It was about 4 years ago. I was working as an e-commerce consultant at a company that was starting to recognize that, well, e-commerce didn't need much in the way of consulting. I was killing time at the job by helping the marketing department (ok, it was one person) edit articles written by strategists to make them readable by normal people. I had also just gotten my first article published in the Upper Kirby Progressive, nominally about wireless technology, but in reality, 2/3 about learning how to deal with baby poop.
In other words, I was in the middle of my career change.
So, in something akin to a last hurrah for the people they would lay off in a few months, the company put on a very decent Holiday party. We had exotic foods, lots of alcohol, and some mystical entertainment consisting of a palm reader with a rune-picking parrot.
Now, if you've read my cosmic aether posting, you realize that I have a non-scientific tendency to believe in some kind of universal connectivity between people, things, dogs, trees, whatever. But, in no way was I prepared to do anything but laugh at the parrot guy reading palms.
Until he got to me.
The first thing he said when he looked at my palm was, "you're psychic." I admit to losing my poker face to an eyeroll over that one, but he amended it to say, "well, however you want to put it, you have more than your share of intuition. You know what people are feeling..." Ok, if he puts it that way, I *do* exist in a world of intuition; I test nearly 100% iNtuitive on the Myers-Briggs (or Keirsey) test, but as far as I'm concerned, what other people call intuition, I call data collection at a microscopic level. I'm just observant about second and third order things.
"...And you're a performer. But you're shy, too. That's sort of strange, but there it is." Hm. If we're going by the Keirsey test again, depending on time of day, time of month, moment-to-moment anxiety, I can test either Introvert or Extrovert. I love being on stage, but I hide in corners at parties and talk only to people I know.
My face was still (as far as I know) emotion-free. I was not ready to be impressed. The last he could have gotten in a breezy anthropological study of my mingling patterns.
But then the guy says, "...and you're a writer. Creative. No... no, technical. You write about technical things."
Ok, that freaked me out. My writing career was barely out of the gate. One article published, and just making a start on the technology writing for my marketing friend. I looked across the guy's shoulder to my friend Diana who was not keeping a poker face, but I don't think Parrot Boy was paying attention. He was way too intent on my LOVE LINE.
That's when it got spooky.
He mumbled a lot when he got to my love line. It was clear he was uncomfortable with what he saw there on my palm (and I *did* wash first, thank you very much.) Finally, he looks up at me somewhat sheepishly, and looks back down at my palm. "One, two, three...." he says, shaking his head helplessly, "I don't know how many times you've been married, but... All I can think of when I see a hand like his is the quote from Katharine Hepburn. You know, 'Sometimes I wonder if men and women really suit each other. Perhaps they should live next door and just visit now and then. '"
I looked at my palm. Sure enough, the love line ended in what looked like the Mississippi delta. With two marriages under my belt, I was doomed. Dooooomed.
(Unless, of course, it's true that you can alter your fate with some quicky palm plastic surgery, like on a recent episode of the fabulously dramatic and gory Nip/Tuck.)
So, I don't know how it all fits in with my cosmic aether theory, or my other tentative beliefs in the non-physical, but so far the guy's been dead on. I'm now a creative writer working in a technical writing job, I'm a performer who's still shy, and my love life is forever varied and murky. But even if I could change my fate with a little love line lift, I think I'd leave it as is. My murky life gives me so much to write about...
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
when i was a boy
I haven't figured out why yet, but watching a 10-year-old spit like a professional makes me smile.
Standing on the mound, face, ball and hand buried in a much loved glove, the brim of a sweaty cap moving back and forth the only indication that this little elf is shaking off his catcher's sign.
"TIME!!"
The catcher trots up to the mound. I can barely make out what the pitcher is saying. "Hey! Don't curl your fingers up like that! I can't read the sign!" I giggle. This is just too cute. Signs? Two pitches? When did they learn how to get even one over the plate?!
They all make me smile. Little accurate miniatures at that perfect scale of cuteness. Big enough so that they throw and hit with the grace of ballplayers and not the awkwardness of children, but not so big that they've stopped looking for four-leaf clovers in right field.
He spits again. I giggle harder and turn to look at the batter. A lefty. Weirdest stance I have EVER seen. Feet spread wide, toes pointed way out - fourth position maybe? - bat held high directly overhead pointing somewhere behind him. One of the moms yells out, "GET YOUR BAT BACK!" The kid points it even more directly behind him like he's about to cleave a log in two. "THAT'S BETTER!" You're kidding me, right?
Watching a 10-year-old pitch like a real pitcher is an even greater pleasure. Full arm extension, arched back, great follow-through, actually throwing strikes… The kid with the weird stance goes down swinging and the small, determined Roger Clemens wannabe walks back to the mound, concentration unaffected by the thrill of the strikeout. I get a little chill.
The next batter's up. He takes his bat and points immodestly to left field, looking strikingly like Babe Ruth. Quickly he pops up to the shortstop. Oh well. Some of them will learn a little humility eventually, but most of them are boys, and from my experience, don't really grow out of being boys until they're… well… never.
What I enjoy most, though, is not the pitcher shaking off the sign, nor even the foot stamping that occasionally follows to emphasize "no I REALLY do not want to throw that pitch". What I enjoy most is watching one player in particular. She is the only girl remaining in this age bracket, and she just makes me beam with some strange, unfounded pride. She's not my kid, she's just a kid who I've watched grow up in the league and who has always impressed me. I think partly she makes me nostalgic.
The next boy steps up to the plate - a very nice boy who picked up a bat and ball for the first time last year. He's still a little afraid of the ball, but shows a modest determination in the field that I admire greatly. He's not trying to be Jeff Bagwell; he just wants to be part of the team. The bench hollers at him, "C'mon! You can do it!" A slow swing barely gets a piece of the ball, but he legs it out and due to a bad throw by the catcher, he makes it to first. Absolutely beaming.
The girl's on deck, and watching her I think of Dar Williams' song, "When I was a Boy". "I was a kid that you would like, just a small boy on her bike…" I know what this is like. I grew up with a brother 8 years my senior. We played hockey in the kitchen with tennis racquets and tennis balls. We'd put on boxing gloves and "go a few rounds" (resulting in at least one bloody nose. His.) We'd hit golf balls and play baseball in the back yard. By the time I was 8, I was insisting on using a hardball, and even a black eye ("…well you told me to keep my eye on the ball!" - yeesh…) didn't break my enthusiasm. Soft balls were sissy. I liked the weight of the hardball, and I could throw. My brother once bragged to my dad "The kid's got an arm!" My response was "nope, I got two of 'em."
She steps up to the plate, chin set, aggressive stance. Just a small boy with her bat. Not a power hitter by any means. She used to be among the best, but the boys are starting to surpass her on what I suspect is an intimidating uphill battle of comparative strength. Right now, though, it doesn't in the least affect her enthusiasm. She's a fast runner and can almost always connect for a grounder, and she doesn't let me down this time either.
I climbed trees, and I had a fort. I didn't have dolls; I had a mitt. The bottom half of our back screen door was my strike zone and my impromptu catcher. I don't recall, but I imagine we went through a lot of screens over the years. Sadly, even though I lived my boyhood right around the time of the Bad News Bears, Tatum O'Neal had not quite made my entrance into Little League a reality. Even now, 25 years later, there's still only one girl in the 10-12 year old division of our league. How disappointing.
