Mel Magazine's Woman of the Year: Crazy Aunt Purl

It's a few days before New Year's 2007, and I am at home, miserable, with a dreadful, snotty headcold. It happens. It's the first one I have gotten since moving to California (six months into living in Indiana, and I had already had three), and so I figure I am lucky.

I am in bed, using a colleague's laptop, a box of tissues close at hand. I am contemplating a cup of tea. Beside me, my lovably stupid cat Austen is dozing. In the hallway, our one heater is hissing away, making the apartment lovely and warm. Outside, it is remarkably chilly (56 degrees!); don't ever let anyone tell you that California weather is all warm and sunny, all the time. We have seasons here. Kind of.

The holidays are almost over, thank god. I managed to escape with surprisingly few tears, and only a little introspection...just enough for me to be reasonable, not depressed. That, in and of itself, is a bloody Christmas miracle. So, not much sulking, or mooning about, or reading melancholy poetry. Just a few busy, sunny days, and then it's over.

But now I am thinking a little. I am thinking about people, and our relationships with each other, and how we interact. I think we all want to make a difference in someone's life. We all want to somehow justify our sometimes stupid, consuming, wasteful existences on this overcrowded planet, and matter to someone, alter someone's life to the point that they are irrevocably changed (and for the better) for having encountered us. It's noble and idealistic, and we don't like to admit it, but there you go. It's there. Try to deny it. Bet you can't.

I haven't had the chance to alter someone's existence with my own yet, but I have had the luck, the privilege, the honor of someone altering my life, As in, someone altered the course of my existence, gave me the courage to look inside myself and dig out willpower and pluck, and resourcefulness that I didn't even know I possessed. And the really, really whacky thing is that this person who has altered me so deeply is a woman that I have never even met. She is an Internets personality, an (in)famous blogger, with a fanbase of probably thousands. I bet she has altered more than just my life.

Anyway. Her name is Laurie, but most of us know her as Crazy Aunt Purl. She's a plucky, sassy Southern thing, with lots of good cheer and high spirits and the ability to laugh at herself. She's humble and creative and here's the thing, the real kicker: she's got her normal hang-ups and issues and fears, but she is one of the most courageous people that I know, because at the end of the day bravery is not the absence of fear, but rather doing what you have to do despite the fear. She started blogging when her shithead husband left her unexpectedly to recover his creativity and grow a goatee, and proceeded to screw her over and invoke all sorts of bad luck.

Crazy Aunt Purl entered my life one cold, grey, miserable Saturday morning back in February, when I was lying on my futon and being miserable and mopey and dysfunctional. It was not a good time for me, people. I am not really proud of myself, but hey, we all fall every now and then. And if we are lucky, someone comes along and helps us back onto our feet.

My sister Sarah was the one who did that. She would call me every weekend, and prattle on about this and that, tell me about her jobs, and her various crafty projects, and would try not to set me off on one of my crying jags, which I am sure were getting very tiresome to the people around me. Sarah was a saint, pure and simple. And then, on that Saturday morning, she mentioned Crazy Aunt Purl to me. "She writes a weblog," Sarah told me. "She's this really funny woman. She talks a lot about knitting, but she's been going through something, and I think you would relate. She's really funny, and honest, and she has a lot of insights. You should give her a read."
I promised I would, and then re-focused on my miserable plight, and promptly started crying again. Why do something fun on a Saturday when you can wallow in self-pity instead? Wallow wallow.

Well, as it turned out, I did pop by Crazy Aunt Purl's blog that evening, after I picked a horrible fight with my ex and ruined the day for both of us. I was feeling very tender and bruised, and it felt like I was just barely holding onto my last shred of sanity, the one little bit of survival instinct that kept me functional enough to go to work and classes and apply for jobs. I knew if I let go of that one little scrap of sanity, it would be all over. The booby-hatch for Mel.

Anyway, I went to her blog. In her first entry, the most recent, that I read, she was talking about how some random feller at her neighborhood Trader Joe's had hit on her, talked to her, took her by surprise. She didn't know how to handle it: "I have no idea how to handle myself now. Single is hard after married. I want to be good at it, but I'm awkward and scared. Like I'm just one step behind everyone else. Stuck in time or molasses."

Her honesty struck me right away. I scrolled down, read more of her entries. A little bit further on: "You fail and pick up the pieces. You love with abandon, honest love. You're hurt, but you're not bitter. Bitter implies a life without truth, and you live out loud. It's harder and yet easier than you ever imagined. You keep on keeping on."

I stayed up until two Sunday morning, reading through her archives. Maybe under normal circumstances (like, say, now) that would make me a stalker. I don't think so. Her blog is like the best kind of novel--you finish it, and then you pick it back up and start reading it all over again, right from the beginning. There's amazing characters, profound truths, a real eye for detail. It makes you laugh and cry and think, and it inspires you.

I went to bed (okay, futon) that night, still sad and cold and sore. But there was now a still, quiet core in me, some little patch of my soul where more sanity, solid and not easily shaken, was creeping back in, reclaiming my life and existence for myself, taking it away from the sad events of the past month. The victim in me began to wither away that night. After all, here was a woman, an actual real-life person, who had been through so much more than I. She had been married for almost a decade, and the man she thought she knew and loved screwed her over very very badly indeed. But she was recovering, handling herself with grace and good humor and no small amount of dignity, tempered with honest humility. If she could do it, then by god, so could I. There was hope. A light at the end of the tunnel.

So, my life has expanded this past year to take in the stories of Laurie and her cast of whacky characters: her totalitarian cat Soba, her loyal friend Jen, her understanding parents, her somewhat Kentucky-fied neighbors, Crackhead Bob and Drunken Julie. And who can forget her enigmatic gardener, Francisco, and the various other nut-jobs that she encounters in her daily life. It's just a matter of time until she starts blogging about some demented fans that just have to meet her in real life, and maybe it's not a sign of crazy. (Do they have restraining orders in California?) And let's not ignore Mr. X, the initial impetus and inspiration for Laurie's spiritual journey of Living Out Loud. I guess, in a way, even he has altered my existence. Thank you, Mr. X. You suck, and your goatee probably has earwigs in it, or at least a little bit of grey, but you have had your uses.

And a few days after I had read through all of Crazy Aunt Purl's blog, I was holding my head up a little higher. I wasn't hunched over, shuffling from place to place with a shell-shocked expression on my face. There was determination now, and a little bit of sass. I noticed how Crazy Aunt Purl lived in Southern California--what a wretched, yet mythical place it seemed!!--and she appeared to be quite happy and human. She seemed genuine and lived a creative life there...so maybe if she could live and thrive in a place like that, so could I. I had noticed a lot of job postings in California; maybe I was foolish for not applying for them. Maybe I should give it a shot...

And that was how I got to be here, both physically and spiritually. It is because of Laurie, Crazy Aunt Purl, that I regained my sanity, my will, my sense of hope. It was because of her that I had the courage to take a job in California, a state I had never visited before this year, and packed up the covered wagon and moved West and got a couple of kitties and made a life for myself far different from what I had envisioned a year prior. It's okay. It's not what I had planned--in its own way, it's a lot better. You keep on keeping on, and sometimes life sucks, and sometimes it's great. But either way, it's life.

Crazy Aunt Purl, the woman of the year. She has changed my life.

Praying to the Holy Guru of Snot

Ugh. Icky-sick. All this running around+weather changes+interaction with the public means that I am laid up with the cold. My first since moving to California! As if I should get a prize for it. And I guess I have gotten a prize--I've won 7-to-10 days of sore throats, snot, and general misery.
Anyway. Enough of the bitching. Life is going well...hopefully at some point I will establish a routine of posting, so that my posts become less "life updates" and more about the random goofiness, experiences, adventures, and enlightenments that I encounter in my Empire. But until that rhythm is established, we'll just have to make do.

So, my life:

-uuuuuh. Did I mention I am sick?

-Several people I know and love are going through rough patches with jobs, health, and relationships. I am trying to be very supportive, and god knows I can be a Voice of Experience, but it still feels like I am not able to help as much as I want.

-The fellow I was seeing and I have decided to promote ourselves to girlfriend-boyfriend status. So, a few quick and dirty details: his name is Arash, he likes cats, he's a better cook than I, and I enjoy the time I spend with him. Now that I am not pondering "where is this going"-type questions, I can chill the fuck out and have a good time.

-Work is going well. I am about to hit my 6-month mark, and I really adore some of my patrons. Others, not so much. And then others are just a complete riot.

-Christmas has passed, quickly and quietly. I thought it would be a lot more sad and depressing, considering where I was last year, and where I planned to be this year, and how VERY MUCH I am not where I planned to be. But I spent the day with Dr. A and her family, and I consider myself lucky. I have nothing to mope about.

And now I am going to go be sick. Who knows? Maybe I will update again tomorrow.

Uncomfortably Numb

Seasons! Whod'a thunk it?

It's California. SOUTHERN California! And it's effing COLD out there. 30 degrees the other night. When I came home on Wednesday morning, I nearly slipped on ICE which had covered the walkway leading to my apartment. ICE, people. Hell has apparently frozen over...or at least a puddle that nearly killed me.

And at work, my poor fingers don't cooperate so much with me. They are too stiff with cold. The roommate and I are too cheap to turn on the heat at night, so the other night I broke down and bought a comforter. Between its fake-downy goodness, and the obnoxious cat-holes that sleep by my feet, I manage to keep warm at night.

But...ICE???

Turkey-Induced Meanderings

Introspection. Around the holidays, it's inevitable. Y'all know this.

I cannot help but to enjoy the holidays, at least in theory. The food, the music, the decorations. But the sap in me indulges in a lot of sentimental claptrap and reminiscing, and now that I am, like, millions of miles from home (I am not even sure I know where or what home is now) I am homesick to boot. And the older I get, the more I regard the holidays with some wariness--after all, the Thanksgiving when I was ten, Mum went off the deep end and I became acquainted with the meaning of alcoholism. The Christmas I was thirteen, I developed an ovarian cyst that decided it just had to burst, then and there (children? who needs kids, anyway?). Two years ago, at Thanksgiving, my grandmother had a stroke. And then, last Christmas, the biggest joke holiday of all. Perfection on the brink of going to hell.

