Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

Once again, I am home. Florida was everything I hoped for, and nothing that I had worried about. I guess when you've only got five days with your family, there's simply not enough time to argue and make death threats.

There is, however, PLENTY of time for drinking:

When Older Sister #1 and I went to pick up Older Sister #2 at the airport, I was eager and anxious. I hadn't seen Older Sister #2 in FOUR FREAKING YEARS. And when we found her, and I hugged her, after that, I couldn't do anything but stare. She looked the same as always, but at the same time...I didn't recognize her. Was this the woman whose voice I had heard on the phone every week for the past four years? She felt like a stranger.

I think I maybe was over-analyzing a little bit. And anyway, the strangeness wore off after about five minutes, and then it was as though the three of us had never been separated. As Older Sister #2 said, "There is no one you can laugh and acted retarded with as much as your sisters."

And now I am home again, and there's pretty much an entire continent between me and those who know and love me best. But there are some consolations--I love my home. I love my solitude, and when I arrived home, it was as though the silent alone-ness slipped gracefully over me like a sheath of silk. My cats, my bed, my computer, my work, my life--all of it, here, all mine.

There's no one like family, and there's no place like home. It's just a shame when the two aren't in the same place.

I Have a Theory...

Ah, the holidays. Hell-idays?

In a few days, I am flying back home--well, to one of my homes, anyway--to Florida. There I will see my grandparents and my mother and hopefully my ex-stepdad and John the Saint. But best of all, I will get to see my sisters--both of them. One of them, I haven't seen in four years.

A lot changes in four years.

I'm anxious, of course. Anxious about what, I cannot say. Anxious that we will all get along, I suppose. Because with family, there's always, always, always that inexplicable volatility. Everyone's got a memory of some holiday drama, some family feud or cold war that seems to erupt during the holiday seasons. Why is that?

Family's gotta be one of the strangest damned things out there, I tell you what. It's simultaneously the most comforting and maddening structure there is...no one knows you like your family does, and that's actually part of the problem. Your family knows you better than anyone, because they were there with you from the beginning, saw how you developed and evolved. No one knows you like your family-because the people (your colleagues and friends, for example) that know you now know the present you, not the you of your childhood and adolescence. Our interactions with our parents and siblings and extended family help form part of your basic identity.

And then something happens. Generally, family move away from each other. Distance and life come between you. You can still be close emotionally, but that initial relationship you have with your family changes. You change, hopefully for the better. Your parents and siblings change, hopefully for the better. Everyone changes. Everyone evolves; that's how life is supposed to work. You outgrow the mold you grew up in. But your family, being far away, doesn't know that, can't know it, are not privy to the day-to-day person you become. Their concepts of you--and yours of them--don't necessarily change. So your family remembers you as you were then, and see the present you (often a very different person) through the lenses of their past image of you. Without knowing it, and certainly without meaning to, they try to force you into the mold in which they remember you. It creates a lot of cognitive dissonance. You feel like your identity is imperiled; you're confused. And at the same time, you're likely doing it to them. And no one realizes it.

I'm so, so excited to be seeing my sisters again. I try to describe them to people at work; I try to explain that they are like me, but more dignified and mellow. I say, "Meet my sisters and you will see why I am the way I am." (My sisters will probably not appreciate this sentiment.) Explanation: When I was a kid, I really looked up to them, without even knowing that I did. I think I tried to imitate them in a lot of ways, but added some of my own Melissa-flair to it, which only made me look ridiculous and silly. And maybe that's how my role and mold in the family developed. I became Lissy, the Toaster-Mouth (don't ask), the Tootster, the Hot-tub Hottie (again, don't ask), the Mel-meister.

The thing is, I'm not most of those things any more. In all honesty, I think I kind of wish I would go home and my sisters and grandparents and mother would look at me and thing, "Wow, there's Melissa. She's so smart and she's done so well for herself, we really underestimated her. Never thought she would have turned out like this. She's well-spoken and she's pretty damned savvy."
(Hello, ego-trip!)

None of this will happen.

What will happen is this: I will revert back to the Melissa that we all knew 4, 8, 12 years ago. I will become my old goofy and tactless and blundering and sometimes inarticulate (but never tongue-tied!) self. It will be just like old times. And in a way, that's almost too bad. A lot of times, I didn't like the girl I was 'way back when.

I'd like for my family to recognize and appreciate and love the person I've become. Honestly, I am damned sure that they already do; any insecurities or lack of validation most likely exist only in my own head. Essentially, I think that's where a lot of family feuds happen: when we don't recognize the people our parents and siblings have become, and don't validate them, or when we feel they do not appreciate, recognize, validate who we have become. But what we don't realize a lot of the times is that we ourselves are complicit in denying that. I understand myself and my role in our dynamic in terms of that old mold, too. I will force myself back into that mold, because in the context of my family, that is all I know.

Maybe just being aware will help. Or maybe I should just try to exercise tact and the art of keeping my goddamned mouth shut every now and then this coming week, or at least be a little more mindful of what comes out. (I think that is tact, actually). But whatever--I am eager and anxious and happy and excited to see everyone, but especially my big sisters. I hope I don't disappoint them.

I hope I don't disappoint myself.

*This post brought to you courtesy of Self-Absorption International, a global organization dedicated to worshipping your own pointless thoughts.

Jersey Devil, Step Aside...

I'm a travelin' kinda gal. Maybe it's because I am a Gemini, and I get restless and can't settle down (see: multiple failed relationships) but I'd like to think that it's because I've got a slightly romantic spirit and like to go exploring and imagining.

Example: When I was 19, I went to England for three weeks. It was for some Summer Extension Course for College, and I actually studied at Cambridge. (American Parents, take note: your 19-year-old kids are not worthy of studying at Cambridge University; it's way too grown-up for them. It sure as heck was for me!) While I spent not enough time enshrining myself in academia, I certainly did do a lot of exploring. One weekend I ended up in Northern Wales, in the Snowdon Mountains, in a little village called Betws-y-coed (no, I can't pronounce it, and I bet you can't, either). Walking from the village to my bed-and-breakfast (a 19th century vicarage), it was grey and cloudy and drizzly and cold, and there was mist shrouding the tree-lined mountains looming overhead. As I walked, I saw a tiny golden light twinkling through the trees, 'way up high on the mountain. To this day, I fancy that it was a druid ghost, wandering about through the mists.

The Black Forest of Bavaria has always appealed to me; there's something very romantic, very mystical about it...it probably has something to do with all the fairy tales that originate from that region. Anyway. For a long time, I've really wanted to visit there...until tonight. Tonight I found out that in the Black Forest resides lumbricus badensis.

What is that, you might wonder? Well might you ask! It's a giant frigging earthworm.

That's right, the romantic Black Forest that I've always daydreamed about is home to a giant mutant earthworm of doom which can grow up to two feet in length! You can keep your damned trees and clocks and cake, Black Forest, 'cause there ain't nothin' romantic about an earthworm that can double as an implement of strangulation. If that's how big the earthworms are, I'd hate to see how big the fish they bait are!

Welcome to the Black Forest! We don't need any horses, just saddle up that there worm.

One Of Those Days...

Today was one of those days. You know the kind of day I'm talking about--it was the kind of day where everything goes to hell in a handbasket the moment you step out of the door and discover that the world outside your door is not the world you thought, but rather a warzone which vaguely resembles, I don't know, the Somme in 1916? Complete with tommies and jerries crawling about looking for missing limbs and inhaling highly toxic mustard gas.

