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.