Gin from the Cat Dish

1 part mopey 1 part fart jokes

2011-01-29T13:07:00.000-08:00

I told Jen today that my inner metaphor/profound thoughtfulness voice has been waiting for a sad day for her to shine. I could probable write a whole mess of storypeople stories. (She said especially if I drank some coffee. Which I did.) Here are a few I've already come up with.

I feel like a fish who accidentally flopped out of her water. But I can see the tide coming in.

Even though it was rainy and cold I had to take a walk to the rose garden. I needed to connect to something green and earthy even if the roses weren't in bloom. I needed something to spark my hope for a season of beauty (beauty, truth, freedom but above all else, love!). I felt like Thoreau in sneakers and a lot less conviction.

Somedays my mind feels full but when I write it all out, it doesn't even make the page scroll down.

I just made the last one up because really I only had the first two. And there seems to be an endless straight line of a road before the next curve of inspiration. So we'll move on.

I told Shaughn I was having a mopey day, the second in a row, and he told me to take a bath, have a good cry and then get out there in the world and out of our cave of an apartment. I asked why I had to get out there when he likes to have his sad days at home. He said the cave is his natural habitat but the outside world was mine. I needed people to make me happy.

Pft I told him. But after my walk through the rose garden, I grabbed a few things from the local grocery store. The cashier was so nice and thoughtful, meaning she put my card in a small paper bag so it wouldn't bend, I wanted to give her a hug. And ask her to be my best friend, who would never left me and thought I looked slim. So maybe I have been alone in my head a little too long.

Oh to be 20 again when spotting another lonely soul and instantly making an oversharing, co-dependent relationship was the norm. What? That's wasn't everyone's norm?

_________________

Ok, Funny Story time. I never really appreciated fart jokes as a young girl. They sort of embarrassed me and made me feel a little left out. But they're making a comeback. I recently taught my 6 year old nanny kid this joke.

Why are there 239 beans in Irish stew?

Because one more would make it too farty. (240)

My first year of college was at a Christian college in western New York in a little town called, Houghton. One of my roommates was this tiny beautiful sprite. She was lovely in every sense of the word. The kind of girl who makes tripping over a shoe look graceful, like a willow tree in a gust of wind. Our freshman class was fairly small and my roommate and I basically knew most of the kids. One kid was this sweet short kid who wore this dorky backpack. My roommate told me one day she heard him fart while he was walking away from her. She was scandalized in a way. I think because it reminded her of her own fart story.

When she was in high school a bunch of students had to take some important test in the gymnasium. It was dead quiet and people were hard at work. Very intent on her own work, she realized she needed to relieve some gas. But expecting it to be a quiet release she maybe pushed a little. And out came a fart to end all farts. She said you could hear it echo on the gym walls. Kids around her snickered as she pretended to look around at who the noisy culprit was. Her cool older brother (is there any other kind?) was in the gym as well and gave her such a disapproving look.

Oh man, I don't know why this story still kills me, but it does. Oh flatulence, I owe you my earliest memories of learning to move on after dying of embarrassment.

Ok, that's all. Mostly because I don't know where you go after fart stories.

The Proposal

2010-07-06T20:57:00.000-07:00

Love is a many splendored thing. Or something like that.

A couple months ago, or so, Shaughn and I were on one of our walks through drizzly Seattle and we got talking about marriage and if we wanted to get married, where and when. I made a strong case for getting married next summer and Shaughn paused to hyperventilate in someone's lovely petunia patch. It's not that Shaughn doesn't want to get married or that, God forbid, he doesn't want to marry me, it's just that contemplating big changes tend to make his throat swell. We couldn't be more different in this. I contemplate big life changes daily--"Maybe I should quit my job and hitchhike to Mexico tomorrow?" or "I'm pretty sure the tumor in my brain shifted and I should get working on that book soon. Maybe in the mountains." and "If I win the lottery I'm going to take up yacht racing." And if you know me at all, I hope you know I'm capable of any and all of these whims. A whim to Shaughn, though, is to take a different route home, or to splurge on handmade butter at the farmer's market. He is strong and steady and loves to surprise me with flowers or champagne. The other day he brought home a red toy tractor because I grew up on a farm and my favorite color is red.

Anyway, we agreed we wanted to get married and Shaughn insisted he wanted to propose. And when I asked if he wanted to buy the ring or if we could buy it together he politely asked if I wanted to cut his balls off.

So I have been pestering him to ask me already. Everytime I brought it up he would say, "I know how I'm doing it so leave me alone!!" But if you know how your going to do it then do it!!!

A couple weeks ago on Taco Thursday, we had just finished our beef cheek tacos and had snuggled in to watch a movie. We were both in excellent moods and he got up and came back with a small bag of plain m&m's. This isn't unusual although, I prefer peanut or peanut butter m&m's but I was hardly going to be a rudypants about it. So there we were, snuggled on the couch, I'm popping m&m's and watching the movie. Shaughn, however, is watching me and smiling. He looks really weird. I smile and say thank you again for the m&m's and he just smiles back. And stares. I smile and look away. He stares. Finally, Shaughn! What are you doing? What do you want? And he just sort of hems and haws and then asks if he can have some. Well then I feel a little greedy and say of course he can. I take his hand in mine and start shaking out some m&m's. That is when I realize that they are all red and white. And they had words written on them. I look closer and half of them say--Will You--and the other half say--Marry Me--

It was such a sweet falling feeling. All gasps and tears and sloppy attemps to take a picture of them with my phone. Shaughn gave me the raised eyebrows and then cleared his throat and said, "So..."And Of course I said yes. Then I squealed and jumped around and accidentally threw my phone clear across the room.

It was late enough in the evening that I couldn't get a hold of Mom and Dad. But I got a hold of Nate who said if he were me, he'd just keep calling until someone answered their F*&*ing phone. When I started laughing he said, "What? That's what I do."

I told Jacob to "Guess what!!??!!" and he said, "I just want you to tell me."

Which might be my favorite response to that question. I could hear Laura cheer in the background.

Jen bounced around explaining to Sinead and Fiona that yes I was going to get married and no that didn't mean I was going to have kids any time soon. Paul texted "Shut. Up."

Mom squealed and Dad left a message I still have on my phone that says, "What great news! Don't forget a single moment, because I can't wait to hear all about it!"

_______________

But seriously, I can't even describe how sappy I feel. Shaughn, who for some reason doesn't like the word fiancé, has instead referred to me as his future wifey. We both are surprised at how giddy we are about it. For a week I sang, "I am engaged" to the tune of "I've got two pickles" from Little Rascals. Man, it is fantastic!

Alright, if you're married I want to hear your proposal story.

Brandishing Middle Fingers

2010-06-04T21:46:00.000-07:00

Hey blog. I'm reminded of some of my old journals where the entries start out with "Dear Journal, sorry I haven't written in so long."

The other day a man asked me, "So tell me a story." I had nothing. I mean nothing. It's like my brain flat-lined. All I could think of was how much I loved to tell stories. How this was probably the best question anyone could ask me. But nope--I had nothing.

So I'm on a quest to reclaim my inner storyteller-ness. I think a big road block on this quest is being happy. I am madly in love with my boyfriend right now. We live together in this tiny apartment and absolutely adore being with each other. Each week when we have to go back to work we send each other mopey texts. It's disgusting. Seriously, the stories I think of on a daily basis have the plot of -I missed Shaughn today and then I got to see him and it was really nice-. So, you know, I have that working against me.

But I'm going to start out small. Here's what happened to me a couple months ago.