The next batter goes down swinging against our spitting, foot-stamping Pitcher of Immense Seriousness, and my little hero hightails it back to the dugout to put her catcher's gear on. The boys may be surpassing her in hitting, but she's got a heck of an arm (probably two of 'em) and one of the sharpest baseball minds on the field. She sometimes plays first, but more often than not she has the managing position of catcher. If I admire the pitchers their miniature wind-ups, I admire ten times more her handle on the game. The minute the ball hits her glove she's up, arm cocked, staring down the runner on second daring him to steal. It's just a beautiful thing.
Well, the game's starting up again and I just want to watch now. It's a good feeling. Relaxing. Amusing. But, I do have to say, I'm a little jealous. Remembering a time when I too was a boy…
(It's one of those weeks. This is recycled from the Upper Kirby Progressive 6/01)
Standing on the mound, face, ball and hand buried in a much loved glove, the brim of a sweaty cap moving back and forth the only indication that this little elf is shaking off his catcher's sign.
"TIME!!"
The catcher trots up to the mound. I can barely make out what the pitcher is saying. "Hey! Don't curl your fingers up like that! I can't read the sign!" I giggle. This is just too cute. Signs? Two pitches? When did they learn how to get even one over the plate?!
They all make me smile. Little accurate miniatures at that perfect scale of cuteness. Big enough so that they throw and hit with the grace of ballplayers and not the awkwardness of children, but not so big that they've stopped looking for four-leaf clovers in right field.
He spits again. I giggle harder and turn to look at the batter. A lefty. Weirdest stance I have EVER seen. Feet spread wide, toes pointed way out - fourth position maybe? - bat held high directly overhead pointing somewhere behind him. One of the moms yells out, "GET YOUR BAT BACK!" The kid points it even more directly behind him like he's about to cleave a log in two. "THAT'S BETTER!" You're kidding me, right?
Watching a 10-year-old pitch like a real pitcher is an even greater pleasure. Full arm extension, arched back, great follow-through, actually throwing strikes… The kid with the weird stance goes down swinging and the small, determined Roger Clemens wannabe walks back to the mound, concentration unaffected by the thrill of the strikeout. I get a little chill.
The next batter's up. He takes his bat and points immodestly to left field, looking strikingly like Babe Ruth. Quickly he pops up to the shortstop. Oh well. Some of them will learn a little humility eventually, but most of them are boys, and from my experience, don't really grow out of being boys until they're… well… never.
What I enjoy most, though, is not the pitcher shaking off the sign, nor even the foot stamping that occasionally follows to emphasize "no I REALLY do not want to throw that pitch". What I enjoy most is watching one player in particular. She is the only girl remaining in this age bracket, and she just makes me beam with some strange, unfounded pride. She's not my kid, she's just a kid who I've watched grow up in the league and who has always impressed me. I think partly she makes me nostalgic.
The next boy steps up to the plate - a very nice boy who picked up a bat and ball for the first time last year. He's still a little afraid of the ball, but shows a modest determination in the field that I admire greatly. He's not trying to be Jeff Bagwell; he just wants to be part of the team. The bench hollers at him, "C'mon! You can do it!" A slow swing barely gets a piece of the ball, but he legs it out and due to a bad throw by the catcher, he makes it to first. Absolutely beaming.
The girl's on deck, and watching her I think of Dar Williams' song, "When I was a Boy". "I was a kid that you would like, just a small boy on her bike…" I know what this is like. I grew up with a brother 8 years my senior. We played hockey in the kitchen with tennis racquets and tennis balls. We'd put on boxing gloves and "go a few rounds" (resulting in at least one bloody nose. His.) We'd hit golf balls and play baseball in the back yard. By the time I was 8, I was insisting on using a hardball, and even a black eye ("…well you told me to keep my eye on the ball!" - yeesh…) didn't break my enthusiasm. Soft balls were sissy. I liked the weight of the hardball, and I could throw. My brother once bragged to my dad "The kid's got an arm!" My response was "nope, I got two of 'em."
She steps up to the plate, chin set, aggressive stance. Just a small boy with her bat. Not a power hitter by any means. She used to be among the best, but the boys are starting to surpass her on what I suspect is an intimidating uphill battle of comparative strength. Right now, though, it doesn't in the least affect her enthusiasm. She's a fast runner and can almost always connect for a grounder, and she doesn't let me down this time either.
I climbed trees, and I had a fort. I didn't have dolls; I had a mitt. The bottom half of our back screen door was my strike zone and my impromptu catcher. I don't recall, but I imagine we went through a lot of screens over the years. Sadly, even though I lived my boyhood right around the time of the Bad News Bears, Tatum O'Neal had not quite made my entrance into Little League a reality. Even now, 25 years later, there's still only one girl in the 10-12 year old division of our league. How disappointing.
The next batter goes down swinging against our spitting, foot-stamping Pitcher of Immense Seriousness, and my little hero hightails it back to the dugout to put her catcher's gear on. The boys may be surpassing her in hitting, but she's got a heck of an arm (probably two of 'em) and one of the sharpest baseball minds on the field. She sometimes plays first, but more often than not she has the managing position of catcher. If I admire the pitchers their miniature wind-ups, I admire ten times more her handle on the game. The minute the ball hits her glove she's up, arm cocked, staring down the runner on second daring him to steal. It's just a beautiful thing.
Well, the game's starting up again and I just want to watch now. It's a good feeling. Relaxing. Amusing. But, I do have to say, I'm a little jealous. Remembering a time when I too was a boy…
(It's one of those weeks. This is recycled from the Upper Kirby Progressive 6/01)
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
remains of the day
My friend and I were talking the other day with my buddy Kirk. It was a brief thing, he came in, found us having coffee, said hi, talked for a few minutes, and left. When he left, he said, "Be good."
Which I thought was parental and weird, but it's Kirk, so anything goes.
It immediately triggered the collection of neurons that store the little ditty, "When she was good she was very, very good, but when she was bad she was better." So, I said it out loud, because I have a limited buffer between brain and mouth (already mentioned in this space) and immediately decided that it would make a great epitaph.
Which, of course, led to the discussion about the disposal of human remains in general: our thoughts about burials, and cremations, epitaphs and final resting places, etc. What we both discovered was that in our medium length lives (hopefully at minimum, mid-life) neither of us had developed an attachment to any single place we'd want to be buried in or have our ashes scattered over.
The pressure was suddenly overwhelming.
I mean, I have a limited amount of time here and I don't travel that much. How likely is it that I'm just going to stumble on the perfect place to scatter my ashes? And, then to come up with the ultimate epitaph that someone would want to make a rubbing of and frame? Or to come up with a disposal method that makes your family and friends think, "That is SO her..."?
I have a serious dramatic side, which is a little odd given that I'm mostly an introvert. I want my death to be just as dramatic as anything else I do. I mean, NOT the manner in which I die. I'm aiming for minimal drama there: no falling space debris, no accidental falling down elevator shafts, no drowning, no suffocating, no burning, no crashing, no knifing, no shooting, etc. Nice quiet stroke in my sleep sounds ideal. But, I want my memorial to be "SO me".
