Protected: It’s raining… cats and dogs

This post is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

Password:

Can today be Confession Tuesday?

Or just “Confession Today.” Bleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech.

OK, first off, I made a really awful mistake yesterday that led me to discover some information I wasn’t supposed to, and that information had to do with how someone I’m close to was really upset with me over the summer and I didn’t even know it because I can be CLUELESS. Bah. Humbug. I can’t say anything because if I do, they have every reason to go back to being upset with me. And without saying anything, it’s just going to sit and fester and necrotize. Lovely.

Also, my grandma is really sick and the medical care where she lives is lousy and this bums me out.

Also, hi, I’m semi-unemployed. (I did get an office job, a great relief, while I work on finding something else.)

Also, I have all these ideas for this Hurricane Ike post and I want to put it together but it will take time and it’s been, what, almost two weeks now? So who wants to read my story that sounds like everyone else’s: loud wind, terrifying storm, trees everywhere, no power… well, it sounds like everyone else’s who was really lucky.**

Except it’s not quite like everyone else’s because I think this Sunday we’ll have a family of seven moving in with us. Their home was severely damaged by the hurricane. I don’t know them but my parents say they’re nice. But loud, because five of them are in the 3rd - 9th grade range. And, yeah, I know, it’s a good thing to do, and I really want to want to do it, but honestly? My heart is not in it yet. I hope I come around, because they are coming whether I feel like being a cheerful sharer or not, so share we will, and I ought to make it as pleasant as possible for everyone. (I think—though I could be being too kind to myself—that it’s not so much my physical stuff that I mind sharing as it is the quiet, private parts of my day. I am an introvert among introverts. Yeah. Seven new people in my house, five of them sharing my bathroom. Because they no longer have a home. I know, I’m a jerk to complain.)

On that note, I ought to get to bed… which reminds me, since the kitty is curled up there already, that she’s been sick the last couple days. :( I am not thrilled about this, both because I feel bad for her and because I don’t want another vet bill. Dern pets are expensive.

**The other thing that was a common occurrence over the last two weeks was the gaining of weight. Never have I packed it on so mightily as I did in the last 12 days, freshman year of college included. Ike Fat. We’ve all got it. So I decided to keep track of what I eat each day (not a diet exactly, but it helps keep me mindful), and I didn’t want to do it on paper because I don’t want an awful thing like that lying around my house where someone might *see* it, so I’ve been making private blog entries about it. And I’ve gotten back into my hardcore workouts, which burn upwards of 1200 calories/day. So I eat more. But today I did pretty poorly, even considering the increased metabolism (I’m a tiny bit cranky, if ya can’t tell), and of course today was the day I forgot to check “keep this post private” when I was writing it. So please, if you know about the three tacos, half order of quesadillas, and two pints of ice cream I ate today, tell no one. Our secret, k?

balm of choice

Graham crackers and a cold glass of milk are my balm of choice tonight.  I feel PMSy even though I am not.  I let my feelings get hurt at the drop of a hat today; a co-worker commented that I was “actually wearing make-up” (I wear it every day), my mother gave me some news about unexpected house guests and then she seemed to get mad when the news stressed me out (I think she was at least not nearly as mad as I estimated her to be), and one of the house guests went to bed without saying goodnight.

Now, to be fair, it’s totally possible she forgot.  And here’s the zinger: I did not forget.  (And I don’t even care that much about the tradition of yelling good night to each individual person we have here.)  I remembered, and I sat listening to her holler at every other person in every corner of the house, but not me.  And I could easily have hollered at her, but I kept my silence, holding my breath, hoping to hear my name.

What is wrong with me?

Now I’ve had some graham cracker and milk, and my eyes are very heavy, and life seems a bit better.  I’m going to find a kitty to curl up with and get at least a dozen forty winks.

the upside of failure

Lots of people yelled at me at work today, and then I was excited because I was going to go drive into the city for dinner with a friend, but my car crapped out again (after just spending a full month’s paycheck on it in April), so I came home instead to an email inbox woefully bereft of job offers…

…and also, another “friend” today made fun of someone else we know who is living at home with her parents… (”she has issues,” she said, with a roll of the eyes), and when I replied in a semi-joking, semi-defensive tone with something along the lines of “Hey, come on now… that’s not definitive proof of ‘issues,’” she replied with something like, “Oh, come on… admit it… you have issues.”  And I know (think?) she was joking… but damn.