I was on my way to work. I work across town and take Aurora/Hwy 99 for a bit. It's a little tricky getting on this road. You have to sort of gun it and merge and blinker and wave thanks a lot. But I have it down. So one day, I nicely merge, giving the car behind me sufficient time to see my blinker, either speed up and be a jerk, maintain pace, or slow down and let me in. They maintain pace so I merged. And BEEEEEEEEEEEPPP!!! They beeped their car horn so long I thought it was broken. I thought they surely weren't even honking at me. I hadn't done anything wrong. There was a tiny pause and then another long beep. Like maybe they stopped for a minute only to realize they were still mad. Well, this pissed me off a little. I'm a nice driver, I almost always let people in, I am very helpful in educating them when they are dangerous, I mean, I am practically the very picture of the Golden Rule Driving.

So I flipped them the bird in my rearview mirror. Before this moment I had only gotten a brief look at the driver and had mostly just noticed the car. White, mid-sized, 10 yrs old. But as I was flipping them the bird I realize the person in the car is an old women. A nice looking old women with round white hair (the old lady fro). An old lady I could easily imagine having gone to my church growing up. Well my stomach just sank. I realize I live in the city now, and have adopted all sorts of crazy city ways: I drink espresso and have stopped thinking of gas stations as a place to get coffee, I can go a whole day without stepping on a blade of grass, and some weeks I go to the grocery store every day. But one thing I have never done, is flip off an old person. Call me old-fashioned but it just goes against my upbringing. I imagined what my grandparents would say. Oh the disappointment! I'm already on thin ice for living in sin. And then to flip off my elder? How was I not a burnt spot on the road? All that was left from the lightning striking me, with middle finger brandishing in fury.

Well, what I'm getting at, is I felt terrible. Just awful. I merged over to another lane just to get away from the shame only to have the old lady zoom up next to me and start honking her horn again! I took it for awhile looking shamefaced. But she did not let up. I mean come on! Something inside me goes berserk with loud noises--my nerves are shock from being around kids all the time. Well, so I looked at her and yelled, "come on!" and she kept honking. So I sort of, kind of, not entirely....flipped her off again.

She barely batted an eye. She just flipped me off right back. Only, and here's the clincher, she was wearing mittens!! All I could see was a little lump in the middle where she was trying to raise her middle digit. How cute and terrible is that? Well she honked a bit more and zoomed away.

I couldn't even describe what I felt. I mean it's kind of funny, but I still felt bad. I talked to Amanda and she said the lady sounded like a b****. And she reminded me that mean women grow up to be mean old ladies. And she gave an example of a girl we know (don't worry it's not you) and I felt much better about the whole thing.

And that's the end of the story. I would try to be more graceful with my ending but Shaughn just got home from work and I've already spent like 6 minutes typing instead of smooching him, so you know, gotta go.

Home Is Where the Mold Is

2009-12-07T09:35:00.000-08:00

When you work with kids, you have to get used to catching colds. The phrase "virulent carrier monkeys" comes to mind. It's just part of the job. Well I caught a dewsy of a cold a couple weeks ago. It came with a cough that is usually associated with the part of the movie where the beloved character coughs terribly into a kerchief and then collapses their hand flopping to reveal a bloody kerchief. It's the kind of cough that makes people stare with grossed out faces.

When I caught the cold, I began my normal treatment of teas and elixirs. After a couple of days I felt a tiny bit better. And for the last two weeks, that's how it is. Each day I think I feel a tiny bit better. What's that formula called, the infinity of halves? The worst part of the whole thing, is that the cough flairs up the most when I laugh. Laughing just happens to be my favorite thing to do in the whole wide world. And now, I have to keep it to a polite chuckle. Yesterday, Shaughn actually apologized for being funny.

Anyway, Saturday, I did not feel very great. I was still coughing, my chest burned, and my head was hurting. I managed to get a lot of the house cleaned before decided to poop out and watch a movie. I wondered if maybe a heating pad on my chest might feel good--increase circulation, relax my chest muscles, stimulate wellness. The last time I used the heating pad was bc, before couch, meaning it was probably under my bedside table--it's one of those old phone tables with a little bench and a shelf for one of those stand up phones. But when I walked into the bedroom, as I rounded the bed, I saw something that stopped me cold. I saw black, brown, and white spots leading behind my bedside table. Mold! I peaked behind the table and put my hand over my mouth. I almost cried right then and there. It went from the baseboard about a foot away from the heater to the corner of the room where it had spread up the wall, level with the bed. I hadn't noticed it before because I have a fan on the corner of the table. It traveled on the adjacent wall's baseboard and lower wall all the way across the room and even into the closet.

I quickly left the room and did the heebie jeebie dance. I couldn't have been more grossed out if it had been a spider or a mouse or a rat, or a rabid squirrel or any of the other things I'm afraid of. It sounds silly but it really spooked me. Here I am, coughing like a bum, sleeping next to mold!! It's like having stomach pain and then finding broken glass in your eggs.

At this point in the story, I wish that I could say that I looked online at how to clean it, put a protective face mask on and did it. Wiping my hands in a satisfactory can't-bring-me-down moment, just as Shaughn came home. "Hi honey, I kicked mold's ass today" But that's not what happened. That's not even close to what happened. I mean 'ass', 'kicked', and 'mold' are still in the sentence of what happened, just rearranged a bit.

First I looked online at how to clean it. It seemed reasonable. Then I looked up symptoms of mold inhalation. Here are a few (I highlighted the symptoms I felt I had):
~Immune system suppression
~Respiratory problems including asthma and infections
~Eye irritation with burning, watery or reddened eyes
~Cough – dry and hacking
~Nose or throat irritation or both
~Skin rashes or irritation
~Memory impairment (!!)
~Irritable bowel syndrome
~Body aches and pain (Chronic Fatigue)
~Food Intolerances and allergies
~Headaches
~Mood swings
~Nasal and sinus congestion

According to this, I was barely alive. I mean I was breathing, but what was my quality of life at this point? So I called my mommy. Not only did I feel a bit better but she had lit no small fire under my ass to call my landlady. It was then, that Shaughn came home.

And he was so wonderful. I showed him the mold and began crying. He told me he'd clean it. I kept crying and told him we were going to have to move. He made me step away from googling "can you die from mold?" and I kept on crying telling him our apartment was killing me. We each took a shot of vodka and I kept on keepin' on. He cleaned it with laundry detergent and had a beer while it dried. I texted my sister and wept. Then he went over it with a bleach solution. I texted Amanda and sobbed. Then he told me cleaning it really wasn't that bad after a couple beers. I laughed and then coughed.

Finally I calmed down enough to order us some pizza and we went and got a movie. We had a really nice night, in fact. Shaughn even broke out one of his fancy bottles of wine from his cellar.

The next day, we rearranged all the bedroom furniture, so my side of the bed was far far away from the scene of the crime. And we cleaned and organized the apartment until it shone. We even hung up Shaughn's beer signs in the kitchen creating a homey tavern feeling. Jen, Paul, and the girls stopped by and we all ate little snacks on the new couch and talked about how nice the apartment was shaping up. After they left, and Amanda had come and gone, I cozied up to Shaughn on the couch while he played his video game. Our big south facing window is all gussied up with Christmas lights and the wreath Mom sent. It's so homey and pretty. I sighed and told Shaughn I really liked our apartment. Nothing like a little mold to force us into making a home.