So, I'm going to brainstorm here a little about the disposal of my mortal remains. There are three elements to this process I need to consider. Method of disposal, location of final resting place, and the clever epitaph. I'll take them one at a time:
Method: Ah, the age old question: worms or fire? Tough one. I suppose there are other methods aside from burial and cremation. I can always request to be "buried at sea", but that seems irrational, since I haven't spent an enjoyable moment in the ocean since Jaws. I could also send my remains into space, which makes a little sense because I'm part astronomer. I know there's a company that does this because they're in Houston, and I sent them a resume once. (The company is called Celestis, and their website is currently "under construction", but searching for brought me to this interesting Ash Scattering site and its parent Death Care site, both of which are evidence that there's a web page for everything...) Cryogenics is out because I suspect that if the technology ever existed to thaw people out and, like, y'know, make them *alive* again, I'd probably spend weeks shivering uncomfortably, drinking lots of coffee, and standing hopelessly by the fire. There's the Fargo wood-chipper method, of course, but that's a hair gruesome. The ice floe things sounds both chilly and a little too native for me, but I do like the idea of being set afloat in a burning boat. Very dramatic. Very Viking.
Situation: Unresolved.
Resolution: Dependent on Location.
Location: I have lived by the shore in New Jersey, in upstate New York, in Seattle, WA, and in Houston, TX. Ithaca and Seattle were lovely, but they were only where I went to school(s). I've been running away from New Jersey all my life; it's unlikely I'd want to end up there. Houston... well... It's not that Houston sucks (which... it does...) but I've already decided I don't want to grow old here, so being either underground or scattered about here after I'm dead is definitely not in my plans.
Situation: Unsolved.
Resolution: Travel more. Much much more. Also, move someplace less... I don't know... restless.
Epitaph: This is one of those times that it sucks being a writer. Not that I care what anyone else thinks, I just feel pressured to come up with something quotable, you know? Fresh, new, clever... And, of course, SO me.
Situation: Unresolved.
Resolution: Write an epitaph a week. Heck. I'll blog it...
In any case, hopefully I still have some time on this. I'm not quite done being good.
Or bad.
heh.
Which I thought was parental and weird, but it's Kirk, so anything goes.
It immediately triggered the collection of neurons that store the little ditty, "When she was good she was very, very good, but when she was bad she was better." So, I said it out loud, because I have a limited buffer between brain and mouth (already mentioned in this space) and immediately decided that it would make a great epitaph.
Which, of course, led to the discussion about the disposal of human remains in general: our thoughts about burials, and cremations, epitaphs and final resting places, etc. What we both discovered was that in our medium length lives (hopefully at minimum, mid-life) neither of us had developed an attachment to any single place we'd want to be buried in or have our ashes scattered over.
The pressure was suddenly overwhelming.
I mean, I have a limited amount of time here and I don't travel that much. How likely is it that I'm just going to stumble on the perfect place to scatter my ashes? And, then to come up with the ultimate epitaph that someone would want to make a rubbing of and frame? Or to come up with a disposal method that makes your family and friends think, "That is SO her..."?
I have a serious dramatic side, which is a little odd given that I'm mostly an introvert. I want my death to be just as dramatic as anything else I do. I mean, NOT the manner in which I die. I'm aiming for minimal drama there: no falling space debris, no accidental falling down elevator shafts, no drowning, no suffocating, no burning, no crashing, no knifing, no shooting, etc. Nice quiet stroke in my sleep sounds ideal. But, I want my memorial to be "SO me".
So, I'm going to brainstorm here a little about the disposal of my mortal remains. There are three elements to this process I need to consider. Method of disposal, location of final resting place, and the clever epitaph. I'll take them one at a time:
Method: Ah, the age old question: worms or fire? Tough one. I suppose there are other methods aside from burial and cremation. I can always request to be "buried at sea", but that seems irrational, since I haven't spent an enjoyable moment in the ocean since Jaws. I could also send my remains into space, which makes a little sense because I'm part astronomer. I know there's a company that does this because they're in Houston, and I sent them a resume once. (The company is called Celestis, and their website is currently "under construction", but searching for brought me to this interesting Ash Scattering site and its parent Death Care site, both of which are evidence that there's a web page for everything...) Cryogenics is out because I suspect that if the technology ever existed to thaw people out and, like, y'know, make them *alive* again, I'd probably spend weeks shivering uncomfortably, drinking lots of coffee, and standing hopelessly by the fire. There's the Fargo wood-chipper method, of course, but that's a hair gruesome. The ice floe things sounds both chilly and a little too native for me, but I do like the idea of being set afloat in a burning boat. Very dramatic. Very Viking.
Situation: Unresolved.
Resolution: Dependent on Location.
Location: I have lived by the shore in New Jersey, in upstate New York, in Seattle, WA, and in Houston, TX. Ithaca and Seattle were lovely, but they were only where I went to school(s). I've been running away from New Jersey all my life; it's unlikely I'd want to end up there. Houston... well... It's not that Houston sucks (which... it does...) but I've already decided I don't want to grow old here, so being either underground or scattered about here after I'm dead is definitely not in my plans.
Situation: Unsolved.
Resolution: Travel more. Much much more. Also, move someplace less... I don't know... restless.
Epitaph: This is one of those times that it sucks being a writer. Not that I care what anyone else thinks, I just feel pressured to come up with something quotable, you know? Fresh, new, clever... And, of course, SO me.
Situation: Unresolved.
Resolution: Write an epitaph a week. Heck. I'll blog it...
In any case, hopefully I still have some time on this. I'm not quite done being good.
Or bad.
heh.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
the dog/child paradigm
It's hot in my house. It's a big house, no central a/c, only two working window units, and a couple of strategically placed fans.
The two functioning units are in the kitchen and my bedroom. So, when I come home from a day like yesterday - several hours driving around in ultra-hot Houston with the top down, followed by two hours on stage, under hot lights, wearing snappy looking, but polyester, clothing - I'm not likely to drop my drawers in the breakfast nook just to get a breeze.
So, of course, I head up to my bedroom and arrange myself right between the a/c and the fan and get as naked as possible.
(Note: cold weather is better than hot for one reason: in cold you can always add layers, in hot, there is really only so naked you can get...)
Unfortunately for my dog, this means she gets absolutely minimal attention from me. I pour the food, I pour the water and I run up the stairs, leaving a trail of fashionable, but possibly sweaty, clothing behind me. To Sophie, this is unacceptable.
You see, she's not allowed in my bedroom.
Now, Sophie is a weird little dog. She's pretty smart, she knows what she's not supposed to do, but has difficulty controlling her impulses. (In this way she's much like my son, who is, in fact, a lot like me...) For instance, she knows she's not supposed to jump up on people (partly because she's knee high on all fours, which puts her enthusiastic greetings pretty much at crotch level...) So, when new people come over she does this cute little jump up, sit down, jump up, sit down, jump up, sit down dance. She even has the grace to look embarrassed at her inability to sit for more than a third of a second.
She also knows she's not supposed to get on the couch. But, lately she's become a wuss when it comes to thunderstorms. So, at the first crack of lightning, she comes over to where I'm sitting on the couch and first puts her nose under my wrist and nudges my arm around her neck. The >pat< >pat<
And, she does it like she thinks I don't know that she's getting up on the couch. Like, "I'm not on the couch. I'm on your lap. It's TOTALLY different."
But last night she did something new. She has snuck upstairs during thunderstorms in the middle of the night, but last night there was no thunderstorm. Just a need for company. A need for attention. A need to be reassured by mom that even though I've totally ignored her, I still love her. My son used to yell to me from the bottom of the stairs when I crashed in a nap after work - "Mom? Mom? Mom. Mom? MOM!!! Mom?" "WHAAAAAAT?!?!?" - just to make sure I hadn't snuck out and run away while pretending to get some rest...
Last night Sophie did her impression of a child at bedtime. I was already half asleep when I heard her jingling tags at the bottom of my stairs. She didn't have to go out. She had food. She had water. There was not a cloud in the sky.
