off a bike is no big deal.

I didn't fare so well when the training wheels came off. It was harder. Still, I endured. I remember one neighborhood bike ride, where a tussle with a curb left the front wheel flat. Then a later trip down the big hill by my house, with a car hot on my heels, freaked me out enough to stop riding. After that, there was nobody to ride with.

It was never a big deal. My friends weren't really the bike-riding type, or maybe they were just kind enough to schedule those outings with their other friends. I was given another bike a few years later -- another yard sale purchase -- but I judged the brakes faulty and refused to use it. I would get around on two legs, not two wheels, thank you very much.

In college, I decided that I would start again. I asked for a bike for Christmas, and got one. I picked it out myself, from Wal-Mart. Moving up in the world! At least it was new, if not actual quality. I tried a few times over break to ride it, with middling results. It didn't exactly sink in. I summoned the bike to my apartment in Queens, where I quickly realized that a 5th floor walk-up was hardly conducive to regular bike rides. So it sat in my kitchen, taking up space (though serving as a handy towel rack) until I dismantled it and stored it in the space behind my fridge.

After that, it was schlepped to the Bronx, where it did see occasional use, the 5-year-old confidently assuring me that he'd teach me to ride it (he himself was in the heady training wheel days of "I can do anything!"). Then up to Rockland County, where it was stored in the attic, then back down to Manhattan, where it sat, again, untouched in my living room, like New Wave scultpure. Finally I gave it to my landlord's wife. "Are you sure you don't want me to pay you for it?" she asked, shocked at this seemingly generous act. "No," I replied. "Please just get it out of my living room."

But I want to be the kind of person who rides a bike. I want to dash across nature trails and amble around sleepy beach towns. I want to save money on gas, and gain extra fitness points. I want this image of myself as a bike rider to come true. So I learn. I wobble and weave, scraping knees and bruising ankles, pausing occasionally to exchange sobs for air (so overwhelmed by the frustration that comes from not being good at something).

I try hard. So hard that I finished drenched in sweat, coated in grime and blood. So hard that my wrists quiver from the exertion of holding on for dear life. When I finish, I want to do nothing else but puke from heat exhaustion. But I manage it. For several staccato moments -- growing to longer and longer expanses by the end of the morning -- I ride. The wind feels good on my face and the air smells sweet.

An open letter to parents of toddlers (current and future)...

2008-11-20T07:57:00.003-05:00

Dear friends,

Many of you have recently experienced the miracle of childbirth. Congratulations! What a wonderful moment that must have been for you! I hope your lives have become richer, fuller, more blessed. Some of you are soon going to experience that magic! I know you are looking forward to it, and I wish you the best.

However, if I may make one tiny request. Please, when your child is between the ages of 18-24 months, do not take your child to the library. Please. I implore you.

Last week, at the library, I was assaulted by the sound of a screaming child. Screaming! The hysterical noises coming out of this child actually began to worry me: was this not just a tantrum cry? Was someone being eviscerated on the library's circulation desk? I did not get up to check, just in case the eviscerator wasn't finished, and the screaming continued for nearly 5 straight minutes. Happily, my ears did not start to bleed.

The next day -- at the same library -- a small, charming family visited the library. The son was about 6. The perfectly-coiffed mother and father were there, along with their darling, blonde ringletted little girl. Who opened her mouth and began to shriek. How could such a pretty thing make such a hideous noise? Fortunately, this time, I was not sitting in the quiet section doing work. I was standing by the entrance, chatting in low voices with a few older ladies. One of them whispers, "People really shouldn't bring babies to a library." Of course she says this as the stylish yuppie mother is walking by. The mother stops to glare at the older lady and says in a prickly tone: "She's two!" and storms out.

Exactly! She's two! She did not drive herself to the library. She did not decide that it would be a great place to spend a morning. You did! You are currently in a position of control in that child's life. While you cannot control what comes out of her mouth, you certainly can control where she does it.

This does not mean stay home! Heaven forbid. I know what it's like to be stuck in a house with a cranky child and no other adult company. But the library? The most recognized architectural representation of silence since the cloister? Please, take the child to the zoo, the aquarium, the playground. Take the child to places with other children. Take the child to the mall, for God's sake. But have some sense!