If It's Not Getting Better

2009-11-09T14:28:00.000-08:00

So I finally found a job and have been settling in. I'm getting closer and closer to a point incorporating more writing into my life. It's weird, some writers seem to be so prolific. Like writing is some sort of itch to scratch...they need to do it no matter what's going on. But I seem to be of the writerly type that needs certain stars in line.
This post will likely be a little scattered with themes that will reoccur, but that's ok, right?
________________

It was my birthday recently. When I was little I always wanted a big party. Lots of people and fun activities. But since I was born right in Harvest season, that rarely happened. One time we had a party several months after my birthday. We went to Bonesteel and bowled. It was amazingly fun and I was definitely under the impression that parties for your birthday were the way to go.

When I turned 25, we threw a big costume party with the theme of Wigs and Villains. I went as Ursula, the Sea Witch. The next door neighbors joined in competing with us as Coneheads or Superheroes. It was a birthday bash like I've always wanted. The next day, several of us went to Red Lobster and ate approx 30 cheddar bay biscuits. Each.

This year I turned 27 and I couldn't really muster up the energy of having a party. ugh. I went to a spa with my friend, Amanda, instead. I sat around naked in warm water and then had a massage. I ate bbq. That night, as if on some kind of chronological cue, I had to get up and pee twice in the night. Doubling the normal pee frequency in the night. And the second time I had to get up, the bones in my ankles popped. All of them. I think even Shaughn shifted in his sleep by the huge noise that this made.

Despite all this popping and peeing, and scrunched up faces of people telling me it doesn't get any better, I have been feeling pretty good the last week. I felt terrible last Monday. Old and cranky and really fat. Amanda and I walked around Greenlake and there was a point where I wanted to sit down and rest. Call a cab, maybe. But luckily we started talking about juicy girly stuff and I managed to push on through. We might have even upped the pace a little. Thank goodness for Amanda and her juicy life.

This Monday, Amanda and I went to a yoga class across the street from my place. It felt wonderful to be in there. To feel my body move, to stretch it. To look deep inside and ask myself questions like, "how do you really lengthen your spine? It is what it is, isn't it?" and "when did Amanda become so flexible?" I sweat, I breathed, and I fell down. Everything a person could want out of an hour of life, I suppose. Although there was one pose that I couldn't do at all. So I just laid there which also felt rather good. But I also felt like such a weeny pants, like the fat kid in gym class which I never was. I think, in my teens, being the fat-anything was about the worse thing you could be. So in some ways, it's sort of a relief to be the fat girl now that we all have a little perspective on life.

As a child and teenager, there was so much fear of failing. Like most, if not all, young people, I had picked a few good reasons for people to not like me and a few good reasons why they should. And the thought of losing even one reason on the should side was so horrible. Like it would tip the balances and I would have to pack up and leave and try somewhere else. In truth people liked me or didn't based almost always on things not on my list.

When I went back to school to finish my B.A. the first thing I had to write, I staid up until 2am with all but a blank page. And then I cried and cried. I sat myself down and asked what would happen if I failed this class. What it was, exactly, that was making me freak out. And it really came down to those lists. Of feeling like if I lost something on my good list--my good grades--that I would be less likable as a person. Less capable of being loved. But, when I thought of my friends, especially my closest friend, Amanda, this was so preposterous. In fact, I was pretty sure Amanda would like me more if I failed a class. Really, I could only win.

I used to fear being the "---est" of anything negative. I would just imagine how terrible it would be to be the slowest, the dumbest, the fattest, the loneliest, the ugliest....I mean I could cope being "---er" but just not the "---est." It's such a push pull. On one hand it really doesn't matter. And on the other it does. It's the push that you don't have to be like everyone else to be loved but the pull of wanting to belong. If you don't know what I'm talking about, go to a high school and look around. People wanting to be unique and wanting to fit in.
It really doesn't go away, it just gets easier. You sort of pick your battles a little wiser. It sucked being the fattest girl in the yoga room and it felt really good to be doing something good for myself with a bunch of people. Hours after leaving the yoga studio, I feel a little more of the good, a little less of the bad. That--is what getting older means to me.

In my early 20's (ack! I can't believe I can say that with a straight face), it was all about being a mess and getting comfortable with who I was, what I was about. It was exciting and a trip to the grocery store could feel like an adventure. So many possibilities to be awakened. I went on adventures to other countries and fell deeply and loyally in love with who I was. I was edgy. I was reckless with my hair. I listened to Ani DiFranco and maybe had the smallest feminist chip on my shoulder.

Whatever, I still listen to Ani DiFranco and have a feminist chip on my shoulder. I went and saw her in concert recently. I admit that when I heard that Ani had a new album out and that it was "happy" and that she was losing her edge and wasn't really an activist any more because everyone knows you have choose between being happy and being an activist, I felt a little sad. Like, maybe that's how it goes. There are definitely plenty of examples of artists having better art when they are angsty and miserable. And by plenty, I mean most of them. As soon as things work out...their work suffers. I felt so sad that this had already happened to me and I hadn't really even produced any great artistic work! People always told me that if i could work through all those things I was working through, I would be ahead of the game. I would be sitting pretty for much of life. But what they should have said, is that I would also lose the ability to do something worthwhile! Happiness is for people who've earned it! Why is life so counterproductive! My life is meaningless!!!!!!!!

But her show was amazing. I've been to many of her shows and I really and truly loved this one (not just because I got to sit down). She addressed all the negative media she's gotten from being too joyous in her latest album. And one of her songs seemed to counter perfectly. She said if it's not getting better, than your fucking up.

This is the best advice I have gotten in a long time. Or at least I thought so, until I told Amanda this and she said, "Oh great."

All By Myself

2009-09-08T20:47:00.000-07:00

Remember the scene in The Diary of Bridget Jones where she's drinking vodka and singing All by myself, don't wanna be....all by myself. Oh how I wish they had a song like that for the unemployed.

Yes, it's true, I still don't have a job and because I've already cried and watched a chick flick and ate coffee ice cream, it's time to blog again. Although I just got really tired at the thought of describing my working woes--I literally just closed my eyes and had a hard time opening them again. This seemed like such a good idea 5 minutes ago when I was using the porcelain think tank.

Anyway, at least I have been interviewing this time. In fact I have had many really great interviews where I seriously feel like I've made lifelong friends. I make them laugh, they make me laugh, I schmooze with the kids...it's great. And then I never hear back. Besides feeling demoralized, I'm starting to feel a little dirty. How many times can you tell someone they have the most adorable kid without feeling like your soul is getting moldy?

I was hoping to hear back today about a position. I kept my phone near me. Charged it, just in case I needed to go anywhere and my future employer wanted to not just hire me but have a nice long chat about how great she thinks this is going to be. I mean heaven forbid my phone cut out in the middle of her telling me how she'd like to give me a sign on bonus.

One time, a voicemail appeared--I was in a dead zone apparently, or a somehow blinked from my steady gaze--and as the weird voicemail lady was telling me I had one new message I was like, "yup, this is it, I totally have the job." But no, it was the lady I was babysitting for telling me where the parking pass was.

That's the one good thing, I've been able to pick up some babysitting here and there. It has taken some of the pressure off enormously. In fact I very well may be able to piece together part time gigs until something full-time comes along. Maybe. I mean it's a little shaky. I have a piece of paper on my dining table of how much i make and how much I need. Every day I come home from a babysitting job I recalculate with pride and dread. I'm sure it'll all work out.

But tonight instead of just believing it's going to work out and saying it over and over, I just wish it was working out. I wish I could have gone out to eat tonight with my friends, or bought 8 different kinds of vegetables from the market. Instead I charged a movie to my boyfriend's account and ate a tuna melt and one of those frozen hashbrowns. Last week it was mac and cheese with hotdogs. The week before was cup o noodles.