Well, this IS Southern California. Mustard gas might be an improvement on the current air quality.
Most days, working at the Library is great. It's a blast--the patrons are by and large kind and appreciative and understanding; the colleagues are funny and smart and supportive. But today? Oh, today. Yes. Today. We were closed yesterday, and so it was like the patrons had an extra day's worth of orneriness pent-up, and couldn't wait to unleash it. It was a day of bulls&%t and drama, of cluttered desks and scheduling screw-ups and nonstop GO,GO, GO. All of that would have been fine, except apparently today was Diva Day. We had a rather famous author come and speak this evening, and it brought a large crowd, which is always great...but there were one or two eccentrics that just threw things off. One such eccentric literally shoved me out of the way to get to speak to Famous Author. Another patron came in and demanded an office chair instead of the regular seats and then demanded we move it to the front of the room so she could see better, and didn't want to hear that it would be against ADA requirements to block the aisle. The best one came at the end of the night when a woman tried to get into the library after we closed and when she learned she couldn't, declared, "I'M RUINED!"

Ruined. Ruined like a 19th-century parlor maid who's gotten in the family way, or ruined like a Mayan temple? Ah. I see, not really ruined, then.

The thing is, this is my job. I don't mind it, usually. Usually it can make a good story to tell at the end of the day, or week, or life. I have to endure it, have to smile and try to develop skills of tact and diplomacy. (I'm maybe screwed, a little.) And at the end of the day--this crazy, wonky day filled with ruined people and blocked aisles--I can sit down with my red, red wine and be glad to be in my quiet home, with my music and my not-so-quiet cats. I have to put up with a little bit of BS at my job, and the nice thing is that it's only lowered the BBSL (Blood-Bullshit-Limit, as opposed to Blood-Alcohol-Limit) in my own life. It's a nice feeling, and more than a little empowering, because it helps stiffen my spine with regards to some stuff going on with me, personally.
Oh, goody, another personal growth experience. I'm getting good at those.

It's nice to sit down at the end of a hellacious day and think, "Something good came of this." It's nice to gain insight and clarity, all from cranky people who sought to make others as unhappy as they were themselves. It's a victory, a quiet and comforting victory that you can embrace as you sip at the wine and relax and realize that maybe "one of those days" are the best kind of day to have.

Laugh and the World Laughs With You; Declare Bankruptcy, and You Do It Alone!

There comes a point when you've been gone so long that it's pretty pointless to say "Hi! I'm back! This is what I've been doing!" Yeah, I hit that point about a month ago. So, instead:

Hi! I'm back!

It's fairly difficult to watch the news these days without shaking my head in disbelief at the absurdity of it all. No, I will not be watching the debates, because frankly, I think the American public deserves better than some carefully-scripted soundbites and some carefully staged shennanigans; I know we can't judge our leaders based on a 1-minute answer.

And regarding Palin, all I have to say is this: nice try, McCain, but you still suck. It would take a lot more than choosing a female running mate to get my vote. I'm voting for the Democratic candidate Obama because he shares more of my values, ethics, beliefs, and ideals, and it's not enough that Palin and I share an anatomical attribute. She's a sell-out, she offers nothing to me, and I'm loyal to my party before I'm loyal to my gender, kthxbye.

The news is pretty scary right now, with all the economy news basically dominating everything. And so, tired of worrying, I sat down on the couch at 11 PM tonight, my Maggie curled up beside me, and we watched Jon Stewart. I had forgotten how much I loved him, and let me tell you, laughing at his theme of "Clusterf%@k to the Poor House" was just the medicine I needed. It doesn't change anything, but laughter always trumps fear in my home, each and every time.

Plus, Jon Stewart's really hot.

And this is why I am going to hell...But at least I'll be able to amuse myself.

Not to re-hash the past or anything...
Back in Indiana, I had a boyfriend. Boyfriend's mother hated me. For many reasons, none of them particularly logical, I might add. Her original beef with me (other than the fact that I was dating her son) was that I wore too many black shirts. Or something. And it just went downhill from there.

It didn't help matters that I am a rather blunt, flippant person, and sometimes make offhand remarks that really offend hypersensitive and illogical people people with delicate sensibilities. Lifelong enmity was established after Pope John Paul's death, when I absentmindedly made the remark to Boyfriend's mother that I didn't see what all the fuss was about; after all, it was just a stupid man in a stupid hat.

Never underestimate the lack of logic in a lapsed Catholic. You don't go to church for years, don't do confession or Lent or any sort of thing, but god forbid I mock your pope-man. Boyfriend's mom eventually became (Ex) Boyfriend's mom (such a devoted Catholic, she was, she ended up going evangelical Protestant) who threw a party in her heart the day we parted ways. Little children, love one another, and all that.

Water under the bridge, now...

...except Busted Tees.com is trying to start World War III here. Because there's a shirt that I think would be just perfect for letting her know there's no hard feelings:

"Let's Bounce" Has Taken On a Whole New Meaning...

One of the really, really cool things about my job is that I get exposed to a lot of really wonderful books, books that I would have otherwise never known about. Shortly after moving here, two years ago, I came across a truly compelling title: I Feel Earthquakes More Often than They Happen: Coming to California in the Age of Schwarzenegger. It was a brand-new title, and the parallel to my own life gave me pause. I checked it out, but never finished reading it. But after this week, I think I'd better.

Before I moved, I heard somewhere, from someone, that they had heard that earthquakes happen all the time, every day, all over California, but that most of them were too small to notice. And damned if that person--whoever the hell it was--wasn't right. I've been here two years, and have only felt three:

1. A 3.8, back when I first moved to California. I called up LoPrete, terrified and crying, convinced that it was time to move back home to Indiana after a whole whopping three weeks. That earthquake rolled from one end of my apartment to the other, and the cats were extremely unimpressed.

2. The next one that I felt didn't happen until a year-and-a-half later, and I was asleep on a friend's couch. At 4 AM, something woke me up; I wasn't even certain it was an earthquake until I checked teh interweb two hours later. That one was a small one, and I only felt it because it was close by.

3. Tuesday. Ah, yes. Tuesday. There was no missing, no mistaking that one. I was on the reference desk, on the phone with a very high-maintenance, chatty patron, and I felt a tiny tremble. My chair bounced just a little--but I suspected I was just imagining it. Then my chair bounced again, just the tiniest bit, and I knew we had had a little tremblor. I resolved to hop on the USGS when I got off the phone with Miss Chatty McChatterson--and then, two seconds later, the floor began to bounce. Overhead, I heard the ceiling shifting, around us, I heard the building groan a little. You know what an earthquake feels like? It feels like your inner balance is off, out of whack, that you've got a little bit of vertigo, that you are on a rolling ship. For a tiny sliver of time, solid ground becomes a myth, something you foolishly took for granted all those years. For a tiny sliver of time, you look at those solid walls and think, Wow, those things are really flimsy. They are bouncing around as much as I am right now.

All this time, up until now, I haven't felt earthquakes more often than they happen. Like most others here, I don't notice, just like the folks said before I moved out here. There have been a few minor earthquakes that I somehow just completely missed. But not now. Since Tuesday, I have been feeling earthquakes more often than they happen. Maybe that actually IS vertigo, but every time I even think I sense an unsteadiness, fear and apprehension begin to build. I become very conscious of the ground, and how solid it is--and for how much longer it will stay that way. I've felt tremblors, and they haven't actually happened. They are phantoms of my imagination, mental conjurings that maybe are good for me, a way to learn to prepare. Because like almost every californicated person, I've been lulled into that sense of security that is so completely stupid.

I'm pretty sure that my California friends--Jeana, Katie, Nando--are reading this right now, chuckling. Yesyes, I am still green, a big wuss. I've handled Los Angeles traffic, I've developed a love for avacodos, I am even contemplating pedicures--but I guess the Californication process is not yet complete. I am not sure that earthquakes are something I'll ever really acclimate to. I'm not sure I can really get acclimated to buildings that bounce.

