Amending The Golden Rule

The other day I found myself defending why I spend so much time on other people, and so little on me. Now, I don't mean the selfish kind of time. I mean time spent exercising, writing, reading, paying bills, or cleaning my apartment. Why do these things always fall victim to the needs of others? The short answer is, "I don't know," but the long-winded Katie Version of an "I Don't Know" is this:

Firstly, this is not a good or healthy thing to be in defense of.

I knew it sounded silly when I was saying it aloud; "I just don't have time for me because of work and everything." I knew it wasn't a good argument - but that it just was one. And, even though the person with whom I was speaking didn't challenge the foolishness of my defense, he did appear to ponder it contemplatively, and for long enough that I then began to dwell on it internally.

I don't take care of myself because I'm too busy working? And, what is this "everything" that stands between me and my well-being? Silly, Katie, tricks are for kids.

Making time for one's self isn't always the easy thing to do. Sometimes, it sounds or feels selfish. Other times, it's just might feel a bit boring and solitary. Add, still, other times, it's not even what one really wants to do. I mean, who pencils in "Pay Bills" and feels pumped to be doing it? Nobody.

But, it's for the greater good. Taking care of one's self is part of growing up, part up moving on, and part of the creative process. In order to find time to work creatively on the things that matter most to me - like my writing - I have to make time. I have to wake up early, go to bed late, or take a moment in the midst of my hectic day to jot down some notes. I have to. Or else, I'll fail to be the writer - or even the person - that I want to be.

The problem is, I'm a people person. I'm a helper. I'm a social butterfly. I would choose drinks with friends who need to chat over time by myself. I would choose dinner with a friend I haven't seen in a while over time by myself. I would accompany a friend to an event if they needed me over time by myself. I would take a walk with my mom, pick up a shift, and run errands with a friend all over making time for myself.

I play the role of helper, assistant, encourager, friend, enabler (good and bad, yes) and support system. And, because I have awesome people in my life, they all provide me with the same. However, there are things and tendencies that only I can inspire within me - like exercise and writing and paying bills - and I have to man up and make it happen.

My mother raised me with the mantra, "Do unto others as you would have others do unto you." However, I think I've reached a place in my life where the Golden Rule requires some modification.

Do unto yourself as you have done for others.

Make time. Make things. Make progress.

(Generic Title Alert) How I Spent My Summer Vacation

Well, here we are, patient readers of Forever Got Shorter; it's the beginning of the end of a hot and humid New England summer, and a perfect time for reflection.

This summer I worked two jobs, went to the beach a total of zero times, and lost two pairs of sunglasses. I went on one (minor) road trip, saw The Flaming Lips twice, and lost my cell phone in a Porta Potty. I sunk almost 1,000 dollars into my 1997 Subaru, bought a new sundress, and have likely ingested an overall total of three bottles of gin. Maybe more.

So, to summerize (ha) in terms of Have's and Have Not's, you could say I'm up by one sundress but down by two pairs of sunglasses, at least one thousand dollars and a cell phone. That doesn't sound so hot. However, on the up side of things, the memories of the in-between parts are sweet like a Hendrick's and tonic with a slice of cucumber floating in it, and that's just delicious.

I worked hard and played harder this summer. I made new friends and went to new places and only got one sunburn. (Hear that, Dr. Dermatologist? Eh? Aren't you proud of my and my pale self?) I wore a flower in my hair every day and settled on a new tattoo design. (Okay, Dr. Dermatologist, I know you're not a fan of my tattoos, and I did promise I wasn't going to get anymore... why don't you go read the part about only one sunburn again. Get happy. Baby steps.)

This moment of reflection is all based upon the fact that it's nearly August. August. Where does the time go? I'm nearly positive that it was just yesterday that I was miserably sweating to death while waitressing during Summerfest New Bedford 2010 which, once again, was ruining my Fourth of July.

Now, no offense intended to the actual Summerfest event, but you must understand that if every year for six years you were asked to work twelve hours a day for three consecutive days, spending the entire time on your feet and serving non-stop the masses of sock-and-sandal-wearing, fannie-pack-toting, tie-dye-covered folk music freaks - er, fans - that flood the streets of Downtown New Bedford every year during the Fourth of July weekend, you'd be a bit bitter, too. Here's a test: Raise your hand if you like fireworks. Raise your hand if you like to go see them on the Fourth of July. Raise your hand if you haven't seen Fourth of July fireworks in six years. Oh, gee, and I'm the only one raising my hand. Hm. Okay. I'm going to the bad place. Deep breaths... Get your zen on, Katie... Okay. Better.

Commence rant.

So, yes, here we are... August. In one month, Reality will shake me awake from this deep, humid slumber and say "Finish your thesis, graduate from school, and get acclimated to the Real World, you silly, silly girl. Oh yeah, and take that flower out of your hair. Nobody will hire you or take you seriously with that thing in there."

The goal is to enjoy August with the intensity of a Death Row Prisoner eating a last meal. Savor some bites and shove others in with a quickness. Memorize the motion of enjoyment. Mix it up, get messy, and don't forget to take some intermittent slow, deep breaths so I don't choke.

It's all going to be gone quickly... the summer, the notion that I'm still young and can enjoy the summer with the voracity with which I intend to... it's all going to fade away and give way to bright autumnal colors, a thesis, a website, and an academic agenda.

Here we go, kids. Buckle up.

Reasons

I'm not so good at "reasons." You know, reasons for doing things or not doing things, having things or not, caring about things or not. I'm a spur-of-the-moment kind of reasoner. Why do I have a blog? Because I one day decided I wanted one. Why am I writing this blog entry? Because I felt moved to do so. Why am I doing what I'm doing in life? Because this is where I have been led. I don't put a lot of stock in reason... because, as far as I'm concerned, you don't make the reason - the reason makes you.

I've never been a staunch believer in a higher power - of something dictating what and when and how things will happen. However, I do believe that everything we do is somehow "supposed" to be done, because it brings us somewhere else, somewhere we wouldn't be if we had made any other choice.

Do you recall the "Choose Your Own Adventure" books? If not, or if you do but not to a sufficient extent, check this out for an introduction/refresher. Anyway... the "Choose Your Own Adventure" life model is how I generally feel about making life decisions. You make one, or another, and one of two - or three or four - reactions is possible. This particular reaction inspires another spontaneous action on your behalf, and so on and so forth. The point being - your actions elicit reactions based solely upon the choices you make. It's not that things are fated, so to speak, it's that your decisions build consequences; sometimes the consequences amaze you, and thus, you have been "fated," and other times the consequences are crippling, and though you may curse the decision initially, you eventually find that the consequence was actually a door - or, a page turn if you want to follow the "Choose Your Own Adventure" metaphor - to the "right" way, or the "right" event,  or the "right" person. It's all... purposely consequential.

This concept is not totally cryptic, and I apologize if it's coming across as so. Mostly, what I'm trying to say is, you don't know where life will lead, but if you make decisions based solely - or, at the very least, mostly - based on your instinct as to what it is that you want, what you truly, truly believe is right, then for the most part things will work out in your favor.

I believe in karma, I believe in the "everything happens for a reason," I just don't believe in reason. If I believed in reason, then that would imply that the reason's outcome would totally be in my control, and it's not. It's not who, or what, or where - it's how. How you handle a situation, how you build a relationship, and how you make yourself the person that you want to be. Reason has nothing to do with that - reason is the secret that you don't know until it's too late. And, I do mean "late" in the good way. Reason catches up with you and you say "Holy shit, it was supposed to happen this way."

We make instinctual choices, and those choices lead to results, resolutions, and retaliations. All of which are the spawn of more instinctual choices. Reason builds a following along the way. Reason is based on the past, on the experience of having reasoned before... and you don't need "a reason," you just need an answer. The question will follow suit, the rest of your life will unfold, and everything - yeah, everything - will eventually become totally and completely clear. You'll know the reason. The reason is the end result. The reason isn't obvious until the credits roll and the popcorn is empty and the house lights come up.

At least, that's the kind of reason I deal with. Inconspicuous, totally secretive, unobtrusive reasons for everything. But, everything does have a reason. So, at least there's that.

Now, as far as the reason for this post? Two cocktails and some quality time with my best friend. That's a good enough reason for me. Just enough to make me contemplate how we're still friends after meeting in seventh grade, how we work together, and how we have the same amazing group of friends we've always had.

Now, I'll fall asleep and wake up in the morning to do laundry and dishes and I'll probably reread this and go, "Ooooh, Katie, you were feeling theoretical last night," and that'll be okay. 'Cause someday, I'll need this reason for reason, and someday it'll all make sense.