Ooh! but you know what? I got my diploma the other day! Guess who graduated cum laude? Just thought I would throw that in there.

Well Shaughn's home. I got us a bromance to watch. And I might eat some more ice cream. Chocolate this time.

One For the Road

2009-08-16T10:55:00.000-07:00

Tuesday, Shaughn flies into Boston on Virgin Airlines. An airline, he was told, that only had really hot flight attendants. I hope they're all men.

I just finished cleaning out my car. It's a task I have never enjoyed partly because it necessitates a certain amount of flexibility that is unpleasant. It's not that I need to feel sexy 100% of the time, but it would be nice to avoid tasks that made me feel like a jackass. Plus, since we've had such a chilly summer, I'm not used to the heat. I kept dripping sweat all over the place making it hard to vacuum up the dirt. Not to mention all those pine needles from the x-mas tree last december are still showing themselves to be a b*** to vacuum. Half of them didn't even budge even when I put the whole opening of the hose on them, making the shopvac sound like it was going explode (ps the shopvac looks like it came out of the land of oz). That's the last time I put a x-mas tree inside my car.

When we were little, I don't remember who had to clean out the van before we left for roadtrips. But I remember the van always feeling very clean when we left. I would stake out my little corner and line it with coloring books and crayons, picture books, and a whole lot of stuff that I would never use. I was usually next to Jen in the bench in the back. At night if we were still driving we'd lie next to each other and fall asleep (ok, once instead of nicely falling asleep I pushed Jen off the bench and had to sleep on top of the luggage in the back. With no seatbelt I might add). Nate and Jacob would recline their chairs and twist themselves in every which way. One time Jacob decided to sleep in the aisle on our way to the Black Hills. We had just stopped at a gas station and I was just getting cozy when all of a sudden something didn't feel right. I couldn't quite place the feeling, I just remembered it was bad. Then it hit me, I was going to throw up. We had just started to pull away from the gas station. I looked at the little slider window next to me. It could barely deal with my hand sticking out of it, much less my face. I started to lean down to try it anyway, but it was too awkward. I got up to tell Mom but I couldn't say anything--it was too late. I stood up, leaned over and threw up.
"Agh!" yelled Jacob.
"Huog*&ft" I replied.
Dad stopped the van and Jacob sat up looking at his vomit covered feet in horror. Jennifer yelled, "Ew gross Missy!" over and over while Nate sat looking out the window, mumbling. I sat down and cried, although, in truth, I felt much better.

I really hope neither Shaughn nor I puke in my car. Although then, maybe the tree needles would get really offended and leave.

Longing for Geek Status

2009-08-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

I really don't consider myself to be that much of a hypochondriac. Much like George W. Bush didn't really consider his accent to be crap. But more and more, I realize I have come to certain conclusions that don't necessarily have strong medical support. Unless you count a google search. I'm not usually very showy with my illnesses and rarely very creative. One time after reading a book about a young teen who had leukemia, I started noticing how much I, myself, bruise--and I was tired all the time! Sometimes I would wake up at night and be really really thirsty. I'd go into the bathroom and drink water out of my hands as if I was being timed. Drink-as-much-as-you-can, GO! Great, I'd think, diabetes. At any point in the day, you could count on me to ask if I felt warm like I had a fever. I don't think I have much time left, I'd say.

My death-by-tragic-illness scares are usually sparked by books and tv shows. When mom was diagnosed, I figured I probably had some mild skin cancer. Nothing too serious. But after I watched Grey's Anatomy I knew for sure the skin cancer had gone to my brain like Izzy Stevens. In fact, I still think I have a brain tumor. Consider my symptoms (cross reference with google if you like). Sometimes I see flashes of light almost always on my right peripheral. I get headaches. And when I lie down, my eyes water and I feel/hear a blood rushing/roaring in my ears. The last sensation is a really weird one that I've had off and on (probably when the tumor first starting growing), all my life, thinking it was normal. It wasn't until one night that it kept me up and none of my friends knew what I was talking about that I realized something was amiss. See? Brain tumor. I told Mom and she said she was really sorry it had come down to that. I told her it might not be a brain tumor but it could be that thing that Nate from Six Feet Under had in the first and second season.

I blame all those movies where everyone is doing fine and then it shows someone going on a run. Unless they are working through a break-up or it's in the middle of training montage (see Rocky I, II, III, IV, V, VI), that person is going to either fall down from a heart attack or get hit by a motor vehicle. Things are fine and then they aren't. Maybe it's not the movies, maybe that's how it goes. Not unlike the opposite--everything goes wrong until it goes great. My friend, Emily, and I both decided, in our own lives, we have the first half of a romantic comedy down.

I think I might be a financial hypochondriac as well. I really can't believe how unpredictable feeling financially safe is. Yesterday I felt like I was on top of the world. Like I was going to have to choose between several people who I would work for--like it was going be a toss up between the family that had it's own personal nanny-jet or the family who insisted I go on a cruise with all my nearest and dearest every other month, not to mention the massages.
But then today I feel like I might financially combust at any moment. The oil change I need for my car was more than I had hoped. I got a letter that the interest rate on one of my credit cards is going up. One family cancelled their interview because they already found someone--which I really hate to be a spoil sport about. I hope it goes well, whatever. No hard feelings.

But can I just say something about credit cards? My credit score is like that popular girl in jr high, let's call her Justina. She loves me one day and we hang out and talk about boys and giggle and proclaim our bff status to everyone. She thinks I'm right up there with the Jonas Brothers. Everyone else does too. People can't get enough of me. Mom has to screen all my phone calls. I'm having the time of my life, writing all sorts of checks my ass can't cash. And then, one day, I maybe say one thing about Justina's relation to Satan and everything goes to hell in a hand basket. It's like Can't Buy Me Love when the little brother is telling the pretty girl, you took my brother to geek status, to god status, to no status. God I miss being a geek.

I told Nate tonight that even though I freak out, in the back of my tumor-ridden head, I mostly believe that these things have a way of working out. Partly because I also believe that Janelle was right when she told me in college that Notorious had given her the secret to life: mo money mo problems.

And of course I would be nowhere without Lester Bangs sage advice--The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what you share with someone when you're uncool. Which, luckily, is what this blog is all about.

The Recipe

2009-08-08T13:58:00.000-07:00

Martha's Meatloaf recipe--good idea Jacqui!

Mix: 2 eggs
2/3 c milk
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp onion salt
1/4 tsp pepper
1 1/2 c oats
Add: 2/3 c chopped onion
2/3 c shredded carrots
1 1/2 c cheese
2 lbs of hamburger

Mix well
(I just put it all in one bowl in no particular order, I mean come on).

Bake 350 for 1 hr

In small bowl mix 1/4 brown sugar, 1/4 ketchup, 1-2 T mustard.

Spread topping on meatloaf after it has cooked for an hr and then cook 15 min more. Yum!
_____________________

So the job hunting has begun again. Aren't you all excited for more stories about the financial jungle drums and interviews that look more like an escape from alcatraz than a possible job position? I know I am!

