Oh Mr. Sandman...

At almost three in the morning, when you are still awake and sleep does not seem to be anywhere in your vicinity, life takes on a different shape. It morphs into something a little more abstract, something that one can keep, and examine, at a distance, in a detached sort of way. You can contemplate your daylife, your work, your interactions, your plans and hopes and to-do lists and worries, and somehow, the emotions involved seem muted. Almost as if the life you are leading is completely separate from your nightlife, as if they carried on independently of one another, never touching. And, considering the dreams I have, that's not such a stretch.

But here I am, at almost three in the morning, wide awake because I stayed up too late last night and the neighbors below me are assholes that play their television or stereo too loud. I am propped up on a bank of pillows, tapping away at a laptop, swaddled in my down comforter. It's been a long time since I have had insomnia, and I don't know quite what to make of it. Why is it that our heads become so much more jumbled full of mental clutter when we are waiting for sleep to come?

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?