I don't say this from a position of some frigid, inexperienced old shrew. I raised a child through his seventh year. When he was small and we wanted to go out to eat, we didn't go to Lutece. We didn't go to a place with tableclothes or fancy napkins. We went to Friendly's. An establishment with plastic servingware and a dedicated children's menu. We knew not to take a child to a place where a child's needs are not going to be met. And he fit in well there with all the other screaming kids.

So, my dearest friends, please offer me this courtesy. Wait until your child is old enough to read before you take him or her to the library! And if you truly can't resist exposing him to the joys of books before he's ready, then take him to that fake version of the library full of cellphones, coffee, loitering teens, and free bathrooms: Barnes and Noble. I guarantee that I will not be there trying to work.

I thank you with all my heart.

Love,

Miranda

P.S. This does not mean that you should take the child to the movies. If you do that, I will personally hunt you down and slap you silly.

Half or 3/4?

2008-11-18T09:06:00.003-05:00

I love Whole Foods. Where else can I get prepared food that's actually made out of vegetables? And then arrange them as I desire? For example, last week, I layered organic baby spinach, carrot ginger salad, gingered beets, and lime-marinated tofu in a small brown cardboard box. It was delightful! Finally a meal I could eat without worrying what was in it, how much fat, how many calories, what kinds of processing, etc. I could have actual iced tea that was just tea, chilled. No corn syrups, funny coloring, or fake flavoring. Not that I'm a crazy health nut, but my body really does prefer being treated well.

The problem is that I also sort of hate Whole Foods. Does it really need to be so frickin' expensive? Do they understand that just because their lasagna is made with organic cheese that it's still something likely to cause a coronary? Do they really think we're all a bunch of yoga-studying, liberal hipsters? In fact, here in South Florida, Whole Foods is one of the only places you'll see urban-style "hipsters." So actually, there's sort of a comfort in that. Also, I can buy mint-herb body wash (a la Aveda's ridiculously costly Rosemary Mint line) for about $3. Oh, right, we're talking about why I hate Whole Foods. It's so easy to blur the line.

Whole Foods in NYC was my kitchen and fully-stocked pantry. I didn't cook; I'd just stop at Whole Foods on my way home. In the mornings, they offered breakfast. At lunch time, they were a destination for me and my weary co-workers. And for dinner, well, no matter what neighborhood I was in, there was always one nearby. My ex-boyfriend lived around the corner from one, and refused to set foot inside it, preferring instead the cheap, scary steaks from the regular grocery store. I took my mother there once, and she nearly went ballistic over the complicated queuing system. But they had so many good things, plus my $8 dates. Again, the love/hate gets stirred together (like the Emergen-C I could get in a big box for $11... way cheaper than anywhere else).

The Whole Foods(es) of Chicago were adequate. The Gold Coast store was actually kind of small and crappy, given the neighborhood. In general, I preferred the one closest to my apartment, though simply because of geography. They did have organic sesame sticks and plenty of fresh fruit. But their prepared food selection sucked. All of the stores had pitiful prepared food sections. The salad bars were weak, and mostly their entrees were cleaned-up versions of traditional heavy midwestern fare: casseroles, cheesy pastas, and pot roasts. There was no hot Indian bar, so I had to content myself with vegetarian sushi wrapped in brown rice, which was pretty ok. Chicago was clearly a city where people cooked for themselves. And with winter being what it was, why wouldn't you?

The Whole Foods here is in Boca. Last week, it contained an odd mixture of senior citizens, yuppie business workers on their lunch breaks, polished housewives straight out of a Talbots catalog, college students just rolling out of bed, and some random beach-bound girls in designer sunglasses. I guess that's what bothers me the most... that this food should only be for the elite. That Gucci handbags and men in clothes so clearly expensive that they look like girls would be the norm. Why did my tiny cube of tofu and gingered vegetables need to cost $8?