I've been wanting to nanny again. It's been a little rough out there so far. But I'm going to use the nanny agency I used before and hopefully that will bring me some luck. I really want to work with infants. I need a baby fix. Right now I feel like Tina Fey on Baby Mama when she looks at people and they turn into babies. I facebooked an old friend from highschool who is married and has a baby--he's the guy who used to dance too close and was called a perv more times than I was called awesome (if you can imagine). He's sounds really happy and responsible. I asked him what had surprised him most about being married and living with someone and he said instead of the hello-baby-lets-have-sex it's hey-honey-how-was-your-day?-want-to-cuddle-on-the-couch-together-and-watch-the-news? I could feel my uterus spasm at me with disapproval--as if it had pegged me all wrong and is now hoping it isn't too late to find a replacement, or do some bargaining with God.

Right now there is a boyfriend in Seattle who is saying "Your uter-what!??? No it's not! It's saying it likes being empty! I heard it--it said, I love the room!"

Martha's Meatloaf

2009-07-10T15:42:00.001-07:00

I was going through Mom's recipes the other day when I came across Martha's Marvelous Meatloaf. Oh the memories.

Martha was my boyfriend, Chuck's Mom. She was a pleasant roundish woman with unruly hair characteristic of so many 40-something Moms. (Ouch, am I going to get in trouble for that?) I started dating Chuck shortly after 4-H camp the summer after 8th grade. This was the summer after being in the Young Miss Nebraska pageant but before the summer I got ringworm from my cat Kellico (formerly John Wayne when its parts were a sweet mystery). If you have ever been in camp as a young person you will remember the hushed flutter of romance that is also known as a "Camp Relationship". We used air quotes when talking about these relationships to make sure others knew we knew they weren't necessarily the real thing. They were more like sunglasses you got to try on for awhile. They make you look cute and feel genuinely sophisticated. But like any good pair of sunglasses, they never last. You lose them, you break them, you lend them out and never get them back (it's not a perfect metaphor.) (Although if it is, I'm very sorry. Next time don't be so creepy.)

Chuck was an energetically sad person. I met him in a room of people watching The Simpsons. There was a dance going on in the next room, and I had taken a little breather. His head was down and he was expressively communicating his sadness non-verbally. He sighed a great deal, he frowned, he looked up with lonely eyes. And I was hooked, line and sinker. Ever the youngest child, I took it upon myself to cheer him up. I was perky, funny, I made meaningful eye contact. My friend Denise and I called this type of attraction the “But he needs me!” trap. We danced together on the last dance. I believe the song was the GooGoo Dolls “Iris”. The lyrics--And I don’t want the world to see me, cuz I don’t think that they’d understand. When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am--I think especially rang true for us. Lord knows why. I think the only lyrics for teenagers that should be allowed are “You’re body’s changing, life is changing–it’s going to be a little weird for while. Just try to hold your head up and not be an dumb boob.” It doesn’t rhyme as well but I think this is a good life lesson, too.

We left the dance that night smitten. He wrote me a long letter explaining that he was chronically depressed and struggled with suicidal thoughts. I think, actually, his father might have committed suicide. But that night, he didn’t think of killing himself–he only thought of me. It was scary and cheesy but it was enough to get our camp relationship up and running.

I can’t remember very much after that. I think we must of held hands, did we smooch? God I hope so. After camp we wrote each other long, lovesick letters. Then one weekend he up and decided to come visit me. I can’t remember how it all worked out but he and his mom drove together for many hours and stayed in a hotel in Butte, NE. It was so great to see him. But little by little, he drove me nuts. I can’t quite place it, exactly, but I just remember he wasn’t funny. We went over to my aunt’s house to can beans or freeze corn or something. Aunt Coke was immediately unimpressed by how often Chuck’s arm was around my waist. We weren’t in camp anymore. There is a picture of us from that weekend, he has his arm around me and I’m holding a flyswatter.

One lunch I made meatloaf for everyone. I remember being in a hurry and just sort of throwing a bunch of stuff in the bowl, thinking I would just make it simple. During dinner, Martha, who had been nicely peripheral during this time, commented that the meatloaf was boring. In the stunned silence that followed she explained that her meatloaf used to be boring but now she had the perfect recipe. And she would be more that happy to give it to me. If only I would accept the meatloaf into my heart. I was mortified. I wasn’t a great cook at 15 but I certainly wasn’t as bad as some people. She said she loved my cooking just the way it was, but that she loved it too much to let it stay that way. I told her I was interested but I just wasn’t sure I was ready for the next step. Plus, I whispered, my family likes the meatloaf. She said it would be waiting for me when I was ready.

Later that night, in the basement, Chuck said he had something for me. Something that he had never given anyone else. He put some Blues Traveler on, and sat down next to me. He carefully put my hand into his, closed his eyes, tilted his head just so, and started singing with the music, adding my name.

It took me a minute to realize his singing along to the cd was the gift. I pushed pause. “Chuck, I don’t think this is going to work.” We had a long talk where he nodded and said things like “this always happens to me” and I said things like “we’re growing apart.” Besides us both feeling a little sorry for ourselves it was an amicable breakup. One of my best, in all honesty. He gave me a long hug and then asked if he could at least finish his song.

A couple weeks later, I got another email from Chuck. It was his mom’s meatloaf recipe. And it really did change my life.

PS When I told Mom this story she said, You were in 4-H?
PSS A special thanks to Deanna for telling me to blog again. One of my blogs got deleted (stupid blogger) and I started this one and just hadn’t finshed it. I want to be a better blogger. Let go and let blog.

Awh Nuts!

2009-06-27T05:56:00.000-07:00

I am one sibling away from a family reunion--and he gets here Monday. I've been cooking and cleaning and doing all those things people do when expecting a full house. Hence, my blog absence. I was going to write a blog about a little tiny field mouse coming into my room and scaring the holy bejeezus out of me, but I decided against it. I mean who needs to relive that? Talking to my friend Basil, he very nicely asked me what it felt like to be afraid of mice--what was it that I was actually afraid they might do.
"I don't know, Basil, but something really really bad...like crawl on me or something."

We've been playing kickball every evening after dinner since Jen, Paul and their girls got here. It's been so much fun. When I explained to the girls how to play I told them that if they ever get out they should shake their fist in a "J" and say, "Awh nuts!" Fiona caught on right away, but Sinead was a little hesitant about it. I think, because she is actually too cool for such rehearsed humor. But she eventually got into it. Yesterday when she got out, we all said, "Awh nuts." And she just stood there and kind of pouted and Paul said, "Come on Sinead! Let me hear it!" And she just said in a very level quiet voice, "oh nuts."

Boy, all of us move so much slower and creakier since we were young and on the farm. It's been rainy and wet out so we've all been moving a little cautiously. One time, when Nate was barely moving, he slipped and was at least 3 ft in the air with his body horizontal. It was a hard fall and it took him a minute to get up. Though I wouldn't ever want anyone to get hurt, I have to say, watching people fall down is the funniest thing in the world to me. It's so funny that sometimes there is a split second where I can't even breath for the hilarity of it. Some people--decent, respectable people--can wait a proper moment before they laugh so hard they cut off their air supply. I cannot. I am a big jerkface. I have worked so hard on this, and I can occasionally hold off for the obligatory "see if they are ok" time but only when I don't mind running the risk of rupturing my sinuses. Or peeing my pants.

This little problem of mine has really tainted my reputation as a kind and reasonable person. One time Mom told me a story about PawPaw running after a tire that had somehow made a break for it. It was rolling at a pretty good clip towards a road and PawPaw, not wanting it to cause an accident, ran after it. Well, as he was running down the hill, I imagine that his momentum just became too much for his legs--something I have always been afraid of, myself, running down a hill--and he fell headlong onto his front side. When he got back up to where Grandma was, she saw that he had scraped his chin and nose. And then she noticed he had lost the buttons on his shirt from the slide. Here is where I couldn't hold back any longer as Mom told the story, and I just laughed and laughed and laughed. I actually almost died, truth be told. Mom just shook her head and said that that's when Grandma had started laughing too.