>jingle<
>jingle< >jingle<
I ignored it. I fell into a fuzzy sleep.
Three times I heard the jingle in my sleep, half woke up, and fell back to sleep. It finally dawned on me that the jingling wasn't at the bottom of the stairs any longer, and I woke up fully. It was 3am. Sophie was on her way up the stairs. I watched her with my eyes half closed. She got close to the bed, then went into my bathroom and drank out of my toilet.
"MOM! CAN I HAVE A GLASS OF WATER!??!"
She came over to the bed, laid down next to it for a half a second, got up, poked her nose at me, and went back down the stairs.
"MOM!! CAN I HAVE A GOOD NIGHT KISS!!??!"
If that had been all, I would have gone back to sleep and not even remembered it. But she did the whole thing - jingle jingle, up the stairs, slurp slurp, lay down, poke, down the stairs - twice more. It was all I could do to not just laugh out loud at her.
It's still hot out, but today I'm downstairs spending time with my pup: petting her, talking to her, rubbing her with my feet... I'd play catch with her, but she won't get up and is just laying naked in front of the fan.
Lazy dog.
The two functioning units are in the kitchen and my bedroom. So, when I come home from a day like yesterday - several hours driving around in ultra-hot Houston with the top down, followed by two hours on stage, under hot lights, wearing snappy looking, but polyester, clothing - I'm not likely to drop my drawers in the breakfast nook just to get a breeze.
So, of course, I head up to my bedroom and arrange myself right between the a/c and the fan and get as naked as possible.
(Note: cold weather is better than hot for one reason: in cold you can always add layers, in hot, there is really only so naked you can get...)
Unfortunately for my dog, this means she gets absolutely minimal attention from me. I pour the food, I pour the water and I run up the stairs, leaving a trail of fashionable, but possibly sweaty, clothing behind me. To Sophie, this is unacceptable.
You see, she's not allowed in my bedroom.
Now, Sophie is a weird little dog. She's pretty smart, she knows what she's not supposed to do, but has difficulty controlling her impulses. (In this way she's much like my son, who is, in fact, a lot like me...) For instance, she knows she's not supposed to jump up on people (partly because she's knee high on all fours, which puts her enthusiastic greetings pretty much at crotch level...) So, when new people come over she does this cute little jump up, sit down, jump up, sit down, jump up, sit down dance. She even has the grace to look embarrassed at her inability to sit for more than a third of a second.
She also knows she's not supposed to get on the couch. But, lately she's become a wuss when it comes to thunderstorms. So, at the first crack of lightning, she comes over to where I'm sitting on the couch and first puts her nose under my wrist and nudges my arm around her neck. The >pat< >pat<
And, she does it like she thinks I don't know that she's getting up on the couch. Like, "I'm not on the couch. I'm on your lap. It's TOTALLY different."
But last night she did something new. She has snuck upstairs during thunderstorms in the middle of the night, but last night there was no thunderstorm. Just a need for company. A need for attention. A need to be reassured by mom that even though I've totally ignored her, I still love her. My son used to yell to me from the bottom of the stairs when I crashed in a nap after work - "Mom? Mom? Mom. Mom? MOM!!! Mom?" "WHAAAAAAT?!?!?" - just to make sure I hadn't snuck out and run away while pretending to get some rest...
Last night Sophie did her impression of a child at bedtime. I was already half asleep when I heard her jingling tags at the bottom of my stairs. She didn't have to go out. She had food. She had water. There was not a cloud in the sky.
>jingle<
>jingle< >jingle<
I ignored it. I fell into a fuzzy sleep.
Three times I heard the jingle in my sleep, half woke up, and fell back to sleep. It finally dawned on me that the jingling wasn't at the bottom of the stairs any longer, and I woke up fully. It was 3am. Sophie was on her way up the stairs. I watched her with my eyes half closed. She got close to the bed, then went into my bathroom and drank out of my toilet.
"MOM! CAN I HAVE A GLASS OF WATER!??!"
She came over to the bed, laid down next to it for a half a second, got up, poked her nose at me, and went back down the stairs.
"MOM!! CAN I HAVE A GOOD NIGHT KISS!!??!"
If that had been all, I would have gone back to sleep and not even remembered it. But she did the whole thing - jingle jingle, up the stairs, slurp slurp, lay down, poke, down the stairs - twice more. It was all I could do to not just laugh out loud at her.
It's still hot out, but today I'm downstairs spending time with my pup: petting her, talking to her, rubbing her with my feet... I'd play catch with her, but she won't get up and is just laying naked in front of the fan.
Lazy dog.
digger
Is it just me, or does "Digger the Dermatophyte", Lamisil's repugnant mascot, make you vow to chop your toes off if you ever develop nail fungus instead of living for one moment with the infective, pus-colored, and clearly evil creatures inhabiting your nail beds?
barf.
I want to hear from the Lamisil marketing folks here. I want to see the results of focus groups, I want to see the studies... and my god, I want to know what kind of horrific ad campaigns were discarded in favor of the fungal, chewy, snot monster...
ew.
ew ew ew.
EW.
Five bucks says they'll come out with Digger the plush toy.
barf.
I want to hear from the Lamisil marketing folks here. I want to see the results of focus groups, I want to see the studies... and my god, I want to know what kind of horrific ad campaigns were discarded in favor of the fungal, chewy, snot monster...
ew.
ew ew ew.
EW.
Five bucks says they'll come out with Digger the plush toy.
last minute edit
A few days ago, I wrote an entry in this blog, dated it today, and saved it as a draft, just waiting to click the right button and tell the world (my very small version of it) some news, and how I came to the decision that I had.
Most of the entry stands as is, but as usual, at heart I'm more of an editor than a writer. So I edit.
I have been singing with a group called the Lager Rhythms for 10 years. For the past 4 years I have considered leaving at various times for various reasons, but I've always been sucked back in for one more concert or to finish one more CD or because one particular member of the group makes overt, threatening moves when I bring the subject up...
...In the nicest possible way, of course...
We released our 3rd CD in May. Since then, I've driven my son to New Mexico to live with his father for high school, I've had relationship ups and downs, I've put my house on the market, and I've had job anxiety. It's been a busy time, and I was left feeling less than perky.
So, in the last few months I've spent a lot of time trying to get myself out of my little ditch-o'-blues (although, to be honest, the melodrama often gives me more to write about...) and trying to determine what it is that actually makes me happy, and how I can do this elusive thing in such a way that I can answer the question, "Sooo, what do you do for a living?" with "Oh, I do exactly the thing that I love to do most..." (no smart ass comments, thank you...)
I do love singing with my group. We have a blast at rehearsals, they are some of my best friends in Houston. I've been with the group longer than I'd been with both husbands combined. It's been my longest lasting relationship-by-choice ever.
But singing is not my passion. It's fun. I enjoy it. I have actually gotten fairly good at it over the years with the group. I'm now enough of a intuitive alto (i.e. I feel weird unless I'm singing the uncomfortable, but way cool, harmony part) that I no longer sing melody along with the radio, and my instinct is to sing backup for my other musical friends.
But it's still not my passion.
Writing these essays to some imagined audience makes me happy. I love this. I could do this ten hours a day and forget to go pee. I want to be a columnist. I want to be a syndicated columnist, if you must know, but that sounds a little cocky from someone who's currently employed as a techwriter and has a mere blog.
But that's what I want to do.
So, the plan for this entry was to apologize to my friends in the group, and to say goodbye to the Lager Rhythm fans and to thank them for 10 great years. Last night's gig at the Duck was going to be my last. I was going to take all that time freed up from rehearsals working towards getting myself published in an increasingly impressive list of publications. Because... that's what I want to do.
