Social Lies and Omissions

I'm fairly open about myself. I developed this trait when I flunked out of college for a semester, back in 1995. People would ask about school (mainly why I wasn't there), and I'd just tell them the truth. It was a little embarrassing, but it got easier with the telling. Granted, I didn't always tell the entire story about why and how I got put on Academic Suspension; it wasn't always relevant to the conversation, and was usually more than the person needed to know.

These days, I'm still fairly open about myself. I gladly announce my strengths and shortcomings, for the most part. I'm all over the internet, too, so there's no hiding from people who want to know all about me. (I know there are one or two people from work who check my blog and Twitter and Flickr on occasion, and I've come to be OK with that.)

There's a line, though, when it comes to casual social interaction. For instance: when I use the phrase, "once we have a kid," or, "someday, when we procreate," or whatever witty way I put it, one of the standard responses is, "Oh, are you thinking about trying for a kid?"

Normally, a standard answer from your average married thirty-something would be a casual nod and a smile, and perhaps a vague timeline — once so-and-so finishes school, or maybe this Fall, or even a secret admission that the person is indeed actively trying to conceive.

From me, though, you'll likely get a stiff attempt at a casual nod and a "We're thinking about it." That's because, every time someone asks, I think about the fact that I miscarried my first pregnancy at 10 weeks, and that Aaron and I could have been parents of a toddler right now. Then I realize that no one wants me to mention the worst day of my life in casual conversation — especially me — and I omit that detail and move on.

Never mind the fact that, no, we're not necessarily thinking about trying for a kid again. The jury's still out on that.

When my close friends ask me about my miscarriage, I answer. We discuss. It's cathartic, I think. But when people who didn't know me three years ago ask me about my family plans, I almost feel like I'm committing a social lie by not telling the whole truth, even though I know that's the last thing they want me to tell them at that moment.

The omission is just as much for my comfort as theirs, though. I'm not exaggerating when I say it was the worst day of my life. Reliving it isn't at the top of my to-do list.

So I'll stop now.

Running Alongside

I'm feeling like that a lot lately, like I'm just running alongside things, trying to hop back on. There's so many things that I want to get done, and I need to realize that they're not all going to get done at once.

I have a bad habit of putting off things I don't feel like doing. It's not very mature of me, really, but there you are. Worse, instead of doing something else productive that's further down on the list, oftentimes I'll just ignore my next-up list entirely and veg out with a video game or the internet.

There are so many categories of action items and responsibilities that I feel like I need to address RIGHT NOW. Zen podcast. Diet. Cleaning. Blogging. Posting and printing vacation photos. Editing vacation video. Hell, even organizing my GTD system (which isn't nearly in the clockwork state I'd like it to be in yet). I need to come to terms with the fact that everything isn't going to get done instantly, even if I'm productive as hell every evening. Which I'm not. And I shouldn't have to be, not after an eight-hour day at work.

I need to stop pushing myself to do all this crap I can't reasonably get done, and just relax and enjoy what I have going on. I've really got it easy, in the grand scheme of things, and I need to just chill the fuck out.

The Choice Is Clear

The key, for me, is eliminating any possibility of alternatives. That's how I get things done. It's not even that I need to choose the best alternative, or the most reasonable, or the most sane; it's that there cannot be any other choice. Period.

That's how I succeeded (and later failed) in my first round of dieting: if I had the mindset that there were foods that I just COULD NOT EAT, period, I was fine. There was no other alternative; it was protein and non-starchy veggies when I went out to eat. As soon as someone pointed out that I was choosing to eat that way, and it wasn't a life-or-death dietary imperative, that's when the weekend trips to the buffet started, and occasional slices of pizza. They wouldn't kill me, after all, and it wasn't like I did it all the time...

It's not just dieting. In college, I was notorious for skipping class, especially before 10:30am. If there wasn't an attendance policy (and sometimes even if there was), then class wasn't mandatory unless there was a quiz or test. I could sleep in and not feel the academic pain, theoretically. That's one reason why it took me seven years to get my four-year Bachelor's degree.

Some things just need to be black-and-white for me. You do this. The end. You wash your dishes every night. You go to work on time every morning. You stay within your Weight Watchers Points limit for the day and the week. You brush your teeth every night and every morning.

You'd think these would be second nature. No one else seems to have problems doing these things like a normal adult. Except me.

I've mastered a very few of these sorts of things. I make my lunch the night before, because I know I won't have time to do it in the morning. Therefore, there's no option: I have to make my lunch before bed. Same with putting out my clothes — I can't see my closet in the dark of morning, and Aaron will be sleeping, so I can't turn on the light.

It's time to apply that same sort of mindset to other responsibilities.

Maybe, after I master physical responsibilities, I can work on maintaining positive self-talk and attitudes this same way. There's no other way to do it; anything else is toxic to me personally. Sounds kind of hippie-dippy, but it just might work.

Disjointed

Ironically enough, having an online journal has really fragmented my personal journaling in general.