Why can't everyone have access to food that is good for them? I love an Egg McMuffin as much as the next person, but I eat them because they're a special treat (great for hangovers), not because it's all I can get. It doesn't seem right, and if Whole Foods were actually so concerned about the planet, maybe they would want to do something to ensure that ALL of its inhabitants had access to quality produce and hormone-free dairy.

Solar

2008-11-13T16:16:00.004-05:00

The thing I love about Florida is the constant warmth. We turn the A/C down at night, to a brisk 70 degrees, and also use the ceiling fan. This keeps us from suffocating in each other's body heat. When I wake up in the morning, I'm usually freezing, and it's always so delightful to open the blinds, let in the sun, and patter out to the screen porch to drink my coffee.

I like being warm. I don't actually mind being hot. Sometimes, I do, yes. I'm not weird. Being sweaty and humid is sometimes no fun. But if I had to choose between being slightly too warm and slightly too cold, I would choose warm every time.

My favorite thing is to go outside after being stuck in over-conditioned air for a long time. The way the heat seeps into you and melts out the stiffness. Finally your body is turning back into flesh, after being stone for so long.

Even better than heat is sun! Bright sun! Bad for my eyeballs and fair complexion, but so lovely to be near. I love how the sun pours through the windows and puddles on the floor. My day gets instantly better once I open the blinds and let in the sun. Cloudy days here are terrible. Florida should never be cloudy. Sometimes, when that happens, I make the room very cold and bundle up in sweatshirts and slippers and sit by the lamp, and pretend I'm back in New York in winter.

It's getting dark now, already, and it's only the afternoon. The light is fading and has changed color, no longer brilliant white but pale ecru. It makes me feel sleepy and a little bit sad.

That's why I think I'm solar-powered. I flower under the warmth and heat, and shrivel inside myself when it's dark and cold. The tricky thing is figuring out how to store it all... absorb as much of the goodness as I can, to tide me over on the cloudy days.

Abbondanza

2008-11-11T19:52:00.006-05:00

I regret that I don't speak more languages, or, rather, speak those other languages more fluently. Despite the title (which I simply find to be a lovely word), I barely have any Italian. I know only the basics: who, what, where, when and I'm sorry. I do pretty well with menus, of course, because I'm well-fed, and I don't have much trouble reading it, since the Romance languages do pattern similarly.

My Spanish is rudimentary. Mostly slang, with specific terms thrown in for child-rearing, dogs, and marital discord. I took a semester's worth of Spanish I in a continuing ed class at the New School and kicked ass without question. I don't think I learned more than two or three new words, but it was helpful to understand verbs better. I read at maybe a 5th grade level, and can follow conversations, as long as I know the context. One of my goals is to find a good Spanish class; UM has an intensive 7-day workshop. That might be fun... I could take a week off of work and ride the train down each day. Besides, I will need all the Spanish I can get so we can move to Costa Rica.

French is what I studied in school. Grades 8-12. I was freakishly good at it, and I vaguely recall winning some award at graduation (the last month of my senior year of high school is clouded by a haze of mononucleosis). I missed testing out of a language requirement in college by about 2 points, and was enrolled in French IV as a freshman. I was the youngest person in the class: when the gubernatorial elections rolled around, everyone was asked who they'd voted for. I had to explain to the class that I did not yet have 18 years.

Last week, overcome by insomnia, I lay awake in a number of places throughout the apartment. At around 2am, I was curled in a ball on the sofa, trying to stay warm in the night-time air conditioned chill. Since there was nothing else for my brain to do, it spoke French. My brain and I recited French poetry, sang the alphabet, counted to one hundred, and conjugated verbs. It was soothing, and while it didn't put me to sleep, it did quiet the panic that you feel when you know you should be sleeping but can't.

Languages are fun: they're patterns and codes and memorization. I don't know why I should like them but not math, which is also just patterns and codes and memorization. Maybe because languages mean something. Each word is a representation of an object, action, or idea. -4 x 82 + 6 = just another number, not "flower" or "coffee" or "rainstorm."