Lifestyles of the Not-so-Rich and Famous

One thing that has definitely improved since I moved to the desert is my social life. For that, at least, I should be thankful--now that I am no longer spending 2 hours a day commuting, and living my life all willy-nilly, I've managed to buckle down and make some friends. Seriously, moving out here feels a bit like I have given myself a promotion to a new life--and I'm okay with this!

Tonight's activity was nothing more flashy than a movie night at my friend S's house...we ventured out for some very very good Chinese food, and as we returned to her (obnoxiously located in a gated-community) condo, I noticed these little guys:

(This photo is very misleading. That color green you see? Completely unnatural, and the reason California's having a water crisis. Once you step out of the gated communities into the desert world, everything's either brown or tan.)

Apparently, Thumper's got a few cousins that have a thing for cacti and ocotillo. Equally apparently, they don't need a gate code.

I am trying to instate a Sunday tradition of having some of my Beaumont friends over for Buffy and drinks. So far, we've done it twice, and I suspect that this does not a tradition make. Nevertheless, we're working on it. And in the meantime, I ply them with drinks--with little umbrellas in them! I think once you serve a drink with an umbrella in it, you have officially become an adult.

Seriously, though, what makes one an "adult"? A career? Paying your bills on time? Getting married? Having children? Knowing which glass to use for which alcohol? I tend not to think any of those things make you a grown-up, but then, I have some pretty effed-up standards, like serving drinks with umbrellas in them. Or remembering peoples' birthdays and sending cards. Or being able to cook an entire meal. And the more I think about it, those actions/habits don't make you an adult, they make you a competent human being. And either way, I fail.

But what it boils down to is, I am inching closer and closer to 30, and I still haven't really began running my life in a very competent manner. Most days, getting up and arriving at work 15 minutes early, perfectly groomed, is the best accomplishment for which I can hope. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I soon ought to begin striving for more.

Look Up "Lethargy" or "Malaise"...

Normally, I don't like to blame things on my womanly bits. If I am cranky, or bitchy, or sad, it's not because I have pms, or I'm on the blob, it's simply because I am in a cranky, bitchy, or sad mood. I don't like to blame hormones for anything, because it feels like people use that as an excuse, and really, come on ladies, that's just lame.

Having said that...this week was Blob Week, and I have never had a more unsatisfactory week. Mood-wise, I was fine--just feeling very lazy, unproductive, tired, and useless. I just got nothing done, personally, and I felt like I wasn't up to my normal snuff at work, either.

And so one has to wonder--what have I done, all week, to justify a lazy Friday evening, in my jammies, with a bottle of red, red wine? Oh, I don't know, maybe the fact that we had to evacuate the library this afternoon, and that later on in the evening, there was a fire? Details are still forthcoming, and frankly, I'm not sure I want to know. Just so long as I can go back to work on Monday. I earned my wine, though, dammit--it's a big building, and I've always wondered what would happen in the event of a crisis. And I can honestly say that this little librarian busted her badonkadonk hustling those patrons out. Seriously, a building without a/c, cooking in 110 degree heat? There's no way we could have stayed--I am half-expecting the books to sue us for hostile work conditions.

Having exerted myself so much, it's now time for the pay-off. Wine, solitude, movies, and some long-overdue blogging. I'll leave you with a couple of pictures of my new place, which is sloooooowly coming together...

We Are All Just Numbers...

Unpacking, etc. Apartment is in that weird, liminal space in which it gets much messier before it looks awesome. Sure.

So I will leave you with some numbers:

112: The temperature that it was here yesterday.

$4.67: The price I paid for gas last time I filled up. (I decided to get 2 gallons and drive to a station that I knew would be 20 cents cheaper.)

6-16-2008: My 2 year anniversary of living in California.

$323: The price of my round-trip plane ticket back to Indiana. Maybe I should add another $30, seeing as how it's American Airlines. In August, I'm going back for a wedding...and if there were ever a month when I would not want to visit Indiana, August would be it. Ironic, considering that that was the month I moved there.

Back to trying to get the home together.

As each box is unpacked, broken down, and thrown out, life is slowly starting to wind back down into a normal routine. Moving is an incredibly stressful event, and I've already decided not to move again until I have enough money saved up to hire movers to do it for me. I've also decided not to move again until I am done with my time here in SoCal, or until I get married/shack up with a life partner. Neither are happening any time really soon, and so I can relax and melt into a puddle of domestically-blissed-out Mel goo.

I do like it here. Already I have learned the funny little quirk of life down here in the desert: do it (it being anything) or don't do it at all, and wait until October. Almost everywhere else in the country, people get outdoors during the summer and hole up in the winter; here it's the other way around. 115 degrees is simply too punishing. I find myself day-dreaming a lot about places like Seattle and Asheville, places that are mountainous and cool and rainy and cloudy and humid, but when I catch myself, I shrug it off. And remind myself to put on more sunscreen.

The cats are doing alright with the move, too. Maggie doesn't seem to be fazed at all; Austen, well, he's another story. He's not the brightest kitty, but the first thing he learned at the new place was to pry open a kitchen drawer and dive inside whenever he gets scared. Sometimes I wish I could fit in there with him!

Last night I tried my hand at cooking, with mixed results. I found a recipe for ground-turkey-stuffed peppers which looked yummy...I added the correct amount of milk to the turkey-flour mixture, but I found it a little too runny for my tastes. I added rice to the recipe, but added it a little too late in the process so it's not entirely cooked, and the whole recipe is not spicy enough. I am excited, though...I think this will be a great recipe to experiment with until I perfect it into my version.

Tomorrow I am going off to San Pedro in the evening to visit my cousins before they move away to another phase in their army life. I am not due over there until later, so I think I am going to get a little adventurous and explore the Queen Mary over in Long Beach. Given my penchant for calamity, it will be a brilliant stroke of luck if I manage to sink the old girl.

Over and out, folks. Have a great weekend!

Living It Up, Singles-Style

So much has happened in the past month...things that seem pretty cruddy at the time, even as you intellectually know that it's all happening for your own good. But all of it pales in comparison with the biggest event of the year: I moved.

In fact, I am currently hanging out in my own home, my Palm Springs condo (rented, not purchased) sipping champagne out of a shotglass that my colleague gave me. Why a shotglass and not a lovely, elegant, art-nouveau-style glass flute? Well, the flutes are packed away, the plastic shot glasses were accessible, and oh my god give me alcohol NOW!

Moving is effing hard work. And you always find out who your true friends are when you move. This move was such a protracted affair, and when the actual furniture got moved, it was apporximately 1,003 degrees outside. But it's over, for the most part; all that's left is the best part, which is unpacking and organizing and cleaning and decorating and making it my home. I will stay here for at least three years (simply because I am sick of moving, and I love my job), and it's nice to think about what can unfold here in this time. Maybe I'll write a novel, or find real love and companionship as opposed to a stop-gap measure. Maybe I'll learn to grill on the charcoal grill the previous tenants obligingly left behind. Maybe I will entertain some, and learn to knit. Maybe there should be no "maybe" about any of these possibilities.

At the end of the day, all I know is this: this is the first place I have wanted to live in a very long time. I moved to California because I had to, because the alternative was staying in Indiana and feeling like a mooch with M. and gambling on a very problematic relationship and giving his mother more ammunition against me. I moved to Beaumont because I needed to be close to work and my colleagues. But I moved to Palm Springs because I found a great place to live, in a great city. Except for the lack of heterosexual men, of course. But I found a place where I wanted to be, and for the first time in 2 years, I feel as though I had a choice.

Now pass me that champagne, please.

Can a Girl Be Too Responsible?

Lately, I haven't been sleeping well, at all.