Maybe even tomorrow.

Displaced Anger

Working with the public is interesting.

It doesn't matter what your patron/customer/guest does or says, you have to remain calm, you have to pretend it's not bothering you, and you have to smile. Or, at the very least, you have to not yell. Or scream. Or appear angry in any way.

Sometimes... sometimes, this is hard.

So, in those cases, when being nice is just too much trouble because they (patron/customer/guest) are really trying every last frayed nerve you've got, you displace your anger.

It's not an unusual concept - it's the natural order of things. Okay, for example, my dog Kota once heard a gaggle of geese flying over/past the house. He heard honking and commotion and he was pissed. Who knows why. Now, Kota doesn't get pissed very often (except once, at Beck, at Eric's house), and so the time with the geese is especially memorable - he was panting, barking and running around like a lunatic. The point is: He couldn't actually be angry at the geese. They existed unseen, they were just an annoying sound that he couldn't identify or assault into submission, and therefore, Kota displaced his anger and attacked his toy bear. I mean... he really shook the thing, too. Like, ran over, took the bear ("Rupert"), and shook it back and forth repeatedly. Take that, geese!

So, there you go. Displaced anger and inaccurate anger management are just traits that can be associated with one's existence if you are any kind of oxygen-dependant thing wandering the planet. And, tonight was no exception.

I displaced my anger. I had shitty patrons/customers/guests that pissed me off and I displaced my anger. I yelled at my coworkers, I swore at my boss... I acted like I act when I'm being a nasty brat. But, I had to. If it didn't make it's way out to the people who I can hug at the end of the night and apologize to, then it would make it's way out to the people who pay my rent.

This is the curse of the restaurant industry.

I think what makes it harder at the restaurant I work in, is knowing people through the whole "Six Degrees of New Bedford" thing and then knowing - inadvertently - the people who piss "you" off. Maybe you've seen them on Facebook, commenting and "liking" on other people's walls. Maybe you've waited on them 100 times before. Maybe you know where they work, what they do, and who they are more than you'd like to admit. Maybe you've even worked with them before and therefore are increasingly irritated when it appears they have zero understanding as to how things in the "normal" world of waitressing work.

Maybe I'm just pissed that sometimes nobody seems to understand how hard servers work for what little money they make.

Maybe I'm just bitter.

I'm ending this blog post before it gets nasty. It's heading in that direction, I think.

Just a final note:

I do like my job. Sometimes I just wish people knew what it was like to do my job. Tonight, according to my computer report, I served 45 people. Forty-five people got a happy, smiling, efficient as all holy hell server that they tipped out of societal obligation without realizing that I make three dollars an hour, love my job, and rely on these social constructs that encourage people to tip for service.

Do me a favor. Next time you go out to eat, or buy a drink at a bar, or pick up take-out, tip your server or bartender or take-out person as if it were you, and as if it were the thirtieth and rent's due on the first, and as if you really appreciate the fact that they are smiling and helpful and courteous no matter what. No matter what.

Thanks.

Oh, and if they are not courteous and helpful, then fuck it.

That is all.

Nine Innings

I have a thing for the number nine.

My bestie's getting married on 9/9 and I'm just superstitious enough to think that's for the best. My phone number is compiled of numerically consecutive multiples of nine. Often the ninth of any month is the best day.

I could go on and really take you through the crazy, but I'll refrain.

For the purpose of this post, you need only remember the awesomeness of nine innings of baseball.

..........

Have you ever smiled so much, and for so long, that your face literally starts to ache? 

If so, then you are one of the lucky ones. You are one of those people who can stand to exceed the physical limitations of how happy one can possibly bee. (That spelling is not a typo. That spelling is an homage to Eric Marshall.)

Last night, my smile kicked my ass. It was one of those face-hurting nights.

You know, I've been having more and more of those nights lately, and that's pretty awesome. My cheeks are gettin' a sick workout.

(Flash to scene: I'm standing in front of one of those huge gym mirrors dressed in full sweatsuit attire and wearing a sweatband, smiling and unmoving. A really muscular bro walks by and pauses for a moment, studies my determinate stance, then says: "Nice cheeks, dude." He walks away, shaking his head, he is both in awe of my insanely toned cheek muscles and reminding himself to work on his cheek muscles during his cardio tomorrow. This illustrative digression has been brought to you by Katie's Wicked Good Mood.)

So, last night. Smiling. Right...

Last night Nick & I went to the Red Sox game, pretty much on a whim.

On Monday, while driving back from Vermont with my parents, we had a textversation:

Nick: "Do you have plans Wednesday night?"
Katie: "Nope. You?"
N: "I just got tickets to the Red Sox game."
Kt: "And you want to take me?"
N: "I do!"

Immediately following that message I may have squealed and clapped, which alerted my mother - who was driving - that something mayjah was goin' down.

Mom: "What's going on?"
Kt: "Nick got tickets to the Sox game Wednesday!"
M: "Oh! Nice! Is he taking you?"

Now, I'm a nice person, and I do enjoy watching others succeed and have nice things... but I wouldn't exactly be squealing in excitement for Nick's good fortune if he got the Sox tickets and was just letting me know.

Just sayin'.

Anyway, so, we arrive at a rainy Fenway park to attend what I've then realized is my first night game ever. Also, it was the first game at which I did not purchase a single twenty billion dollar Solo cup of beer. Cheers.

As is typical, as soon as I stepped ontoYawkey Way, I felt like a kid and I started smiling like an idiot. Then, I feel the Fenway vibe turning it into one of those goofy grins that I can't really control. Seeing NESN & Tom Caron makes me smile every time. Then, Eck stories made me smile. Oh, and Bill Lee made me smile. And, of course Nick made me smile. Then a Papi HR made me smile...

I was overwhelmed... in the good way.

So, okay, the abbreviated version of our journey at Fenway went something like this:

Stage One: Fenway Franks.
Stage Two: Seats in the bleachers, row 37.
Stage Three: The incarnation of Chris in row 36.
Stage Four: Drying off.
Stage Five: Walking around.
Stage Six: Being ushered into the second row inches from the Twins' dugout to watch the rain disappear and the Sox win.

Go ahead, you can reread the sixth stage.

Got it? Yeah...

Now, I've left out some stuff, because I want to let Nick tell you how that all went down. It's only right... most of the Fenway freakiness was happening to him. I was just a willing participant along for a lucky, lucky ride to a field box at Fenway Park and half piece of baseball card bubble gum.

Oh, yeah, and an awesome cheek workout.

Another Down, One More to Go

I finished my second to last semester of grad school today.

Let me just type that again, this time I'll try a different formula.

I have one semester of grad school left.

One more time. Just 'cause.

In less than nine months, I'll have a master's degree.

This morning, I hit "send" on my final assignment email, the one with three attached files, at approximately ten o'clock. I was in the dining room of a Comfort Inn in St. Johnsbury, Vermont, and had just finished an airy, buttery piece of coffee cake courtesy of the continental breakfast. My headphones were playing Yeasayer, and near me a large fat man with a limp - who was wearing flannel and too much cologne - was thoroughly enjoying his oatmeal. He was eating alone and it made me pretty sad. I hate to watch people eat alone. Next to his table was a family of Bible Beaters. Well, okay. I don't know that they were Jesus Freaks, but they looked just like the type. They all smiled weirdly and wore collared shirts, even the kids. There's nothin' right about kids wearing collared shirts and khakis on a Monday morning at ten o'clock. And that smile... You know the type. The type of people that are trying to sell you on Jesus. I don't want any Jesus. Jesus isn't in my budget.

Anyway. I hit send.

Some time later that afternoon, while I basked in the sunlight of a mid-May afternoon in the back seat of my parent's car, I realized that, although I was looking forward to tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day, and all the lovely things I planned on doing with people that make me so, so happy, I was looking forward to something else: The end. And as of ten o'clock this morning, the end is closer than ever before. The end of a journey that I started almost two years ago. One that I started because a certain person was cocky enough to push me towards a graduate school application. One that I started despite not being comfortable letting people read what I wrote.

And now look at me. Bloggin'. Bein' published. Readin' what I write aloud at a microphone.

Okay, the published thing and the reading aloud thing only happened once. But, still. That's one more time than I ever thought I would have been capable of at this time two years ago.

So. Pretty cool.

I'm a writer. And I'm going to continue to be a writer.

And I'm going to have readers.

Wow.

I like my life.