I have diaries and journals dating back to when I was... let's see... seven years old. For posterity's sake, my first-ever diary entry went a little something like this:

6|28|'83
Today I had My Blood Test. I was a little Nervice. Tomorrow I Have My Tonsils out. I'm a bit Nervice about It. Bye-Bye!

(Thank goodness my entries got a little more engaging over the years. At least, I hope they did...)

I didn't really get into regular journaling until middle school, though. From 7th grade through high school and early college, I can string together a set of nine volumes (plus a sheaf of notebook paper and a spiral-bound notebook) that chronicle the happenings of my life, with only a few months-long breaks in the action.

In my later college years, the journaling started to fragment, moving to random notebooks and text files and whatnot. Once I started blogging — officially, late 2002 — most of my thoughts were finally consolidated into one place.

However, everything I need to journal is not safe for public consumption. I suppose I could write unpublished entries in my blog, but that always leaves the possibility of an accidental publishing to the world. I'd rather keep a private text file on my computer for rants about individuals, or weird dreams I've had, or talking about life events that the world really doesn't need to know about. Plus, I've been known to write longhand in a journal I keep in my purse. (I haven't done that for a few years now, but I did that for a good year or two, around 2006.)

So, despite my prolific writings online, my inner musings may be lost to the ages if I don't end up printing them out and saving them in their own rightful volume, next to the other chronicles of my life.

Granted, these precious chronicles of my life are stowed in a box in the extra bedroom, but still...

Deep Funk

My winter depression is coming early this year, perhaps due to being holed in for some especially frigid days recently. I get easily frustrated with myself, and doubt my self-worth, and find fault. What makes it worse is that I don't care. I mean, I obviously do care, but I can't get motivated enough or take enough interest to do anything about any of it. It's illogical and irrational and kind of stupid, but there it is.

Usually, this doesn't hit until February, and for the past several years I've been able to stave it off with daily half-hour walks and vacation planning and being happily married. This year, though, all the planets are aligning, it seems, to help me be excessively blah. Not feeling particularly useful in my job, despite a positive annual review in November. Not feeling particularly successful in my weight loss, despite now being able to wear a large (as opposed to an extra-large) in some clothing styles. Not feeling properly wifely, as I'm never good at housekeeping and my libido's shot to hell lately (TMI, sorry).

Can I fake it? Oh, sure, no problem. I'm no drama queen; I'd try to play it off, anyway.

But I don't like feeling like this, and I'm not sure how to turn it around. Besides just waiting for spring, that is. It's irrational and illogical and I can't talk myself into being un-blah. I can't formulate proper arguments to convince myself not to feel this way.

It's irritating. Which only makes things worse.

Maybe I just need more sleep. Still.

Argh.

Hallowe'en Devotional

I take pride in the curious and somewhat unique way I observe Hallowe'en. For the past several years, I've taken some time on All Hallows' Eve to remember or acknowledge my relatives and ancestors who are dead. Sometimes I focus on one person, like Granny, but usually I reflect on genealogy and departed family in general.

Tonight, my house is lit by four handmade cranberry soy candles. (And my computer monitor.) Granted, I've turned on lights here and there, but I've turned them back off when I left the room; usually, I leave the living room light on, even when I'm downstairs at my computer. The candlelight does create kind of a somber and subdued mood for my evening, but it also makes me realize how much we take electricity for granted.

Think about it: the U.S. didn't have a widespread rural power grid until the 1930s (according to Wikipedia), so most of the farmers in my lineage would probably have been in bed asleep by this time of night. My grandparents and great-grandparents on all sides were fairly poor folk, living in shacks and lean-tos, and they didn't have the creature comforts that many of their city-dwelling contemporaries did. What we take for granted didn't become standard until our parents' era.

Not so long from now, the next generation will be thinking the same thing about the internet. (Actually, they already are — one of Aaron's co-workers was asked by his son what Google looked like when he was a kid.)

There are so many ways I could go with this line of thought... but I think I'll leave this unfinished. I have some other tasks I need to work on this Hallowe'en night.

Happy Hallowe'en, all. Be safe. Enjoy yourselves.

P.S. - If ever anyone wanted to invite me to a Hallowe'en party, I wouldn't be upset to miss my annual Hallowe'en Devotional. I promise.

Self-Acceptance

Self-acceptance has been a challenge for me since puberty, I've realized.

Before then, I didn't really believe little Tyrone when he called me fat and punched me in the stomach when I was five or six years old. I didn't see a problem with being a size 14/16 at age eleven. It wasn't until sixth grade, when I changed schools and started growing boobs and zits and had some of my first really unpleasant academic and social experiences, that I started to get down on myself.

For me, the concept of loving myself for who I am right now is just foreign. I'm always trying to fix myself. Lose weight. Stop procrastinating. Get organized. Treat myself better. Have better hygiene. For me, self-acceptance is merely the lack of self-deprecation, or just not thinking about my opinion of myself at all.