Then I found this in my feed reader (via kottke), and yea!  J. K. Rowling and I are so the same person!  No, seriously, it encouraged me tremendously.

Failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had already been realised, and I was still alive…

—J.K. Rowling, from her Harvard University 2008 commencement speech

read write poem #6

Back then
nothing I held
felt free. Mama said the
price for everything was often
too much.

The hands
of my father
cost breath; he was a man.
They wrung the washcloths dry of each
last drop.

I learned
free meant floating,
feeling tethered to the
back of my mind, bare cheeks brushing
the clouds,

falling,
but falling up;
arcing, slowing, breathing
where no man could make me bleed
again.

I obsess strangely over all these little things.

I love books.  I love lists.  I love lists about books.  So naturally, I was excited to participate in this meme I found at slynne’s a week or so ago.  And then I feel weird if anyone is impressed (and I’d feel defensive if anyone were condescending about my list, either).  Because, truly, of the few dozen books I bolded, only six were read outside of class.  Mostly I have the educational system to thank for my, um, education. :)

This is only the beginning of how I obsess and worry about books, though.  I worry about the industry.  It is on the brink of death, you know.  I worry about what doesn’t get printed.  I worry about what does. I worry about what I have not yet read, what I have, and what I will.  I want to read good books, but also books I love.  I want to read some that are challenging (but rewarding) and a lot that are simple, good stories.  I don’t want to waste my time on bad books.  There are countless tomes in the world, and, at max, 80-ish years left in my life.  Precious little reading time.

How should I choose what to read?  The question haunts me.  With so little time, I hate to waste much of it researching and deciding ahead of time.  Plus, such research often predisposes me to erroneous prejudgment.  So then I figure I’ll just go with the flow—read what crosses my path, love some, hate some.  But what if I miss something great because I have my head stuck in the sand?

And then there is the agony of reader’s block, which I get every few months.  It is usually most easily resolved with a decent young adult adventure novel.

Oh, my head.

And now, on life, though it doesn’t really fit with the rest of the post: I loved the out-of-town trip—so good to see the college peeps.  It really made me want to move there.  But I did not get the job.  It’s OK, although I have been pretty bummed about it.  It isn’t a job I would love, and although I think I really would have liked working with my direct supervisor, when I interviewed with the head boss, I really felt uneasy.  Not because he was skeezy (is that a word?).  He’s someone I knew the last semester of college, and I have a lot of respect for him, but I felt really weird during the interview.

But I’ve found a new job listing site that seems superior to anything else I’ve come across, so that’s exciting.  Because I need a new job like a fish needs water…  I’m desperate, not just because I don’t make much money and the lack of a cool working environment makes me feel ill when I get home, but because I’m stuck in a major moral quandary.

On that note, I’d best get back to tweaking the resume and emailing it out into the unknown.

OK, here’s the deal:

I desperately need a change in life. I’ve only been at the current job for about seven months, but right now there’s stuff going on and I just need to LEAVE. “Stuff going on” means, 1) I’ve totally fallen for someone I shouldn’t have and I simply can’t stand it anymore and no I’m never expanding upon this statement ever, and 2) apparently our A/C can’t keep up with Texas summer heat, and I certainly can’t stand that. By end of day, it’s often nearly 90 degrees inside our store.

Oh, and also, I have approximately 2.2 friends here in Suburbia-land, 2 of whom are married and rarely available for Fun Time with Single Friend. I haven’t felt up to much fun myself, either. But I’m hoping to get over that.

So, solution: out-of-town job interview on Tuesday. Not at all sure it will work out, but bonus: holiday weekend in one of my favorite cities, with some of my favorite people.

another non-rewrite

Nothing down there but trees

He had believed he was a ghost for a long time
He would introduce himself that way
Hello, I am the ghost of Daniel Johnston

And that day, in particular
He thought he was Casper
He brought one of those comic books
With him on our flight
And there was a picture of Casper on the front
In a parachute
Floating

And Dan decided to bail out
Let’s bail out
Let’s jump out

He grabbed the controls
He took the plane away from me
He’s stronger than me
This son of mine
Has a super-strength

And we were going straight up
And then spinning straight down
Nothing down there but trees
But I’d had training on ditching in trees
I didn’t stall it
I flew it into the trees
Between two big ones

And we walked out of there with our lives
The family came to get us—got me
We put Daniel in the hospital and left him there for five months

He’d had a great time of it that day
It was an adventure, a daily adventure for him
His free-fall to earth

Copacetic? Co-pathetic? So upsetting.