Nate, Dad, Jen, Paul and I played Rook last night. It was so much fun. At some point Nate quoted Dad, "Oh it's just cards, have fun you big baby" to himself. It was something he repeated the rest of the night and had us in stitches. It was basically the adult version of "awh nuts." Just a little something to get us to lighten up a little on our competitiveness.

The last few nights Sinead and Fiona have slept with me. Fiona who really loves mice and has really wanted one for the last few months has made me feel much safer at night about the mice. I figure it would have to crawl over her to get to me. And she'd pick it up and be happy and it wouldn't get on me, which would make me happy. Sometimes even elephants need a little comfort.

Jennifer and her Horse

2009-06-12T07:09:00.000-07:00

My beans are growing! I feel just so proud of them. Just for waking up and growing! It reminds me of this conversation I had with Nate awhile back where he and I were commenting on how little it took for Dad to say he was proud of us. "I'm so proud of you, Nate, you got up this morning and...I'm just so proud." Or sometimes it would be in the middle of a conversation and though it was always nice to hear, inside I was always wondering "Could you be a little more specific?

But now, I'm seeing how proud a person can be just for having something that's still around. My beans haven't given me anything to eat, yet, but I love them just the same. They are leaning to the right because there's not enough light, but i just moved them closer to the window so hopefully they will straighten up. Not that I'm judging--they can choose to go in any direction they want.

My Grandpa Lindgren commented on my 6 year old niece, Fiona's chance of being a tree-hugger not too long ago. I guess instead of squishing a bug she caught it and let it go outside. I don't even know what that makes me. When we were planting my cucumbers, mom decided that one of the pots had too many so she told me to look away and then she pinched one my cucumber plants and threw it over her shoulder!!! I was seriously right in the middle of thinking all sorts of helpful and loving thoughts to help them grow when she did this. I shrieked, I'm ashamed to say. She started to do it to another pot and with tears I begged her not to. "I just can't take that right now, Mom!"

Freaking out about a cucumber plant goes so against my roots. So to speak. On the farm, one had to develop a certain amount of callousness to thrive. Jen, Fiona's mom, is not someone I consider an animal lover. I have too many memories of her pushing cats and dogs away from her. And scowling a lot. I brought this up after writing a story about her hitting a turkey with her car on the way to school. She was clearly upset by killing it. And I remember being a little surprised that she was so upset. It was just a turkey, after all. Jen is 8 years older than I am. So by the time I was of age to remember things, she was in the thick of adolescence and puberty (my mother, until maybe 6 days ago, has pronounced it poo-burty. Which, God love her, may give you a clue as to how much insight she gave us while we were in it. I don't know how Dad pronounces it because I don't think he has ever willingly said it out loud. Or if he did, the moment was so terribly awkward my face probably glowed red giving me a spiking fever that caused memory loss of the event. I can't even discuss this in the regular part of the paragraph.). Which is a little unfair, I think to both of us, that she remembers me with her hormone hawked memory and I remember her with my naive one. But she insisted that she didn't hate animals, but that she actually she loved them and had gotten her heart broken over one.

There were a few certainties I could tell you about my sister when she was younger. She sang well, she had curly hair and she loved her horse, Senator Highacres. She would saddle him up and ride off into the distance like a Jane Austin character. When she came home she'd brush him down, being gentle and thorough and sometimes I would watch her. Which sounds creepy and it kind of was, because in order to be around my older siblings a certain invisibility was required. AKA spying. I loved the smell of horses. And as someone who was afraid of everything alive besides people I thought my sister a giant of bravery. She was gentle yet in charge. A concept still a little difficult for me without also imagining a weapon.

Jennifer (this was before she became Jen) practiced for hours riding without needing to hold on to the saddle horn--i didn't even know it had another purpose besides holding onto until I was in high school. And the two of them were often called upon to help Grandpa move cows. I was called on, as well, but for a very different task. Jen actually helped moved the cows and I stood in a road somewhere as a human road block trying not to pee myself. Senator was a smart horse. He knew what to do around cows and Jennifer trusted him. My family has a hard time communicating instructions. Mom jokes that before we had the cb radios in the tractors, Dad used the same hand signal to mean several different things. That, in fact, it was the cb radios that was the key to their happy marriage. There seems to be some sort of disconnect between what needs to happen and how to formulate that into words. And the stakes were time consuming. If you messed up moving cows, you could spending all day trying to fix the mistake and who knows how many corn fields would have been mucked up in the process. I'm not even going to mention the emotional shame it also would have caused. Most days my grandpa is a witty and pleasant man who can go hours and hours with nary a swear word. But put him near a cow and the man has turrets, calling them and the people near them "a dumb boob"...among other things.

So to negotiate such bumpy pastures, you either needed to be able to read minds or have a good horse (or hope to be stolen by gypsies. Which I wished for even when I wasn't in trouble). I see it so vividly, all eyes intently on Jennifer trying to telepathically tell her what to do. That message instead going to her horse, who in return effortlessly communicated to my sister what others could not. I can just imagine how comforting it must have been to have someone on her side during those tense situations.

But one day the love story took a terrible turn, like in a sad movie. The person you like most coughs and the next thing you know....
One day when Jennifer was out riding Senator, along the road, he cut the back of his leg on a piece of old culvert hidden in the grass. This is the part I can hardly stand to think about. Jennifer standing next to her horse and looking at how hurt it was, not knowing what to do. Having to watch Senator do that really sad limp thing horses do when they are hurt, maybe even listening to him grunt with pain.

Uncle Rick was our vet and he came out right away to look at Senator. But he couldn't give us good news. Senator had ripped his tendon and wouldn't ever be fixed. When I asked Dad about this, it was with tears in his eyes that he explained that when Rick told him there was little chance of Senator being well again, it just broke his heart for Jennifer. That if anything could have been done, he would have done it. If nothing else but for Jennifer's sake.

Shortly after, Senator Highacres was sold away. Away Away Away.

It is those who feel a great deal who become callous. More to lose, you understand. And there is something about living on a farm or out in the country that seems to feel so homey and tenuous at the same time. Like life is always on the brink of catastrophe. What a sweet luxury--a gift really--it is then to see a little girl scoop up a bug and let it go outside.

Thoughts about the New Job

2009-06-08T04:42:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I sleep on one of my hands and when I wake up it is still asleep. Yesterday morning was such a morning and when I tried to turn my bedside light off--yes, I'm afraid of the dark--my hand was so asleep I couldn't tell what I was doing. I might as well have been using a cheese grater to turn the thing off. It's feeling a little better now, but not completely awake--kind of like my parents after 8pm. But the reason I got up so early yesterday because I WAS GOING TO WORK! WOOT!

Friday after my body had gotten up, my brain felt like it had maybe decided to go jump in the toilet and push the flush lever a few times. I got my coffee and went and sat by mom who told me she had found me a job if i wanted it and that we could go right now. All I could think was that I should probably go fish my brain out of the toilet for this conversation. When it was put back in it's proper place (a place it seems to be constantly trying to make a break from), it finally sunk in that I had a job. That Mom had just thrown me an inner tube to rest on in the dark waters. And the little air spout hadn't even cut me when I climbed on.