So, I am beginning to understand how problematic the holidays are. This year, I am trying to go through them as quietly as possible. Not ignorning them, per se, just not throwing myself in with the same amount of revelry and abandon as years past. I've lost too much this year for me to be in a really celebratory mood, and while I have gained a great deal, it's been at a very high price, and somehow, it just seems more fitting that I observe this year's holiday season with more contemplation and reflection than joy and celebration. There will be other holidays where things seem to come together--hopefully with more reality than last year's!--and this holiday season is not one of them.

And so it goes. I'm thankful--but then, I have felt thankful for the majority of the year. I've been blessed, even if I have lost a lot too. We all lose every now and then--I am glad I was able to take my hits and keep on keepin' on.

I have a male in my life.

His name is Austen. He's of mixed ethnicity--he's got both black and white in him. Like most males, he can be a little slow sometimes when it comes to picking up on things. He can be annoyingly persistent in trying to get what he wants. He doesn't communicate nearly enough, and a lot of the time, I am bending over backwards, trying to figure out what the hell he wants from me.

But he loves to cuddle. He's very intuitive at times--he knows when I need emotional support (when don't I, really?), and he is usually right there, doing what he can to help. I met him soon after I moved to California, and it was one of the best things I could do for myself, letting him into my life.

I woke up in bed with him, the morning after I had told M. I didn't want to be with him anymore. Austen was there, cuddled up to my chest, trying to give me kisses. He understood.

And he's got a wonderful, soothing, gentle way about him, even when he purrs.
Yeah, he's my cat, the love of my life. For now. I may be a single librarian who's crazy about her kitty, but I am no crazy cat lady. I'm just a single girl, in a big state of a lot of strangers, with a kitty that knows me very well. It's not always going to be like this--someday, hopefully sooner rather than later, I am going to kick Austen out of the bed for some male, of more homo sapien inclinations. And he knows it, and he loves me anyway. The unconditional love of pets is one of the biggest comforts in this life.

If You've Never Stared Off Into the Distance Then Your Life is A Shame...

A couple of weeks back, I went with Not-Boyfriend* to a Halloween party in the Valley. I had a pleasant time, of course (in fact, a downright fun time) but that's neither here nor there. What is pertinent is the journey. And I actually mean that in a non-cheesy sense.

See, most of the time I can forget I am in SoCal. I mean, I can't delude myself into thinking I am in Indiana, or even Florida, but here in Sunnydale--humble, unpretentious, low-income Sunnydale--it's easy to carry on a life, isolated from the rest of Southern California and the values and pop culture and stuff. But when I venture beyond the Empire, it all kinda hits home, suddenly, violently, rudely.
Example: when Not-Boyfriend and I approached Los Angeles, we started passing exits for Hollywood, Ventura Blvd....all those names that I've heard all my life, through all mediums of media and pop culture, and yet never paused to really think about, because they never impinged on my Floridiot-cum-Hoosier existence. I had never even visited California before this year, for pity's sake. Anyway, passing all those exits, with those very-familiar names, suddenly brought home to me where I was. Southern California. How odd, I thouht, with the alarming detachment that seems to hover in my spirit these days. Detachment gave way to a slight bit of panic, instantly quelled, and the dangerous thought, "How the HELL did I end up here?"

The feeling passed, and I tried to focus on enjoying the evening. Later, after the party, Not-Boyfriend gave me with a real treat; he took me on a drive up something called "Black Canyon Road." The road went high up over some mountains, and eventually he stopped the car and presented me with a breathtaking, glittering view of Simi Valley--a vast world of twinkling lights, distant and indifferent to my existence, yet terribly relevant and comforting to me. Millions of people were in those lights, and it was a wonderful thing to see on a Saturday night in October, when I questioned the sanity of my moving here.

It doesn't matter. I am here, and I am part of those twinkling lights. Even out here in Sunnydale.

*I call him Not-Boyfriend because if I had to describe his relation to me, I think the closest I could get would be "Boyfriend". But he's not my boyfriend, so therefore, he's my Not-Boyfriend. What the hell else am I supposed to call someone whom I have been seeing for three months, but have no idea where the hell it's going because I'm too chicken-shit to ask?

It's Not Even Halloween-This is Ten Kinds of Lame

So, some bumming news. I'm not going away for the holidays this year--none of them, not Thanksgiving or Christmas or New Year's. Turns out my vacation leave does not kick in until I've been at Sunnydale Library for six months (probation period, you know). And so I am here, in Southern California, while my sisters and mother and grandparents and god only knows how many friends are feasting on turkey and stuffing in Florida.

It's not the worst thing in the world. I've already had an invitation to a colleague's home for Thanksgiving dinner. I am debating cooking dinner here at Chez Ghetto and having some people over. There are my cousins in San Pedro, who will no doubt throw a shitfit if they find out I am family-less at Thanksgiving. (Hi Lynne!) There's Alexis in Riverside. Lots of options, and I am one lucky bitch.

And then there's Christmas. I've already been invited to spend Christmas with Alexis's family, which is probably what I will end up doing. And anyway, I should probably pass this holiday quietly, contemplating and mourning and yes, giving thanks. Perhaps "austerity" is the word I am looking for. Maybe I am supposed to mark the passing of this year in a quiet, understated manner, in stark contrast to last holiday season. Last holidays, I thought I was surrounded by family. I thought my future was laid out before me, a set and clear path. Lots of celebrating, and all that jazz. This year, it's different. And different is not bad.

But "I'll be home for Christmas" is going to be the song I avoid this year.

A Midnight Ramble...

For four years, I worked at a toy store in Florida. As you can probably imagine, these years were marked by the Holiday Seasons, in which rabid parents duked it out for Elmo or Furbies or Nintendos, and we worked till three and four o'clock in the morning, and barely had the time to think of our own Christmas plans. We spent the majority of the year psyching ourselves up for November and December, and it was an adrenaline rush, and kinda cool. In September and October, I'd start dreaming about the toy store at Christmas, and I would always, always wake up wondering, "How the hell is it almost the holiday season again? How could a year have passed?" But I didn't really mind, because, hey, I like Christmas.

Yeah, that's right. I like Christmas. I don't really give a hoot about the religious end of it--my NeoPagan ass couldn't care less, in all honesty. But I love the decorations, the yummy food, the lucious wrapping paper wrapping carefully-selected gifts for my loved ones, the (hopefully) cold weather, the parties, the traditions, and yes, I even love the sappy Christmas carols. Even the religious ones. But Christmas is a double-edged sword...I love it, but since I am a sentimental sap, I always find myself thinking about the past year, the people I have lost over the years. Especially coming up to the New Year, I begin to think about all the wrong turns and mistakes and all.

And the other day, as I was lurking around a department store, I happened across a Christmas display. Decked-out trees, tacky Christmas villages mechanically playing Christmas tubes, twinkling lights. It's not even Halloween, and already, it's Christmas! Perhaps, some other year, I'd just squee and get excited, but not this year. Not after all that has transpired since last Christmas, not after the battles won and the dreams lost. I'm not ready for it to be the holidays, plain and simple. It just can't be that time of year, already!

I'm in a good place, in all senses of the word. I guess it's just that this is so not where I planned to be when I was dreaming of my future, last Christmas. I mean, I expected to be engaged by the end of this year. I thought I'd be living in a townhouse in Broad Ripple, and all that jazz. And the reality could not be more different...I am living in Southern California and am decidedly unengaged. I'm far, far away from that happy little Indiana life I had concocted for myself. And that's okay. I like where I am at--I love my friends, and my cats, and my job. It's just a little disturbing to think that already, almost a year has passed since that time when I thought life could not be better.

I guess life really can't get better when you are dreaming and imagining that things couldn't get better, and thus divert yourself from the reality.

So, soon it will be Christmas. And I'll be sad, and happy, and somehow I'll find a way to reconcile these emotions, and I'll find a way to confront the fact that yeah, life changed this last year, but that's just what life does. What it boils down to is that time passes regardless of whether or not I roll with it, so I may as well roll with it and be happy.

The lesson of the day: It's possible to rejoice in where you are in your life, but mourn the way you got here. No regrets, of course, but some honest sadness. And then we move on.

And eat Christmas cookies.

Moving Along

Mmmm. I'm home again. it's been a busy week--I had to do the "break-up vigil" for the past few days, and it was an experience which took me far from home, physically, anyway. Emotionally, it was actually pretty close to home--a spare moment's reflection made me realize that I was a good person to keep the vigil: my elephant memory retained the memories of how kind everyone (well, most) were to me last winter, and the ways in which they took care of me, and so I was able to pass that onto my friend. But also, I was able to intellectually and emotionally recall how I felt, last winter--all the shock, the discombobulated thoughts, the pleading, bargaining, self-reproach, and numb disbelief, periodic euphoria.

I've come a long way, in every sense possible.

But now I am home with my internets and my kitties, who are as happy to see me as I am to see them. It's not going to be home for much longer--in less than two weeks, I am picking up sticks and moving. Again. This time, I will be moving closer to where I work--I will actually be in Sunnydale, and sharing an apartment with one of my colleagues. The colleague is nice, and the apartment is a little shabby on the outside (okay, ghetto), but big enough on the inside with a decent-sized kitchen, and a funky little hall cupboard, and the nester in me is rejoicing. This is the best thing I can do for myself financially--I will be saving a considerable sum of money each month.
So, as of 1 October, I am going to have a new home. Which means I will have moved nine times within the last 4.5 years. I'm really not a commitment-phobe! Even though my new lease will be month-to-month. Bliss!

All I Ever Learned Of Love Was How to Shoot At Someone Who Outdrew You...

Lately, I have been listening to a favorite song of mine, Rufus Wainwright's "Hallelujah", without really knowing why. And then, tonight, I was discussing it with one of my Indiana People...how it's an incredibly intense, melancholy song, but how there is a note of...something, other than sadness to it. Because, as my conversational partner pointed out, while the song is a sad one, its title is nevertheless "Hallelujah", which is essentially an expression of joy and rejoicing. This segued into the nature of love, and how it is essentially something incredibly sad and yet worthy of rejoicing, all at once. A strange victory, if you will.

But lord, do I have a lot left to learn about it.

The Ones that Can Know You So Well Are the Ones Who Can Swallow You Whole...