But, plans change. It was a good show. It felt good to be on stage and get to pretend to not be an introvert for a little while. I got a chance to remember that it's not just threat of bodily harm that keeps me in the group. I'm an addict. I get a big high from the performing thing.
Soooooo... I'm rethinking. I'm not going to stay in the group forever. Ten years is a long time to be doing Zombie Jamboree, but I'm not quite ready to leave yet.
I just hope writing and singing is easier than snapping and singing at the same time. 'Cos I suck at that...
Most of the entry stands as is, but as usual, at heart I'm more of an editor than a writer. So I edit.
I have been singing with a group called the Lager Rhythms for 10 years. For the past 4 years I have considered leaving at various times for various reasons, but I've always been sucked back in for one more concert or to finish one more CD or because one particular member of the group makes overt, threatening moves when I bring the subject up...
...In the nicest possible way, of course...
We released our 3rd CD in May. Since then, I've driven my son to New Mexico to live with his father for high school, I've had relationship ups and downs, I've put my house on the market, and I've had job anxiety. It's been a busy time, and I was left feeling less than perky.
So, in the last few months I've spent a lot of time trying to get myself out of my little ditch-o'-blues (although, to be honest, the melodrama often gives me more to write about...) and trying to determine what it is that actually makes me happy, and how I can do this elusive thing in such a way that I can answer the question, "Sooo, what do you do for a living?" with "Oh, I do exactly the thing that I love to do most..." (no smart ass comments, thank you...)
I do love singing with my group. We have a blast at rehearsals, they are some of my best friends in Houston. I've been with the group longer than I'd been with both husbands combined. It's been my longest lasting relationship-by-choice ever.
But singing is not my passion. It's fun. I enjoy it. I have actually gotten fairly good at it over the years with the group. I'm now enough of a intuitive alto (i.e. I feel weird unless I'm singing the uncomfortable, but way cool, harmony part) that I no longer sing melody along with the radio, and my instinct is to sing backup for my other musical friends.
But it's still not my passion.
Writing these essays to some imagined audience makes me happy. I love this. I could do this ten hours a day and forget to go pee. I want to be a columnist. I want to be a syndicated columnist, if you must know, but that sounds a little cocky from someone who's currently employed as a techwriter and has a mere blog.
But that's what I want to do.
So, the plan for this entry was to apologize to my friends in the group, and to say goodbye to the Lager Rhythm fans and to thank them for 10 great years. Last night's gig at the Duck was going to be my last. I was going to take all that time freed up from rehearsals working towards getting myself published in an increasingly impressive list of publications. Because... that's what I want to do.
But, plans change. It was a good show. It felt good to be on stage and get to pretend to not be an introvert for a little while. I got a chance to remember that it's not just threat of bodily harm that keeps me in the group. I'm an addict. I get a big high from the performing thing.
Soooooo... I'm rethinking. I'm not going to stay in the group forever. Ten years is a long time to be doing Zombie Jamboree, but I'm not quite ready to leave yet.
I just hope writing and singing is easier than snapping and singing at the same time. 'Cos I suck at that...
Wednesday, September 15, 2004
reusable pumpkin
My nomination for best product of the year (and for all I know it's been around forever and I just saw it for the first time the other day) is the fake, carvable pumpkin.
It's lightweight. It's not messy. It's imperfectly shaped. Best of all, if you forget it outside until mid-November (uh... not that I do this...) it doesn't turn into a messy glob of greenish/blue pumpkin pulp that you have to scrape off your porch.
I'm getting two.
It's lightweight. It's not messy. It's imperfectly shaped. Best of all, if you forget it outside until mid-November (uh... not that I do this...) it doesn't turn into a messy glob of greenish/blue pumpkin pulp that you have to scrape off your porch.
I'm getting two.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
because
"Why do I have to go to bed?"
"Because you have to get up early for school"
"Why?"
"Because you need to learn new things."
"Why?"
"So you can go to college or become a musician or an artist."
"Why?"
"Because one day you'll need to make a living and support a family."
"Why?"
"Because I won't be able to take care of you forever."
"Why?"
"Because I'll get old and won't be able to work or make money to feed you."
"Why?"
"Because that's how the world goes."
"Oh…"
"But, why do I have to go to bed?"
"Because I'm YOUR MOTHER and I SAID SO!"
I promised myself it would never happen, but it did. It's really quite startling to discover that in spite of your best intentions, there's no getting around the "because I said so" thing. In fact, I believe there is a "Because I said so" gene. It's one of those genes that lie dormant for many years, and only under the extreme stress and pressure of those increasingly atomically-sized "why" questions, combined with the imminent approach of the season finale of ER, does it express itself. It really has nothing to do with self-control. It's genetic. It's primitive. Blue-green algae say it to their offspring when the season finale of blue-green algae ER is about to start. I promise you.
So, I have accepted that "because I said so" is and always has been a perfectly acceptable reason for almost any series of questions my son tosses at me that goes on longer than 2 minutes. I no longer fear retribution from the gods of Complete Explanations, nor do I fear that my son will grow up frustrated and stunted because he does not have the encyclopedic answers to all the known questions in the universe. I have embraced the simplicity of "Because." and I have made it mine.
But, there's another gene that I've never been quite as sure of. It's the "your mother is always right" gene. See, I know I say incredibly stupid things sometimes, and my son, who is unnecessarily bright, is always quick to correct me, and I am thus humbled by the presence of the "always." But I feel certain that there is something to it, and I've therefore been considering staking my claim to at least "usually". The only question that I need to answer before accepting the Maternal Omniscience gene is "can I apply this to my own mother?" Now, in spite of her unusually excellent foresight regarding the men I date, it's been historically very hard for me to accept that my mother is right about anything with any measurably greater accuracy than I am.
That is, until the other day.
I was on the phone with my mom, and while we were in the middle of a riveting discussion about whether or not a friend of her friend should sell the wicker furniture she's stored for 7 years before she moves to Minneapolis, and by the way, can I believe who she met in the grocery store the night before!?, she interrupts to tell me that her handyman just showed up to get a bird out of their chimney. It had apparently rained the previous night, and my parents had heard funny noises in the rec room so dad called the handyman and told them a bird had gotten into the chimney.
Now generally my mother will happily let me sit on the phone and listen as she conducts her daily business. I think it's for a similar reason that both my parents leave the TV sets on all day. They just like the company. So when the guy appears in the kitchen with the bird in tow, my mom does not tell me she'll call me back, she instead just screams. "AAAAH! Get it out of here!""please, just take it outside" right in my ear. I tease her for being a total coward "It's a BIRD mom, not disease-ridden vermin, and most likely, NOT a predator," and she says, "You don't understand, this was HUGE!"
Immediately I am overwhelmed with disbelief and feel an urge to disprove her. "Mom, how big could it be? The stuff about Santa is a myth..."
Ignoring me, she says, "No, really this was the biggest bird I've seen! He was holding it in his arms like a baby!"
I am unimpressed and am thinking 'wingspan' when she says, "What's the biggest bird you can think of?"
I pause. "An ostrich."
Even though it's a perfectly good answer to her question, she gets mad. "Oh, stop."
"A turkey?" I suggest. "They're big... Ok, Mom, how 'bout a duck. Is it as big as a duck?"
"It's BIGGER than a duck."
"It's BIGGER THAN A DUCK!??!? Mom, c'mon."