This week, Sheryl e-mailed me with a one-liner:

Have you heard about this “fat acceptance” movement? What do you think about it?

I hadn't heard about it, so I hit Wikipedia, where I read the condensed version. It's exactly what it sounds like: "a grassroots effort to change societal attitudes towards individuals who are fat." So, I formulated an opinion:

Are fat people discriminated against? Do people make unfair assumptions about them? Definitely. Is being overfat unhealthy? I’m not a doctor, but I’m going to say yes.

I’m going to lump this into overall tolerance. I can’t be sure it requires a “movement,” but being socially tolerant of people in general is a good idea. Medically, though, I can’t see being OK with a loved one being obese. I wish [my BFF] would lose some [more] weight, for her own sake (and the same with all my other obese friends), but I don’t love her any less for there being more of her to love.

Sheryl then introduced me to Kate Harding's Shapely Prose blog, where Kate and two other bloggers write about the importance of Health At Every Size. Sheryl also told me, "I’m not saying 'DIANA. Stop losing weight and love yourself!' I’m saying, love yourself at every step. :D It's kinda liberating."

Until she said that, I completely hadn't realized she meant ME. I need to accept MYSELF.

But it's so hard.

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Starting Over

Did 30 minutes of Wii Fit this evening, along with a little bit of housework. Currently working on the Zen podcast. Planning to go to Zen meditation tomorrow evening. Life is getting back into its normal, non-depressed groove.

I've decided that the best way to go from here, assuming my mood doesn't continue to improve, is the Fake It Till You Make It approach. Keep busy, keep upbeat, don't make it obvious that I have a shitty self-image, and eventually my brain will fall into line.

Wednesday evening is Zen. Thursday evening will involve doing yoga and cleaning my desk. Friday evening will be more Wii Fit and probably continuing to clean my desk. (I've noticed I do feel more positive and productive if my work area is clean and tidy.) The weekend will be the weekend, and on Monday, I will begin my blog migration / redesign in earnest. I may even move it and make it live before the design is completely done, just because I'm so looking forward to a new design and a decrufted installation of MT.

Keeping busy, but not TOO busy. Leaving time to pamper myself. Sit zazen. Tweeze my eyebrows. That sort of thing.

I'll be fine. Thanks for thinking of me. :-D

Just Thinking

Yes, I know I should be in bed. This evening was a wash. I'm not sure what happened. I had detailed plans, a schedule, an agenda, and it all went to shit. I ended up playing 2½ games of Civilization Revolution on 360 instead of producing the Zen podcast and fixing my blog and exercising.

[...]

One interesting result of more people reading my blog, via Facebook or LJ whatever, is that I'm more careful about what I post. I mean, I've always tried to be careful when posting about other people, or about co-workers in particular — this is the internet, after all, and who knows where a post about a named individual could end up. The internet is a big place, and everybody knows somebody.

Anyway, that's not the problem so much as is my new-found inhibition with blogging about myself. Used to be, I used my blog as a surrogate for my written journal of ages past. Detailing stuff that happened over the course of the day, talking through my mental bullshit, complaining about other people (albeit anonymously), complaining about myself.

But now... as the years have passed, I find that I'd rather not put all of this out on display. This is no longer just a communication between myself and a dozen friends from college. Now, my co-workers could potentially read it. The sangha (my Zen buddies) could read it. A future employer could read it.

Not that there's anything I need to say that's earth-shattering. It's just that I'm less inclined to indulge in a giant pity party over nothing when I know that the normals are following along.

I just wish I could shake this funk. I don't want to feel all blah like this, but I can't seem to find the motivation to even locate my bootstraps, much less pull myself up by them.

Not fishing. Just thinking.

Awkward

I've been trying to make a concerted effort to post a "real" blog entry daily, especially since I have my Twitter feeding into my blog. I feel kind of contentless if I let my blog fill up with Twitter Updates, with no actual entries to break them up.

When I really don't feel like writing, or don't have a topic that inspires me, my M.O. lately has been to search my Flickr for an interesting photo to post. Tonight, I thought it would be fun to find some good times in high school and post those. Funny thing is, I haven't scanned in many pics from those years. So, I got to looking in the years before and after high school, instead, and found that I had mixed feelings about seeing a lot of those images. That surprised me.

I look at photos of me (rare though they are) in late elementary school and into junior high, and I just feel such pity for that frumpy and awkward girl. Then I look at photos of me in late college and just after college, and I can't believe that I didn't take my health into my own hands. I looked awful, and I hadn't realized at the time that I felt awful.

I guess I've always felt awkward, in one way or another, and seeing these pictures and being somewhat divorced over time from the situations they portray... I don't know. I guess it reminds me that I just never really felt like I fit, socially. That's why I was (and am) such close friends with select people; they're the people who neutralize the awkward. They make me forget to feel uncomfortable about all the superficial things that I shouldn't feel uncomfortable about, anyway.