Self-Defense

2008-11-09T18:35:00.006-05:00

There's a small scar on the 3rd knuckle of my right hand. It's a little burn scar, left over from the Halloween cooking adventure. It's minor, barely hurt, and will probably heal soon with no lasting marks.

It reminds me of how much I miss training.

Karate made me feel strong. I was powerful -- an actual force. It was something I could do to get out of my head for a while, an hour a week when I lived only in my body. Sensei counted, I reacted. Punch, kick, block, repeat. Plus, it was a hell of a good workout.

I quit long before I realized I was actually injured. Too much drama happening in the dojo, that I somehow found myself in the middle of. When the school formally disbanded, I went to train with my senpai for a while, and it was great. Mostly because I'd stopped looking at him with schoolgirl adoration.

Random side note: when Wikipediing the correct spelling of Senpai, I read that romantic attachments between Senpai (the mentor or "senior student" in our martial arts context) and the "trainees" are common themes in manga and anime.T This is a great relief to me, to learn that our weird relationship was totally normal (although I'd challenge anyone to NOT crush on a hot Puerto Rican guy with a killer body). So if my second novel doesn't work out, I'm going to totally work the manga angle.

And then I left the city, and that was that.

In Chicago, I belonged to a wonderful gym, and went to their Cardio Kickboxing class religiously twice a week. The instructor was this really great, enthusiastic guy: a middle school English teacher who loved movies and pop music and reality TV. Gay, of course, because my gym was in Boystown. But he instructed us in punching and kicking in a moderately accurate way. That is, his side kicks didn't look like he was in a chorus line. It was a fun class, until I stopped being able to do a jumping jack because of the pain.

My physical therapist thought I was insane. "You're here, in physical therapy, for a degenerative disc disorder, and you're going to kickboxing?" But I liked it! It was fun. But it hurt, so I stopped. And then I left Chicago, and that was that.

My current gym offers a similar class. I have never been. I stick with the water aerobics and the yoga: nothing that involves bouncing. But I want so badly to go, just to see. I keep thinking I'll try it once, and make sure I'm well-armed with Aleve and ice packs for after.

There's actually a real dojo down here, run by the people who trained my sensei. But I know there's no way they'll let me just show up and train the way I want to train (no sparring, no jumping, no high impact). Serious martial artists don't really work that way.

Canvassing for Change

2008-11-07T15:08:00.002-05:00

This Presidential race has been a pretty big deal. I've always voted Democrat, and like to think of myself as a "reasonable" liberal. I had always appreciated Obama's intellect and talent throughout the primaries, but wasn't one of those rapt fans that I kept seeing on my Facebook pages. Had my primary vote actually counted, I would have had trouble choosing between him and Hilary. I didn't loathe McCain, but I knew I was unlikely to vote for him, as I didn't support his views on Iraq. And then went and brought in THAT WOMAN, and I knew that no matter what, they could not be permitted to win.

So I sent Obama a little money, and forwarded all those MoveOn petitions to my friends. Then the race was getting closer and closer, and THAT WOMAN was getting more and more horrible. Thus, in order to get out the vote, I signed up to volunteer for the Obama campaign on Election Day.

I was supposed to be at the office at 10am. This caused some consternation: when would I actually vote? The early voting lines were surreal -- 1-2 hours to vote? I've never waited more than ten minutes to vote, ever in my life (and even though I'm not very old, I've voted plenty of times). So, all panicked, I went to the polls at 7:45am, armed with a book and a granola bar, just in case. Even if my wait was 2 hours, I'd still make it to my shift on time. Uh, I waited 10 minutes. When there did end up being a line, I was in front.

So I took myself out for Chicken Breakfast. It was a holiday, after all. Can you imagine anything more exciting than a restaurant run by conservative Christians in a red state on Election Day? The table of chubby men behind me were saying dangerous things about the Jews (not mean things... just... uninformed, fear-based things) so I scarfed down my food and left. I get a strong reaction from people when I tell them I love Chick-Fil-A. They always say "But you know about their company, right?" So what? They make a damn fine chicken sandwich and don't tell me I'm going to Hell when they hand me my change. It's all good. Besides, none of these people would ever turn down falafel from Mahmoun's or corned beef from a kosher deli... what happened to being a liberal-minded liberal?