"Ok, it's *almost* bigger than a duck..."
Ha! Now I'm starting to swell with academic pride. "Mom, it can't be almost bigger than anything. It's either bigger than a duck, or it's not. Think about it. How can it be ALMOST bigger than a duck?"
My mother has no idea what I'm talking about because she's still scared to death of her deadly downy friend and isn't thinking clearly. "I don't know, and I don't care, it's huge and it's black. Like a REALLY big crow."
I'm going back to the size issue again. My mom has a tendency to exaggerate during moments of fear, and I'm really dying to know how big this thing really was. "Mom, could you *carve* it?" This is my breast size vs. wingspan question.
"Oh don't be disgusting." My mom is inflicted with the standard urban dichotomy of Animals and Food. They are in her mind two very distinct things, and please don't make her investigate the possibility that she's occasionally been known to avoid reality.
Meanwhile, the pterodactylish creature is taken outside by what I'm sure is a VERY amused handyman, and my mom and I get back to our very important conversation about how many successful marriages we can name in my generation (none). Eventually we hang up.
About an hour later she calls me back. No hello. Just simply "It was a duck."
I'll be darned. It was almost bigger than a duck.
It may not be "always", and it may not even be "usually", but at the very least, Mothers are occasionally right. Now, does someone want to tell my son that?
This one is recycled from the Upper Kirby Progressive, May 2001
"Because you have to get up early for school"
"Why?"
"Because you need to learn new things."
"Why?"
"So you can go to college or become a musician or an artist."
"Why?"
"Because one day you'll need to make a living and support a family."
"Why?"
"Because I won't be able to take care of you forever."
"Why?"
"Because I'll get old and won't be able to work or make money to feed you."
"Why?"
"Because that's how the world goes."
"Oh…"
"But, why do I have to go to bed?"
"Because I'm YOUR MOTHER and I SAID SO!"
I promised myself it would never happen, but it did. It's really quite startling to discover that in spite of your best intentions, there's no getting around the "because I said so" thing. In fact, I believe there is a "Because I said so" gene. It's one of those genes that lie dormant for many years, and only under the extreme stress and pressure of those increasingly atomically-sized "why" questions, combined with the imminent approach of the season finale of ER, does it express itself. It really has nothing to do with self-control. It's genetic. It's primitive. Blue-green algae say it to their offspring when the season finale of blue-green algae ER is about to start. I promise you.
So, I have accepted that "because I said so" is and always has been a perfectly acceptable reason for almost any series of questions my son tosses at me that goes on longer than 2 minutes. I no longer fear retribution from the gods of Complete Explanations, nor do I fear that my son will grow up frustrated and stunted because he does not have the encyclopedic answers to all the known questions in the universe. I have embraced the simplicity of "Because." and I have made it mine.
But, there's another gene that I've never been quite as sure of. It's the "your mother is always right" gene. See, I know I say incredibly stupid things sometimes, and my son, who is unnecessarily bright, is always quick to correct me, and I am thus humbled by the presence of the "always." But I feel certain that there is something to it, and I've therefore been considering staking my claim to at least "usually". The only question that I need to answer before accepting the Maternal Omniscience gene is "can I apply this to my own mother?" Now, in spite of her unusually excellent foresight regarding the men I date, it's been historically very hard for me to accept that my mother is right about anything with any measurably greater accuracy than I am.
That is, until the other day.
I was on the phone with my mom, and while we were in the middle of a riveting discussion about whether or not a friend of her friend should sell the wicker furniture she's stored for 7 years before she moves to Minneapolis, and by the way, can I believe who she met in the grocery store the night before!?, she interrupts to tell me that her handyman just showed up to get a bird out of their chimney. It had apparently rained the previous night, and my parents had heard funny noises in the rec room so dad called the handyman and told them a bird had gotten into the chimney.
Now generally my mother will happily let me sit on the phone and listen as she conducts her daily business. I think it's for a similar reason that both my parents leave the TV sets on all day. They just like the company. So when the guy appears in the kitchen with the bird in tow, my mom does not tell me she'll call me back, she instead just screams. "AAAAH! Get it out of here!"
Immediately I am overwhelmed with disbelief and feel an urge to disprove her. "Mom, how big could it be? The stuff about Santa is a myth..."
Ignoring me, she says, "No, really this was the biggest bird I've seen! He was holding it in his arms like a baby!"
I am unimpressed and am thinking 'wingspan' when she says, "What's the biggest bird you can think of?"
I pause. "An ostrich."
Even though it's a perfectly good answer to her question, she gets mad. "Oh, stop."
"A turkey?" I suggest. "They're big... Ok, Mom, how 'bout a duck. Is it as big as a duck?"
"It's BIGGER than a duck."
"It's BIGGER THAN A DUCK!??!? Mom, c'mon."
"Ok, it's *almost* bigger than a duck..."
Ha! Now I'm starting to swell with academic pride. "Mom, it can't be almost bigger than anything. It's either bigger than a duck, or it's not. Think about it. How can it be ALMOST bigger than a duck?"
My mother has no idea what I'm talking about because she's still scared to death of her deadly downy friend and isn't thinking clearly. "I don't know, and I don't care, it's huge and it's black. Like a REALLY big crow."
I'm going back to the size issue again. My mom has a tendency to exaggerate during moments of fear, and I'm really dying to know how big this thing really was. "Mom, could you *carve* it?" This is my breast size vs. wingspan question.
"Oh don't be disgusting." My mom is inflicted with the standard urban dichotomy of Animals and Food. They are in her mind two very distinct things, and please don't make her investigate the possibility that she's occasionally been known to avoid reality.
Meanwhile, the pterodactylish creature is taken outside by what I'm sure is a VERY amused handyman, and my mom and I get back to our very important conversation about how many successful marriages we can name in my generation (none). Eventually we hang up.
About an hour later she calls me back. No hello. Just simply "It was a duck."
I'll be darned. It was almost bigger than a duck.
It may not be "always", and it may not even be "usually", but at the very least, Mothers are occasionally right. Now, does someone want to tell my son that?
This one is recycled from the Upper Kirby Progressive, May 2001
Friday, September 10, 2004
democracy vs. capitalism
Why does it seem to me that when the US goes out and tries to spread democracy, what they're really talking about is spreading capitalism? Particularly a capitalism that US corporations (typically owned by cohorts of the administration) can take advantage of.
I mean, hell, we don't even have real democracy in this country. It's not even a representative government when you figure in all the gerrymandering, election fraud, and corporate ownership of politicians. We're trying to spread ourselves alright, but we're really not anything to be proud of at the moment.
I feel like part of a big, yucky virus.
As you can tell, I'm not feeling funny or creative today. I'm annoyed, frustrated, and so appalled that I can't even bring myself to write in my appalled blog. I listened to KPFT (Houston's Pacifica radio station) this afternoon, and they had on someone who was promoting a screening tonight about socialism and communism and the ultimate need for an armed revolution in this country. Not that I think this is anything but extremist rhetoric, but the fact that it's getting talked about from the left means that the time is approaching when the radical right and the radical left stretch so far from the middle that they wrap around and meet, proving without doubt that we live in a closed universe.
It's giving me a headache...
I mean, hell, we don't even have real democracy in this country. It's not even a representative government when you figure in all the gerrymandering, election fraud, and corporate ownership of politicians. We're trying to spread ourselves alright, but we're really not anything to be proud of at the moment.
I feel like part of a big, yucky virus.