I used to be able to sleep like a log, and sometimes I still do. But a lot of the time, I have a hard time getting to sleep, and an even harder time staying there. Too, my dreams are so vivid and intense and sometimes dangerous-feeling that they further keep me from sleeping soundly.

A lot of it has to do with anxieties over certain wildcards in my life, certain situations that are fine in the short term but untenable in the long term; situations that will require honest introspection, confrontation, and maybe causing someone pain. (Not fun.) And then, career anxieties keep me up too, although at the end of the day, "worry makes small things have a big shadow" and when you are a worrywart, slightly OCD, a tiny bit paranoid, and a neurotic perfectionist, everything seems big and fatal to a career.

Yesterday, I had a long overdue talk with one of my sisters; she provided me with an interesting perspective. She works to fund the things she likes to do outside of work. "I hate to work! If I could go on welfare, I would!" I got a chortle out of that, but her words did make me think a little. Right now, it feels as though I am working for the sake of the work I love...I love my work, and therefore take it home with me (at least in my head) every night. I am not focusing a lot on the more selfish rewards that come along with work--i.e., the money and the fun that can come along with having more of a discretionary income. Every spare cent I am socking away to pay for the move, get some nice stuff (television, anyone?) and still have a nest egg left over. So I am not really enjoying the rewards of my work, and I certainly don't do much outside of work. I guess that can make a girl lose sight of things, a little.
But what is saving money but delaying present gratification in anticipation of future reward?

That will be all good and well, so long as I do start to live a little more and reward myself when I move. At the very least, I should find some activities to fund!

Who Needs Chick-Lit When You Can Read My Blog?

In theory, I love chick-lit novels. It's a few rungs above bodice rippers on the Literature Ladder to Author's Heaven, sure, but reading them is fun, because hey, it makes me feel a little better that here I am at almost 28, not married, living in the slums of Sunnydale, not livin' large. If Bridget Jones is okay with it, then hey, I am too.

But I haven't read a lot of them in the past year, and last week, I figured out why. My life is enough of a chick-lit without having to read about it.

Crazy family? Check.

Job that keeps me jumping? Check.

Complicated love life? Checkcheckcheck.

Skanky apartment? Check.

Quirky friends with their own chick-lits going on? Check. Which segues nicely into the story that I am about to tell.

A friend of mine recently manifested a job down in San Diego, where she has wanted to live since moving to Southern California. Finally, it happened. Then she had to go and find herself some nice digs, and so it was thus that she spent last weekend flat-hunting in downtown San Diego. I accompanied her for moral support, amusement, and the interrogations to which I force leasing agents to submit. (I've moved about nine times since 2002; you get used to asking these questions. You know: What utilities are included? Are pets allowed? the usual.)

We find her a nice apartment: big enough, with a washer and dryer in the unit, parking included, lovely view. She signs the application, and we return to the Armpit Inland Empire. On the ride up, my friend calls her mom and excitedly begins describing her new place. Concerned mother does a little research on apartmentratings.com, and it was then that we learned that there's another question that I need to add to my interrogation, right between asking about the pet policy and how late the pool is open: Has anyone ever been murdered or met an untimely death in this apartment unit? Because it became apparent that someone had been murdered in that apartment building.

After a few minutes of all of us freaking out, I whip out my mad information mistress skills and start consulting actual, legitimate sources. Damned if I am going to buy Google Gossip. In this case, the Internets had a point: some poor guy was strangled in the apartment building a couple of years back. It was a hate crime, which makes it all the sadder. We also learned that it was on the same floor of the unit she had just applied for, but we could not determine whether or not it was her unit. Could she split her rent with Casper? I posited this question, which didn't go over well.

In the end, it all turned out okay. Poor Mr. Murder Victim wasn't killed in her apartment unit, at least, so we should not be expecting any spectral phenomenon soon. Damn! It would have made such great chicklit fodder.

In the meantime, I think I need to buy a ouija board for all future flat hunting missions. Of course, that would take the element of surprise away from things. What's your 20-something years without a few unexpected things that go bump in the night?

You've Been Warned

My sister told me about this site. She warned me about this site. It's Internet crack for females. But it's so wonderful!

My two first Polyvore creations:

Ladies, I pass this torch on to you.

Maybe This Is Why My Car Hates Me...

Observations from the 20-something life, part 1:

When you're beginning to worry that, because of all the junk in it, your vehicle will be mistaken for that of the homeless patron who hangs out at the library every day, you know it's time to clean out the car.

Oh yes, definitely time.

Songs of Leaving...

Seems like I've spent a goodly portion of the last several years saying goodbye and leave-taking. I think it's one of the hazards of pursuing a graduate degree and devoting a portion of your life to pursuing a career--the path requires you to move some, lose some, say some goodbyes, and hang out with people who are doing the same. So not only are you parting from people and places that you have grown to love--or at least accept--but often, you are left behind. People say good-bye to you, too.

And when I say you, I really mean me. And maybe you, too, but firstly, me.

I remember reading somewhere (was it in one of Peter Gethers' books?) that any sort of parting brings us pain, because it ultimately reminds us of death, of our own mortality. I used to think that was a bit of a stretch, quite a leap, but not really, not anymore. Goodbyes of any type are hard, really hard. And if you're certain red head with a contemplative, dysthymic streak, goodbyes are good reasons to get good and quiet and sad and thoughtful for a good few weeks.

It was just a conference. Sure, on one level, it was just a conference, but on another level, one that relates back to my own life, it was also the first time I had returned to a region that I continue to love, stupidly and persistently, long after the region stopped loving me. More and more, I see that my love of the Midwest has been and will always be an unrequitted love. I have never been able to explain it to anyone, why I've loved the Midwest, Indiana in particular, so much. I don't know that I will ever be able to explain it. I know that it goes back to my childhood, some sense of rhythm and stability and normalcy that I knew I lacked, and that I somehow got into my head that a life in Middle America could have provided me. And I never really, truly realized it until I moved there and fell in love with Michael and thought we were going to live on a leafy, tree-lined, suburban street for the rest of our days, and finally I would have that normal family, that rhythmic life, that stability and security that I had always dreamed of.

The real lesson, the real gift that I came away with was that there is no stability or security. Not now, not ever. Not with a job, or without, not with a husband and children, or without. There's no true safety, no lasting security. Only comforting but fleeting moments in which we feel secure and experience a stable life, but never true and lasting stability. This realization still doesn't stop me from wanting a home and husband and family, but at least maybe it will keep me from going completely stupid the next time I experience the belief that there's a ultimate happy-ever-after.

When the plane lifted off the frozen Minnesota ground this morning, I cried. There is a song of leaving in my heart, one that I have been carrying around for two years, but haven't been able to sing.

But I think the music is starting...

An A for effort. Take $600 and move back three spaces, to 1929.

Things have been pretty quiet here on the Western front the last couple of weeks. It says a lot that the majority of my social functions are conducted with people from work...yesterday my boss and I went to a Celtic Woman concert down in Palm Desert. We had a really good time! It wasn't as powerful as the Riverdance performance I went to a few years back, but it certainly was special. It didn't hurt that the celtic ladies were gorgeous, either! Afterwards, we scooted down to Palm Springs, parked, and began searching for a great place to eat. Fortunately, this is not difficult in the desert. We finally found the best restaurant ever, a tapas-inspired bistro called Azul. It was, dare I say, fabulous? Swanky decor, funky atmosphere, damned good artsy-fartsy food. An order of asparagus, lobster spring rolls, chicken potstickers, and banana spring rolls later, my boss and I were sated. Our inner cats were purring.