The job will be working outside at this farm that is part of a camp that promotes healthy lifestyles for overweight young girls (How random is that? Pretty freaking random). I'll be doing odd jobs and the like. Friday after "we can go right now!" turned into "I'll need a minute, Mom" we went out there and I helped prime part of a fence with a 19 year old girl who maybe the very picture of lovely. I met her parents (the ones who hired me) and they were so kind and funny. They felt like my own family not so long ago. I had vivid memories of people dad had bought at the FFA auction coming out and helping us to spray beans with a powerful herbicide (Once sprayed, plants actually disintegrated before our eyes) on one of the four comfy seats with umbrellas situated in front of the 4440 John Deere Tractor. The contraption was fittingly called, The Bean Bar--which i'll name a tavern/coffee shop should i ever come into ownership of one. I tried to find a picture of what The Bean Bar looked like but I couldn't find one. So I took the liberty of collaging you a picture. Unfortunately my "Paint" program is a little primitive. I apologize if any of the sprayers look a little phallic.

Growing up on a farm made me feel like maybe I would be the rockstar of the summer at this job. But then I had just a few worrisome doubts. Like last summer when I was in Nebraska and I was helping my cousin, Matt, clear some branches from a tree he was cutting down at my grandparents house. Well I was doing pretty well, what with my jeans and bandanna on. Sometimes looking the part is half the battle, and it's usually a battle I don't win very often. In this book I recently read, a little girl comments on the same thing, "That was the thing about Julie; she always looked exactly right for whatever she was doing, whereas I always looked like I'd walked through the wrong door into a story that had nothing to do with me."

Anyway, Ranessa and I were tossing branches into a big pile. Probably around the first or second branch I tried to ho-heave caught on my piddly target jeans and ripped them asunder. I'm talking from the side seam at about the bottom of my left front pocket to the middle of my leg. It wasn't a cutesy tear that you would spend $80 for, it was a rude opening, practically pornographic. I imagined my conservative and modest grandparents looking out the window at all that skin and clutching their chests and having to breathe in paper bags. But luckily when the door is shut a window that I can shove my fat butt into is opened. In this case, the almost too small window was my bandanna. I pulled it off my hair and tied one corner on a belt loop and another corner on the next belt loop creating a little curtain of privacy. It also helped sop up some of the blood from where the branch had also scraped my leg. Like most things it wasn't perfect, but it managed.

So, you know, there's that to worry about this summer.

I have to say, though, yesterday went pretty smoothly. Aside from when I accidentally painted over a spider which caused me to throw my paint brush in the air while I did the heeby-jeeby dance.

A Letter from Satire

2009-06-06T08:21:00.000-07:00

Dear University of Washington in Seattle,

I just wanted to thank you for opening the world up for me in new and enlightening ways. Some of your requirements like 3 levels of foreign language was tough, but I'm more enriched because of it. I can understand "We're not hiring" in two languages! But now that I am out of that frolicking pretend world, I am excited and optimistic as I look the Real World in the eye. Finding a job, I'm sure, will be a breeze with the education you have provided.

Except, and I hate to whine here, I have been having troubles finding a job. Even the grocery store used my application for confetti for their next party. What gives? I guess I wouldn't be so apprehensive if I hadn't taken that statistics class. Before I would have just called it "the pits" or "a dirty dog of a deal" but now I know exactly how deplorable my success rate has been!

Maybe my Modern Novel professor was right, we are all just a bunch of animals crawling around in the dark, attacking each other with broken mirrors and racial slurs. But then again, who's afraid of Virginia Wolfe anyway? (I mean she's dead, right?)

I especially enjoyed the life-lessons we learned about racism and gender equality. We all should be given a chance, shouldn't we? Which is how I feel every time a potential employer doesn't hire me! What about me! I hate to go against the grain of unsentimental intellectualism but it just feels so personal--maybe I should have taken a few more psychology classes, because the whole thing makes me cry and suck my thumb. But hey, the personal is political, right! So I took to the streets with my cause! But I'm just not much positive response with my one-woman protest march.

Luckily my parents know a lot of people out here. Why just the other day, mom called one of her friends to tell her I was looking for a job. And what do you know, she said they could hire me out at their farm! So yesterday I primed a fence with their pre-college aged daughter. I'm trying to be really encouraging to her about all the wonderful things you can learn in college. And when she asked what I could do with an English degree from UW I wrote her a 5 page paper (MLA style, of course!) on being able to paint a fence.

Anyway, I just wanted to thank you again for my terrific education. Although maybe my Critical Theory professor was right when she told me after class as she took a drag from her American Spirit, "Hey kid, it's not what you know, it's who you know."

Sincerely,

A (somewhat) grateful student

____________________________

Ps. A kind thank you to everyone was praying and/or pulling for me to find a job. I will be doing odds and ends at a camp/farm. The hours are flexible and the pay is what I was hoping for. I'll get to work outside and I'm so very excited for it. Plus I'll get to be one of those outside people who use handkerchiefs and then put them back in their back pockets--which, honest to god, I've always wanted to be.

Not Even Bacon

2009-06-03T11:31:00.001-07:00

Today started out fine, mostly good even. I did my routine search for jobs, applied where I could and then exercised. I was feeling optimistic and even a little fantastic. According to my latest accounting I have 10 days before I have to melt down. It was like one of those movie moments where the detective feels so good at closing the case. But then they look around and their eye focuses on something, a piece of paper maybe or there's a meaningful flashback...and then *BAM they got it! They were wrong! And they have to hurry before their partner/love interest is murdered by the real criminal (or even worse, their partner/love interest IS the murderer!!)! They rush from their desk and save the next victim just in time.

Well my life is something like that. At least the part where I looked down at my phone and I realized my latest accounting hadn't included my phone bill--yes, that is how close we are to melt down that my phone bill could push the whole thing over the edge. So I rushed over to the t-mobile website to put that payment on a different card--I had caught the error with only one day left!!! So I rushed to fix it. Except mom and dad's internet didn't exactly "rush". It mosey-ed. It took it's time. It stopped for pancakes. And then I spent a really long time trying to figure out what to do and waiting for the internet to do what I wanted it to. And I would have called t-mobile right away except I had started to cry.

I say I cry a lot but usually I mean I just leaked a little from my eyes in a brief but tidy fashion--usually at sentimental movies, tv shows, certain commercials, or if someone else is crying or talking about a time they have cried. But this has been some kind of epic crying. I mean I am getting a little dehydrated.

I hate even talking about financial stuff. I haven't been this broke in a long time and I don't even want to think about it. It's just that, if worse comes to worse and even McDonald's isn't hiring and I have a total financial collapse, the companies I need to pay aren't going to care. They'll send my case over to a mean collection agency where a really loud persistent person will call me up and tell me what a loser I am. I know someone who used to be a collection guy and this is what i imagine he did. And then I'll start talking to myself and develop a turning-tricks-on-the-street habit. And the collection agent will be my pimp. For real though, the guy I know is like one of those depressing short stories where the guy is really mean to everyone in a way that almost turns your stomach and then he goes to his empty house and talks sweetly and affectionately to his fish. And by the end you kind of like him but you really wish he wouldn't have said such awful things to the woman who was late on her credit card after having to pay for her husband's funeral.

I realized later that I was just so mad and scared at not being able to keep up. And I had such difficult thoughts of the type of people who can keep up and the kind who can't. And that maybe I wasn't going to be able to catch a break. Ever.