I had no trouble making it to the local Obama office on time. I did have trouble finding a parking space. It was PACKED! But the energy was palpable. Everyone was there -- white, black, young, old, gay, straight -- and everyone was so happy! One man brought his school-aged son with him. When I walked in, no one knew who I was, and couldn't find the list with my name on it. A hyper man in a baseball cap walked by: "Come with me!" I followed. He tossed me a button (Florida Pride for Obama! I wore it with, well, pride).

I was in the canvass group. Ack! Couldn't I, like, file something? I'm obsessive-compulsive -- you WANT me to file for you. But no. I had to go out in public and knock on the doors of strangers. And I had to take a stranger with me! Actually, she turned out to be a very nice library-media specialist from Delray named Cathy. We were sent to a very pretty development with our list and some door hangers.

Knock on a door. No answer? Leave a door hanger. Mark it on the list. Knock on a door."Hi, we're volunteering with the Obama campaign, and wanted to make sure that PERSON'S NAME FROM LIST is going to vote today." "That person no longer lives here." Knock on a door. "Hi--"

One older gentleman came to the gate. "Yes, my wife and I have already voted, and we did vote for Obama. We're so excited to see this change, and are so hopeful." What a wonderful moment. Canvassing was actually really fun. People were nice. No one screamed at us. We had a nice little morning walk. We got to look inside everyone's front gate and see their fancy lawn furniture and landscaping (my favorite part).

Until we were asked to leave by the development's staff because we were "soliciting." Sigh. We'd been to almost all of the houses on the list.

I didn't stay up to watch the election results roll out that night. When I went to bed, Obama had a slight lead. Florida hadn't reported yet. I was hopeful, but not holding my breath. When I woke up the next morning, I saw a sight so gratifying -- like waking up the morning after a snowstorm! During the night, while I slept, Florida went blue! I take full credit. You're welcome.

Final Halloween Summary

2008-11-01T07:27:00.002-04:00

Maybe it was indeed the tendrils of melancholia slithering in to take hold. Could have been the slap of an unwanted email from an old friend, specially timed to ruin my favorite day. Or maybe I just was overly-ambitious with my planning.

The cooking started ok... the olive tapenade -- a favorite of mine -- was perfection. The new green "swamp bog" dip was strange, but full of healthy green vegetables. The fingers (what some would call "breadsticks") got tough and chewy. Maybe I cooked them too far in advance. Still, they were edible. They weren't ruined.

No, the trouble started with the empanadas. Could be my cookie cutter was too small, or the prepared pie crust too thick. Maybe I should I have made dough from scratch, like Emeril said. One must be wary of shortcuts. They ended up overstuffed, with too many ingredients left over. I tried to make a larger one, but it too bubbled, crusted, and popped.

While taking them out of the oven, I burned myself. Not severely, though it is somewhat of a Halloween tradition to sustain some sort of heat-related injury. Not nearly as severely as the year I dripped hot glue onto my wrist, turning the skin below a sleek white, and leaving a gnarled scar. No, this was just a tiny burn. Still, it hurt like a mo-fo, so I dashed to the sink to run some cold water over it.

The handle to the faucet came off in my hand.

Of course, the water was still running. I did cool the burn for a second. Then I set off in search of pliers... if I could just reach the nub of broken screw, I could avoid flooding our kitchen and draining our reservoir. I managed it. Called the property manager and explained.

"Yeah, everyone's gone home. We'll come Monday."

Which part of "I don't have any water don't you understand?"

"Ok, we'll send someone tomorrow."

I washed a few things in the bathtub, and filled a big bowl with water to use in the kitchen. There are dishes EVERYWHERE (I am an untidy cook).

This is when I started to droop. Flour-stained, sweating, and covered in tiny burns, I began to question all this planning. Our friend in Ocala was having some crazy blowout kegger. Suddenly the solace of instant alcohol-fueled camaraderie sounded great! But it was far too late. I'd committed to this, and spent $100 on food. Had to suck it up and make it work.