Also, I got my economic stimulus rebate! Sorry, Uncle Sam, it's stimulating my savings account right now. But no worries, the economy will be getting a Mel-sized stimulus when I move to the desert. And anyway, I don't think anyone, least of all the guv-ment, thinks these rebates are going to make a difference. I think the guv-ment just wants us little people to be appeased with the knowledge that the guv-ment tried.

But hey, $600 is fine and dandy by me.

ometimes, for no particular reason, a day is just crappy, and there's nothing you can do to salvage it.

I can't even really pinpoint what it was about this day that was no darned good--maybe just a variety of things. My Literary Lunch program, so heavily attended the past two months, totally bombed today; only four people showed up for it. One of my colleagues is facing a potentially life-threatening health situation. My cat likes to wipe her cat-butt on the carpet. My shoes are attractive but cheap, and by mid-afternoon, my feet were weeping for mercy. And perhaps the biggest thing--which is probably, to any rational person, the least insignificant and probably a sign that I am certifiably crazy--is that in my professional life, I have this perpetual, paranoid guilt and am always wondering if I have done something to upset a supervisor or colleague.

But, at the end of the day, I am nothing if not plucky, and I believe--I have to believe--that a positive attitude is everything. So I'm going to focus on the good things, however insignificant they seem. Balancing out this day of poo was a good haircut, a safe drive home from work, a cat who literally tries to hug me, a cold Corona in the fridge (now in my belly), the comforting feel of soft, cool yoga pants as I slip them on, and on my ride home, a beautiful view of a fireworks display that one of the local casinos put on. I actually laughed with delight at the grand finale.
And of course there is the knowledge that tomorrow is another day.

Welcome to the Hotel California

Last week I reached a landmark moment in my life. As of last week, I have lived in California longer than I lived in Indiana. I've lived here longer than I had originally planned, and it hasn't turned out half bad. A lot of days, I feel like I have relinquished my capacity for introspection; I feel that my sojourn here has become less of a spiritual journey and more of a series of events, through which I navigate on autopilot. I don't care much for that.

But, regardless, here I am. For now, and into the foreseeable future. I suppose there are worse fates.

When I arrived home from work tonight, I noticed that it was downright cold, and windy too, and lots of grey, stormy clouds had blotted out the evening sky. I was eager to get indoors--I had not expected that kind of weather, and so was jacketless and shivering. The weather reminded me of evenings in Indiana--at least, my imagined evenings, which never came to pass, as it turns out. Life is what happens when you are making other plans.

California has been good to me, much better than I expected. Maybe I brought it into my life, maybe we make our own luck, who knows? Regardless, California is home.

For now, anyway. Rolling stones don't like to lose their momentum.

Minnesota, Ho!

Last week sucked. I took what I felt to be a really hard knock at work, and it just sucked. Possibly what sucked the most was that I learned that I am a huge crybaby, even at work, and my emotions are thoroughly capable of humiliating me in front of my boss.
Which is why this week's forthcoming events could not have come at a better time. My library is sending me to a conference! It's the PLA (Public Library Association) 2008 Conference, in Minneapolis. I am super-stoked to be going--the Midwest! cold weather! And if that were not awesome enough, I get to see one of my very good friends there!

So I am spending tonight packing, sorting through my notes, checking the weather, and trying to put behind me what was has been the shittiest week I've had in a long time. Minneapolis will be like a librarian spa retreat...maybe they'll give a workshop in how not to cry at work.

Seriously, though, it's all so adult-like. I am going to be networking...with business cards! I will be attending workshops and receptions and grilling vendors and discussing readers' advisory databases. I cannot wait!

Wow, I'm a crybaby and a nerd. Hot.

Bridget Jones Should Have Learned About This...

One of my many weaknesses is this: I eat out way too much. It's really quite pathetic, seeing as how there are so few restaurants in Sunnydale. Only Applebee's, Chili's, and some local dive places. How I manage to eat out as often as I do, without venturing further than this area, is a little scary. I'm not living beyond my means, of course, but eating out that much is really kind of extravagant. And god only knows what the sodium level is in my body right now...I think there's saltwater in my veins, not blood.

My point is this: eating out should be a treat, not a habit.

I think most single people will relate to what I am about to say: But it's so much easier!

When you're alone, just little ol' you, it seems a little pointless to cook for one. You end up with too many leftovers, you feel wasteful, and...it's just you! Why make all that effort?

And then today, I had the epiphany. Why make the effort? Because it's worth it, whether you're cooking for one or two or ten. It's time to stop denigrating the single state, and embrace it as long as it is my life. It's okay, it's not a reflection on me as a woman or a human being. It just...is what it is. I have my apartner, Arash, and that's okay, too, for now. What matters is that I still am living with a singles-mindset, and I need to reframe it a little so that I treat myself more decently so long as I am still in the single way. Because let's be honest, I could be single for a very long time, even my entire life, and I shouldn't be spending that time living a half-life in which I treat myself shabbily and don't embrace things because I am waiting for a family to come along and make it a little more worthwhile.

All of this was a convoluted way of getting to the description in which I wax poetic on how I had dinner: I took the trouble to sit down at the kitchen table, as opposed to the bed or the couch; I lit a candle; I took little steps to make it a nicer experience.

We're just going to ignore the fact that the food I consumed was a lean cuisine meal and water. Hey, I took it out of the microwave packaging and put it on a plate; that counts for something, right? Guess I have to start somewhere.

* * * * * * *

Last week Eric and I were catching up on the phone. I happened to pull a little crazy out of the hat, and the following conversation ensued:

Eric: Mel, put the crazy down.

Me: Okay, sanity is restored.

Eric: Oh my god, you women! You're crazy! Either you're crazy or you're shallow!

Me: At least if we're crazy, we're deep.

Eric:....Sometimes it's an abyss.

On Failure

Following hard on the heels of my last post is this one...maybe a continuation?

When I moved out here to California, it was mainly because I had gone through a majorly traumatic break-up and reconciliation. During the break-up part of it, I was in constant touch with a friend of mine from New Orleans. We'll call her Tulip, for now. Tulip was going through her own traumas...Katrina recovery, a crazy boss, a fellow she loved and who loved her, yet was not willing to be with her. We were both fucked up at the time. She moved to Seattle on a whim, I decided to apply to every job in the world, to hell with the consequences. Then she and her fellow ended up together, and my boyfriend and I reconciled. But I still kept applying for jobs everywhere--I had learned that Michael was not a safe gamble, and that I had better get a job and put the relationship second.

Well, I got a job here in Southern California, and Tulip and Tulip's boyfriend ended up in Portland, of all places. And Michael and I didn't end up working out after all (SoCal has been a safe bet). That was discouraging--I don't like being a failure. But a woman I once knew said "We've all failed at relationships. That's what it means when you're single again." But regardless, I took comfort in the fact that Tulip and her boyfriend made it; they ended up together and took a leap and ended up in a brand new city together and lived happily ever after.

Until last month. Now Tulip's starting a new life without the boyfriend. It happens. I should know.

Does this mean we are failures? Maybe so, maybe in the traditional sense. But maybe not, if we really consider what we want and how our actions and choices have or have not been furthering our goals. When we're in our 20s, that's our time to screw up, to make mistakes, to fall down. But the whole point of screwing up, failing, falling down is to learn, do things differently the next time, pick yourself up and do better. If I've learned anything from Friends, it's that.

And I've decided this: when I am around 30, and I am not in a relationship that has the potential for marriage, I am out of here. I will find a new job in a city of my choice, and I will leave whatever life and relationship I have behind. It will be time to move on to better things, more potential, more choices. And that will not make me a failure. That will make me a brave girl--woman, really--with the courage, the cajones to get out there and get what I want, or at least try.

It's really all in how you spin it. And so: We're not failures, ladies. We're simply destined for better things.