A few days ago, I was talking with one of my co-workers about marriage. Another co-worker is getting married, and this first woman thinks it’s a mistake (she’s too young, she doesn’t know what commitment is, it’s too flippant, they don’t appreciate the sanctity of marriage—the older co-worker doesn’t say these things, exactly, but I think they’re the essence of what she feels about it). I like this older co-worker, in general. She’s one of the easiest people to get along with at work—truth be told, she seems to like me more than anyone else, which makes me like her. (How silly—but natural, I suppose—is that?)

So, she’s going on about how she doesn’t understand why young people are throwing themselves into this misunderstood institution, and I said something about how I agree with her, largely, and that I currently find the idea of committing myself to another person to the extent that marriage requires to be nauseating.

“Oh, marriage isn’t for everyone,” she said. “But I can see you in a copacetic relationship some day.” I gave her a very puzzled look.

“Copacetic is exactly what I don’t want—that’s the burden of it, you know, centering your life around a so-so thing.”

“No, copacetic in the sense of having a companion-relationship arrangement. Non-romantic, non-sexual.”

I kind of shrugged it off at the time and changed the subject, but it’s really been bothering me. Is that how I come off to people? I am afraid it is. I mean, I’ve found people to date—especially recently—but I know that people date for all sorts of wacky reasons… and so maybe I date guys who (on some level) want someone they won’t have to commit to, or maybe they’re just really lonely… or maybe they want something copacetic.

I’ve heard guys talk about this. I have a friend who I think is great—she’s smart, funny, kind, talented, cute, very social… and yet I was up drinking one night with a group of four guys who all know her, and I was getting them to admit to who they like, and they were going through our list of friends. At least one of them admitted to liking almost everyone who came up. But when I asked about her, they all shook their heads.

“Nah,” one of them said, “she’s just not the kind of woman guys ever get crushes on.”

I didn’t push it—I don’t know if it’s because she’s successful, confident, or good at sports—but they were set and of one clear accord: she was not crush-able. Maybe that’s me? Maybe that’s what everyone’s always seen, and it just took this one lady saying it out loud for me to really know it too?

Or maybe she’s just some woman who doesn’t know anything about me but the image I project at work and her words shouldn’t carry so much weight.

I need change like a tree needs CO2

Or something that means “a lot.”

I am working through the book 48 Days to the Work You Love by Dan Miller. I’m hoping for some insight from it, but I know that the real issue is my fear of failure and the hangups I have associated with that. The thought of messing up on something a little turns me into a sobbing mess. Just writing the last two sentences made me start crying, simply because of the terrible fear that the thought of failure brings up in me. Yuck.

One of the most telling questions so far: If nothing in your life changed for 5 years, would you be OK with that? NO. That question alone makes me queasy, because as happy as I’ve been taking a break for a few months (OK, nearly a year), I know I don’t want this life (as in job, living situation) much longer.

So, practically I know that means putting energy into finding something new, but

1. I honestly don’t know what I want to do.
2. When I think of something I have some interest in, and start taking the first steps toward it, everything in me screams, You can’t do this! You’re not smart enough, you’re not good enough, you’re not hard-working enough. You will never make it.
3. I’m not sure yet how to move past that last problem.

I am hoping, of course, that writing about it will help. I’m not writing this out to complain about it—in fact, these are things I would rather not tell anyone. Any time I do mention this issue to a friend, they tend to either get uncomfortable and change the subject, or to argue with me. I can understand both reactions, but they both make me feel even worse. I know there isn’t a lot of logic behind my fear of failure—I haven’t ever failed hugely in a way that can be quantified. But I have a strong sense of failure, and it doesn’t ever go away, and it makes pursuing the things I would like to do difficult.

So, here’s my plan for now: keep writing about it. Keep reading the book. Keep talking to my therapist about it. Keep praying. Start asking God to show me what He might have for me, and hoping that He really will.