At some point, in the eye of the snot storm, after using half a roll of toilet paper to find the surface of my face, I was kind of hungry. So I went to make a turkey club bagel. I decided to go ahead and microwave the bacon (which is fine, but it's not quite as crispy). The turkey was bad, though, so I couldn't use it. And it was too weird to eat ham and bacon. And since the bacon was already cooked, it was what I was going to have to use. That and some cheese and a mealy slice of tomato. It's like a sandwich a chubby 11 year old would eat after a hard afternoon at the WI. I went to go sit with mom who was just sort of rousing after a long nap when I started crying again. I went in the other room and cried all over my bacon bagel. I couldn't even finish it. Things were bleak, I had even lost my will to eat pork.

Mom told me to go get one of the frozen lasagnas someone had made and on my way out she asked if i was alright. I said, "I'll go get the lasagnas!" in a voice that sounded like someone had set their piano on my throat. When the lasagna was in the oven mom came over to give me a hug and see if she could help with the snot-colored oil slick that was my face. Then she told me I had to return the newspaper I had accidentally taken from one of the neighbors mailbox. She asked if i had seen any help ads and I said only one that was interesting and she told me to call. "Well I would but I can't stop crying!!!" I told her. So she called. I read the number out loud to her in the smushed voice.

The worst of it is over. I have a little bit of a headache but the tears and the snot have ebbed. But I feel strong. I feel like Meg Ryan in Courage Under Fire when she's trying to figure out what to do and she's crying a little bit which someone gives her shit for and she yells at her team, "It's just nerves! It don't mean nothing!" and then she's really heroic. So I'm holding out for tomorrow. Another day to find a job. Another day to eat pork.

Position: Stay At Home Lady

2009-05-28T12:33:00.000-07:00

I went in for my interview for home with 4 disabled women. The supervisor talked non-stop the whole time. She showed me the house, everyone's room, and just talked about this woman's medical problem, and the licenser-this and the licenser-that. And the woman who was manic paced around the house and bit her fist and then spontaneously yelled. She walked by me several times not noticing me at all. But one of the times she passed me she got a little closer and I knew she was up to something. The next time she passed me she started to reach for me arms outstretched just like a zombie. I didn't yell, "Aghhhhh!" like I wanted but I did say "Oh!" and the supervisor just steered her away from me. And the next time she passed by she went for me and I moved behind the supervisor like I used to hide behind mom when Nate was chasing me. By the end of the interview, I think the supervisor and I both knew that it wasn't going to work out. But she nicely asked for my references anyway if I wanted to move forwarded. She also gave me a list for other positions that were available but they all look dumb.

I drove to the rehab center next, dropping off a resume for the dietary aide position. The woman was on the phone and told me to just put the resume down. And she went back to her phone call. I wanted to cry but I also really wanted to strangle her with her telephone cord.

So no job yet. And it's almost the end of the week which was when I was hoping to have one.

So far today I've watched Twilight, made chicken salad for sandwiches, started loading my cds onto itunes (after the great hard drive swipe), broke a lamp, put the ham and beans on a slow simmer, and applied online for a bank teller (it took over an hour because they had one of those "no answer is wrong" long surveys). Oh and had one of those crying/laughing conversations with Shaughn. You know, the kind where you sort of start to cry but it's all just so pathetic you start to laugh... All I want is to be is a stay-at-home-person. For instance, instead of that death-defying interview I could have finished my little in-house garden.

I feel a little bit like Brit (Bret) from Flight of the Conchords when he's in one of his apathetic yet mopey moods.

Guard Your Garden

2009-05-26T11:45:00.000-07:00

The goal for this week has been to get a job. On days off I can look something akin to a koala bear. Some people can look at me from one hour to the next and the question constantly burning in their brains is, "Man she's so cute--has she moved? At all?" The two main ports in my storm are usually the bathroom and the fridge.

So it is often a surprise to some--least of all me--how motivated I can be when it comes to finding a job. Yesterday I wrote so many cover letters that I was starting to feel like I was talking about someone else. Like I was my own secretary or something. It was weird.

Today, Mom and I ran around Lyndonville and St. Johnsbury to drop of more resumes and apply for more jobs. It was pretty fun. I have one interview for Thursday at an adult care facility. There are 4 disabled women who need a lot of personal care. I'm not sure it's for me but I'm really excited for the interview anyway. I mean maybe once i get there and talk to the supervisor it will sound less intimidating but right now I have hard time picturing myself there. One of the women is manic depressive and pinches. Pinches! And you have to keep her away from the really frail woman. I just keep picturing myself getting pinched and yelping and saying things like, "Hey! That is not nice!" and the woman just shrugging like, "whatever. no big whoop." So, we'll see. I also applied at a daycare, a newspaper (sports writer), a hospital dietary aide, a grocery store, JCPenny's, a crisis counselor, and I'm two sips of Perrier away from applying to Buck's Furniture Barn.

Mom looked a little like a country music singer today. She had on red boot/shoes, snazzy jeans, a cute top and a denim jacket (almost enough denim to be a Canadian tuxedo). She looked good though. She had a silvery scarf under a cute beige pageboy hat. Last week both Dad and Mom buzzed their heads. Mom's was just starting to come out. Shaughn said they looked like sweet Buddhists. And they did. Yesterday Mom's head was looking a little dry so I offered to put a little lotion on her head and when I was done my hand was covered in hair. Today Mom's head looks a little like a cat-tail that has been rubbed bald in some spots.

She was so sweet to take me around to all the places I need to drop resumes and fill out applications. The first stop we made was to say hello to Dad at his work. On our way out Mom said my name in such a way I thought she might have forgotten something. I turned around and by the garbage bins was a dirt pile and at the bottom of the dirt pile was a flowering columbine. As soon as I saw her looking at it I knew she wanted it. We looked at each other and without nary a hesitation she said, "I'm going to take it." And she did. She went to Dad's pickup and found a window snow scraper and scooped the plant out of the earth. She carefully wrapped it in some paper towels and put it in her beach bag in the back of her car, not once looking back. A man even walked by and she just looked at him evenly as if it wasn't at all odd she was walking around with a plant sticking out of her bag.

I come from feisty stock, I'll tell you what.

Later after we had bought things like bagels and Perrier Mom noticed a helped wanted sign in the grocery store. So I stayed in the store to fill out an application while Mom went and sat in the car. When I got back to the car she had called the owner of Dad's work building and okay-ed her thievery. "In fact, Mis, she told me I could help myself to whatever I wanted." So a tale of caution my friends.

PS I really want the grocery store job. I really like to pack things--like tetras.

The Naming of Things

2009-05-24T16:54:00.000-07:00

Isn't there a Caedmon's (sp?) Call song about the naming of things? Now that I'm with Mom and Dad for the summer, things like this come to mind. I went for the singing part of church today which is called Worship in most evangelical churches. I was surprised how many songs I still knew. Although, I had this really loud guy behind me who sang so loud that I'm not sure if I was singing along with the tune or not. He had such a dramatic virbrato that I almost wondered if there was someone shaking him.

I decided to start a new blog for several reasons, the main one being the old one felt a little lonely over there in livejournal where no one goes anymore. I sort of felt like the last one to lunch or something. But when I went to name this one, I just couldn't really let go of my old blog name. It's from a Anne Lamott story where she is being so mean to someone it would have made Jesus drink gin straight from the cat dish. Growing up in a conservative family in a watchful town, it's easy to feel like everyone is reading with slight disapproval. So even though this blog will not be about cats and rarely about gin, one of my favorite things to write about is that moment of going from clueless to aware. And it might make you want to drink gin straight from the cat dish. If you had a cat, which this blog is definitely not about.

Correction: The Naming of Things is an Andrew Bird song isn't it? Silly me. The lines between pagan and christian are so twisty! :-)