Maybe one of these days, I'll scan and post all the painfully awkward photos of myself I can find. It'll be cathartic or something. :-D

Phases

Is everyone like this? I'll go all-out on something — say, a diet — for a few weeks, then I'll just coast for a week or so. Same thing happens with web projects, or major cleaning endeavors at home, or an exercise plan, or anything sustained over a decently long period of time. (Unfortunately, my collegiate academics were like that, too, but I didn't "coast" as much as "quit going to class.")

I'm in the middle of the slack phase of my diet right now. I'm actually eating my Flex Points (the built-in cheaty part of the diet) instead of ignoring them like I usually do, or saving them for emergencies (e.g. "I had no idea that Indian dish was made with clarified butter"). I'm also in the midst of an exercise slack phase; I haven't done my prescribed nightly exercise for a couple of weeks. I'm maintaining my weight fairly well, and I'm wondering if these phases of slackerdom aren't related to my body needing to chill the fuck out with the weight loss, and just catch up with itself.

Thing is, I'm taking a mental vacation in other ways, too. I'm having a bitch of a time focusing on my job. I'm taking days off of working on my freelance site, even though one or two evenings of nose-to-the-grindstone work would wrap things up once and for all. My desk (at home) is getting messy again. I wonder what's up with me?

Remembrances

Luckily, I don't attend funerals very often. Before Grammie's service last week, the last time I'd been to a funeral was in 2003, when I attended a string of services: my Memaw's in May, a drum corps acquaintance's in October, and Amy's grandpa in December. Each remembrance is different — Memaw's, for instance, was held in a small room in a funeral home in Parma, with only close family and friends, while the service for Steve (a well-known and popular drum corps / drumline instructor) was held in a large church that held hundreds.

Never before Grammie's service, though, had I considered the very different healing properties of a viewing or wake versus an actual funeral service. I think that, as atheists, Aaron and I ended up getting much more out of the viewing than the funeral.

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Introspection, circa 2002

Found written in an old day planner of mine, from 2002 or 2003:

I am an interesting dichotomy.

• I will complain about a job, then complete it to the best of my ability.
• I prefer to be "behind the scenes," yet feel put out when I fail to get the credit I deserve.
• I feel I "deserve" a job in my field, then don't have faith in my abilities when I apply or interview for one.

When I Grow Up

Funny how certain people can get so obsessive about what they enjoy, but in such different ways.

When I was a kid — and I'm guessing most kids are like this — I went through phases of What I Want To Be When I Grow Up. I remember that being a standard getting-to-know-you question from the grown-ups, and I always had an answer. Well, almost always.

I don't remember when I first joined ballet at age four, but Mom tells me that she gave me a choice between ballet and gymnastics lessons, and I chose ballet. I took lessons at Laura Penton's Academy of Classical Ballet (which has long since changed names and merged with another studio); I attended ballet classes for four years, and tap for one year. During that time, I was convinced that I was going to be a ballerina when I grew up, despite the fact that I was obviously going to be too big overall — both slightly overweight and tall for my age. Neither of these things were quite so obvious to me at the time as obstacles, though, and Mom didn't tell me until long afterward about how Ms. Penton had told her that she already knew I wouldn't get far in the field of dance.

When I was eight years old, we moved from Ohio to Florida. We really didn't have the money for me to take ballet lessons there, and I remember being horribly upset... for a few months. Once I started school, though, my focus shifted from ballet to science. We were within a couple hours' drive of the Kennedy Space Center, and both the local news and my teachers at school seemed to make a big deal of shuttle launches and NASA in general. Over the next year or two, I went on a field trip to Cape Canaveral, watched the Challenger explode on live television, and learned how to program in BASIC. When the Guidance Counselor at school asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I told her I wanted to be a computer programmer for NASA. And she told me that I shouldn't limit myself like that.

At the time, I thought that was the most bizarre response to my highest aspiration. I understand now.

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Twists of Fate

It's so easy to say things like, "I don't know where I'd be today if it weren't for [fill in the blank]."

It's much more interesting to actually give it some thought.

Sometimes, I like to trace things backward and realize what an amazing combination of circumstance and decisions brought me to where I am today. The realization makes my life that much more amazing.

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Delicate Balance

One day last week, I went to write a "what's up with Diana" blog entry while I was at work. Just snagging five minutes here and there, so it was kind of disjointed and stream-of-consciousness. What I came up with was so unexpectedly negative, I didn't even feel I should post it. I kept it in my home e-mail, though, just so I could look back at it later with a giant WTF.

I've been under some weird kinds of stress lately, I guess. Nothing earth-shattering, but a collection of little things. My aikido rank test is coming up on Saturday the 26th, and I don't feel as ready as I should be. I have training for work in Columbus and in Chicago coming up next month, and I'm still unsure about how to properly book my hotels and my flight out to O'Hare, so I'll be sure to be reimbursed by the company. I'm in the midst of a weight-loss challenge, which I seem not to be winning right now.