It's official--I belong to California now. This morning, I took my written driver's test, and got my license. Next time I go to the DMV, I'll register to vote.
But even as I cement my new life here in SoCal, there are pleasant reminders of the lives I left behind. I got two lovely, lovely surprises in the mail today: a belated birthday package from a friend in Indiana, and a fat letter from a friend in Florida. Both brought me an enormous measure of comfort--the package because, hey! gifts in the mail are great! And also, friends who send them are great! And the letter because I love to get letters from people, and my friend in Florida puts his heart and soul in them, as I do with the letters I send him. We've been corresponding for over two years, and he knows me through my words in a way that few people will ever have the privilege or courage to know. And his letter today brought enormous comfort--I've made some huge changes in my life in the past few months, and it's nice to know that someone who knows me from 'way back when is still there, still knows me, still approves of me, still supports me. Familiarity can be suffocating, but it can also be wonderful and sweet.

Oh, and the package of goodies was awesome--stationery (wooo! I can write my letters on pretty paper!), a bottle of honey mead from the Oliver Winery back in Indiana (nope, still not homesick), and a silver necklace. I have to say, I find it funny that I get more gifts of jewelry from my female friends than I do my lovers.

Other than this little hilight, life has been pretty busy. Here's a run-down with some major events bulleted, and then one memory in narration form.

-Pop culture references continue: In the past week, I have watched Baseketball, Napoleon Dynamite, Syriana, and Ali G.

-Somehow I have managed to lose 4 pounds. I have no idea how, or where they have gotten to.

-Last Saturday, I went driving with Recent Acquaintance down a country road with Ramstein blaring on the car speakers. Oddly enough, it was as relaxed as I had been all day.

-This coming Sunday I am going to Huntington Beach for kayaking, boogey-boarding, and a bonfire.

-My colleague Mr. E and I have decided that dating is like an episode of LOST --one never knows what's going to happen next. Does that mean that love is like an invisible beast that runs out of the forest at random times for the sole purpose of eviscerating us? Must ponder.

* * * * *

In the predawn hours, while most in the tiny little town were still sleeping, still unaware of the night life beyond their windows, a wind arose. Soft and gentle at first, it tinkled through windchimes and rustled through the few trees. And then, without warning, the wind strengthened. It became noisy, snapping tree branches, causing eaves and roofs to creak and settle, rattling window blinds.

Sleeping as lightly as I was, it was not long before the noise awakened me. I stirred and sat up, disconcerted at first by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then, my bearings sorted out, I began to listen to the wind and the havoc it was creating. Quietly, so as to not disturb my slumbering companion, I assumed the position that had become so common to me lately: knees drawn up and together, tucked under my chin, my arms wrapped tightly around my legs. A defensive, protective posture. The wind had spooked me--too many years of violent, unexpected storms and superstitious Alice Hoffman novels had left their mark on me. Logically, I knew that sudden strong winds were normal in the Pass, but this was the first time I had encountered them, and it felt strange.

It took a while for me to drift back to sleep. But the wind continued blowing. And in a way, they are blowing still.

Midnight Nonsense

I haven't been posting a lot lately--and funnily enough, it's not because I have nothing to talk about. On the contrary, there are plenty of events, interactions, conversations, emotions upon which I could reflect. I could talk about how I went kayaking for the first time the other day, and surprised myself with how well I took to it. I could talk about how I swam in the Pacific Ocean for the first time in my life, and dove into the waves and let the icy waves buffet me about as I thrilled in the sensuality of it. I could talk about how I saw the Milky Way for the first time, and felt as though I were more aware of myself and my place in this swirling chaos than I had been aware of in a very long time. I could talk about how, last Sunday, I was so tired and lonely and homesick (homesick for where, exactly?) and yet somehow managed to find the courage to show my vulnerability to one of my Riverside mates, who opened up her home and washing machine to me, and drew me a bath and passed me one of her beautiful bathrobes and treated me better than I have remembered to treat myself in a while. I could talk at length about any of these events, but it's late, and my eyelids are drooping and my mind is racing. The longer I spend in Southern California, the more I edge away from the shallow end of the pool and venture out into the darkened depths of the unknown--my career, my emotional terrain, my personal relationships, all of them lie further out, further than I have ever swum before. My heart is full, and growing larger all the time, and my mind is swirling with all of the thoughts and emotions that plague someone as analytical and self-aware as I. I'm staring all of this down, trying to process it, trying not to shut down emotionally. Trying to gather the courage to plunge into whatever life I am brave enough to forge for myself, and all the while wanting nothing more than to head for the hills and not look back.

Problem is, with a heart as big as mine, there's no running. There's only courage, often times faltering, and sometimes silence, as I try to process something new. The only way out is through. But for now, sleep. Tomorrow's another day--another day of courage, another day of forging ahead, making my life as happy and right as I can.

The Ones that Can Know You So Well Are the Ones Who Can Swallow You Whole...

It's official--I belong to California now. This morning, I took my written driver's test, and got my license. Next time I go to the DMV, I'll register to vote.
But even as I cement my new life here in SoCal, there are pleasant reminders of the lives I left behind. I got two lovely, lovely surprises in the mail today: a belated birthday package from a friend in Indiana, and a fat letter from a friend in Florida. Both brought me an enormous measure of comfort--the package because, hey! gifts in the mail are great! And also, friends who send them are great! And the letter because I love to get letters from people, and my friend in Florida puts his heart and soul in them, as I do with the letters I send him. We've been corresponding for over two years, and he knows me through my words in a way that few people will ever have the privilege or courage to know. And his letter today brought enormous comfort--I've made some huge changes in my life in the past few months, and it's nice to know that someone who knows me from 'way back when is still there, still knows me, still approves of me, still supports me. Familiarity can be suffocating, but it can also be wonderful and sweet.

Oh, and the package of goodies was awesome--stationery (wooo! I can write my letters on pretty paper!), a bottle of honey mead from the Oliver Winery back in Indiana (nope, still not homesick), and a silver necklace. I have to say, I find it funny that I get more gifts of jewelry from my female friends than I do my lovers.

Other than this little hilight, life has been pretty busy. Here's a run-down with some major events bulleted, and then one memory in narration form.

-Pop culture references continue: In the past week, I have watched Baseketball, Napoleon Dynamite, Syriana, and Ali G.

-Somehow I have managed to lose 4 pounds. I have no idea how, or where they have gotten to.

-Last Saturday, I went driving with Recent Acquaintance down a country road with Ramstein blaring on the car speakers. Oddly enough, it was as relaxed as I had been all day.

-This coming Sunday I am going to Huntington Beach for kayaking, boogey-boarding, and a bonfire.

-My colleague Mr. E and I have decided that dating is like an episode of LOST --one never knows what's going to happen next. Does that mean that love is like an invisible beast that runs out of the forest at random times for the sole purpose of eviscerating us? Must ponder.

* * * * *

In the predawn hours, while most in the tiny little town were still sleeping, still unaware of the night life beyond their windows, a wind arose. Soft and gentle at first, it tinkled through windchimes and rustled through the few trees. And then, without warning, the wind strengthened. It became noisy, snapping tree branches, causing eaves and roofs to creak and settle, rattling window blinds.

Sleeping as lightly as I was, it was not long before the noise awakened me. I stirred and sat up, disconcerted at first by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then, my bearings sorted out, I began to listen to the wind and the havoc it was creating. Quietly, so as to not disturb my slumbering companion, I assumed the position that had become so common to me lately: knees drawn up and together, tucked under my chin, my arms wrapped tightly around my legs. A defensive, protective posture. The wind had spooked me--too many years of violent, unexpected storms and superstitious Alice Hoffman novels had left their mark on me. Logically, I knew that sudden strong winds were normal in the Pass, but this was the first time I had encountered them, and it felt strange.

It took a while for me to drift back to sleep. But the wind continued blowing. And in a way, they are blowing still.

Still A Nomad, But No Longer in Exile

In 6.5 years, I have moved seven times. Each time, it gets a little easier--I say good-bye a little more lightly, leave behind a few more belongings, learn to let out a little more of the baggage. Sure, it rips me apart to leave the people I love and with whom I have forged connections, but I am philosophical about it. Partings are a part of life. And each time I leave people and possessions behind, I become a little more self-reliant, a little more detached from physical possession (for example, there's a trail of stoneware across the U.S., abandoned to my various ex-boyfriends). And it's been a very long time--perhaps since the Florida years--that I felt I had a home. Thus, I say I'm "in exile."

I especially felt like that in Indiana, which is exceptionally sad. I loved Indiana--loved the climate, the scenery, the farmland, the seasons, the architecture, the anonymity. Problem was, Indiana didn't love me.

I found it hard, especially at first, to connect with people. Midwesterners are painfully reserved and socially awkward, and my open, free, doofy demeanor did not go over well. I suppose I made friends easily enough--after all, M. and I started dating pretty much immediately after I moved there (whoops! I tripped!!)--but forging connections, that took a little longer. And I felt the lack of it keenly.

And I was always sick in Indiana--within ten days of moving there, I had come down with a horrible sinus infection, caused by aggravated allergies, and a urinary tract infection. (Okay, so allergies did not cause the UTI. Other, more...uh...vigorous activities were the culprit of that). And the sicknesses just never really stopped. I was unable to smell anything during most of the almost-two years I was there.

But still, I loved Indiana. For a long time, I assumed I would be spending the rest of my life there, being a literacy librarian and living in a quaint Broad Ripple Bungalow and popping out argumentative babies with receding hairlines, big hips, and dysthymia. However...if you want to hear god laugh, make plans. In hindsight, I can say that I loved Indiana, but I don't think it was ever my home, not matter how hard I tried.

And now, I am here, in Southern California. On the way to work the other morning, as I looked out over the canyon, it occurred to me--This is home. I feel more right here than I ever did in Indiana. I might still be a nomad, but I am no longer in exile. The heat might melt me into a gooey pile of estrogen and sex appeal on a daily basis, but at least it happens in a place where I belong. There's a dozen little ways that I sense it: Katie, showing up on my doorstep and helping me assemble furniture, even though she had never met me before. One of the Library Assistants at work, who only knows me as the whacky new librarian, offers to drive me to the airport when I leave for Portland. When I bathe, I can inhale the scent of my toasted-vanilla-and-sugar body wash. I wake up in the morning to cats purring and nestled close to me. My Riverside mates laugh at the incredibly odd things that I blurt out at equally odd times. This is home.