At least the pumpkin patch pudding was edible.

So, it was a bust. But I survived, and will take with me this valuable lesson. Halloweens that fall on even numbered years SUCK. Want proof?

2004: I visit the emergency room after having a mind-shattering headache for a solid week

2006: Ajax pisses all over everything

2008: The year of the sink

Last year was awesome. '05 was fun! Huge party! Next year's an odd number, so I'm crossing my fingers.

3:55pm

2008-10-31T15:55:00.002-04:00

Guess it's time to start cooking. I watched The Craft for a little while, and painted my nails. Could be sort of like relaxing. There will be time to do that again soon.

1:49pm

2008-10-31T13:49:00.002-04:00

Back from the gym. Wore the ~~used~~ "vintage" t-shirt my mother sent, figuring it would serve a purpose. I was wrong about the cat hair.

Ate lunch of butternut squash and eggplant over brown rice. See, when the two vegetables are cooked, they become lovely shades of orange and black. The perfect Halloween meal... assuming eggplant doesn't make your tongue swell up.

Going to get dressed and go out now, to run a few errands. It's that melancholy time of day -- it's when most people want to nap -- and it's not helped by the grey clouds rolling in. Still, it will make a holiday honoring the dead feel that much more mournful.

Or maybe it's not melancholy at all; maybe it's just a sugar crash. To repair it, I ate a cupcake. See, I made two dozen cupcakes yesterday -- my favorite cupcakes, the cupcakes of legend -- for Cabana Boy to take to his office. I ate just one, because it got all misshapen, and besides, I had to make sure they tasted okay. But that was it. I drew the line at one. After I packed them up, I had one left over, one lonely cupcake that couldn't fit in with the others. So I packed him up special, all by himself, and promised that I'd save him for today.

When I took him out of the refrigerator, he was moist and chewy, but still rich and dense. The cream cheese filling had stayed cool and fresh, and the chocolate chips inside began to melt the moment they hit my tongue. He was the perfect cupcake.

Ok, off the world now. Oh! We just got canvassed! At least it was by the right team.

12:16pm

2008-10-31T12:16:00.002-04:00

Finished working. The Buffy definitely helped it to go faster (and, full disclosure, I'm also playing the musical episode, because I'm a sucker for musicals and it's on the same disc as Season 6's Halloween episode).

There actually is a recipe in the Pillsbury Halloween book that might be a nice addition to tonight's table. If there's time, I'll try to make it.

Going to the treadmill now. I figure I'd better, since tonight we're having such a huge treat. No, not candy. Silly. Cheese!

9:05am

2008-10-31T09:05:00.003-04:00

Care package arrives from my mother. She'd mentioned a few weeks ago that something was coming. I, being the kicked puppy that I am, went to the mailbox every day to see if it had arrived. I still wanted to believe. When yesterday came, and I'd gotten just the card from my father, I started to doubt. Was she disappointing me again? Lucky for her, there is FedEx.

Contents: Lindt chocolate truffles dressed up as jack o'lanterns; a purple flickering... ghost?... I can't tell for sure; spider lights; a Halloween t-shirt that looks like it will cause my right boob to light up every time I move; a Halloween t-shirt that I KNOW had been hers which was marked with a post-it that said "part of your inheritance" and is fortunately NOT covered in cat hair; a Pillsbury Halloween recipe book; a printed-out chocotini recipe.

It's the thought that counts.

8:41am

2008-10-31T08:41:00.002-04:00

I feel the sugar coursing through my system, not unlike the sensation of taking a muscle relaxant or a powerful painkiller. My heart is pumping it into every vein and capillary. I am scared to drink the rest of my coffee, as then I might have too many stimulants and will be facing a big crash. Still, it will keep me away from the trick-or-treat candy, which I've now opened and poured into the big plastic pumpkin.

Actually, Count Chocula has less sugar per serving than our fancy organic granola. Who knew?

I've pulled the Buffy Halloween episodes and will watch them while I do some work. It's safe and comforting to work to Buffy, since I've seen all of these episodes dozens of times. In fact, it's probably more soothing than the classical music on our public radio station.