Better (Yet Sadder) Than Fiction

I don't need to read any chick-lit novels. My life is a chick-lit in progress.

Case in point: tonight I went down to Newport Beach with one of my best good friends, Kristin (Codename Kissyfur). We go to a swanky little restaurant at the harbor, and we're nursing our drinks along. Being fabulous, I guess (for the sake of the story we will pretend that I have not only defined fabulousness, but have also achieved it). Talking about love and relationships. Here's an excerpt from our conversation:

Me: My longest relationship was two and a half years.
Kristin: I've never had a relationship that lasted longer than a year and a half. Does that make me a commitment-phobe?
Me: No, it makes you a failure.

(Yeah, like I'm one to talk).

Just Do It?

Who knew that a dinner could provide so many opportunities for introspection?

But then again, leave it to me to wax introspective on just about anything.

The other night, I got to enjoy one of the little benefits of working at the Library. We've got a fair amount of very generous donors and Friends, and the Friends decided to hold an "Evening with Books" activity. Men and women all over the valley opened up their very nice homes to paying guests and provided a literary-themed dinner; there was also an author guest of honor at each of the dinners. The Friends very generously gave the Library some tickets, so I was able to attend (for free!) one of the dinners. It was a tango theme.

Now, those of you who know me know that I am hell on wheels--I am my own fatal pre-existing condition. I am simply that clumsy, and so much worse. There was no tangoing for Mel. But I do love watching people dance, and so I still had a lovely time.

Every aspect of it was lovely--our hostess was a total sweetheart, very kind and real and accessible and not at all hoity-toity. She made all the food, and it wasn't just homemade--it was gourmet homemade. And to hear the other guests talk of her, tango was her life, her passion. She certainly danced like it.

I have to say, I got a little envious. I don't think I have found my life's passion yet. There's a lot that interests me, sure, but nothing about which I am a die-hard, hard-core afficianado. Will I ever get that passion?

And on that similar vein, is passion enough? Does passion ensure proficiency? What if you are passionate about something, but completely suck at it? Is that okay? Is it even possible?

Like my sister, maybe even both my sisters, there's a lot I want to try, but I am unwilling to go through the learning period. I don't want to do something until I can do it perfectly. It makes no sense, but that's how I am. And since instantly-achieved perfection is not possible, why, I just don't do it. It's sad.

Maybe I should suck it up and just do it? Let the passion carry me through? Or at least let the passion try to develop?

The Power of Words

Every weekend, I join my boyfriend, and he watches in me in semi-annoyed bemusement as I plow my way through another book. Usually around mid-day on Sunday, I will close the book with a final thunk, and announce, "Done!" And Arash will just shake his head.

Yes, I'm an obsessive, voracious reader. And a fairly fast reader, too. It's more acceptable now, when I am 27, than it was when I was 11 and had no friends. I have lots of reader friends now, and even my non-reader friends don't mind that I am a bookworm. I think they tend to be slightly amused at my verbosity and eloquence.

But sometimes I wonder...am I reading too much? Or, rather, am I reading too fast? Sometimes it feels like I am not really absorbing the words, the stories, the characters, the emotions as much as I should be. Books and stories are meant to move us, to connect with us...and if I cannot even retain the information, am I only being entertained? Entertainment is all good and well, but I want to be moved, stimulated, provoked; I want to think and feel and really connect more with the human experience.

These are the thoughts that have been with me lately. And then last night, I read a book called Before I Die. In it, a 16-year-old girl is very sick with cancer, and then learns that it has progressed very rapidly, so rapidly that the doctor tells her that there is so little time left that "I would encourage you to do the things you want to do." And so the girl gets together a list of the things she wants to do before dying: sex, drugs, love, saying yes for a whole day, get her parents back together. All sorts of things. But as she does all of the things on her list, she always thinks of more things, more items to add to the list, more reasons that life is beautiful...daffodils, hearing your lover snore beside you for years and years, ice cream, fluffy clouds, traffic jams...and so the list becomes to us, the readers, this very sad list of all the things in life that we take for granted and consider mundane (if we even consider it at all), but that a dying person finds terribly dear. And the girl's youth makes it all the more heart-rending.

I read it just before crawling into bed last night. And as I went to bed, I asked myself, "What would be on my list?" And that is what I went to bed thinking about. Seeing the Northern Lights...dancing...having a dinner party for all my dear friends...spending a day in a pool with a swim-up pool bar...reading, reading, reading...

And wouldn't you know, while I was asleep I had this terribly vivid dream in which I had cancer, and only a few months to live, and I still hadn't told my sisters. And I had so much to do.

I know I felt like I needed to internalize my reading materials more, but maybe this is a little much! Perhaps it is better to go back to the assembly-line of reading approach.

Who Says You Can't Go Home?

After a very unpleasant day, two years ago, in which every cherished dream I had looked like it was turning to dust, I've been a little more cautious in how I approach things. I look forward to things now, but with a certain jaded lack of excitement. It's actually a pretty bitter pill to swallow, not being able or willing to anticipate things as I did in another lifetime.

Lately, that's changed a little. Because there is something that is provoking a huge wave of eagerness and excitement within me: soon I will be moving to Palm Springs. Not sure why I am excited--maybe the fact that my commute won't be nearly as brutal? Or that I will be able to find an apartment with central air-conditioning--that isn't in the ghetto? Or that I will be closer to a Target, a good sports park, more educated people in my age group, more culture, more things to do? But for whatever the reason, the fact remains that for the first time that I have moved to the Armpit of America, I am excited about where I will be living. I moved to Hemet because I had to move to California. I moved to Sunnydale because I needed to, not because there were great options for me here. But my next move? I have several choices of cities, for once, and Palm Springs is there, beckoning. And I can't wait. It's been so long that I have been eager and hopeful and excited about something, it's a strange feeling.

I'm not quite sure what to do with it.

No One Gets Out Alive

My sister has done her own blog about grief, sorrow, losing someone close to you. I just read it, and it brought a burning lump into my throat and nasty, stinging tears into my eyes. But it doesn't bring me any closer to really grappling with it myself, or writing anything emotional (as opposed to matter-of-fact), or really even acknowledging it.

Our grandmother, our Mawga is not well. It's been a long time since I gave up on the idea of her getting better, the pain in her knees going away, of a miraculous recovery restoring her to her former, more energetic, mobile self. At 80-something, you just don't get better. I accept that. But what I haven't accepted, what I don't really like to think about, is her getting worse.

But my Mawga, my grandmother, my first friend in life, is getting worse.

When I was still very, very young--six, seven, eight, nine, ten--I would get very scared of Mawga dying, especially in her sleep. Before falling asleep at night, I would say to her "See you in the morning!" and wait for her to say yes, she would, as if somehow, this mundane exchange would make it true. Sometimes I would cry myself to sleep at night, thinking about Mawga not being there. Sometimes, I would have dreams where she had died, and in my dreams, I would sense the finality, the hollowness of a world with no Mawga.

If, at six, I could know that Mawga would be in my life for many, many years, I imagine my anxieties and premature grief would have been assauged. If I had known that I would have spent so many of those years growing away from Mawga, taking her for granted, and generally just being a shitty granddaughter, I imagine--I hope--that I probably would have wept with shame.

Mawga's not gone yet. She's very sick, I think, and a part of me--a tiny, little-girl part of me--is scared. The majority of me is detached, operating on an intellectual level, perhaps just acknowledging that none of us get out alive, but not yet feeling how that affects me.
I'll be going home this coming weekend to spend a tiny, tiny period of time with my grandparents, because every effing second must count, every second that I can spend with them should be the best moment I ever have. And I want as many as them as possible.