Maybe it's nothing to do with the location, and everything to do with me. Unbidden, a memory from earlier in the spring floats into my head, me saying to my closest friends: "I can be happy no matter where I live. I am all that I need to make a happy life my reality." So maybe I would feel happy and at home, whether I lived in SoCal, or Mississippi, or Alaska (Alaska! Think of all the single men! It would be Mel-hunting season, all year 'round!). I'd like to think that's the case.

But I am still Mel, and I have my common sense and values. So here is my SoCal survival guide, to keep this place my happy home so long as I live here:

1. I will use SPF 10,000 on a daily basis.

2. I will not bleach my hair blonde.

3. I will attempt to journey to a beach or ocean (with afore-mentioned SPF 10,000) on a semi-regular basis.

4. I will not have casual sex. I'm not emotionally capable of it, and no change in geographic location will alter that.

5. I will stay here long enough to really enjoy this experience.

6. I will not buy anything on Rodeo Drive.

7. I will refrain from crying like a bitch with a skinned knee the next time there is an earthquake.

8. I will not get a boob job. (Thank goodness I don't actually need one).

Welcome to the Club

Not that long ago, I was having conversation with Recent Acquaintance, who informed me that "Clumsiness was hot." I think he was being sarcastic. But ha! Sarcasm and mockery do come back to haunt us. In this case, Recent Acquaintance realized how hot clumsiness can be when he broke two toes, trying to avoid stepping on his kittens. The really sad thing about this is that he broke his toes separately, on two different occasions. And now he is hobbling everywhere. Really hot. Recent Acquaintance has now been dubbed "The Gimp." Poor fella--I actually feel bad for him. As clumsy as I am, I have managed to avoid broken bones.

At least they match.

That Takes Ovaries!

While I am all about overthrowing gender stereotypes and discourse that constricts and unfairly defines the characteristics of masculinity and femininity, I have to say that "That takes ovaries!" does not have the same ring to it that "that takes balls!" or "cajones!" or "brass!" does. Which is a pity. But, there it goes.

Recently, I was talking to my friend Sooz, from Indiana. She was packing up her apartment; she had been offered a library job in West Virginia, and while she was hesitant, she decided to take it.

As I folded my laundry, and listened to her wry, practical voice in my ear, she said something that stopped me short.

"I wasn't sure I was going to take it," she was saying. "I don't know anyone there. And then I thought, 'Look, if Mel can do it--load up her car and drive to Southern California and start a new job in a new place, then I can do it too.'"
I have to say, I'm not accustomed to someone looking to me as an example of the best or bravest course of action. It was a little flattering. But now, the more that I think about it, the more I realize, she wasn't flattering me, she was just telling it how it was. I packed up my car and left my friends and family and a lot of worn-out dreams, and drove for three days and ended up in hot, crowded Southern California, where I knew next to no one, and set up a home and got a couple of cats and made friends and am getting out there on a daily basis, and if that doesn't take balls or brass or whatever, then I don't know what does.

Usually, I downplay it. It hasn't been too terribly hard, I don't think--but then, one of my strengths is my adaptability. But every now and then, I will admit--this took balls. No, let's just put it out there: it took ovaries. Sure, it's been hard on occasion, and will continue to be hard. I'd do it again, in a heartbeat. But with ovaries like these, I am not backing down. And I am willing to bet Sooz isn't, either.

Rules Were Made to be Broken. Or At Least Re-Written.

Single in Southern California. Not bad, not bad at all. But there's a problem with this scenario--I have never really dated. More like, I'd go out on a date, and somehow end up committed. Almost by accident, it would seem--whoops! I tripped! And so I am utterly, completely, 100% clueless about what to do. What to say. How to pace it. For example, I guess it's really not kosher for me to introduce myself to boys by saying, "Hi! I'm Mel. And I'm single. I don't do casual sex. So how do you feel about relationships?" Yeah, I know this is a real mood-killer, and most fellas in my age range would (perhaps sensibly) head for the hills as soon as that flew out of my mouth. But that's always been how I've rolled. I'm a straight shooter, and I usually just want to cut through the bull and know what folks' motivations are, and lay it all out there. (And I wonder why people say I'm intense.)
So, there's something of a dilemma here. And it's exacerbated by The Rules.

There's a published book of Rules out there, that instructs us womenfolk how to snare us a dreamboat of a man. I remember coming across it in a used bookstore back in Indiana, a couple of years ago, and laughing so hard I nearly cried. But the damned nonsense has sold, and apparently, boys read it too. This disturbs me on many levels (why? Why would a male want to read it??? What possible motive?), and I want to know what the hell is being said in this book. What sorts of shit males think females do. And because I think it's time to re-write The Rules, Mel-style.

And like the smart, sexy information professional that I am, I do my research.

I had to go to Borders for some other books, and so I decided to acquire The Rules. And so, somewhere in the Inland Empire tonight, there is one very disturbed Borders employee.

I went out to Riverside today to spend time with my mates, and decided it was the opportune time to get the books. There were several on the list, but the one I really wanted, Borders didn't have. Apparently retail stores are staffed by prudes, even in Southern California. So, I picked up some other books that I had been meaning to acquire. And lordy, lordy, what an assortment! Along with The Rules, I picked up a replacement copy of the latest Harry Potter (I left mine in Indiana) and The Story of O (because what person's life isn't complete with an erotica/BDSM classic?) That's a fucked-up assortment, even for me. I would have picked up The Complete Kama Sutra, too, but it was $20 for the paperback version.

Porn, magic, and bad dating advice aside, I spent the afternoon in the pool at a friend's house in Riverside, along with a few other ladies. They have been conscripted into The New Rules Editorial Board. Think Sex in the City--er, the Empire, but with less shoes.

Coherent. Barely.

On the way home this evening. I noticed some wildfires burning up on the moutainside. It was an oddly breath-taking sight; the orange fires glowed in the black sky like eerie, intense Christmas lights. As I tried to take in the view and not drive off the road, I reflected once again on how happy I am that I left Indiana to come here. It seems that every day, I recieve another sign that this is where I need to be. For now, anyway.

* * * * *

One of the (many) quirky things about me is my sad ignorance of pop culture. All those damned university studies, and my insistence on taking them seriously, really prevented me from maintaining an awareness of current television, music, and movies. Tonight, I made a step towards remedying that ignorance when I watched Fight Club with a New Acquaintance. I missed the ending, but I really liked what I saw. Favorite quote: "You've got to lose everything before you can do anything." I think I could sum up my year so far with those words. Anyway, the movie inspired a discussion between New Acquaintance and I, the subject being, "If you could fight anyone in history, who would it be?"

My list:

1. Robespierre

2. Josef Mengele

3. Margaret Thatcher

4. Michael Brown

5. David Hume

6. Ann Coulter

...More coming, the more I think on it.

* * * * *

Research Question of the week: What is the difference between porn and erotica? Are they pretty much the same, except that erotica is marketed towards women and porn towards men? Is porn erotica with pictures? Or are they completely different, with porn containing mute women who are inclined towards threesomes and don't want anything more than big penises, and erotica containing women and men, both acting as equal agents, but with the women wanting to cuddle with their men after their bondage/sex sessions? I am just wondering. If they are the same, why two different terms? If they are the same, it's rather unfair to males, because porn is associated with men, and stigmatized, whereas erotica is just...well, I don't know what society thinks about erotica. I guess so long as it keeps our women randy, that's all that matters to most people.

So, yes. Must research porn and erotica, to distinguish differences.

* * * * *

Yesterday I purchased my tickets for Portland! September 3-6, I am going to be chilling out in the Pacific Northwest with one of my soulmates, her boyfriend, and their cats. And...it will be time for the eyebrow piercing! *Bounce bounce* Three days of used bookstores, good friends, pleasant weather, and an example of a healthy, functional couple. Woo!

Is it September yet?

I'm trying to find a second source to back this up, but according to CNN, the six Egyptian students that were missing this week have been arrested.

...? Arrested for what, exactly? Not turning up on time for classes? It's utter poppycock, and I feel bad for those kids. Talk about bad timing. But seriously, how do we justify arresting them? On what grounds--we assumed they might be up to no good, based on our histrionic, preconceived notions and some really bad timing? Grrr. Just...grrrr. A couple more coincidences and incidents like the ones over the past couple of days, and there's going to be a witch-hunt.
(Hey, FBI, if you are reading this, can you send a Scully look-alike to question me? I don't mind if she plays "bad cop.")

On a different subject, today is Friday, and payday, and even though it's not really a weekend for me, I decided to celebrate a little. So, after work, I swung by Von's and picked up a bouquet of flowers. (Lesson of the day: Von's flowers are really pricey. I got the cheapest bouquet, that had mainly mums in it. I am not a huge fan of mums or carnations--I find them generic, much like roses--but dammit, I wanted some flowers.) And they do jazz the place up a bit. So, tonight, I had my dinner with flowers and Bach cello playing in the background.

Recently, I discovered a museum out towards L.A. that looks to be really appealing--the Getty Museum. From what I can tell from the website, and a book I have consulted, there's quite a variety of works there--classical, medieval, and renaissance. And I just learned that later this fall, there's going to be an exhibition there with some of Caspar David Friedrich's works--I love his works, and have always wanted to see some of them. I might hold off on heading to the Getty until then. That will be a huge treat. And cheap, too!

I have been busy this week, and have not had the chance to read much. However, I finally finished the much-hyped Year of Magical Thinking. Mum had told me about it earlier in the year, and aroused my curiosity. It was an interesting memoir of grief. Perhaps, back in the spring time, I would have related to it more, and while I still agree with a lot of what the author says ("Life changes fast; life changes in an instant"), I tend to shy away from the pain. The author had lost her husband of 40 years one winter night; up until that point they had lived and worked and created together (they were both writers); they had not only a marriage, but a life partnership. And then, poof, the husband is gone, the wife is numb and slightly deranged by grief, and I don't think a lot of us like to contemplate the destruction or loss of that kind of partnership. As hard it must be to create a partnership, a happy unity of minds like that, it must be a hell of a lot harder to lose it.