All of these things seem petty and manageable on their own (and I'm sure there are others I've left out, including the monthly hormonal BS), but their combined effect is unusually powerful right now. I can go from zero to pissed in about two seconds, for no good reason. Poor Aaron is positive it's all him, but it seriously isn't. It's me. Being weird. In a not-so-good way.

No, sir, I don't like it.

The trick seems to be balancing my diet, exercise, and productivity to gently affect my mood. If one of those goes down the shitter, the whole balance is thrown off, and I go down some fucked-up spiral of "I suck"-ness. I'm always so hard on myself for not living up to my own unreasonably high standards. It's like I have to consciously psyche myself out in such a way to fool the part of my brain that knows I'm not doing everything "right."

I want to be confident. I want to be knowledgeable. I want to be healthy. I want to look good. I want to feel good. I want to like myself. I want to like myself as I am. I want to stop looking in the mirror and asking myself, "What is WRONG with me?"

I want to want what I already have.

On Community

Since I've volunteered to produce The Drinking Gourd Podcast for the Toledo Zen Center, Aaron has been reminding me not to let myself be used, or to get too much work on my plate again. It's a valid argument, and one that has helped me avoid trouble in the past. Right now, though, I only feel positive vibes about this project, and I think I know why.

Community.

It's been a long time since I really felt like part of a community. Work isn't really a community — I'm talking about someplace outside of the work and family environments, where people with a common thread in their lives meet regularly and talk frankly and feel comfortable with one another. I suppose this would normally manifest as a church group, or a support group, or even a user group. For me, the sangha (zen community) has been emerging as a community of which I feel I am a part.

Going back to religion: in the Mormon tradition in which I was raised, any member of the congregation can be "called" to a particular position in the church, be it Sunday School teacher, pianist, clerk, or bishop (head of a congregation). It is generally understood that, if you are called to serve, you don't turn down that calling. Some people do, sure, but it's generally frowned upon. Even if it's too much for you to handle, you trust that God (and the local Priesthood authorities) gave you the task for a reason, and that you will grow spiritually because of your calling, and you will receive blessings in Heaven.

In retrospect, I can see how serving a calling in the church can increase the feeling of community from each of its members. That's sort of how I feel now. I feel like I'm contributing to the community by doing my part, and I don't feel like the sangha is taking undue advantage of my skills.

It also doesn't hurt that, almost any night of the week, I can drive just over five minutes to the dojo/zendo and drop off CD-Rs, or pick up the digital recorder, or just talk with Sensei, and then drive home — and only have used up 20 minutes of my night. As cool as the internet is, I'm coming to appreciate human contact more and more. You don't get the same energy by reading someone's words as you do from hearing them spoken, not to mention the fact that some people don't have a proper mastery of the written English language.

So, even though I'm having to be reimbursed for the $30 I spent today on printable CD-Rs and printer ink, and even though I spend about two hours editing each podcast, and will probably spend another hour burning and printing CDs of each... I think it's worth it.

Annoyance

I am starting to get seriously annoyed with myself for allowing myself to feel all pissy and depressed for no good reason. I let little things get under my skin. I let things harsh my mellow in a bad way. And I let other people's negative attitudes affect me more than necessary.

Part of this is definitely, without a doubt, the connection between mind and body. Effed up sleep habits, eating habits, schedules — all are really taking their toll. And these are all fixable things. It's just a matter of making myself do things just because, instead of 'because I have to go to work' or 'because I have a deadline.' How about 'because I'll feel like shit later if I don't'?

I also feel like I tend to wallow in my depression / funk when I get in these moods. It's like I take some perverse pleasure in feeling downtrodden or something. WTF? That went out of style back when I was 17. Righteously oppressed and darkly-mooded teenagers are to be expected; depressed grown-ups get handed a pile of Prozac and told to suck it up. Not that I'm clinically depressed (not diagnosed, anyway), and not like I'd be particularly comfortable with taking medication that alters the chemicals in my brain. The Pill screwed me up bad enough; who would I be after taking anti-depressants?

Point being, I'm kind of seeing myself from the outside in, while still being all funky. I need to fucking shake this thing.

Maybe tomorrow's wedding reception or next week's second interview downtown (OMG!) will cheer me up.

Update: Oh, that's fantastic. Owens got my BG transcripts, sure, but one of the two programming classes I wanted to take in January (co-requisites, so it's both or neither) is now full. Unless I plan to be unemployed until March, in which case I could take either the MW 10am-11:50am class or the TR noon-1:50pm class.

*insert tantrum here*

Self-Confidence and Job-Hunting

I realize that potential employers may Google me to learn more about me and my background. Despite this, I'm going to post what's on my mind, rather than putting a front forward about how confident I feel about my job search.

I'm pretty proud of myself, sure. I joined one other co-worker to create a relational Access database that currently has over 150,000 records in its main table, with 20 users, and has only completely crashed and burned once in a year and a half of operation. I've recently redesigned two websites from the ground up (buzzword: full development lifecycle) using PHP and a custom database backend for content management.

But am I confident about my skills? That's a deeper question...