Work Hard, Play Hard

I've always loved that phrase..."Work hard, play hard." It makes me think that if you do that, you are living hard, taking on life whole-heartedly, going full-steam ahead. Not sure that's what I am doing, but I certainly had a week like that. Seven straight days of work, and then today was my first day off. One of my partners in crime, Kristin (code name: Kissy-fur) willingly aided and abetted in the play aspect of my week, and so today we ventured down to Orange County.

Highlights of our (mis)adventures included:

• Shopping at a discount mattress store, where we discussed the merits and drawbacks of sleigh beds. (Advantage? Very dignified. Disadvantage: very difficult to perform acts of sexual bondage without bedposts. Major disadvantage, but as I pointed out, one can circumvent this by using the specially-made restraints that run under the mattress. I'm not speaking from experience, people! I had friends in Bloomington that used 'em. REALLY. I actually am telling the truth here.)
• Eating lobster taquitos as we watched sailboats fly past on Newport Harbor
• Watching the sun set over the Pacific (well, actually, over Long Beach), and then watching several pods of porpoises gamboling through the waters)
• Visiting Madame Cleo a palm reader and listening to her inform me that I would change careers, be stuck in California a long time, have twins and a Cesarian, and be fulfilled by a very strong marriage to a tall, light-haired man
• Eating funnel cakes, and contemplating our future heart attacks

Now Kissy-fur and I are back in Corona; she's finishing some work, I'm tapping away on her laptop, we're both nursing a bottle of pinot grigio and listening to Dido in the background. It's not a bad end to the day. I worked hard all week, I played hard all day, and I am going to sleep hard tonight. Not in a sleigh bed, alas. :)

LSSI: Library Services That Suck Immensely

Just in case it isn't clear: yeah, LSSI, I'm talking 'bout you. These are fightin' words.

I don't do a lot of blogging about my profession. Possibly this stems from a desire to not sound too boring, or maybe it's just because I want to leave work at work. But this is something I feel very passionately about, and I want to do my bit to fight it, so there.

Outsourcing is a library issue, too. No, we don't send our libraries to India, but a lot of libraries are starting to outsource their services and management to outside agencies. One of the big ones is LSSI, Library Systems and Services, Inc., but that is really misleading, and I think LSSI is more accurately represented as Library Services that Suck Immensely.

See, here's the thing: a lot of libraries (or counties, or cities) end up contracting with LSSI because it saves them money. And in these days when tax dollars are as grudgingly given as an honest statement from a politician, money talks. But here's the really obvious thing: YOU GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR. And when you're paying less, you are going to get shitty services. I will concede that maybe there's some good to them, but I haven't heard a lot of it. I will also concede that maybe I'm only hearing the evil side, and that it is not entirely accurate, but what I can tell is that collection development is taken away from the local libraries, that they pay their employees disgraceful wages, and that many of the employees they hire to fill the librarian duties are not degreed librarians. This is dangerous to the new generation of librarians coming out of grad school--those of us who have invested thousands of dollars in our educations might find 10 years down the road that our degrees are rendered irrelevant, make us too expensive, and that there might no longer be a place for us. This is dangerous to our profession, because the people that are filling the roles of librarians are not, will not be degreed librarians, and the library services that these staff provide will not be equal to those that librarians offer. Remember, taxpayers and government officials, you get what you pay for. If you want to do something smart with the tax money you have, invest it wisely--don't throw it away on an outsourcing agency that will provide library sources that suck immensely, and that will undermine the vital and important role that libraries continue to play in society.
According to LSSI's website, they claim that the ALA conducted research and concluded that "….the evidence supports the conclusion that outsourcing has been an effective managerial tool, and when used carefully and judiciously it has resulted in enhanced library services and improved library management."

This disturbs me for mainly one reason: it's the ALA who has been crying for librarians for the past ten years, begging young college graduates to get a Master's in Library Science and join a thriving profession. And yet if LSSI's portrayal is accurate, the ALA is signing its name to something that will be the death warrant of degreed librarians, and that means tells me that either the ALA is trying to play every side to serve itself, or that they are duping us. Which do you think?

Any librarians out there who might be reading this blog (there might be what? 2 of you?) please respond here. Give me feedback. Educate me, inform me, say what you think about LSSI and outsourcing. Start talking!

It Is What It Is...

Another year has passed.

Today was the 2-year mark. Today, 2 years ago, the man I thought would one day be my husband broke my heart in a very public place. In the middle of the Student Union, I fell apart and watched, helplessly, as my boyfriend took a sledgehammer to all that I had worked for, hoped for. Of course, in hindsight I can see that both he and I had been sledge-hammering the relationship for a good long while, but I was blind to it at the time.

So, it was 2 ygpears ago today. 2 years ago, I watched Michael get up and start to leave the student union. I got up, too.

"Where are you going?" he asked me.

"I'm going to follow you," I answered.

"Why?"

"Because that's what I've always done."

And indeed, I followed him out of the student union, down the street, stumbling along, not really seeing. He was on his way to the apartment complex where all his friends lived. Outside the apartment, he turned to me. "You can't come in."

"Why not?"

"You're not welcome there."

Cruel words, but perhaps I needed to hear them. Perhaps it took cruelty to penetrate my shocked brain and make me realize that it was over.

That was 2 years ago today. And then I stumbled home and spent the next 12 hours on the futon, waiting for Michael to come home. He never did. Instead, everyone who loved me called me, tried to help me. Finally, my friend Eric simply came over and took me to his home.

It would be nice if, during moments of awfulness and angst and over-blown despair, when we are suicidal and numb with misery, we could look forward and see a future day in our lives, in which the present pain has simply become a bad memory, and not the crippling entity that it is at that moment. It would have been nice to have a vision of the future, to see me two years down the road (now), house-sitting for friends, living in Southern California, working at a job that I love, planning to move to Palm Springs, having the courage to love again. It would be so nice if I could have had that vision to comfort me as I sat there in Indiana and truly believed that my life was over.

Every heartbreak seems to be the worst, the most wretched. And when we recover, we remember the pain, but in a muted way, much like childbirth, and think we can handle it again in the future. And then when the next heartache comes, you forget for a while how resiliant and brave you can be.

Well, now I am in between heartbreaks. But I remember the last one, I remember Indiana and the life I had there, and I look around at the life I have built here, and I remind myself:

It is possible to rejoice in where you are in your life, but mourn how you got there.

Is There a Name for This Kind of Phobia?

I will be the first to admit it. I'm superstitious.

Last month, my City threw a big ol' Christmas Winter Holiday dinner. I brought Arash along for it, and donned a lovely red dress. I got a lot of compliments on it--and my response?

"Thank you. But stay away from it. It's cursed."

Each time, the person to whom I was speaking would give me a querying look, an uneasy smile, before inching away from that whacky weird new reference librarian. One did ask why, but my answer, I'm sure, left much to the imagination: "The last time I wore this to a work dinner party, my life went to crap shortly thereafter."

So stay away, folks, that dress is cursed.

The work dinner party of which I spoke? The Wooden and McLaughlin Law Firm Christmas Dinner, in December of 2005. I scoured stores during Thanksgiving break, looking for just the right gown to set the tone for the first of many, many Christmas parties with these people. And I found it, a lovely gown, flared and swishing from the hips down, a beautiful holly red that just slipped onto my body and conformed to my curves in the best possible way. So I bought it, and some silver strappy heels, and wore it to the Christmas dinner. It was bitterly cold in Indianapolis that night, but I didn't care. The chill just made my heart race all the more excitedly, in anticipation of the many cold, cozy winters in store for Michael and me.

On the way home, we drove down Meridian Street, past all the grand old mansions, down to the Circle, where the war monument was all lit up against the black, vast Midwestern sky. I was literally bouncing in my seat with excitement, with glee. So many happy years ahead, prosperous years to be spent there in Indiana.