Word of the day, from Dictionary.com's archives:

triskaidekaphobia: fear of the number 13.

The morning we left Bloomington, a freak storm arose. We were supposed to leave at 4 in the morning, and since I stayed up so late, packng and doing laundry, I decided not to sleep. I just settled down on the futon--my bed, my home, my self-imposed exile--watched the lightning flash from the living room windows, and waited for Eric to arrive. Eventually, he did, fifteen minutes late thanks to the torrential downpours. He stood silently in the rain, head lifted up to the sky, an enigmatic expression on his face. Lord, I thought, we can't both of us be angsty and contemplative on this trip.

We loaded up his car with my excess baggage, and without a backward glance at my old home, I settled in for the ride. All the way through Southern Indiana, the lightning lit up the sky, the wind buffeted the car, and rain obscured visibility. Eric sat, hunched over the wheel, and though I was not driving--Eric insisted on driving the entire week--I stayed awake, alert, silent, vigilant, perhaps in sympathy, perhaps in camradarie. Both completely useless, of course.

Finally, we emerged from Indiana, into Kentucky, and with painfully obvious and therefore pedestrian symbolism, the storm cleared up. The sun began to rise, and we stopped off at a terrible diner to stretch our legs and get some (alleged) nourishment. As I emerged from the car and into the Deep South--my home, even if I would never live there again--and felt the humid air, already warmer, and listened to the crickets and mockingbirds ("The Confederate Airforce," as Eric wryly observed) of my youth, a small measure of tension seeped out of my shoulders. New Orleans, my second family, a week away from Indiana with the most stalwart and undemanding travel companion imaginable, St. Paddy's day in the French Quarter, all of it lay ahead, at the end of a sixteen hour road trip. But already, it felt like I was home.

The rest of the trip down was uneventful, save for the fact that the deeper we drove into Alabama and Mississippi, the more torn-up and devastated the landscape became. Felled trees--hundreds, perhaps thousands, in every direction. Homes and buildings damaged. Lives and livelihoods dispersed. Eric and I became more sober the further south we traveled, silently witnessing the damage that heretofore had only existed for us on television and internet news sites.

And finally, Louisiana. Soon we had arrived; I had jumped out of the car and was running for Deshka, my unwilling companion on my emotional pilgrimmage of the year. It had been three years since we had seen each other, but she seemed the same--happy, vibrant, beautiful, charismatic. So much had gone down in our lives in the past three years, life changes in a heartbeat, as we told each other in countless late-night phone conversations, but none of it mattered. She was the same, and it was the most comforting fact I had encountered in months. As I ran to her and threw myself into her arms, I realized that coming to New Orleans had been the most brilliant and sane choice I had made in a very long time.

Stuff on my Mel.com

At nine this morning, I groggily came awake and contemplated my sunny bedroom. I had been out late last night, at the Orange County party, and the little asshole cats were not pleased. So they spent all last night playing, fighting, and tearing the house apart. And when I woke up this morning, I was covered in toys--the stuffed mousies, hair ties, the feather-on-a-stick. The little bastards had just dumped them on me. My cats are awesome.

The Orange County party was...not as bad as I expected. Definitely posh and fab and glam, but at least 50% of the people there were over the age of 45. Which meant that the crowds were not as intimidating...but that it was much harder to get my flirt on. I gave it the ol' college try, though, and suffice to say that those OC boys will never lookat a Hoosier girl the same way.

In all seriousness, however, there were bouncers with a guest list and valet parking attendants and great big spotlights swinging about through the sky (and this was at a residential house!) and three open bars and at least 20 waitstaff, a live band and a trampoline, and various video games and table sports. I was determined to find out whose party it was, and finally I saw a guy with a nametag that said "Barry--I live here." At first I thought it was just a ploy to attract women (kinda like if I had written on my name tag "Mel--I kiss girls" or something) but it turned out Barry actually did live there. He made his money in commercial real estate. (I think that's the story of every wealthy person in SoCal.) Anyway, it was a gated community, and as we were leaving, I noticed that the gates had a great big monogrammed "B".

Me: I wonder what the "B" stands for?

Alexis: Barry?

Me: (Drunken snort)

Everyone else in the car: (Appalled silence)

So that was the OC party. Not what I expected I would be doing when I moved here, which makes it all the more awesome.

Friday Night Beauty

Life continues to be lovely here in SoCal...honestly, I never thought I would say that. The weather has been incredibly gorgeous. I drive through mountains on my way to and from work every day. The road is lined with sunflowers that would be impossibly cheery-looking anywhere else, but here, they are par for the course. At night, I have to contort my body and arrange it around two cats that insist on sleeping on either side of me--I dread to think of how they will adjust when there's a human addition to the sleeping arrangements. In the morning, I awake to Austen licking my face and biting my nose.

There's a real estate boom down here, and a lot of advertising for new houses going on. One currently popular trend is to hire people to stand on a street corner and energetically swing huge signs advertising new communities and home construction programs. Apparently, a recruiter arranged to meet several interested people at the Sunnydale Library. Of course, no one notified us. So yesterday, a little before eleven, people started coming in. A woman approached the reference desk...

Her: I'm supposed to meet a someone named Justin.

Me: Uuuuh...no one's come up to the desk. I don't know if anyone is here waiting.

Her: It's a meeting for swingers.

Me: (Nonplussed silence)

Her: You know, the swinging signs? He's hiring people to swing the signs.

Later, I related this story to my colleague Mr. E, and mused, "You know, swinger meet-ups...that's one way to bring libraries into the twenty-first century." Mr. E chortled and said, "Now that's what I call 'adult programming'!"

Tomorrow, I think I am heading out to a party in one of the beach towns of Orange County. I am somewhat apprehensive..what happens at these shin-digs? Cocaine? Roofies? Orgies? Togas? Word is that the person holding the party has transformed his tennis court into a dance floor. I can honestly say that I think this may be the most glamorous event I've ever attended. God knows what the hell is going to pop out of my mouth tomorrow night.

In all honesty, though, I think I have a strong hunch about what is going to happen. At some point, it's likely that I will disengage from the crowd, head down to the beach, settle into the sand, gaze out at the ocean and the night sky, and chase down eternity as I quote Sara Teasdale poetry in my head. (Ha! I am assuming this place is on the beach.) It's anti-social, I suppose, but some old habits die hard. That's just the kind of thing I do.

I am spending the evening relaxing, doing a little cleaning, and having myself a lovely glass of wine. Let me tell you, World Market is sympathetic to singles: they sell ideally-sized bottles of wine! (And never mind the fact that this is not fancy-pants wine).

Knowing Who I Am and What I Want

I saw this meme in the blog of a girl I know, and given recent decisions I have made in my life, I thought it was rather fitting to do it, assess, and all that rot.
-Longest relationship:

At one shot? 2.5 years, with John the Saint. On-and-off? Almost the same, with the Crap Weasel.

-Shortest relationship:

Serious relationship? 6 months, with Idiot Steve. Fling? 2 months, with Big Brad.

-How many boyfriends/girlfriends have told you that they love you? and meant it?

5 told me...at least three meant it. I am not sure that the others really understood love enough to really know what they were talking about. In fairness, I am sure that they thought they did.

-How many times have you been in love?

Three

-Have you ever thought that you were going to marry the person you were with?
Absolutely! I delude myself every time. I'm an optimistic person!
-Have you ever loved someone so much that it hurt?

Alas, yes.
-Have you ever made a boyfriend or girlfriend cry?

Of course.

-Have you ever cried over a boyfriend or girlfriend?

Anyone who knows me knows that I cry over just about anything. So, yes. I don't retain water easily.

-Are you happier single or in a relationship?

I like being in relationships, so long as they are functional. If not, I will opt for the Single Life. There's more happiness and self-respect to be had.

-Have you ever cheated on a boyfriend or girlfriend?

yes

-Have you ever been cheated on?

yes

-What is your favorite thing about the preferred sex?

This is a weird question. I will ponder this at another time.

-What is the best part of being in a relationship?

Companionship, affection, discovering new things together, planning a future together, knowing that there is someone in your corner, backing you up, appreciating you.

-What is the worst part of being in a relationship?

Depends on who the boyfriend is.

-Have you ever had your heart broken?

Of course!

-Have you ever broken someones heart?

I honestly don't think so. I am sure I have caused my past lovers pain, but not heatbreak.

-Talk to any of your exes?

Yes--John the Saint and I are best good friends.

-If you could go back in time and change things to where you could still be with one of your exes, would you?

Absolutely not.
-Do you think any of your exes feel the same way?

I imagine they all feel the same way I do.

-What is your ideal boyfriend or girlfriend?

Someone who is willing to compromise and try new things together with me. Someone who is reliable, and has a solid sense of humor. Someone who knows himself/herself. Someone who will pause and appreciate me, and who can communicate. Someone who surprises me with flowers and road trips. Someone who loves animals as much as I do, and who is as liberal as I am. Someone who will not freak out when I stick my foot in my mouth, and someone who my friends like. Someone who is tolerant and understanding of my neuroses, and knows his own. Someone who knows himself, and what he wants.
-Do you believe that you are a good boyfriend or girlfriend?

It depends on the relationship. Generally, I think I try very hard, and in fact sometimes try too hard. Which can make one a bad partner. But I am by no means the Evil BitchMonster From Hell.

-Have you dated people who were not good to you?

It's my MO.

-Have you been in an abusive relationship?

Not physically abusive. But definitely neglectful.

-Name your most memorable ex if you have had?

In all honesty, I remember them all, because I have a fucked-up elephant memory.

-Have you dated someone older then you?

Yes--I once dated someone 26 years older than myself.

-Younger?

yes, but not by too much.

-Do you regret anything that you have done with a boyfriend or girlfriend?

What's the point? I am who I am now, because of my past. And I like my life and who I am.

-Do you believe everyone deserves a second chance?

Some might, I suppose. God knows I gave the Crap Weasel and I enough chances. The older I get, however, the less inclined I am to be disposed to it.

-Believe in love at first sight?

no

-Ever dated two people at once?

yes

-Ever been given a promise ring?

no

-Ever been given an Engagement ring?

no

-Do you want to get married?

Absolutely. But only to someone who is willing to work as hard at the relationship as I will.