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On Losing Touch With Friends

I had two pretty close friends during my last few years as an active Mormon, both of whom have long since fallen off of my radar. One is Michelle, who was a church friend back when I was younger; and one is Ann, who moved to the Medina Ward as a teenager. Both Michelle and Ann were a couple of years older than I, and both were into "progressive alternative" music back in the early '90s.

When Michelle was 16 and I was 14 or 15, we spent a good amount of time hanging out, doing my makeup, listening to Depeche Mode and The Cure, going to church dances and other functions. She drove me around quite a bit, actually, and I found out later that she had complained to Ann that I never thanked her for the rides. That was one of my first and most striking lessons in gratitude, especially since I had been totally clueless as to why we had suddenly stopped hanging out.

After Michelle stopped hanging out with me quite as much, I hung out with Ann. Ann got her driver's license a bit later, but still well before I did, and we had a few fun adventures (like driving to libraries hither and yon right before closing just to find a copy of "True Stories" to watch -- and going the wrong way down a one-way street in a strange city in the dark). We hung out at her house a lot, and watched "Monty Python and the Holy Grail," and listened to Depeche Mode and The Lightning Seeds, and talked about serious topics like depression, and went to church dances and acted silly and danced like stoned alterna-chicks before it was cool.

Ann and Michelle both went to college out west, in Utah and Idaho, attending Mormon-affiliated schools, and they both married in the mid-'90s. I got to see Ann during the semester I spent at home on Academic Suspension; she'd had a baby by then, and shared with me how understanding and helpful her husband had been during her time on bed rest. As for Michelle, I kept a clipping of her wedding announcement -- I still have it in my overstuffed files somewhere.

Ann Gariety and Michelle Dolivier were such a big influence on who I became in later years, and I often wonder what became of them. I've done web searches, to no avail; they both married into much more common surnames. Really, though, I'm almost afraid to find out where they are now, because I don't want to be disappointed. Some of the friends I have kept in touch with have really fallen short of where I thought they'd be by now. For the most part, my close friends over the years have been pretty intelligent people, and I always expected that they'd make something of themselves. It's disappointing when my friends fall short of who I know they could have been.

I expect that Ann and Michelle are still in the church, still happily married, and probably have a minimum of three children each. Depending on your point of view, that's pretty successful. From my point of view, though... I don't know. I don't measure success like I used to, back when I was a practicing Mormon. If I found out that one or both of them lives in a six-bedroom house in Utah (or Arizona, or Idaho), is Relief Society (LDS women's auxiliary) president, goes to Homemaking Meeting every Wednesday, drives Billy to soccer practice and Suzie to her flute lessons, and makes time to scrapbook and sew... I'd probably be a little disappointed, honestly. Especially if they've jettisoned their CD collections.

Why? I'm not sure. It's unfair to think that way, since that *is* some people's idea (and used to be my idea) of a perfect life, of success. Success, for me, is... what? Still keeping my individuality, even as I try to make my way as a contributing member of society. Keeping busy with creative and constructive pursuits. Being financially stable. Having fun. Being happy with my station in life, or at least happy with the struggle to become more. Being unpredictable and unconventional. Being unique. Making people say, "Yep, that sounds like something you'd do..."

I'd like to think that Ann is still a little unconventional sometimes, although she's always been the motherly, responsible type. I hope she bought the collector's edition of the Monty Python DVDs, and I hope she'll show them to her kids when they're old enough (which should be pretty soon -- her oldest would be about 12 by now). I'd like to think that Michelle still has her old cassette copy of Some Great Reward floating around in her basement or attic somewhere, but that she did buy the CD later on, and has kept up with the more recent DM releases. I hope she taught her kids all the cute and weird camp songs she taught me and the rest of the Young Women in church (e.g. "Sam the Lavatory Man" and the "'Gunk-gunk,' went Mr. Bullfrog" song). I hope she still plays piano.

I hope they remember me. I hope they don't mind that I wrote about them.

Ruth Ann Gariety Hansen. Michelle Davida Dolivier... um... I'll remember your married name eventually. My bad. Maybe you'll Google yourselves and find my little blog and decide to catch me up on your lives. Here's an entire website to catch you up on mine. :-)

Conformity

Once again, I find myself with some time on my hands here at work. I actually have a cache of blog topics to choose from, for just such an occasion.

When I was a young church-going lass, there was a boy who was several years older than me. The oldest of the Headrick kids -- I forget his name. Mom would know, since I think she taught him in Sunday School. At any rate, he was a "normal" kid: kind of soft-spoken, as I recall, and particularly tall. He had one thing besides his height that set him apart, though, and that was his predilection for bow ties. Mormon men and boys, as a general rule, wear standard neckties to church, so his bow ties made him stand out.

When he turned 18, he was called to be a missionary, as all good Mormon boys should be. He was sent out to the MTC (Missionary Training Center) in Utah... and the next time we saw him, he was wearing a normal necktie. Apparently, missionaries are required to wear neckties, and his cache of bowties were forbidden during his mission. I don't know whether he ever wore his bow ties again, after he returned from his mission two years later.