A Long, Long Time... But None At All

Have you ever had a moment where you feel like you've been somewhere forever and never all at the same time? If not, this might sound crazy... so, I'll try and explain. Okay, for example, the physical reminders of a place are present, and constant, and remind you of a thousand other moments in time that have existed in a similar "place," but you yourself are very, very different.

The smell of a thunderstorm in the spring reminds me of late nights in high school. The smell of rain in the morning, when grass and leaves can't shake the dew and the sea is rocky, remind me of boarding the bus for Sea Lab as a kid. The smell of a fire burning reminds me of Vermont in any season. The smell of fireworks reminds me of being a girl in a hooded sweatshirt, waiting for a boy to hold my hand and tell me that the sparklers were as pretty as I thought they were. The smell of cigarettes and bleach reminds me of the smell of laundry when I was sixteen and he was nineteen.

I guess I'm a sensory memory person. Words escape me. Lines leave me. Laughter fades But, the sensory feeling of a particular situation will forever and ever put me right back to that place... whatever the place might be.

The same, of course, can be said for songs. They're like cheap time travel.

I'm in the midst of making a mix "tape." The theme of the CD is "Audiobiographical," which is an ingenious name we came up with, if I can say so - ingeeeenious. I mean, I like puns, and this is one of my new favorites.

What makes this so hard is that everything... every noise... every sound, lyric, instrument that I hear has a place in my memory. So, making a history out of music that made the history is especially difficult.
Because... what doesn't count? And, what doesn't mean something?

I can remember the car where I first heard The Get Up Kids. I can remember the boy who wrote "One Two Three Four = Love" on label maker plastic tape when I listened to Neutral Milk Hotel. I know the feeling of standing in the Met Cafe and hearing The Promise Ring, someone making fun of Davey's lisp. I can remember driving in a car on the long commute to Worcester State and singing along to The Secret Stars in hushed unison... "Hearts don't break, the division is innate, do you need to brush up on cardiology."I remember the first mix tape ever made for me: "Bad Mix," and I remember the playlist.

I remember.

But, there is a lot that I don't remember.

I don't remember how it was in my house from about 11 until I was almost seventeen.

I don't remember high school after I stopped caring.

I don't remember being me in junior high school; but, my besties disagree - apparently I've been Me for longer than I can remember.

That makes me sad.

But, as I make this mix tape and think each song selection through with the same effort it takes to recreate the actual moment... I remember.

Sort of.

Lucky Girl, Lucky Life

I suck at updating this blog lately. And, of course, I'm updating it now because I'm sitting at my computer trying to finish an assignment for school tomorrow. Therefore, I'm enjoying the distraction of writing for fun because the alternative is writing for a grade. Boo.

Today the weather is chilly and it's raining. It's okay, though. It's the April showers that bring May flowers; it's what fattens tree buds and teases out leaves and flowers and new life from wet bark. Today, I want nothing more than to snuggle up on my couch with another warm body and read a book. Sometimes, I crave words. I know that might sound silly, but it's because I love them. Think of something you love; a person, a food, a movie, or whatever it might be - don't you just need that sometimes? Like, you can't imagine moving forward with another task until you've gotten that fix. That's how I feel today - like I could devour a book, savor every word and every metaphor and every sentence.

If only I wanted to devour school-related assignments. I don't. I've been trying really hard lately to be the person I see myself becoming. I've been making conscious choices about myself and my life; I've been taking risks and learning new things about who I am and what I want and where I'm going. It's all this progression, you see, from point A to point B, and I'm not dragging my feet anymore. The odd trade I made for this behavior is that school is coming last. My efforts to expand beyond my normal range of experience has become what I focus on, not school. I want to see and do, not sit and learn. It's a bad thing. Maybe it's just spring fever. Maybe it's just my last "real" semester of grad school. Maybe it's just the voice in my head; maybe it's louder than everything else.

All I know is that I'm happy. Ridiculously so. I'm in love with my life and the people in it. I am so amazed every day at their loveliness, their honesty, their humor, and their kindness. I think of how blessed I am to have these friends and this family and it makes me so incredibly happy and grateful... and I feel lucky. I really do. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

It's chilly out, but I'm a lucky girl. I just wanna hug everyone. Squeeze 'em. Love 'em to bits and pieces. 

Oh, and just for the hellofit here's some Magnetic Poetry I wrote:

I mostly don't stop.

Like club music.

Nirvana: It's About Time

I'm a sentimental gal. Kind of like Zooey Deschanel. I save things like cards and notes and lucky pennies and seashells and... well, you get the idea.

I don't hoard, please don't be mistaken. I just save things that hold memories. Maybe this is because my memory is shit. So, saving the physical reminders of things that have happened helps me to remember the event. Or the person. Or the feeling.

Recently, my sentimentality became overwhelmingly evident because I moved. For me, moving means I have to unpack boxes I've not opened in a while just so I can repack them, eliminating what I don't want and saving what I do want. Or, I just move the box I haven't opened in a while, and then when I get to my destination, I then have to unpack the box and save/eliminate.

Point being - I went through a lot of sentimental boxes.

One in particular held a bottle of water. It's label is purple, and the water is called "Nirvana," and the line for the product is "It's About Time."

Now, I guess that it is about time for some Nirvana.Or nirvana. Or Kurt Cobain.

Anyway. This is just a minor digression - the name is funny in and of itself, but the story behind the water is why when I found that bottle in the box of sentimental stuff, it made the cut to the new apartment.

Last January, I traveled to Pennsylvania on an Amtrak train; I left from Providence and arrived at Penn Station, where I had to switch trains. Now, I am not the savviest of travelers when I'm by myself, and I get pretty nervous when I'm in New York solo. I love New York, but I'm no New Yorker.

So, when I stepped off that Amtrak train that January morning, I made a beeline for the first set of train schedule monitors that I could find - which were on a platform in front of a giant underground tunnel fan blasting hot air like a giant blow-dryer - and I stood there, leaning on my luggage and texting. My train did not leave for 45 minutes, mind you, but I was not about to traverse Penn Station. I was going to stay right there and wait until that monitor told me which platform to go to.

Idiot. 45 minutes!

Anyway, so there I stood, for about five and half seconds, and then, from around the corner, came a man in a long black trench coat with a conductor hat on. (Side note: my iPod just shuffled to Nirvana's "All Apologies." Weird.) As the man approached, I glanced up from the text I was sending - I'm pretty sure said something like, "I'm going to stand in front of these monitors..." and was to my bestie Mary-Beth - and as I glanced up, I made eye contact with Conductor Trench. He smiled. I smiled.That's what people do, right? Well, people maybe, but not New Yorkers. My cover was blown.

"Hello. How are you? What train are you waiting for?" Conductor Trench asked.
"The #43 to Lancaster," I replied.
"That doesn't leave for 45 minutes, why don't you go to the Amtrak lounge?"
"No, that's okay, I'll just wait," says the Idiot On The Platform.
"I'll show you the way," Conductor Trench beckoned.

Now, what happens next I'm not proud of. Like I said... Idiot.

Conductor Trench led me around the corner and into the tiniest elevator I've ever seen; it was just for employees, it was not a public elevator and it barely fit me, my carry-on sized luggage, and Conductor Trench. What I was thinking getting into that elevator, I don't know. (Cue my mother's lecture about following strangers circa 1989; I am age six.)

"This is the only one that goes up," Conductor Trench says, "They change them every day." (I still don't know what this means.)

The elevator ride was brief - only one floor - and when the doors opened, I breathed a sigh of relief. Conductor Trench then led me to the Amtrak lounge, where I sat down and thanked him.

"Do you need anything else?"
"No, thank you," I said sheepishly. Idiot.

Moments later, when I was engrossed in Chuck Klosterman and safely and comfortably waiting for my train not on a platform in front of a giant blow-dryer, Conductor Trench came back.

"I'm leaving you," he said, "but I wanted to tell you that your train is leaving from platform #9 - which is over there - and I brought you a water."

I think I managed to eke out a "thank you" despite my astonishment.

Penn Fucking Station. New York City. Nirvana water.

I didn't drink it, I just saved it, and will continue to do so, 'cause that's some crazy shit right there. 

Magnetized, Hypnotized

Well, my obsession with Magnetic Poetry continues.

I can't seem to get a glass of orange juice without being drawn in by those little white word blocks. Everything I do in my kitchen takes three times the usual time.

Good thing I don't do much in there besides make coffee and noodles.

This was today's MagPoem result (title added after, like "usual"):

Genre

you and I
play together
like beats on time
we must be
rock music

Mom Mail, Modified

So, today is Wednesday, which means it's Mom Mail.