As you can tell, I'm not feeling funny or creative today. I'm annoyed, frustrated, and so appalled that I can't even bring myself to write in my appalled blog. I listened to KPFT (Houston's Pacifica radio station) this afternoon, and they had on someone who was promoting a screening tonight about socialism and communism and the ultimate need for an armed revolution in this country. Not that I think this is anything but extremist rhetoric, but the fact that it's getting talked about from the left means that the time is approaching when the radical right and the radical left stretch so far from the middle that they wrap around and meet, proving without doubt that we live in a closed universe.
It's giving me a headache...
Tuesday, September 07, 2004
freedom is choice...
I have CHOSEN to reclaim the side of the couch that was not originally mine. I am somewhat irritated that I hadn't realized that it was more comfortable over here before.
I have also chosen to be addicted to the ongoing CSI marathon running on Spike TV - TV for men. I am not a man. I am breaking the rules. My choice.
I used to think I was breaking the rules when I wore men's watches. Until someone stopped me and asked, "Is it yours? Then it's not a man's watch, is it?"
It is sooo hard to be a rebel...
I have also chosen to be addicted to the ongoing CSI marathon running on Spike TV - TV for men. I am not a man. I am breaking the rules. My choice.
I used to think I was breaking the rules when I wore men's watches. Until someone stopped me and asked, "Is it yours? Then it's not a man's watch, is it?"
It is sooo hard to be a rebel...
freedom
I wrote recently that I've never lived alone in my near 40 years of life. I also wrote that that day would soon be coming.
Well, that day is here.
Today is the first day in my life that I woke up to a house that would not get any fuller in the forseeable future. I woke up to a phone call from my buddy Kirk bugging me for the composite cd that I'd promised him. Ugh. Hate waking up to phone calls. Much prefer to wake up to a warm body, even if that warm body is frustrated and cranky because it's out of work.
My mom once quoted a Yiddish proverb that has stuck with me, but which I can't remember in its exact form which I believe sounded more lyrical. Anyway, it's something like "If you pretend to be asleep, eventually, you'll be asleep." So, I'm thinking that I should pretend to enjoy my freedom so that eventually, I will.
Because right now, all I feel is alone. And it sucks.
I spent a lot of yesterday, including the drive home from seeing the barista off, trying to figure out how to celebrate a freedom that I'm not sure I really want.
(And before I go any further, I want to assure my dear readers that I'm not going to moon about, forever whining about my aloneness. I'm obviously going to get over it in a couple of days, so just shut up while I use my personal melodrama as writing fodder...)
The first celebratory thing I came up with is "TAKE BACK MY SIDE OF THE COUCH!" This was an exciting event, marked by, well, my sitting on the side of the couch I used to sit on. Not exactly what you'd call a great act of civil disobedience, and not exactly satisfying anyway, 'cos I'd found a certain comfort on the other side, but I did it. I pretended to relish it so that eventually I would enjoy the fact that I could sit on WHATEVER FUCKING SIDE OF THE COUCH I WANTED TO. Dammit. (This goes for the bed, too... Now I have the light and can read until whenever I want to... WHOOO HOOO!!! Whatever.)
Then I thought about what it was to REALLY be free. How else could I celebrate the utter lack of responsibility I now had to anyone except my job and my bills? (Yeah, I know, still a lot of responsibility, but really a lot better than before...) And it came to me. Travel. I needed to just up and go somewhere for a weekend. Las Vegas. New Orleans. Seattle. Just on a whim.
Then I realized that, in fact, I was not really free. I have a dog. A dog is still a responsibility, and if I was going to do this freedom thing, I was going to need to rethink the dog-ownership thing. Don't get me wrong. I love my dog. She's a hilarious, weird dog with more personality than you might actually want in a dog. But, aside from requiring daily feeding, drinking, eliminating and exercise (doesn't that simplicity sound inviting?) she also requires a fair amount of attention. She's sort of an affection hound, she doesn't like to be alone, she prefers a monogamous, committed relationship, and... well, she reminds me of me, and that's not helping this "pretend to enjoy the freedom..." thing. So, I'm thinking of trying to find her a new home.
Then there's the extreme celebration idea. I've been wanting a tattoo for years. Nothing outrageous. Just something simple, of my own design, black and ... flesh, someplace not very noticeable. Preferably, someplace invisible completely. Just something *I* know is there, like the little message on the inside of the bracelet that I wear ("It will be alright") that I can think about and be reminded of something I often forget. Just a little symbol of this new freedom that I can always touch and remember that it's mine if I want it, and giving it up is not as minor a decision as I've always treated it.
So, those are the things I've been thinking about lately. Shockingly, everyone has opinions about them (especially the tattoo), but the neat thing about celebrating freedom is that the celebration is really the recognition that these are my decisions. So, if I decide not to get rid of the dog and not to get the tattoo, it will be because *I* chose that path. Not because I'm trying to make anyone else happy.
Oh, yeah, and I asked another friend last night, male, what was so great about living alone, and OF COURSE, he responded, "you get to walk around naked and fart at will..." Whoever thinks that the "men are from mars" thing is a crock, let me just say that there's more right with it than wrong...
Yeesh.
Well, that day is here.
Today is the first day in my life that I woke up to a house that would not get any fuller in the forseeable future. I woke up to a phone call from my buddy Kirk bugging me for the composite cd that I'd promised him. Ugh. Hate waking up to phone calls. Much prefer to wake up to a warm body, even if that warm body is frustrated and cranky because it's out of work.
My mom once quoted a Yiddish proverb that has stuck with me, but which I can't remember in its exact form which I believe sounded more lyrical. Anyway, it's something like "If you pretend to be asleep, eventually, you'll be asleep." So, I'm thinking that I should pretend to enjoy my freedom so that eventually, I will.
Because right now, all I feel is alone. And it sucks.
I spent a lot of yesterday, including the drive home from seeing the barista off, trying to figure out how to celebrate a freedom that I'm not sure I really want.
(And before I go any further, I want to assure my dear readers that I'm not going to moon about, forever whining about my aloneness. I'm obviously going to get over it in a couple of days, so just shut up while I use my personal melodrama as writing fodder...)
The first celebratory thing I came up with is "TAKE BACK MY SIDE OF THE COUCH!" This was an exciting event, marked by, well, my sitting on the side of the couch I used to sit on. Not exactly what you'd call a great act of civil disobedience, and not exactly satisfying anyway, 'cos I'd found a certain comfort on the other side, but I did it. I pretended to relish it so that eventually I would enjoy the fact that I could sit on WHATEVER FUCKING SIDE OF THE COUCH I WANTED TO. Dammit. (This goes for the bed, too... Now I have the light and can read until whenever I want to... WHOOO HOOO!!! Whatever.)
Then I thought about what it was to REALLY be free. How else could I celebrate the utter lack of responsibility I now had to anyone except my job and my bills? (Yeah, I know, still a lot of responsibility, but really a lot better than before...) And it came to me. Travel. I needed to just up and go somewhere for a weekend. Las Vegas. New Orleans. Seattle. Just on a whim.
Then I realized that, in fact, I was not really free. I have a dog. A dog is still a responsibility, and if I was going to do this freedom thing, I was going to need to rethink the dog-ownership thing. Don't get me wrong. I love my dog. She's a hilarious, weird dog with more personality than you might actually want in a dog. But, aside from requiring daily feeding, drinking, eliminating and exercise (doesn't that simplicity sound inviting?) she also requires a fair amount of attention. She's sort of an affection hound, she doesn't like to be alone, she prefers a monogamous, committed relationship, and... well, she reminds me of me, and that's not helping this "pretend to enjoy the freedom..." thing. So, I'm thinking of trying to find her a new home.