I always thought that was just a little tragic. I understand the need for uniformity, but I've always wondered if the MTC managed to completely eradicate that one facet of Elder Headrick's uniqueness.

I can't believe I've never posted this poem before. I searched my site for it, though, and apparently I never have. My mother taught me this poem when I was little, and I've seen slight variations of the poem and its backstory in the years since. I believe Mom found it in a newspaper article and copied it down back in the mid to late 70s. This is how I remember it (with some help from the internet):

This poem was given to an English teacher by a 16-year-old student. It is not known whether he wrote the poem. It is known that he committed suicide two weeks later.

He always wanted to explain things.
But no one cared.
So he drew.
Sometimes he would draw and it wasn't anything.
He wanted to carve it in stone
Or write it in the sky.
He would lie out on the grass
And look up at the sky
And it would be only him and the sky
And the things inside him that needed saying.
It was after that
He drew the picture.
It was a beautiful picture.
He kept it under his pillow
And would let no one see it.
And he would look at it every night
And think about it.
And when it was dark
And his eyes were closed
He could still see it.
And it was all of him,
And he loved it.
When he started school he brought it with him --
Not to show anyone, but just to have it with him
Like a friend.

It was funny about school:
He sat in a square brown desk
Like all the other square brown desks
And he thought it should be red.
And his room was a square brown room
Like all the other rooms
And it was tight and close
And stiff.
He hated to hold the pencil and chalk
With his arms stiff and his feet flat on the floor
Stiff
With the teacher watching
And watching.
The teacher came and smiled at him.
She told him to wear a tie
Like all the other boys.
He said he didn't like them.
And she said it didn't matter!
After that they drew.
And he drew all yellow
And it was the way he felt about morning
And it was beautiful.
The teacher came and smiled at him.
"What's this?" she said.
"Why don't you draw something like Ken's drawing?"
"Isn't that beautiful?"

After that his mother bought him a tie
And he always drew airplanes and rocket ships
Like everyone else
And he threw the old picture away.
And when he lay out alone and looked out at the sky
It was big and blue and all of everything.
But he wasn't anymore.
He was square inside and brown.
And his hands were stiff
And he was like everyone else.
And the things inside him that needed saying
Didn't need it anymore.
It had stopped pushing.
It was crushed.
Stiff.
Like everything else.

Come On, Baby, Finish What You Started

I've been droning on about aikido a little too much lately, so I suppose I should write about something else already. I'm sitting here at work, with a painfully light workload, so this seems as good a time as any to write a blog entry (via e-mail to myself, of course).

Not that I have anything particularly pressing to blog about, mind you. Most of my "free" time lately has been spent job-hunting, nursing my pulled muscle, or escaping into Civilization IV.

Speaking of the job hunt: I've gone through my list, submitted my resume for those jobs I hadn't yet, followed up on past inquiries, and have started putting the finishing touches on my portfolio. I think I've got the portfolio working in all modern browsers, including Firefox 2, Opera 9, Safari for Windows, IE6 and IE7. Granted, there are a few minor display discrepancies: IE6 has an unfortunate space at the bottom of the page which activates the scroll bar, and Opera (or is it Safari?) doesn't highlight the items in my submenus. Those are minor details, though, and I can deal with the differences for now. Now, I'm going through all my featured projects and including examples and samples and links for each. I plan to have my portfolio complete by the end of next weekend.


In other news of the me, I ordered my very first Little Black Dress™ and a couple pairs of work-friendly Skechers online. I need to get myself down to Lane Bryant and spend a decent amount of money updating my wardrobe, although I feel funny either a.) shopping alone or b.) shopping with Aaron, and I don't really have any local girlfriends to shop with. What I'd really like to buy is a brown tailored pantsuit to go with my new shoes. (Wow... matching an outfit to a pair of shoes? That sounds unusually girly of me.)

Last time I really went ballistic on clothes shopping, I sorely needed a wardrobe update due to having lost, oh, fifty pounds? Now, though, I'm just tired of wearing the same crap to work all the time. Of course, I should probably hold off on buying work clothes until I get a new job and find out what the dress code is there. I'd hate to update my business casual wardrobe, just to find that I can wear Threadless shirts and jeans to work -- or, worse, that I have to go out and purchase an actual professional wardrobe, with multiple suits and accessories.


Also: Aaron and I had an in-depth conversation this weekend about my ability to finish what I start. I am absolutely notorious for starting a project, either coming to a hard part or just getting bored with it, and dropping it for the next Flavor of the Month. Websites, fiction, genealogy research, major cleaning, all have fallen prey to this habit of mine. He was particularly concerned with me finishing my portfolio website before I get involved in something else -- namely, instructing marching band for the first time. He reminded me that I don't do anything by halves -- quite like him, now that I think about it. I immerse myself in whatever new project I undertake: genealogy, candle-making, learning SQL, weight-loss, drum corps, aikido, whatever. I don't just try something or dabble in something. For this reason, I've specifically avoided starting any new projects, even though I've wanted to work on my fiction and genealogy research in the past months.