Though, I think today I'm going to spin the theme of Mom Mail a bit; usually I take an old email from my mom, but I've been going through a lot of paperwork in my unpacking and I found two letters that I'd like to share instead. I'm bending the rules a bit, because neither letter is from my mom, but one of the letters is written to me by my Grammy Ad, and the other is written by me to my Mom.

The theme is still intact - it's mail that involves moms, it's just not electronic, or written by my mother.

So, here's mine first:

(The back of the letter) Mom Open Only!

Dear Mom,

Thank you for making my bed. I really enjoyed making and eating that delicious dinner. I just felt like I shoud cook something. Ya'know likan inspuration. The reason I wanted you to sta in bed is because I thought it might be nice if I could make you som pancakes.

I'm sorry about that big fit I had that afternoon. But the bike ride was fun and the rest of the day was great

Love and xxxx's

Katie N.

The spelling errors are as they exist in the letter, as is the bold - which in the letter is drawn over a number of times. I have no idea how old I was when I wrote this, and I'm really not willing to even speculate. Worth noticing is the fact that I signed it "Katie N." Lest my mother get confused with her other daughter Katie.

Also not dated, this is Grammy Ad's letter. I cried... just a warning. But, she is my Grammy. I don't expect it to be as touching for you.

Dear Katie -

You've only been gone a short while and I miss you already - when you leave in the car I feel like running down the street saying come back, come back - Grammy is so glad you don't live far, far away - I am very lucky -

Grammy wants to thank you very, very much for all the lovely birthday presents - for my money - which I will put in my piggy bank - it was very generous of you to give it to Grammy because little girls don't have very many pennies -

I cooked up the apricots and they are delicious and I will think of Katie when I eat them -

I love my bracelet and will use my note pads right away because I need them very badly - especially that nice eraser - How did you know I would need a good one like that when I do my puzzles in the paper -

I hope your lip is better and that it doesn't hurt anymore -

I meant to show you some spiders I have outside my kitchen window - they are all in little houses that their mother built and someday they will come out and go off and have fun with the other spiders -

Grammy is sending you the cookies you like - I forgot to give them to you -

I had a wonderful birthday party - just about my very best because you and Daddy and Mommy were there - at our cookout!

Have fun in nursery school with all your friends and I will see you again before too long -

Big kisses and hugs to my very very special granddaughter

Grammy

X

Well, that's Grammy Ad. The most amazing person ever.

And, though I never noticed it before typing this - she apparently hates any and all punctuation.

Making Up for Lost Time(s)

So, my plan for SftLO@H failed me last night when I couldn't post.

Now, I "couldn't" post because I was exhausted. And, in all honesty, I started the entry before I fell asleep, with my laptop, in bed, and this - literally - was the post:

I'm so, so tired; and I just realized that i haen' posted yet today. Pheeeeeseeem

Yeah.

I copied that from the "Drafts" of posts that Blogspot automatically keeps for its users.

Yikes, right? Talk about tired!

I tried, for a long time, to imagine how "Pheeeeeseeem" happened - I'm still not sure. I look at the keyboard... it doesn't make sense. Anyway, when I awoke, at three in the morning, my laptop was closed and laying next to me in bed.

I thought nothing of this.

My poor, poor hypothetical boyfriend is someday (maybe) going to have to understand that I sleep with that thing on the regs.

Sorry, Future Hypothetical Boyfriend, (Insert Name Here), and thanks for understanding.

Anyway. The point was this: I was supposed to post from "Songs for the Little Ones at Home," the book my Grammy loved and loved and loved when she was little.

So, I will be doing that tonight.

In addition, I have moved recently, and the magnetic poetry made it out of a box and back to my fridge - where it had been missing for a while. Anyway, if you've ever "unpacked" magnetic poetry - you know how tedious a job it is. But, while one does the unpacking, it's hard not to become a magnetic poet, right?

I was almost late to work today, and almost completely derailed tonight because of magnetic poetry.

So, I'm posting my collection of today's MagPoetry and I'm also posting one from SftLO@H.

Enjoy.

(Oh, and the titles were afterthoughts.)

Me & MagPoetry

At My Restaurant

your stare
is as sweet
as fluff

Sometimes

you play music
and
i recall a sad spring
together
i never have time
to think still
i do

Seagulls

what i love
about a stormy sea
is how most would trip & fall
under it
but we go there
to dream
of places in the sky

Homage

say TV
less
one

SftLO@H

Persevere

Go on, go on, go on, go on,
Go on, go on, go on,
Go on, go on, go on, go on,
Go on, go on, GO ON!

If that isn't the most cuckoo poem you've ever seen, I challenge you to find one.

One of Three Hundred and Seventeen

In the midst of my teen-aged years, at age fourteen, I started a list. It began in my Five Star college-ruled notebook. I wrote it in pencil, and I can recall starting it, and adding to it, from where I sat at the desk in my room on the second floor of my parent's Cape on a busy road in New Bedford.

The desk that I sat at, from age fourteen to age sixteen, was a lame, somewhat rickety, fiberboard construction - what my dad had granted to me in favor of his new giant, regal desk; a desk with a recessed shelf for the computer's monitor - the screen protected by a tinted slab of glass, on each side there was a drawer, one for the printer and the paper, too, and one for files. Upgrade. For both of us. I had no desk prior to his purchase.

So from this hand-me-down fiberboard desk, I looked out onto my driveway and the house next door, and the sunset, and the traffic, and the general you-know-what... and I started to write this list. And I kept writing the list. On, and on, and... on.

The list that I wrote is entitled "Things That Make Me Happy," and it is three hundred and seventeen items long.

Now, I do, on a daily basis, recognize what makes me happy. Everyone and anyone who's had the - ahem - privilege to meet me for a minimum of five and a half seconds knows that that's the case. Regardless, when I found this list, it occurred to me that at one particular point in my life I felt it especially necessary for me to document what made me happy, even at the most basic, rudimentary level. And, reading it... makes me smile wider and wider with each list item.

I laugh. My eyes water - sometimes for good, sometimes for what I've missed or lost, or forgotten. Some sections of the list bring back certain, very specific memories, like the time I was in Nantucket for Kelly's birthday; the time I discovered New York City and taking cabs; the time Karin, Heather and I made up the nickname "King Friday."

Other items make me sigh and think, "Not much has changed in over a decade. Not much at all..." Like, for example, I still love toast, my mom, and the smell of a baby's soft scalp.

But, I digress...

Number one on the list is the topic for tonight; the introductory topic also being the list itself, but the Number One being the primary topic.

#1 Friends

Today, I moved. It was very short notice and it was very rapid. Very short notice. But, necessary. Insisted upon, in fact. So, I'm in the midst of a serious semester, I'm strapped for cash as always, and I have been trying to deal with LiG (life in general) which seems to throw crap things at me more often than not, lately. (Like somewhat severe back injuries on the week that I'm meant to move.)

Anyway. Number One on the list. My friends.

My friends, who spend an entire Sunday lifting heavy things like couches and tables, and the like.

My friends, who waded amidst a year's worth of dust bunnies and carted off furniture and furniture and boxes and boxes... and boxes.

My friends, who did seventeen point turns in fourteen foot U-Hauls in and out of parking lots.

My friends, who had homework, and boyfriend/girlfriend time, and their own LiG bullshit to deal with.

My friends, who had bridal expos and family dinners, and better things to do.

My friends, who had chest colds, and sore muscles and hangovers.

My friends, who do FAFSAs and tax returns.

My friends, who listen and talk and laugh and laugh... and laugh.

My friends, who buy me the most thoughtful and "me" birthday gifts that I want to show off to the world; "Look how awesome my friends are! Look how they know me so, so well. Look at what a lucky, lucky girl I am."

My friends.

I'm so grateful. So, so grateful, that I have these people in my life.

So, so grateful.

This is why, forever and ever amen, they will be Number One on the list. Whatever list. Any list. All lists.

Thank you, Friends.

Thank you. I love you all, always.

Twenty Four Hours

Unlike some people I did not meet the official blog deadline for my theme: Mom Mail Wednesdays. That being said, I'm rationalizing my late post as such - I'm still awake, so therefore it's still Wednesday. Eh? Yeah, I think it counts.

So, the post title is as such because my mom's birthday was yesterday, and mine is today. I didn't spend today like I would have liked to spend today... not even a little bit. But, I did get to see my Mom. And she gave me the most beautiful bouquet of flowers. Flowers that were in my kitchen until I got home tonight, saw that the irises were opening, and decided I wanted to wake up to them tomorrow; so, I brought them in my room.