And then? 6 weeks later, at the end of January, I met up with Michael in the Student Union one Friday afternoon; I wanted his help finding some computer software at the bookstore. When we met up, he suggested we take a stroll through the Union. He paused outside the Burger King. "You want anything?"

I said no, and figured we would resume our walk, but to my surprise, Michael sat down there, right outside the Burger King. "We need to talk about something."

And that was the afternoon all my dreams turned to ashes. Cry cry wah blah cry cry, the end. Or the beginning. Or both.

So? Beware of that dress, it's cursed.

And now, almost two years later, I am feeling a little nervous. For I am beset with a sinus infection, just like I had in the weeks coming up to that horrible January afternoon. I am remembering our Caribbean trip that we went on just three weeks before. These little similarities (so minor!) are making me very superstitious and nervous. It's just the time of the year...I am coming up on the two year mark, and completely aside from "Holy shit! How has it been two years?" there's not a lot I can say about it. The trauma is still there, yes. When I remember that time too often, or for too long, I have the very strong urge to hide under the bed. Real mature. Unresolved trauma, perhaps?

Really, there's very little to say other than this: Men, please, DO NOT dump your girls in a public area. That's just not cool.

And women, if they do dump you in the Student Union, it's okay not to forgive them. It's nice if you can, but not mandatory. Just don't hide under the bed.

Freaky Friday

So, the most interesting thing happened at work today. The Internets died.

No kidding! I've often wondered what would happen if the Internets broke down while I was at work--in fact, earlier this week I was talking to the personnel director about it, and then, whoops! No Internets. I'm not sure we'll have it tomorrow, either.

And did the earth stop spinning? Did we all huddle into a corner and beg for Mommy? Were there mass riots? Did we become completely incompetent reference librarians? The answer to all of this is, of course, no. Some patrons got a little grumpy when they realized that they could not get their internet fix, but that was all. Thank goodness, our workflows program was still working, so we could at least look up books in our collection for the patrons, so we were not completely crippled. Honestly, though, I'm a little ambivalent. I LOVE the Internet, and cell phones, and technology, but it really scares me how deeply dependent we are on technology. I always ask the reference librarians with whom I work, "Okay, if you had gotten such-and-such a question fifteen years ago, how would you have answered it? What sources would you have consulted?" I envy my colleagues the years of reference experience they had without being able to rely on the Internet; I envy them the resourcefulness and knowledge they cultivated that I suspect that I, and most other librarians of my generation, completely lack. So a part of me actually rejoiced (very quietly) when the Internets went away. It was a great excuse for me to be thrown back on my own resources and print-knowledge. Of course, I had a lot of things working in my favor: our workflows program was still running, I was working with a seasoned and very good-natured librarian, and business slowed down A LOT once people realized the Internet gnomes were striking, and so there weren't a lot of demands or pressures.

But who knows? Tomorrow's another day, and the Internets might still be down. Either way, it's all good...but then, the patrons might not see it like that. Maybe I should don a kevlar vest, just in case!

Last Night I Dreamt I Went to Manderly Again...

Okay, maybe not Manderley. More like Indiana-ley. It was a sad dream; in it I was still living in Indiana, as I was in 2006, and I was packing up to leave for California. It was one of those weirdo dreams when things were very complicated--I didn't have a job in California, in my dream, but I was moving there anyway. And then it occurred to me: Why the hell would I want to move to California? Doing that would be a very bad idea.

I was basically re-living the reluctance, the dread, the unhappiness that I experienced before I moved out here in June of '06. That was a move I absolutely did not want to make, and I think a part of me tried to delay it as much as possible. A part of me was immersed in misery, when I prepared for that move. It was a time filled with partings, and it was a time that I don't like to think on too much. I loved my time in Indianapolis--I had my dream life there after all, if only for three or four weeks--but it was clouded by California looming overhead. I don't like remembering it--so why the heck did I have to dream about it? Sometimes dreams are more vivid than memories, and more painful too.

Listening to a Prophet

The first time I heard of Kahlil Gibran and The Prophet, I was eighteen years old. I was flirting with this boy, Tommy. Tommy Gibran was his name, although his birth name was Kahlil Gibran. My father read The Prophet, Tommy said, he read The Prophet and it changed his life. So he changed his name to Kahlil Gibran and named me, his son, the same. But I go by Tommy.

I nodded, and briefly wondered what The Prophet was about, that it could be so life-changing. And then I focused on Tommy again, and flirting. In hindsight, I wish I spent less time flirting--Tommy ended up being an AWFUL kisser--and more time grilling hiim on this Prophet thing. But then, I am not sure Tommy would have known much more about it. He was a punk, Tommy was, and I am fairly sure he was involved in some insurance scam.

Anyway. The Prophet.

I have encountered that author and that title more, now that I have entered my educated, librarian years. So I finally checked it out yesterday, and have begun to read it. I'm not sure what to expect; I think maybe on some level I am looking for some sort of life-altering experience. But I am older now, and I think with maturity comes a certain unflappability, a certain stability that prevents you from being easily swayed by persuasive arguments. Maybe common sense, experience, and maturity are what settle us, make us more sedate, less fired up. But I still want to be open to at least the possibility of life-altering experiences...let's see what The Prophet can do for me. It's got to be more life-altering than Tommy's kissing style!

Greetings to the New Year! It's Going to Be Fabulous!

As always, a day late and a dollar short. But better late than never.

Bring it on, 2008! I will MAKE you be an awesome year. I shall beat you into submitting to my goals, plans, ambitions, and wishes. Because I have a Plan. And yes, we all know that life is what happens when you make plans, but nevertheless...

I do have a few New Years' resolutions, sure, but I think that those are a little tricky. They are vague and nebulous, and can always be put off until by the end of the year, you're like, "well, shit, another year over, a new one just begun, no filled resolutions and I am a lame-o." So, I am thinking...New Month Resolutions! I am going to attempt to set goals for each month, kind of like an action plan. Plus, it means I get to make a list, and we all know that making a list is elixir and inspiration for the soul. At least for my twisted, neurotic soul. I think if I were told I were dying, my first reaction would be to make a list. But I am not dying, hurrah! although lists are still here, waiting to be made.

So! January resolutions.

1.) I am going to try to jog three times a week

2.) I am going to purchase a wall calendar, record important birthdays, and try to remember to send cards. (My mom's birthday is today--whoops!)

3.) I am going to cook at least one new meal a week. Bonus points for being heart-healthy.

4.) I am going to get a Palm Springs Library card and check out/read the following books: Change Your Home, Change Your Life and Making Peace With the Things In Your Life.

5.) I am going to write a personal vision statement.

6.) I am going to purchase a fabulous outfit for my January Literary Lunch Booktalk.

7.) I am going to check out and watch some Yoga videos from the library.

8.) I am going to have a cleaning plan for my home--every day, I will perform a few cleaning tasks.

(This one in particular is important. I am weird: I feel like I cannot do anything until I have the perfect setting, and let's face it, things at Chez Ghetto are rarely perfect. But it's ridiculous to try to hold off on life until everything is perfect. I know so many women, myself included, who do not want to learn anything because they want to be perfect at it right away. I am the same. And in particular, I feel like my surroundings need to be perfect. Bah. I want to be fabulous, but I don't want to be less than perfect at it, and so I put it off by saying "I can't do this or that because the house is a mess!" That's right, folks, I am putting off fabulousness because of dirty dishes. The least I can do is to make routine cleanliness a not-too-time-consuming habit, and let that be part of the fabulousness, but not the goal, and not the thing that prevents me from attaining it.

So, happy 2008! Let our cups overfloweth with fabulousness!