Speaking of, NPR has gotten into the spirit this morning by telling us stories about a cop who dresses up as Batman to get drivers to slowdown and a haunted local theater (where I have spent many hours), and featured an interview with Goosebumps writer R.L. Stine. Mentions of John McCain, Sarah Palin, and that ridiculous congresswoman from Minnesota were extremely scary, but seem to be purely coincidental.

8:09am

2008-10-31T08:09:00.000-04:00

I eat my festive Halloween breakfast of Count Chocula. I've never actually had it before, so today marks a pretty big deal. I started the week off with Boo-Berry, which was not as good. Plus, it does, uh, colorful things to your digestion.

It should be noted that I'm still in my pajamas: a "witches brew" t-shirt my mother brought me from Salem, Massachusetts and pj bottoms featuring dancing skeletons. It's long been a dream of mine to visit Salem. Not necessarily on Halloween (cuz that gets a little touristy) but just in general. Plus, how I can I truly rebuke Arthur Miller without seeing The Crucible's setting firsthand?

7:00am

2008-10-31T07:00:00.000-04:00

Gave Cabana Boy his Halloween present. (Just because it's not a high-pressure gift-giving holiday, doesn't mean it doesn't warrant gifts.) Plus, I wanted him to have something spooky to wear later today.

Packed his cargo for him to distribute at his office: chocolate cupcakes, mallocreme pumpkins, and festive goodie bags (sealed with a glittery pumpkin sticker). Each goodie bag contains Dove dark chocolate and 2 spider rings... because girls like jewelry.

Wished my friends a Happy Halloween on Facebook... it involved cartoon farm animals in spooky costumes... love it!

Drank coffee. That's not actually unique to the day... but imagine how scary I'd be without it!

Live Blogging Halloween!

2008-10-31T06:59:00.000-04:00

Halloween is my favorite holiday. It's a celebration of spectacle and mystery, really the perfect holiday for theater folk. It happens in autumn, my favorite season. Plus, it's full of candy and doesn't require insane gift-giving pressure or visits with family. It's pretty near perfect!

In years past, I've gone big. Picked pumpkins and thrown parties. Marched in the Village Halloween Parade and watched my favorite Procession of Ghouls. I've made elaborate costumes for myself and my loved ones, and gone wild decorating and cooking.

I've decided that I would keep track of all of the fun things I do today. I figure it will be a nice record to look back on... plus, it will give me something to beat next year!

S'Wonderfool

2008-10-22T14:22:00.004-04:00

So in keeping with our recent theme of magicians and stage spectacles, I thought I'd write about a recent encounter I had with the Wonderfool. He was performing in a talent show/fundraiser for a local theater, and I was helping out. The Wonderfool is sort a postmodern court jester... he tells jokes, does tricks, and performs dangerous stunts. Did I mention he can eat fire? (Did I mention he ate fire on a stage that held an unfinished, unpainted wooden set? Yes, I was once a certified fire guard and still get sort of twitchy about the idea of open flame and lauan).

The full roster of stunts I saw him perform were as follows:

Tell jokes
Eat fire
Breathe fire
Set his hand aflame, and use it to ignite a big exhalation of fire
Play on a rolla bolla (a wobbly board balanced on a tube)
Use a 6-foot American bullwhip
Use the 6-foot American bullwhip while on the rolla bolla
Make balloon animals
Swallow an unformed balloon animal whole
Pull a hat out a rabbit (Not a real rabbit. That would be gross)

After his show, I pestered him with questions. "Where does the balloon go?" and "Do you pop it as you swallow it? How does it deflate?" and "You have to show me your hands!" There was, indeed, a little blister forming on his pinky finger after his hand/fire trick, proving that it was no illusion. As for the balloon, he confirmed that it was definitely in his belly and he'd be passing it later, but wouldn't divulge the secret to getting it there in the first place.

I am just in awe. Like, I know lots of things. I am chock full of trivia, fun facts, and nuggets of useless information. I am well-educated, well-read and well-travelled. But I cannot breathe fire. Where does a person learn such skills? Why did my education not include this?