Irises are my favorite flower. In any and ever color; but, especially the pale bluish/purplish colored ones. They smell like my childhood. And grape Dimeaptapp. So. Yeah... they straight up smell like my childhood.

Anyway. So, twenty four hours. That's all there is between me & Mum. And, originally, 27 years ago, the doctors wanted her to have a C-section on her birthday and she said, "No, I want her to have her own birthday," and put it off. And, I do. I do have my own birthday. But, regardless, there's nobody else I'd rather blow candles out with than my Mum.

Today, she hugged and squeezed me and handed me the vase of flowers and said, "Having you was the best birthday present I ever got." And, then I cried. Which apparently is the new trend. Me & Crying. So hot for spring.

Anyway. I just want to mention how rad my mom is. Again. And how lucky I am to share twenty four hours with her.

So, here you are. Without further ado: Mom Mail.

Date: 9/10/07
Subject: to my wonderful honeybunny

my darling kate, i just found some other old pics i meant to bring out for you and for karen as well, as some are from your eighth grade grad. and prom...anyway, i shall pop them in the mail some other day this week.

and, i sent off the sunday globe job section with the "ideas" section too, for there were some intersting articles in there i thought you might enjoy reading.

i hope you are making it through the day okay.

also, did julie have her baby?

i love you sooooo much and am so proud of the wonderful, smart and loving person you are....

xoxoxox,mom

Words I need to remind myself of every now and then. Wonderful... smart... loving...

Happy Birthday, Mama.

A Memory Montage/Songs for the Little Ones at Home

My Grammy Ad is (was) my favorite person in the whole wide world.

She had a great, big crocheted purse with peanut butter crackers and wintergreen Lifesavers floating in it for tummy emergencies. Her lips were always pink or coral and had the waxy smell of Max Factor lipstick. Her cheeks smelled like the sterility of Cover Girl; the brown compact lurked in her giant bag - at the ready for touch-ups.

She always wore tennis shoes; Keds, to be exact, skirts, and polo shirts - most from Land's End or LL Bean. They were all cotton and machine washable. (She taught my mom how to shop.) When she wore long sleeves, you could count on there being a clean piece of Kleenex waiting up one of them for a tear or a sniffle.

She baked amazing cookies (chocolate chip) and breads (lemon zest) and cakes (German chocolate). She always had watercolors at her house for me to paint with; she'd take the card table out for me. Sometimes I painted on the pages of coloring books, sometimes I painted my nails. She loved both. She kept Cheese Balls in a tin under her kitchen sink, for when we came to visit, knowing it was a treat for us - my mom didn't approve of junk food - along with Veryfine bottles of fruit punch. The glass juice bottles were the old school type: they had Styrofoam labels. I peeled the labels from the bottle in strips while my mom and Grammy Ad talked on the couch.

Her alarm clock was old and you could hear the gears grind as it worked harder and harder to keep the seconds counted. In her bedside table, on which the clock sat, she kept a tin of lemon candies; I would take one after a nap. She grew geraniums in her kitchen, the warmth of incoming sunlight made the leaves smolder and their smell infiltrated the whole avocado-colored kitchen. She found four leaf clovers all the time, pressing them dry in her Fanny Farmer cookbook and then mailing them to my mom for good luck.

When we left for home, she'd always send us home with a paper bag full of her old Time and Life magazines that she'd already read, maybe the occasional Veryfine; we'd beep the horn a special way when we drove away from her little house - beep ba beep beep beeeeep beeeeep. She waved until we couldn't see her anymore; until her white hair was a pinpoint, until her watering blue eyes were far away from mine.

I miss her so much.

I've spent my whole life trying to be closer to her; trying to never forget the way that she more than any other person has permeated every single one of my senses. I've spent my life remembering her so that I'll never, ever forget.

My mom knows I do this. She gives me jewelry, antique buttons, scarves, photos, Grammy Ad's paintings and drawings; she gives me anything that I might find some sentimental value in, anything that might make knowing her in the absence of her a little easier.

Tonight, two days before my birthday, and one day before my mom's birthday, my mom gave me a book, Songs for the Little Ones at Home. It's copyright is 1911, it's binding is split, it's pages are nearly all falling out, and there is a note tucked inside, written in Grammy Ad's cursive: "One of my favorites... My mother read this book to me so much and I looked at it so much that it is almost in shreds..."

When I looked through the book later on in the evening, after we left birthday dinner, I could hardly wait to share. So, I'm going to post one "poem" every Monday here at FGS. Some of the passages them are lyrical and very clearly music - they are complete with sheet music on the corresponding page. Other passages are poetic, and have no musical direction to accompany them. Some are a little preachy... but what can you expect, really? It was 1911.

So, every Monday I'll blog a passage from Songs for the Little Ones at Home. One, maaybe two... depending on the day.

And, every time, I'll think of her. And it will make my heart beat, and I'll touch the hardcover she touched, and turn the pages she turned, and read what she read, and I'll try not to wonder if this was her favorite... or this... or that...

A Song to Bring Sleep

Two little eyes,
Two little lips,
Two little hands,
Two little feet:
What shall we ask for them all?

Two little eyes,
Blue, blue,
Blue as the azure deep of the skies ---
Now so rougish, now wondrous wise,
Solemn and funny, all in a twink,
Changing and changing with every wink:
What shall we ask for these little eyes?

Open them, Lord,
To see in thy Word
Wondrous things;
Light them with love,
And shade them above
With angels' wings

Two little lips,
Red, red,
Red as the flamy coral tips,
Sweet as the rose the wild bee sips,
Singing and prattling all day long,
And kissing and coaxing with witchery strong:
What shall we ask for these little lips?

Two little hands,
Busy, busy,
Busy as bird and busy as bee,
Gathering "funny things" for me.
Weaving webs, and building a house
"Just the size for a wee, wee mouse":
What shall we ask for these little hands?

Two little feet,
Nimble, nimble,
Trot-foot and Light-foot, oh, what a pair;
Now here, now there, now everywhere:
Running of errands, dancing in glee,
Skipping and jumping merrily:
What shall we ask for these little feet?

I picked this one because I'm about to go to sleep. And, because I find it odd that it sounds like a little baby, but it references kissing and coaxing and running errands - which sound, almost 100 years later, a lot more adult than baby. Anyway. First installment of SftLOaH. We'll see how it goes...

Good night.

Anthropologically Correct

Recently, during a conversation with my bestie Eric, he attempted to describe the close friendship between three people I don't know and have never met. Part of how he described the friendship to me was to say that they - the three close friends - had their own language, their own vocabulary.

In the seconds that followed, I did a quick tally in my mind. Yup. My friends and I have our own language. A large, expansive vocabulary of things we've just made up. Sometimes we make up words, and sometimes we attach completely arbitrary meanings to words that already exist. The fact is, if you'd never met the besties and me, and you sat down and listened in on a conversation - you might discover that you have no effing clue what we were talking about.

Learning how we talk, and what we mean when we say the things we say, is part of getting to know us; being briefed on our vocabulary is a good sign - we like you and think you should be able to understand what it is that we're saying.

A long, long time ago while I was a fresh-faced undergraduate, I took a class in cultural anthropology. Now, as is custom for my memory, I remember - vividly - a mere two things from that class. The first is the exact location and appearance of the room in which we met for class. The second is that my professor lived on Nantucket - my school was in Framingham, not at all near Nantucket - and she flew over in a plane every week, stayed in her local apartment, and then flew back to the island from whence she came.

Needless to say, the anthropological value of this trip-taking to the mainland constantly preoccupied me - and, perhaps that's now why I can't remember a single fucking thing about that class except for those two things: The location, and my professor's extensive commute and time spent living amongst the natives (read: mainland college kids).

Do not let my lack of memory take away from the fact that I wholeheartedly enjoyed the class, and was on many occasions struck by a sense of "holy shit the world is so big and so small all at once, and everything is related to long-held cultural standards that we don't even consider anymore."

According to this website, anthropology is "a science of humankind. It studies all facets of society and culture. It studies tools, techniques, traditions, language, beliefs, kinships, values, social institutions, economic mechanisms, cravings for beauty and art, struggles for prestige. It describes the impact of humans on other humans. With the exception of the Physicial Anthropology discipline, Anthropology focuses on human characteristics generated and propogated by humans themselves."

So, let's just break it down really quickly. I'll tell you that the besties and I are all from the same geographical location, we all work in the same business, and we all went to elementary & high school together.