-Do you have something to say to any of your exes?

Yes--but I am calling John this weekend, so it can wait. I don't think he reads this, anyway.

-Ever stolen someones boyfriend or girlfriend?

No

-Ever liked someone elses boyfriend or girlfriend?

Yeah

-Do you believe in true love?

I believe in "relative" love. That's what Einstein's theory of relativity was really about.

-Does heartbreak really feel as bad as it sounds?

It depends on how emotionally unstable you are!

Lost and Found

Well, this week I have been really successful at finding important things! Like, my backbone. But more importantly, I found my cats' toys. Under the fridge.*
When the little bastards first came home with me, there were two little mousies, and four colorful jingle balls. In the past month, one by one, all of these toys have gone missing. But my cats are still very young, and so they still have to play. And so, in the absence of their toys, they have improvised. I knew things had gotten out of hand when this morning, I discovered my Prozac bottle, a small trinket box, and a stray sock under the bed. Those little buggers are easily amused, it seems.

So I went on a hunt for the missing toys. I checked under the sofa, behind the desk, in the pantry, under the bed. No luck. And finally, I checked under the fridge:

So, everything, every freaking toy, was stuck far back under the fridge. So, we went to work and started plotting a toy intervention rescue thingy. A broomstick was too unwieldy, a hanger was too short, and so finally I fashioned a stick-pokey thingy by binding three rulers together with new hair ties.

And no, I have no idea why I have three rulers. Maybe at some point in my wild past I had to measure something really, really big? I honestly don't know. That shall be this week's Big Question that I ponder.

Anyway.
So, I start poking around under the stove with the crude stick-pokey thingy.

The cats helped by walking in front of my face, sticking their tails in my mouth, and swatting at the stick-pokey thingy. Finally, success! I retrieved all the toys, and a lot of unidentifiable under-stove gunky-goop. I think it may have been considered an E.B.E., by some standards. I am trying not to think too much about it. Next time the cats can retrieve their damned toys themselves.
*And no, I did not find my backbone under the fridge. I had to look harder for that, 'cause backbones are a little more elusive.

Pimpin' the Dickens

Last evening, when I was driving through the mountains on my way home from work, the clouds were thick, and grey, and low-hanging. It was really, really dark, and isolated feeling, and all around quite out of SoCal's character, and of course I loved it. And hurrah! The clouds are still here today, on my day off, which means I get to curl up with a book for as long as I like. It's not autumnal, or anything like that (sigh), but a nice little break until the next bout of global warming.

Great Quote #1, reprinted with Sunnydale Library Employee Mr. E's permission: "The Chinese have a wise saying. If you don't get rid of the old, how will you have room for the new?

So it looks like I am going to be taking a trip to Portland, Oregon for Labor Day weekend. Whether I am driving or flying remains to be seen. But the best part? My supervisor said it was alright for me to get an eyebrow piercing, so that's what I will do up in Portland. It seems really fitting.

Great Quote (dialogue, really) #2, reprinted courtesy of my big sisters:

Big Sister #1 (Talking on phone with Big Sister #2): Blah blah blah Oh my god! There's mouse shit in one of my kitchen drawers!

Big Sister #2: Oh my god! That's horrible!

Big Sister #1: I know!

Big Sister #2: I mean, that's really awful! No one should have to shit in a drawer!

I watched the BBC miniseries Bleak House earlier this week, and it was so darned good. Of course, I have a soft spot for Gillian Anderson (mmm, Gillian), but regardless, it was really well done. The book was incredibly slow-paced, but somehow the producers made the show flawlessly fast-paced. And captured Dickens' compassion really well, too. I won't shut up about it--I've become something of a Dickens pimp at work; it's rather disturbing!

In An Odd Mood

"If you want to hear God laugh, make plans."

Alright, ducks. This chick is going to veg out with a coupla hours of Scully and Mulder. Familar faces, voices, and memories are at least somewhat comforting.

...hey, Sneaky Panda, you out there? Email me! I want to get the skinny on your job and apartment and stuff!

You Don't Know How Lucky You Are...

It's another hot night here in Sunnydale, California. Most days, it gets 'way over 100 degrees, and I cannot remember the last time I wasn't hot. The humid summers of Florida, with thunderstorms and tree frogs, and the hazy, firefly-illuminated summers of Indiana are so far behind me, I may as well have dreamed them up. It's almost as though they never happened, as though these sunny times in Southern California are all that ever was, or ever will be.

Work is exhausting and draining, but I love it. I really, really love it--I love my patrons, I love helping them, I love that I have learned so much in the past three weeks. I come home at night, hot and sweaty and really, really tired. I don't talk or socialize much outside of work--I come home, make chit-chat to the cats, and sing along with Dar Williams. She's given me a lot of courage this year. I'm alone, for the most part, shrouded in solitude, but I am not lonely. Homesick, yes, incredibly homesick. But not lonely.

The other evening, I found out that one of my friends got a library job in my dream library, in my dream city. She's going to go off and be a fantabulous librarian in Seattle, and it's no more or less than what she has worked hard for, and earned. But when I found out, all of a sudden I was transported back to that rainy weekend I spent there, back in March. I fell in love with Seattle, instantaneously. It felt so right--the crowds, the rain, the clouds, the architecture, the funky-cool atmosphere. My friend Deshka took me all over the city, and we had the most incredible time in the world. I did an interview with the library, and it was draining and scary, but so incredible.

Now Deshka has moved on, and so have I. And another of my friends is going to live and work there, and I am here in hot, sunny Sunnydale. A long way from home, a long way from Seattle, too. But yet, right where I should be. I have folks all over the country rooting for me. I have some very happy patrons. I have two kittens that try to get into the shower with me. I have Dar Williams, and I've got myself. I have this moment, and I can tell you that this here, this moment, this is happiness. I am an incredibly lucky, lucky girl.
"And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."
-Max Ehrmann

Congratulations, Sneaky Panda. I think you and Seattle are going to go great together.

Second Verse, Same as the First

Not much going on down here in the wilds of Southern California. There has been a recent dearth of posts from me lately, but that's because there's not a whole lot exciting going on. Life these days can be summed up in the following:

1. Hothothot.

2. Librarianship rocks!

3. Lots of chick-lits.

4. Two very obnoxious kittens.

5. Have I mentioned how hot it is?

I think July's going to be a quiet month, as I adjust to the work schedule and continue the financial famine. And hide out from the sun. If I get a suntan, I am going to be really pissed off.

School's Out. Life's In.

Today is the first day at my job. My first real, professional job, in the career that I have chosen for my life. I am officially no longer a student. I am a professional.

I kinda miss being a student. Or maybe I miss the life of a student? Or maybe I just miss Bloomington? I miss the odd schedule, the backpack, the totally grubby-casual luck. But I don't miss the lack of health insurance, the papers I had to write, the knowledge that I was accumulating an assload of student loans.

So here I am. A not-student. A professional. Funny how it kinda feels like the first day of school--I am taking pains to look extra nice. I am anxious. I wish I had a Hello Kitty Lunchbox, or a cool backpack. Or something. But I am not as anxious as I have been--yesterday I went to the local library (not the one at which I work) to get a card, and as I stood in line, I watched the librarian give the woman in front of me really crappy reference services for a very easy inquiry. And the whole time, I was going through my head what I would have done. It made me feel a tiny, tiny bit better.

And so to work. So to life.

Even when you can remember the past, you are still condemned to repeat it in blogs. Over and over and over.

So! That’s done. I have finished my first day as a professional, and of course it was not as godawful as I feared. Sure there is a lot to learn, but I am more than equal to the job. I helped people—really, really helped them. And so I came home this evening, and heated up some soup, and cracked open a bottle of wheat beer (not Upland, alas, but I do the best I can with what I have) and finished a novel, and puttered around the flat in my pjs while Austen scurried and ran around under my feet and cooed and purred, and Magdalene looked down upon us both with deep disdain. I played my New Age internet radio, and talked to Michael and my sister, and played Sudoku. This is my life, right here, this evening. The only moment I am guaranteed, this Now. It’s not bad at all—pleasant, and quiet. Not lonely, but solitary.

My first paycheck should come in at the end of July. Aside from the requisite bills and rent (oh god, I will be able to make rent on my own, thankyoujebus) I will indulge in a couple of things that, in the past few weeks, I have come to view as luxuries: A broom and dustpan. Collars and tags for the cats. Razors refills. A bottle of wine. I might actually go hog wild and buy myself a vacuum. It’s nice to know the drought has a definite end-date.

In a very fitting end to the day, I brought home the last box that I made from Indiana to the library. It was a box of books—mainly history books, and nineteenth century fiction. It was rather poetic: on the day I began my first professional job, my first day as a real adult, away from school, I busted out some solid ties to my past, my former life as a student of history and Victorian studies (party like it’s 1899, people), a very pretentious pseudo-scholar. I take myself (a little) less seriously these days, sure, but the history nerd is still in there. I have retained that part of myself, for I am the sum of all my lessons, all the people I have known, the places I have traveled, the emotions I have experienced, the knowledge I have gained. I may be a professional, I may be a librarian, I may never be a student again, and my youth may slip into the inevitable weariness and resignation of middle age…but I am still me. I am still the pompous history nerd, the jaded library science student, the idealistic librarian, the screwball baby sister, the too-blunt social liability that uses words like "snot" and "cock" way too much. I am all of it. I might be changing, I might be trying to be happier and more confident and brave and tolerant and forgiving and less...crass? (Boo!) I might be trying to chuck out the less pleasant aspects of my personality. But by god, I will hang onto that core part of me that got me here, in SoCal, all alone, in one piece, and a hopeful smiling piece at that.

I just might not talk about bluestockings and the volk as much. Somehow those were never good ice-breakers at a party.

There's Irrational Fears. And Then There's Just Plain Ol' Reasonable Worry

I had a lovely list of July Resolutions going on in my head, but after a long conversation with John the Saint, it occurred to me that if I am lucky, I will be getting my first paycheck at the end of July. Which means that all potential goals are superceded by the all-encompassing concern of finding a way to pay the August rent. July goals be damned!

Oooh, however, I can work this to my advantage. One of my goals in July will be to lose 15 pounds. Seeing as howmy fridge will be bare, this should not be hard.