I'm not totally hopeless: I can juggle. I can do that trick where I pull off my thumb. In high school, I borrowed the magic book I'd given my father and used it to learn to make a quarter disappear. And yet... how cool would it be to be a circus star?! I am totally drawn in by the glamour and showiness of these stunts, especially since they're usually done wearing sequins and fun hats. To sail on a flying trapeze! To ride an elephant! Even to do a summersault! The smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd. Sigh.

If I'd had a different life path, one where money were no issue, and coordination were my gift, I would totally be a circus star. Well, in addition to wanting to be a marine biologist, a country-western singer, and astronaut and a scientist who raises panda bears.

Bah! (I hate spoilers)

2008-10-21T09:44:00.006-04:00

Well, clearly my retreat last night into mindless television was a mistake. See, I have such fond memories of the original "Secrets of Magic Revealed" television specials. Granted, that was all the way back in the late 199os, when something narrated by a star of The X-Files was actually relevant. I used to watch them in the middle of winter, curled up in my chilly apartment way the hell out in Brooklyn.

So I figured that the show's renewal (brought on by the Masked Magician's crazy popularity in Brazil and in Europe) would be like nostalgia. I like magic! And he lets me watch the show because he gets to see the scantily-clad assistants. But I didn't count on the resurgence of "bad-ass" magicians over the last 10 years to throw a wrench in things.

I know that the Masked Magician is no longer calling out the stars of my childhood (like my 6th grade crush on David Copperfield, who I got to see perform live, but wasn't allowed to wait for autograph from) because these men are practically dinosaurs. He's totally busting on people like Criss Angel, who I find unbelievably creepy. I forgot, however, that he'd also hit my very, very favorite of all: David Blaine.

I so have the hots for David Blaine. One could argue that he too has lost his relevance, since he no longer does magic but has turned to ridiculous feats of endurance (yes, I did see him stand on the pole, and I did see him in the bubble, and I can't wait until he decides that Florida will be a great location for his next stunt). But I do have the "Street Magic" DVD (a gift, I swear! A gift, admittedly, I had on my Amazon.com wishlist), and I love it. The guy just has such presence*. And he seemed so authentic. Here was one master of legerdemain that I was willing to believe in!

Until I watched the silly show last night and that stupid Masked Magician revealed a trick that David Blaine used to do that I found fascinating. The short version? A doctored quarter. I felt so betrayed... that David Blaine would resort to fakery and rigged props. I mean, I get it... I know it's all "fake." But... but... I wanted to believe! The illusion, now revealed, feels so cheap and manipulative. Sigh. I should have known better.

* This one time, I was at a theater premiere for a pretty important Off-Broadway theater doing a production starring Edward Norton and Catherine Keener. There were a bunch of celebs in the audience, including Tim Robbins (who really is that tall) and Elijah Wood (who really is that short). As I was standing around with a friend, waiting for the house to open, I find my attention inexplicably drawn away from her and towards a figure walking down the street to the theater. It was, of course, David Blaine and he pulled my focus like an electromagnet. I couldn't look away, and I have no idea what my friend was trying to say to me.

Premier

2008-10-20T20:27:00.001-04:00

So here's this blogging thing again. I feel self-conscious about it, because the first go-round got occasionally awkward. But when you fall off the horse, you just get back on. Otherwise, the horse will step on you. Ouch.

Granted, now that there's this new exciting blog, I don't really know what to say. I got terribly incensed at politics earlier today, what with the whole gay marriage ban wanting to be passed in my fair state. I could get political. Or I could talk about Halloween, my favorite holiday, which is coming up. I haven't been as committed so far this year, but there's still time to catch up. And believe me, I have big plans. Soon I will start NaNoWriMo again. Looking forward to that. Mostly, if I could just write all day and still collect a paycheck, I'd be perfectly content.

But right now, I'm tired. Feel a little woobly -- maybe I've contracted his fever. So I'll watch a little mindless television: in 27 minutes, it's time for "Secrets of Magic Revealed." Such a guilty pleasure. There will be plenty of sunshine tomorrow.