Okay, that being said - let's take it a step further; this website says that a tribe "is, in anthropology, a notional form of human social organization based on a set of smaller groups (known as bands), having temporary or permanent political integration, and defined by traditions of common descent, language, culture, and ideology."

So, basically, we're a tribe.

And, as a tribe of crazies, I think there should be an anthropological investigation that reports on us. I think it would be highly, highly entertaining and amusing.

Anyone with a camera feel like making a hilarious anthropologically-driven documentary about a tribe of best friend waitresses in the wondrous Whaling City?

It could be good. Really good.

'Til Death Do Us, In Four Parts

Part One: The Ladies

I've said it time and time again, but it never ceases to be true: my best friends are my remarkable, extended, and amazing family members.

We very nearly operate as one unit. Have you ever seen these? It's like that with us. We're a fragile, well-balanced system - and it's not to say that sometimes things are a little wonky, but it's like that with all self-sustaining systems; the possibility for conflict exists, but it's all about how the system recovers. And we recover. Every time. Sometimes, I think we're stronger afterward.

When we're all in the same room, when we're all talking and laughing and being our individual spazzy selves - my heart nearly explodes with all the love. I feel so grateful. So happy. So content. We "get" one another, and for someone who has spent a great deal of time trying to "get" herself, this feat does not go unnoticed.

Part Two: The Gents

The night before last, I received a phone call from one of the besties, Ms. Meghan Ryan, and she informed me that her long-time beau Marc had proposed; she was engaged.

Engaged! With a diamond! (Obvi.)

Three of my besties have had some lovely luck finding the boys that want to be with forever. They found a version of best friend that they want to date and marry and that, my friends, is what everyone's out for, right?

And, now, one of them is engaged to that very boy. The best friend.

Part Three: The Aging Process

A couple of weeks ago I found two gray hairs while in a vibrantly-lit restaurant ladies room. I then returned to the table, ordered a dirty martini, and forcibly brandished my ID at the waitress - who wasn't going to ask.

"You want this, right?" I said accusingly, "Because I just found two gray hairs, and you need to see this. Right?"

"Uh. Sure..." she obliged.

Now, my birthday is in a mere five days, I'll soon be 27. Late twenties. Almost thirty. I guess it's an acceptable time to find some grays.

And, now, to add to the feeling of aging, suddenly I'm moving into a new apartment all by myself, and my best friend's getting married (cue Princess Bride, "mawwaige..."). So, sometime next year I'll be a gray-haired, likely single, livin' on my own, 28 year old bridesmaid.

Part Four: Conclusion

You know what? There isn't another group of people on this earth that I'd rather get old with. There is not a person I'd rather see get married, be happy, and live life to the fullest than any one of my best friends, who are the loves of my life.

So, bring it on, life, age, gray hairs, whatever. Bring your worst. This self-sustaining ecosystem isn't going anywhere anytime soon.

Public Service Announcement & Personal Mantra

you've got to take control,
you don't leave it, don't leave it,
they'll say what they'll say,
don't listen, don't listen

Well, that's what this song told me. And, in all honesty, I listened to it at totally at random because I was feeling like I had encroaching writer's block and needed to find a starting point. And, I picked it because the band's name is Cassette Kids, and I feel a strong level of nostalgic recognition regarding anything or anyone involving a cassette. So. That's how I ended up with that lyrical set stuck in my head.

And, I think it's a good place to start. I mean, I do need to take control over this moment in particular - because as I start to write, I begin to understand my feeling of writer's block. It's not that there's a block because I don't have anything to say - there's just too much to say. I have too much to say. I should be grateful for that, I guess. Though, I'd be more apt to enjoy the writing process if all this information wasn't stuck in some sort of mental traffic jam inside my brain.

So. Take control. Write about it. Write about everything.

Mom Mail

Well, it's Wednesday, so that means it's time for Mom Mail.

Which, at this point, is a good thing - because my brain is expanding with stress and schoolwork; so, a post by my mom is just what I need. And, this week, I'm going to include two messages - partially because one is just photos.

Date: 06/08/07 Subject: good afternoon mr.toad


Date: 09/05/07 Subject: pillows

hello sweetheart....another suggestion...you two might want to bring your own pillows, as i don't know if those upstairs are truly comfortable....i mean, sometimes people like their own nighnigh stuff.

also, i am at this moment making some LENTIL SALAD!!! yummyyummy.

xoxoxoxoxo,mom

In The Name of Love

I'll be honest with you, Valentine's Day is not my favorite holiday. Now, before you stop reading or start prepping for the "typical" Single Girl Valentine's Day Rant - I know you're expecting it, don't try and pretend you're not - let me explain.

I love love. I do. I really, really do. I readily, and without any hesitation, tell people in my life how much I love them, how much they mean to me in any and all capacities, and I sign off most written text with an "xo" because I really, truly, have a genuine love for a lot of people in my life - I mean, that's why they're in it in the first place, right? Who keeps people around that they don't care for? Not me. So, the "xo." Basically, if I was talking to them in person, I'd totally give them a hug and a kiss. Cheek-kiss, I mean; I'm no floozy. Ahem. Others may beg to differ. Pay them no mind.

Anyway.

Last night, I was kind of in a funk. I was feeling overly contemplative, stuck at work, and stuck in life. Like I said... overly contemplative. Anyway, so, last night, when in this funk - do you know what I wanted most in the whole wide world? A hug. A giant, arms-wrapped-around-me, catch-my-breath-in-my-throat, eyes-closed, gut-squishing hug. You know the kind. The kind of hug that makes you feel safe. Loved. The kind of hug that trades sadness for the force of someone's arms wrapped clear around you - their fingertips touching on the other side.


I'm a hugger. What can I say? I got it from my mom. She is one of the most affectionate, loving people I know, and I grew up with hugs. And, now, much like a hand running over and over again through my hair and over my cheek makes me calm down and fall asleep, hugging makes me feel okay when I feel not-so-okay. And, on a rainy day I crave popcorn - 'cause that's what my mom always did. These are the traditions that I was brought up to appreciate. And, loving people was one of them.

So, what's my issue with Valentine's Day if I love love so much? Valid question. Allow me to explain.

I share love on the daily. I don't expect anything in return - except most people, when you say "I love you," don't not say anything back. Unless they're not nice people. And, if that's the case, I probably didn't say "I love you" in the first place. So. There you go.

So, what I don't love about this day is that you're supposed to say "I love you" to someone. The obligatory "I love you" is, for me, a lot of pressure for an emotion that's supposed to be organic, uncontrollable, and purely selfless. I mean, do you have a Valentine on Valentine's Day because you couldn't possibly, on any other day besides February 14th, have told this person that you love them? No. You have a Valentine on February 14th because corporate America tells you that that's the day you're supposed to love someone. That's the day that diamonds will mean more, roses will smell better, and chocolates will taste better because they come out of a heart-shaped box.

You Love on February 14th because it's "better" that way. In the name of red and pink and Hallmark and hearts and roses, you love someone.

Love me today, love me tomorrow, love me yesterday. I don't need a Valentine because my heart's exploding already. I'm the luckiest girl in the whole wide world. And, if you think about it - probably not even all that hard - I'm sure you'll realize that with every heartbeat today, tomorrow or the next day, you love someone and someone loves you. And that makes you the luckiest person in the whole wide world.

So, tell them today, and tell them every day. And feel your heart get all cozy and your smile get wider and wider and just be happy.

I don't love Valentine's Day because it's a dictated, obligatory celebration of something I think should be respected every day. Not just one.

Limbo Isn't Just a Game Anymore

I was afraid of limbo as a kid.

I mean, in general, I was just a scared kid and that manifested itself in my aversion to being chased and, in addition, anything that involved a room full of people watching me attempt to do something even remotely difficult. You know, difficult... like tip myself backwards from the waist up and try not to hit a stick that's balanced above me while I walk underneath it and the people watching sing a stupid song.

You know, it's a fucking terrible idea for a game. I think I would more enjoy pushing a tire around with a stick. Really.

But, anyway, yes, part of my hatred for limbo comes from my general dislike for being the center of attention. I have seriously faked injuries so as to avoid "playing" limbo. (Can you call it "playing?" Who cares. You get it.)

Anyway, limbo.

As an adult, the word "limbo" has this whole other meaning - besides the obvious meaning, which conjures up images of the game's frequent inclusion at silly corporate celebrations and bad luau themed birthday parties. Shudder.

As an adult, limbo means that someone - in this case, me - is in an awkward position. "Limbo" means that my twenty-somethin' ass got stuck while crouching under the limbo stick, trying to pull of some awesome dip move that would hopefully keep me from being eliminated.