It's time to have a talk with the cats to see what they can contribute to their maintenance. Maybe Magdalene can pimp herself out as a hired thug; after all, she's got everyone in this apartment under her paw.

It's Too Hot Even To Be Lazy

Hey, all of you people that say that SoCal is not so bad, yeah it gets hot, but it's a dry heat, and it's so much more bearable without the humidity? Yeah, to hell with you and the mirage you rode in on. Once it passes the 100 degree mark, it's just plain effing, miserably, ridiculously hot. And right now, it's 105 out there.

My sister Mango Lassi works at a health food store in New Jersey (I know, I know, we can't all be as cool as her) and informs me that people come into the store and ask her if she sells cigarettes. Are people that obtuse everywhere, or is that just a New Jersey thing? Or is it that New Jersey encourages the sale of cigarettes everywhere in an effort to shorten the lives their residents? Sort of a state-sanctioned euthanasia? Really. Cigarettes. At A HEALTH FOOD STORE. Get with it, people. Smoking is out, health food is in. They can't both be cool together.

I think my Hintbug list might be getting out of hand. I just added a 5-night stay at Sandals Royal Bahamian to the list. Well, it's fun to dream. Maybe I will scout out some Santorinian, Tahitian, and Italian resorts while I am at it. I have to do something to keep myself occupied until the job starts. Because, you know, the whole reading over the literature thing is really not working out:

Clearly Austen thinks I should not prep any more.
Clearly Austen has never endured one of my reference interviews.

Magdalene is still being a wretch. Half the time, I want to throttle her, but the other half of the time, I am too impressed to scold. Take this morning's incident, for example:

This morning, Pre-Havoc: I had a form in my in-box that I had yet to fill out.

Magdalene decided to take matters into her own paws, and took charge of the backlog.

She doesn't like it when I hover over her shoulder. She's a prefectionist, and the whole lack-of-thumbs thing can be frustrating when she's dealing with these complicated forms.

She works best in an unstructured environment. Don't pressure her!

When In Doubt, The Books Come Out. So Do The Cats.

So. The job at Sunnydale Library begins in a week, and naturally I am one terrified librarian. What? You mean I actually have to put my Master’s to good use? Oh man. I think I will need to stock up on the beer and bubble bath for my first week on the job. For when I come home, of course.

To better prepare myself, intellectually and emotionally, I have busted out some of my old library science books and articles. Yeah, I know, all that theoretical and book knowledge can only go so far, and I will just need to get the experience, that is the best teacher. But I at least have to give myself a semblance of control. And re-affirming my progressive, radical, bleeding-heart liberal librarian ethics and values is not a bad thing. So today I have my nose buried in books, and the Internets and my cats are conspiring against me, distracting me, coaxing me into continuing my dissipated existence.

So, in an effort to connect with you, my Internets audience, I bring you pictures. First, the bedchamber here at The Hermitage:

Austen, alias Narcissus, checks out the bewitching kitty in the mirror.

My new bedding ensemble, acquired from Target, purveyors of Capitalist Whoredom. Michael hates it, I love it, and Austen clearly thinks it should be featured on HGTV
…aren’t cats supposed to be colorblind?

Austen is confused. Think I can teach him to flush?

Magdalene is officially a wretch. She never cleans up after herself.

I'm Not A Crazy Cat Lady. Yet.

So, once upon another lifetime ago, when I was young(er) and stupid(er)...well, maybe...I dated a fellow that we shall forever after affectionately call The Crap Weasel*. We had a tumultuous relationship, Ol' Crappy and I, and the last time we broke up (there were many), the drama was quite protracted. At one point, in a desperate attempt to reconcile, Crap Weasel offered me something that I never imagined: "We can get married!" (Does that count as a proposal? I don't think so, but it'd be nice to have that scalp in my belt) "We can have children!"

At the time, I was rather anti-baby, and so began to lecture him. "I don't WANT a baby, Crap Weasel. You know that. I want a family made up of pets and friends and a happy, functional couple." In the end, we went our separate ways...him to the Deep South, and I to Tampa, and Bloomington, and Sunnydale. Since those good ol' days, my stance on babies has changed, but not my views on unconventional families. There's a whole lotta room in my heart and home for friends and pets, and so in that spirit, I recently made a coupla additions to my (very) little family. No, I didn'y have twins. I'm still taking my no-baby pills, as I am still a Liberated Woman (tm), but I did acquire two little purr-balls of fur and feist, otherwise known as my kittens, Magdalene and Austen.

Magdalene's a marmalade girl who plays with her food, meows loudly when she's using the litter box, and bullies Austen.

*The little piece of food on the ground is what she scooped out and later batted around.

Austen's a black-and-white boy who follows me everywhere, including the shower, and has a purr that registers on the Richter scale.

They're little assholes, especially Magdalene, and I know they are plotting against me, now that they have infiltrated The Hermitage. But they're good company, and they are my kitties.

*All my ex-menfolk have nicknames. Crap Weasel, Idiot Steve, Big Brad, John the Saint, and the Emotional Fucktard. Guess which one I still get along with?

Most of the time, it's easy to hold homesickness at bay. Watch LOST, surf the Internets, play with the cats, worry about the job, basically just distract myself. But more and more these days, I find it catching me off-guard, in unexpected ways:
Getting emails from the IU-SLIS listserv, reminding me of upcoming events. Oh wait! I'm not a student anymore, I don't go to IU. And then I am hit by a dozen memories of the campus, my initial starry-eyed wonder of the architecture, the seasons, the small-town feel.

Listening to some of my New Age music on my Itunes. Dead Can Dance, or Loreena McKennitt especially. All of a sudden I am transported back to my first semester: autumn and winter evenings at the Fountain Park apartment, as I sat at my computer, editing articles for the JCMC and caught up in the intensity of the music, as the temperature dropped outside, and inside, all was a cozy cocoon of Michael and music and me and work.
Looking at pictures on Flikr. Just random peoples' pictures...sometimes the scenery will be so obviously autumn or winter--the sky just looks cold, and you can tell it's chilly, and I begin to miss the idea of seasons so tremendously. Most recently I saw a picture of a blue sky that had some grey, stormy clouds, and I remembered last October, the Saturday that Eric and I spent in Indy, touring bungalows and hanging out at one of the parks. The sky was similar--a chilly blue, but littered with grey clouds and late afternoon sunlight filtering through and made the clouds look even stormier. And I swung on the swings, and thought, Years from now I am going to take my children here, and they'll swing on the swings and they'll be so lucky to have seasons, even if they don't know it. I was SO CERTAIN that that would be my future. The autumn afternoon, and the certainty (no matter how delusional)--I miss them both.

It's time to go back to distracting myself. I don't want to look back too much. Otherwise I will miss whatever is going on right under my nose. And I am here now, here in Southern California. This is what matters.

Armageddon! Let's Nap.

Hmmm. Well, well, well. This is...fascinating. Unnerving, perhaps.

Right before I moved away from Florida, we got hit, big time, by Hurricane Charlie, one mean sonofabitch of a storm. Of course, this was before the other mean sonofabitch hurricanes blew through in the following weeks, and it was a year before Katrina, AKA Hurricane Motherfucker, came through, but at the time, it sucked. The winds knocked out the power at nine o'clock at night, and without a/c, light, or anything to keep us occupied, we had few choices: we could contemplate our collective navels, we could cower and cringer every time a gust of wind compromised our roof, or we could sleep. Yeah, guess what yours truly did? I must have been a narcoleptic in a past life, because hot damn, did I sleep. I slept right through the eye of the storm, which passed over us about six hours later. It was the silence of the storm's aftermath that woke me up.
The Big One that I am quickly becoming obsessed with? Yeah, I'm totally going to sleep through it, too. I decided to check out the thingy that tells about recent earthquakes in California, and hi! I'm doomed! because there was one (a 2.4 "microearthquake") on the 21st, a few miles north of me. At 7:30 in the morning. When I was sound asleep, likely dreaming of hurricanes and humidity, like any self-respecting transplanted Floridiot.

...HOW THE HELL DID I SLEEP THROUGH AN EARTHQUAKE???? I don't care how micro the damned thing was, I should have been able to feel it. But noooo. I am going to be asleep when So. Cal breaks off the continent and sets sail for parts unknown. Doooooom!

Clearly, I am a woman of reliability and action. When the world ends, let's nap on it.

In which family, traffic, and all sorts of other craziness ensue

When I lived in Indiana, for the first few months, one of the hardest things to adjust to was that there was no one around with whom I could share memories and knowledge of my past and my Florida home, who would know what I was talking about through their own experiences. In other words, I was lonely for folks that had grown up in the same place I had. It took some getting used to. But here in So Cal, I have a small consolation: I have a family of cousins about two hours away--Lynne, her husband Jack, and their two little boys. Lynne's mother and my mother were sisters, and we all moved down to Florida at the same time, and while Lynne's a bit older, we still share the same memories and knowledge of our crazy, goofy family.

So, the other day, I drove out to San Pedro to visit them. It was indescribably comforting, to be able to talk about the summer storms in Florida, the mugginess, the idiosyncrasies of our family, even the SuperTarget on Dunlawton, to someone who knew what the hell I was talking about. In my time there, I began to really appreciate the real importance of family, and feel a sense of groundedness that I had not experienced in a VERY long time. I've been moving a lot over the last few years, and ever farther from my family and my childhood home, and since I am a sentimental, gooey sap, this has not been an easy thing to do. Most of the time, I ignore it, try to get on with my work, my day, my life, but every now and then--usually in the evening, when I can hear the crickets chirp (thank god, there are crickets out here) I begin to think of my folks, my past, and wonder how the hell I got this far away, and what on earth I am doing here. But now, I can take a small measure of comfort from the nearness of my cousins.
While I was visiting, Cousin Jack picked up Panda Express for dinner. Lynne and Jack and I sat at the table, eating, while their (very energetic) boys Nicholas and Michael ran around and played, and I paused for a moment to remember the family dinners of our youth, and how my sisters and I had to sit at the kiddie table, and we would always finish our dinner before the adults and wonder off to play, because no one wanted to hear the boring conversations of the adults, who were lingering over dinner at their own table. As I watched Nicholas and Michael, a sobering thought occurred to me: I had become one of the adults having a boring (to them) conversation at the adult table. Funny how life goes like that.
Enough of this sentimental claptrap. I saw the Pacific Ocean! For the first time! It was BIG! And blue. It's hard not to be carried away with the romance of the ocean when you are seeing it for the first time, or the first time in a long time. I'm rather happy I did not waste a lot of time in seeing it.