Then there's the extreme celebration idea. I've been wanting a tattoo for years. Nothing outrageous. Just something simple, of my own design, black and ... flesh, someplace not very noticeable. Preferably, someplace invisible completely. Just something *I* know is there, like the little message on the inside of the bracelet that I wear ("It will be alright") that I can think about and be reminded of something I often forget. Just a little symbol of this new freedom that I can always touch and remember that it's mine if I want it, and giving it up is not as minor a decision as I've always treated it.
So, those are the things I've been thinking about lately. Shockingly, everyone has opinions about them (especially the tattoo), but the neat thing about celebrating freedom is that the celebration is really the recognition that these are my decisions. So, if I decide not to get rid of the dog and not to get the tattoo, it will be because *I* chose that path. Not because I'm trying to make anyone else happy.
Oh, yeah, and I asked another friend last night, male, what was so great about living alone, and OF COURSE, he responded, "you get to walk around naked and fart at will..." Whoever thinks that the "men are from mars" thing is a crock, let me just say that there's more right with it than wrong...
Yeesh.
magic 8-ball
I'm not sure where in my personal aether-theology that my magic 8-ball fits, but I'm going to have to work it out, because I believe in my magic 8-ball. Deeply.
Not only that, but it gets me jobs. Granted, I've just recently blogged about how some of these jobs I've gotten cause me great deals of anxiety and perhaps aren't the best basis for belief, but it's still gotten me jobs. In different ways.
My two most recent jobs both required me to submit writing samples. The first, HCFH (Horrible Company From Hell), required me to create an ad including copy for a product of my choosing. I looked around my office, eyed the black magic orb, and decided to write an ad for that. They loved it. I was so clever.
The job I'm at now required a sample of my technical writing skills, so I had to write a process for using a product, again of my choosing. So, I recycled my inspiration. The following is what I submitted, and I submit it to you as an explanation of my deep belief in the magic 8-ball...
_______________________
Introduction
The Magic 8-Ball® is a complex piece of decision-making equipment. Using the Magic 8-Ball® takes coordination and intense concentration, while interpreting the results takes experience and manipulative optimism. We will guide you through the learning process step by step, and in no time you will be making executive level decisions effortlessly.
For those not familiar with the design of the Magic 8-Ball®, we introduce its components.
In order to get the best results from the Magic 8-Ball® decision-making tool, you should carefully read and follow the steps below.
1. Grasp the Magic 8-Ball® firmly in your hand with the window facing up, as shown below.
2. In a smooth motion, turn the Magic 8-Ball® upside down. By turning it completely upside down, you position the icosahedron in the maximum depth of the surrounding liquid, allowing the greatest freedom of movement.
Note: Shaking the Magic 8-Ball® is not needed, and in fact is detrimental to maximal performance. Shaking the ball often results in bubbles that obscure the answer.
3. Formulate your query as a “yes” or “no” question.
Example: “Will we make our scheduled release date for our latest piece of software?
4. Speak aloud or think your question to the Magic 8-Ball®. Concentration is very important.
5. Again, in a smooth motion, turn the Magic 8-Ball® right side up so that the window is showing again.
6. Wait until the icosahedron settles, and read your answer.
Interpreting Your Results
While the manipulation of the Magic 8-Ball® takes skill and concentration, interpreting your results takes more experience, and a little creativity.
Results listing
The table below lists the 20 possible results returned by the Magic 8-Ball®. You can see that fully 50% of the answers are positive, while 30% are negative, and 20% are undecided.
Positive
If you’re hoping for a positive response, you can take any undecided response and ask again. Your chance of getting a negative response is only 3 in 10. Additionally, many negative results are open to interpretation. After a “Very doubtful,” for instance, you can follow up with “But could you be wrong?” or, “But it’s possible, right?” Another turn of the Magic 8-Ball® gives you another 70% chance of getting the answer you want.
Note: When you rephrase your question, keep in mind that a positive result is more likely.
Good luck with your new purchase. Enjoy the thrill of positive decision-making.
_______________________
You can see why I believe in it.
Not only that, but it gets me jobs. Granted, I've just recently blogged about how some of these jobs I've gotten cause me great deals of anxiety and perhaps aren't the best basis for belief, but it's still gotten me jobs. In different ways.
My two most recent jobs both required me to submit writing samples. The first, HCFH (Horrible Company From Hell), required me to create an ad including copy for a product of my choosing. I looked around my office, eyed the black magic orb, and decided to write an ad for that. They loved it. I was so clever.
The job I'm at now required a sample of my technical writing skills, so I had to write a process for using a product, again of my choosing. So, I recycled my inspiration. The following is what I submitted, and I submit it to you as an explanation of my deep belief in the magic 8-ball...
_______________________
Introduction
The Magic 8-Ball® is a complex piece of decision-making equipment. Using the Magic 8-Ball® takes coordination and intense concentration, while interpreting the results takes experience and manipulative optimism. We will guide you through the learning process step by step, and in no time you will be making executive level decisions effortlessly.
For those not familiar with the design of the Magic 8-Ball®, we introduce its components.
- Spherical outer shell with representation of the portentous 8-ball from the game of pool
- Internal icosahedron with mystical answers on each of its 20 sides (complete list documented below)
- Blue liquid inside the ball, creating a free-floating environment for outside forces to impose their will on the icosahedron
In order to get the best results from the Magic 8-Ball® decision-making tool, you should carefully read and follow the steps below.
1. Grasp the Magic 8-Ball® firmly in your hand with the window facing up, as shown below.
2. In a smooth motion, turn the Magic 8-Ball® upside down. By turning it completely upside down, you position the icosahedron in the maximum depth of the surrounding liquid, allowing the greatest freedom of movement.
Note: Shaking the Magic 8-Ball® is not needed, and in fact is detrimental to maximal performance. Shaking the ball often results in bubbles that obscure the answer.
3. Formulate your query as a “yes” or “no” question.
Example: “Will we make our scheduled release date for our latest piece of software?
4. Speak aloud or think your question to the Magic 8-Ball®. Concentration is very important.
5. Again, in a smooth motion, turn the Magic 8-Ball® right side up so that the window is showing again.
6. Wait until the icosahedron settles, and read your answer.
Interpreting Your Results
While the manipulation of the Magic 8-Ball® takes skill and concentration, interpreting your results takes more experience, and a little creativity.
Results listing
The table below lists the 20 possible results returned by the Magic 8-Ball®. You can see that fully 50% of the answers are positive, while 30% are negative, and 20% are undecided.
Positive
- Without a doubt
- Yes
- It is decidedly so
- Yes definitely
- As I see it yes
- You may rely on it
- It is certain
- Outlook good
- Signs point to yes
- Most likely
- Very doubtful
- Outlook not so good
- No
- My sources say no
- My reply is no
- Don’t count on it
- Ask again later
- Cannot predict now
- Concentrate and ask again
- Better not tell you now
If you’re hoping for a positive response, you can take any undecided response and ask again. Your chance of getting a negative response is only 3 in 10. Additionally, many negative results are open to interpretation. After a “Very doubtful,” for instance, you can follow up with “But could you be wrong?” or, “But it’s possible, right?” Another turn of the Magic 8-Ball® gives you another 70% chance of getting the answer you want.
Note: When you rephrase your question, keep in mind that a positive result is more likely.
Good luck with your new purchase. Enjoy the thrill of positive decision-making.
_______________________
You can see why I believe in it.
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