As an adult, limbo means that I'm teetering. I'm balanced on the balls of my feet and I'm fighting the downward draw of gravity while my body spends precious, time-suspended moments trying to decide how to reconcile the fact that it is not, in fact, balanced, and is certainly not equipped for a backward dip/forward motion move.

In a series of somewhat unrelated, but domino-effect, life moments, I now find myself in a metaphorical place not unlike the balanced body suspension so commonly associated with the game of limbo.

And, after this series of recent events, here I am, teetering under the metaphorical limbo stick - wondering which way I'm going to fall, if at all. Maybe I won't fall, but instead I'll disrupt the stick. I'd rather that. I'd rather not take a terrible tumble in front of a room full of people. I'd rather hit the limbo stick and watch it go down instead.

In this case, the limbo stick is being lowered by two things: One, the fact that I am single. And, two, the rental prices in New Bedford. Allow me to explain...

Have you ever shopped for an apartment as a single person?

Me either.

Know what?

It's fucking impossible.

One bedroom apartments are priced for couples; they are at least six, seven or eight hundred dollars, some are nine hundred dollars a month.. some are even one thousand dollars a month.

One thousand. Dollars. One thousand American dollars. Per month. For a one bedroom. Ridiculous.

Now, apartments that have two bedrooms are, comparatively, a mere seven or eight hundred dollars a month - and, yes, some are nine, but not many. The majority are reasonably priced for two people.

It's such bullshit. Nothing is priced for one person occupation. Everything requires a partner in crime.

Okay, Universe, I get it. Thanks. Now lay the fuck off, please.

Two Halves Equal A Whole... Maybe

I've never been a math person.

Ever.

I'm not even good with numbers in the most basic, general sense of their use.

For example, I suck at the "How Old Do You Think I Am?" game, I'm never close in the "How Many Jellybeans Are In This Jar?" estimation, and I certainly cannot venture a guess at how much things cost, like those crazy game show fanatic types on "The Price is Right."

Seriously, though, those people are crazy.

I would just guess $1 every fucking time. Maybe sometimes that would work. Other times, probably not. So. Yeah, I don't think I'd last long on "The Price is Right." Ah, well. Who needs a pair of jet skis and a china cabinet or a new Chevy Malibu? Okay, admittedly, the last time I watched TPiR was about ten years ago. So, maybe the showcases (that's what they were called, I think) have improved since then. Regardless, I still don't think I'd know how to "price" them. Not right, that's for sure.

I do, however, commit numbers to memory rather readily. This I attribute to the fact that I have a serious memory for the trivial, and somewhat irrelevant, facts that most people walk past, skim over, or depart from.

Such as, you ask?

Well, such as phone numbers, license plate numbers, addresses, etc. Numerical sequences. Those I can handle.

Like I said - bullshit number crap that's the same as knowing how to spell.

For me, numbers are words that transform, they don't co-exist; I can remember a numerical sequence like the words in a sentence, but one doesn't add up words, so therefore I don't add numbers.

Words don't add. Words accumulate, but each one maintains it's integrity. Numbers, on the other hand, change, disappear, develop and melt one into the other, creating an entirely new number.

I watched a movie tonight about falling in love; the concept was not unlike other Falling In Love Movies. Boy meets girl, boy loves girl, boy and girl marry. Sometimes, like this time, there are variables. Fractions, divisions, multiples and algebraic exes and whys that make their way into the equation; but, regardless of those inclusions, in love stories, the equation always equals 2. Boy plus girl equals two. One plus one equals two.

Simple fucking math, and I can't do it.

I'd like to think that it's my inability to equate numerals to theory that makes my world seem so absolutely alone without one more than me, but the fact is that I believe it's the way we're programmed, the way we're conditioned. We expect that every one (1) has a two (2). Every beginning has an end. Every plus one will eventually equal a minus one. Everything balances.

Like a fucking accountant pounding an adding machine, the rhythm of the ticker tape doesn't cease, the noise and the ink rack up pluses and minuses and result in the relieved tally that tells the number cruncher that they're at a satisfying total of... zero. Zero.

And since when is fucking zero satisfying anyone except people who love math? It's not. That's why I love words. The more words, the better; the larger the sum of it's parts, the more powerful the piece.

Someday, perhaps... someday I'll try to understand one plus one equals two. Someday I'll see my reflection in another person, my "other half. " And, then, in one split second, when I open my mouth and utter the words "I love you," to this person, this half, I'll feel like two instead of one, or one instead of a half.

Someday, I'll learn to love math. Someday, when I learn to love you.

Fear Of the (Un)Known

Today, from my living room window, I looked out onto a street covered in heavy, wet, white snow, and realized I couldn't identify which car was mine. Maybe that one? No. Maybe that one? Maybe...

When everything is blanketed in snow, the world is exactly as we know it, and yet, it is not at all familiar.

Streets that we have memorized are physically changed, they are altered and slightly foreign; we don't know what to expect from them anymore, when they're covered in snow. We have to approach them like we've never met before. We adjust our speed, we accommodate for ice, salt, sand, a plow's path, and - in general - we're tentative.

The familiar shapes of objects we know to exist in our environment - garbage cans, recycling bins, rocks, rakes, fences, bushes - are masked in the white cloak of winter weather. They are misshapen, faceless, their identities concealed, their hard edges bulbous, their silhouettes shapely.

A long time ago, I tried to run away from this city and everything in it; I tried to know new people, see new sights, and establish a lifestyle that allowed me to embrace the person I thought New Bedford wouldn't. Then, time passed, and I realized I was the same person regardless of my geographical location and through a series of unrelated events, I ended up here again.

What happened after my return, even I can't quite believe. I realized it wasn't just "here," it was "home."

And, it was as if I never left.

My friendships didn't skip a heartbeat. It was the same as it ever was. The same friendship it had always been - it just waited for my return.

My heart skipped a beat every time I felt increasingly at ease here, as I flawlessly fell into the patterned normalcy of a life in this city, a life in this place that I know like I know nothing else. Except maybe me. I've never felt more right, more whole. I've never felt more safe.

I've been back - both as the person I thought I could not be, and as a resident of the city I thought would not care - since 2003. I love it here, and I love what being here means to me and the people I care for. And I wouldn't want to change that.

However, lately, I find myself longing for the days during which something was unfamiliar; when I was unfamiliar. Not to myself, but to the people I existed amongst.

I've been listening to a lot of random, unfamiliar music lately; I catch myself longing for the feeling of recognizing something old in something new. A lyric, a beat, a voice, a feeling of a chorus when it hits me; like deja vu, a place where I've never been, but it is familiar nonetheless.

I've been thinking a lot about moving lately; moving away from these worn-in paths that lead to worn-out bar stools and heading toward uncharted territory, following the road less traveled toward unmapped spaces and places. Places where I can discover more about myself by discovering something more about the road that rises up to meet me and the people on either side.

So, when that happens, and I think about moving, I consider it. I consider leaving this all behind.

And, then, just like this morning, when I looked out onto a snow-covered street and tried to find my little green Subaru amidst piles of heavy white snow, I panic.

The thing about the snow is... it melts. And then, after it melts, everything is exactly as it was before the storm. But, before it melted, for a brief time, I got to see the world as an altered and barely recognizable version of itself; the world, pure and untouched and amorphous.

My life here needs a white winter blanket every once in a while, and maybe I'll travel for brief periods and seek it's affect elsewhere until that no longer will suffice; until what I have to do is crawl under the blanket, put my head down, and see what life is like when all the shapes have changed and nothing is as it seems.

New Wednesday Lineup: Mom Mail

That tiny, white-haired, and really, really excited lady in the purple is my Mom.

No, we did not color coordinate.

Though, it just occurred to me that perhaps she's the reason that the only color I wear is purple. If I'm not wearing purple, I'm wearing black or gray. Most likely, I'm somehow wearing all three. She really likes purple. Hm.

I digress. Again. (I should rename this blog; A Digression would be a much more appropriate title, don't you think?)

Anyway, my mom is so damn cute, right? And, she's even more awesome than this picture illustrates.

That being said, I'm instituting a Wednesday tradition here at FGS: Mom Mail.

It's kind of like "Tyra Mail," I guess. Now, when I write that, I expect you to imagine a gaggle of 50 pound "models" screaming it as they run to a nondescript white envelope on a pedestal; a light is shining down from above and a choir is singing. Divine communication. Wretch.

Like I said... kind of like "Tyra Mail," but not really at all. Mostly it's only like "Tyra Mail" because both concept names involve the word "mail." My Mom Mail will be way, way more awesome. And, there is no drawn out elimination ceremony, nor will my Mom criticize you if you walk like a horse or can't smile with your eyes.