And I got to deal with L.A. traffic (light). Intense, but I kept my head (literally, hee hee.) I know it's a lot more chaotic in L.A. proper, but I have to start somewhere, and I don't want to spend most of my time here avoiding it. I've always tried to be one who grabs the bull by its balls.

Melissa Goes to Hollywood

I blame it on the fact that I live so close to Hollywood. Closer than I used to, anyway. Or the heat--the heat is messing with my brains and good judgement. Yeah! That's it. But anyway. Today's class--which, I might add, will be a recurring lesson--is about how much Hollywood sucks, and how much I can do to remedy that.

See, Hollywood's got a problem. Its producers are demented enough to think that, Snakes on a Plane aside, the discerning American public has the patience for the crap they have been presenting for the past...ever, I guess. I mean, seriously folks...Snakes...on a plane? The insipidity of the title alone makes it worth viewing, but I dread to think of the imitation films that might flood the country. We need better crap than this?

And, if one is going to produce a crappy movie, what better way than to do an adaptation? There are so many good novels waiting to be disgraced and degraded. And there are plenty of fans out there eager to see eye-candy enact their favorite storylines.

For example, Rebecca. It's a great book, full of lots of suspense and detail of wealth and sumptuousness. It might make a better winter flick, but it's so good. And Jon Stewart would be perfect for Max de Winter...only I guess he would have to be Max de Winterstein. There could be a Jewish spin to it, I guess...he kills Rebecca because she's been showing her flaming bush to all the tribes but his!
Er, anyway. Seriously, there needs to be a screen adaptation of Rebecca. Kate Winslet as the nameless main character; Gwenyth as Rebecca. Maybe Stockard Channing as Mrs. Danvers? Can she do a British accent? And now that I think about it, Anthony Stewart Head would make a great Max de Winter. He makes moody and broody look so sexy. Oh, yum. Mmmmm. Sorry, where was I?

Independent Women

Imagine Destiny's Child playing in the background. Or maybe some Gloria Gaynor. Anything to give off an aura of independence. Because, folks, I have become one hell of an independent woman. I mean, I assembled my own furniture this week. I've never done that before; I've always simply passed along the tools to my (arguably) more competent boyfriends. (Hi John! You could assemble a desk like no other. Put that on your resume. Along with "proficient in handling high-strung, emotionally-eruptive, highly stressed femme fatales that forget their femme-ninity.) ANYWAY. This week? I totally assembled all sorts of furniture. ME. And I am getting muscle mass too. Seriously. My hands are becoming very...meaty.

But my competence does not extend to book-case bolting. For some reason, this skill evades me. Alas, it's an important one for me. Ever since my grandfather, dear ol' plan-your-work-and-work-your-plan Boppa, began buying me bookcases when I was like...two or something, he always insisted on bolting them to the walls. Because maybe he thought I was going to test my shimmying skills with $40 Wal-Mart chipboard? I don't know, really. But the habit stuck, and now I am convinced that I must BOLT MY BOOKSHELVES OR DIE. Which, considering I now live in Southern California and have an earthquake or a faultline with my name on it, lurking just around the corner, and as I have more pounds of books than the Queen has in the bank, is a distinct possibility.

So! Picture it--me, an Independent woman. About to end her days buried under a pile of Dickens, Austen, and Teasdale, because she was not plucky enough to figure out bookcase bolts before the Big One hit. My hypothetical cats will have to chew through about three layers of nineteenth century melodrama before they get to their dinner of my meaty hands.

But hey, bright side. Maybe my neighbor can take a picture of it!

101 Things

1. I hated every minute of it.
2. I had this dream that if I lived in a state that had seasons, in a nice split-level house, with two parents, that
3. I grew up in Daytona Beach, Florida
4. everything would be just dandy.
5. My maternal grandparents raised me from the time I was 10.
6. I have two sisters, and I am the baby. They will never let me forget this.
7. I studied at Newnham College, at Cambridge University, for three weeks when I was 19.
8. I love to read.
9. I believe whole-heartedly that it is my body, and no one has the right to decide what happens to it.
10. I also believe there should be a constitutional amendment protecting the institution of marriage by defining it as something in which ANYONE, of ANY sexual persuasion, can partake.
11. I believe in taxes.
12. I loved high school.
13. Wherever I visit, I like to traipse around and take pictures of old buildings.
14. I listen to Def Leppard.
15. I don’t know how to ride a bike.
16. I love, love, love making lists.
17. I am very adept at losing lists as soon as I make them.
18. One of my dreams is to live in an apartment with hardwood floors, a poky kitchen, a fireplace, and a clawfoot tub, and lots of built-in shelves
19. Another one of my dreams is to live in this apartment in Boston or London or Seattle
20. I wouldn’t try Chinese food until I was 19 years old
21. I would totally bear Jon Stewart’s children
22. I don’t know how to ride a bike.
23. I can turn my eyelids inside out.
24. I do not get motion sickness of any kind
25. I love getting stuff in the mail
26. Seeing old people dining or grocery shopping alone makes me incredibly sad.
27. I have mild backne
28. When I was five, my favorite insult was “dumb-dumb facehead”
29. When I was six, I was in love with Danger Mouse. I didn’t understand why a girl and a mouse could not live happily ever after.
30. When I was eight, I decided to write “The Bad Word Newspaper”.
31. My mother thought this was a riot.
32. When I was eleven, I wanted to be in the Baby-sitter’s Club.
33. When I was fourteen, I was convinced that if I had enough Bongo jeans and No Fear t-shirts, I would be part of the cool crowd.
34. When I was fifteen, I realized how stupid that was. I would never be part of the cool crowd. And Bongo jeans were fugly.
35. When I was sixteen, I thought I was on the road to becoming a Poet Laureate of some county.
36. I am really, really, really pissed off at Michael Brown.
37. My eyes are slightly uneven.
38. I disapprove of Wal-Mart with a fanatic intensity.
39. Christmas is my favorite holiday.
40. If I had to be an insect, I would be a cricket, because they continue singing even in the darkest part of the night.
41. I not-so-secretly envy housecats.
42. I was a born-again Christian for three years of my life.
43. And then the Christian in me died.
44. I love thunderstorms. And rain.
45. Autumn is my favorite season, and then winter.
46. I have not had cable television in five years.
47. I am an organizing fool—I love to file, organize, and clean.
48. I hate doing laundry.
49. I believe it’s better to be hated for who you are then loved for who you aren’t.
50. I read Dickens for fun.
51. I like very clicky keyboards.
52. I am a sucker for mysterious, gruff, hero characters in novels and movies.
53. I have survived two hurricanes, two tropical storms, and a tornado.
54. I have a secret fear of becoming trailer trash.
55. I snort when I laugh.
56. I feel the need to snack when I read. This does not help me to maintain my ideal weight.
57. I burp very, very loudly. But only when I drink soda.
58. I love roller coasters and water parks.
59. Another goal of mine is to work in a job where I can wear an eyebrow ring—and then get my eyebrow pierced.
60. I did not have friends until I was 12 years old.
61. A knitting blog changed my life.
62. I love mint chocolate chip ice cream, but only if it is green. If it is not green, I will not eat it.
63. The older I get, the more important family becomes to me.
64. I love make-up.
65. I am not particularly skilled at applying it.
66. If I could, I would lounge around in pajamas all day long. I lovelovelove pajamas
67. If I had to live in any era of history, and do something in particular, I would live in Victorian England and be a bluestocking.
68. I am NOT a risk-taker.
69. I used to cry regularly in gym class.
70. When I go to the beauty salon to get my hair dyed, the stylist ALWAYS runs out of my dye and has to send out for more. I have a deceptively enormous head of hair.
71. I like to eat out WAY too much
72. Among certain circles, I am known as “The Hot-tub Hottie.” This is my one wild college-years story.
73. If I were not a librarian, I would restore Victorian and Arts-and-Crafts bungalows for a living. Or be the proprietor of a witchcraft supply store.
74. You know those people, the ones that always look perfectly put together and in control of their lives? The ones that never have to root around in their purse for anything? The ones whose shoes are never scuffed, whose nail polish is never chipped, who aren’t clumsy and just exude that something? Yeah, that’s not me.
75. I really, really wish I were one of those people.
76. Sometimes I think I might go to law school some day.
77. I can daydream so well, I could make it into an Olympic sport. There should be mental Olympics.
78. I love to travel.
79. I love returning home even more.
80. I hatehatehate the sound of Styrofoam
81. I love to pluck my eyebrows
82. When I drink, I sometimes get into intellectual snubbing matches with conventionally-cute boys. This is often like shooting fish in a barrel.
83. It doesn’t matter how depressed or bummed I might be, watching re-runs of Friends will always make me feel at least a tiny, tiny bit better.
84. I love to buy gifts for people.
85. I have nightmares about tornadoes at least once a week.
86. I try to keep my watch ahead by at least five minutes
87. I have inhuman stamina when it comes to driving on road trips. It’s kind of freakish.
88. I have two sisters, and according to almost everyone, we could be triplets.
89. I cannot dance. I think it’s something in my genes.
90. In the past, when men have asked me for my number, I have sometimes given them the number 867-5309.
91. I’ve also told men that I was a lesbian. This was more effective than you might think.
92. I look really, really good in hats.
93. I love surprise parties.
94. The only surprise party anyone has ever thrown for me was one that I was duped into planning myself.
95. I have a deep and abiding love for Toyota cars.
96. I love watching fireflies
97. I have been known to do Christmas shopping in July.
98. I am from the South, and I believe in hospitality and good conversational skills. If I come into your home and you have not asked me how I am doing and offered me something to drink within the first three minutes, I will maybe hate you forever.
99. When it’s late at night and I hear strange noises in the apartment, I put on Spice World to make me feel better.
100. When I was fourteen, I watched Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves every night for two months.
101. I like memes. Because I am essentially a self-absorbed person, and they are a good way to vent the self-absorption without forcing people to listen. You read this list of your own free will.