The deal is that I save all the emails Mom sends me in a folder. Why? Because they're awesome.

For the past few years, my mom & stepdad have lived in Vermont. In the next few months they're moving back down to my neck of the woods in Massachusetts, so the possibility exists that the emails will slow down some; before, they were my Mom's preferred means of keeping in touch despite the vast distance between us, and her preferred means of keeping me up to date on all things nature, and all things Vermont.

So, I'm starting from the oldest email I have in the folder and I'll work my way forward. I hope you enjoy.

So, here we go. The first of many Mom Mail moments.

Sent: 5/28/06
Subject: chicks and rainbows

my darling ...i hope these entice you to come up soon.xoxox,mom

With Love, From MySpace to Yours

I get a lot of shit email. A lot. So much so, that I barely check one of the accounts anymore, and have stopped giving it out as part of my personal contact information because I'd prefer it to just become the place where crap email goes to die - much like the recycling bin in my front hallway.

Prior to my moving in, the unclaimed blue bin in the front hall was established as the sole receptacle for any and all junk mail/fliers that arrive in the mail. Unlike my email junk, however, that recycling bin is overflowing and taking up an awful lot of physical space. And, the more crap that goes in it, the heavier it gets and the less likely it is that someone will move it to the curb. It's much, much easier to ignore the crap in my now defunct hotmail account than it is to ignore the possibility that the front hallway in my building will someday be awash with recycling bin overflow made up of supermarket coupons, Price Rite fliers, and Chinese food take out menus.

This morning, I could not sleep. I was awake at five in the morning, trolling the internet for entertaining bullshit that I could scroll through without much effort. I had every intention of finding something that would bore me and put me back to sleep. So, naturally, I navigated my way to my junk email account; what better way to waste time and very, very little intellectual energy, right? Lest I wake my already restless brain up any further.

In the midst of scanning, I was intrigued by this subject: "Ideas For An Amazing Valentine's Day!" and the sender: MySpace. Okay, "intrigued" might be a strong word. I guess I could say, I looked at it and thought, "Oh, yes please, Gods of Comedy; MySpace, tell me how to have an Amazing Valentine's Day."

Now, please allow the fact that I'm getting MySpace emails to this account indicate further just how antiquated this particular account is.

Anyway, the marketing geniuses at MySpace provided me with some vital stats for the upcoming V-Day celebrations. They wanted me to know where to eat, "locally," with MySweetheart on V-Day. (Their recommendation? That I head to Providence for an intimate dinner at Longhorn Steakhouse, which was graded at an A+ by MySpace users.) Also, they'd like me to know what music I should listen to on MyPlaylist for V-Day, and, in case I find myself lost and lonely on the big day, where to find hot, available singles in my area... On MySpace. Duh.

I don't really keep up with radio-friendly music. It just doesn't do it for me. But, these MySpace music recommendations surely have piqued my interested as to just what the hell is going on in the land of Top Forty music these days.

1. "Two is Better Than One," Boys Like Girls
I read this like two girls are better than one. If that is what this group of heteros mean, then I'm impressed it made it to the number one spot for V-Day. Not every couple is that open-minded.
2. "Baby," Justin Bieber
Not the most inventive song title, and it doesn't give much away. Maybe he has a baby, wants a baby, wants to practice making them, I don't know. All I know is that I have no fucking clue how to say his last name except that it's conjuring up the image of the elephant Babar in my head. (Cue childhood memory music...)
3. "Your Love is My Drug," Ke$ha
Uumm. What's with the dollar sign? Has she had to change her password in the UMassDartmouth COIN system so many times that she is far too literate in combining letters of upper and lower case with at least one symbol? Probably not, because if she were, she'd know to have also included a numeral.
4. "Kiss Me Through the Phone," Soulja Boy
I am assuming this is a phone sex reference? If so, isn't that so 2009? I thought it was all about the sexting? Oh, and I had to check that I was spelling Soulja's name right like, three times. And I'm a fairly literate person.
5. "I'm Yours," Jason Mraz
Besides granting us "Words With Friends" (pseudo Scrabble iPhone app that allows proper nouns) obsessives a way of using an M, R, and Z in one word, joining the ranks of Brett Favre in the land of Last Names I Have to Think Way Too Much About Before I Say Them Out Loud, and providing every couple getting married in 2009 with their wedding song, what has Jason Mraz actually done?

Well, thanks, MySpace.

I will have an amazing Valentine's Day this year, and it's all thanks to you.

Every Action Has An Equal and Opposite Reaction

Sometimes - scratch that - most times, there's just no way of knowing the ways in which our actions, or our lack of action, will change our lives. It's part of what's amazing, what's beautiful, what's miraculous, and what's fucked up about our lives here while we're living them.

It's amazing to think of all that we're capable of in life.

It's fucked up to think of all that we're capable of in life.

It's all a mystery. It's all chance. Ot at the very least, it's chance with a twinge of intent. It's kind of like my friend Tyler from Tennessee who tried to let go of his southern drawl when he moved to Massachusetts; his accent will always be laced with a hint of Tennessee. You can take the boy outta Tennessee, but you can't take the Tennessee outta the boy's accent. It's the same with chance and fate; there's always some fate lingering behind a remnant, elongated vowel sound.

If you look at things the right way, there will always something you can't control that leads to something else that seems like it should have always been, but wouldn't ever have existed had it not been for that chance. That moment. That split second where you went right instead of left; up instead of down; one block instead of two... you get the idea.

I take my Chance shaken - not stirred - straight up, with a twist of Fate. Though, lately, this new bartender's been giving me the cheap house Chance and it's all comin' to me on the rocks, with no Fate.

It's rough.

Okay, so fine, the Universe has a plan, I trust in that, I guess. Maybe that's called "fate," I don't know. It's debatable, but not here, not now. Besides, this post isn't about fate, it's about a shitstorm, and how to see a silver lining in a cloud of poo.

Yesterday, in preparation for some Superbowl watching, I decided to make chili and cornbread. I've never made chili before. Cornbread, yes. Chili, no. I'm freaked out by things that stew. I like adding precise amounts of things so that certain baking-science-related shit happens and an exact thing happens as a result - I like baking. Not stewing. Not souping. Not roasting.

So, I called Tiffany, my chili-making bestie, for her recipe. Turns out - Tiffany's "recipe" is really just a list of ingredients that go in a pot together in a certain order. Some beer, some chili powder, some beans, some turkey, some chorico, some tomato paste, some tomato, some onion, some pepper, some jalapeno.

Luckily, when I made the chili, my mom was here, and she's the kind of "Oh, just throw some in there," kind of cook, so it made it all okay. She coached me through approximation cooking, adding water here and there, more tomato paste, a little more cumin. Before I knew it, the chili smelled like chili, and then, not long afterward, it looked and tasted like chili. I made the cornbread using my exact methods of baking, and then later topped the whole meal off with cupcakes and homemade frosting.

I like cooking. And, everything turned out to be pretty delicious. Even the chili.

Today, while I was in the midst of a leftover chili lunch and some tortilla chips, I got some shitty news. Later, I found out about three other people who got fucked up news today. Like, the kind of news that makes you cry so hard you have to do your eye makeup all over again. (Which, for me, is like starting with a blank canvas and painting a fucking Picasso - not something I do without begrudging the jackass who made it all possible by causing the tears in the first place.)

So, like I was saying in the side note - February 8th is a shit day in not just my book, but three other people's as well. So there.

Anyway, generally after receiving shit news, I have to talk about it. I have to tell people, I have to talk to my friends and family about it, I have to lament, discuss. I get all worked up and slowly but surely, the more I discuss the topic, the more sense it begins to make as one of those moments where I should just recognize the fate. I should just shut the hell up and be grateful for the chance at change; the change that might be the reason for something else way more awesome.

I realized that life is not unlike making a big, giant pot of chili. Someone can give you the gist of it, the general order that a bunch of stuff is supposed to cook in, and you can do your best to assemble all those things together at once, and in the correct order - but it doesn't mean that shit is gonna taste good. You might not know how each ingredient is going to effect the batch before you put it in, but someone will be there - in my case, my mom - saying "Oh, I'd say about a tablespoon," and you'll listen - because that person has made chili before - and you'll taste it again and decide what to do. Or when to stay and do nothing. Or when to fold. Or when to just say "fuck it," and throw another bunch of jalapeno in the pot.

Life is like chili. It is.

No, really... it is. Think about it...