I might have to gracefully and humbly bow out of the marching band gig, even though I don't want to. I can see things that need fixing in the band, things that I might be able to help with, but I don't know if I should really be dedicating literally an entire evening a week to band, plus a good part of another evening a week to aikido.

I have some time to think it over, though, and to finish my portfolio before the next rehearsal I'm slated to attend. We'll see how things pan out.

Oh, Good.

I'm still smart.

I was just looking at Monster.com, saw a link for the Tickle IQ test, and decided to go ahead and take it for shits and giggles. It would appear that I have not gotten any dumber since the first grade, thankfully; my IQ is still 140.

When I was a kid, I got put in all the Talented and Gifted programs; I felt pretty smug and superior about it, looking back, although I wouldn't have recognized it in myself at the time. In first and second grade, my elementary school had an advanced reading track; all I remember of that is our special reading group and extra trips to the school library. When we moved to Florida for third through fifth grade, their Gifted program was centered around math and science. I liked reading more than math and science, and wasn't too keen on the program at first, but I grew to love science (and tolerate math). We moved again for sixth grade, and the new school system had a SIGNAL program (I forget what the acronym stood for) for gifted students. We read novels for class, in addition to the boring excerpts in our normal reading book; the class struck me as more additional work than advanced work at the time.

Once I got to middle school (yet another district), we were separated into "normal" and "advanced" classes. As I recall, there was no mixing and matching; if you were in the advanced group, you took all advanced classes. If you were in the normal group, you didn't get to take just one advanced class. Of course, I would have taken all the advanced classes, anyway, so I may be remembering it wrong.

In high school (when I went back to the school district where I spent sixth grade), it took me a couple of years to realize that I was no longer *required* to take advanced classes. After I got my first D — Advanced Algebra II, Sophomore year — something finally clicked, and I realized that I didn't *have* to take advanced classes if I didn't want to.

It was all downhill from there.

Well, not really. I opted not to take a math my Junior year, and took the "normal" Analysis class my Senior year. (In my school, Analysis was the "I don't want to take Trig yet" class, not the super-uber beyond-Calc class.) All the other people in my advanced-class circle took Trig their Junior and Calculus their Senior year. I bailed on the maths and stuck with advanced everything else. —Oh, and I don't think I took Advanced Government my Senior year, either.

In my adult life, I've realized that my IQ doesn't really mean shit. I don't always have any more common sense than the next person. My written communication skills are pretty slick, IMHO, but that's just because I'm a perfectionist motherfucker when it comes to grammar and spelling. My social skills have been a long time in developing, but I finally feel like I can socialize like everyone else now, instead of feeling like a socially-inept goober.

Being smart didn't make me more motivated. Being smart didn't make me procrastinate less. Being smart didn't keep me from taking seven years to finish a four-year degree. Being smart didn't get me an awesome job right out of college.

Don't get me wrong: I don't regret the fact that I'm apparently more intelligent than the average bear. It's just that my perspective changed quite a bit once I lost that chip on my shoulder. It's not just smarts that can get you somewhere in life; it's persistence and dedication, too.

*sigh*

I need to get on that.

On Funerals

Last night, while channel-surfing, I caught part of an interesting film on PBS last night about home funerals. What caught my attention at first was a scene of an open, occupied coffin -- obviously homemade -- being carried into someone's living room. The occupant was obviously a real person, and obviously not acting. Neither were the mourners. This struck me as an interesting bit of cinema, considering that many people are uncomfortable with funeral photography, much less funeral cinematography.

A later scene showed a ranch family building Grandpa's coffin, with Grandpa sitting nearby in his wheelchair. Various brands were burned into the outside of the coffin: children's initials, Grandpa's initials and brand. Grandpa even helped brand the coffin, with some assistance. There were actually a few scenes where the viewer got to meet Grandpa and his family, which made his own home funeral even more poignant later on in the film.

Aaron has mentioned details here and there about how he'd like to be remembered at his death. It's not nearly as uncomfortable a subject as I would have expected; probably because we're young enough that our own mortality doesn't quite hit home yet. So, it's easy to accept his wishes, while still contemplating my own.

Even though I'm comfortable talking about funerary rites with my husband, it's still a little uncomfortable to contemplate discussing his wishes with everyone. It still seems a little private, a little personal. It shouldn't, though. Should it?

He's told me in no uncertain terms that he wants to be cremated, and he doesn't want his remains to be buried or stored or kept anywhere. He doesn't like the thought of people mourning over his physical remains; he'd rather people remember him as he was. I'll do that for him, and I'll respect his wishes, though I'm not sure I want the same for myself. The genealogist in me can't quite come to terms with not having some sort of marker, proclaiming the dates I was on this earth.

It's funny that I can't let go of that, though, especially considering that I tend to think of cemeteries as U-Stor-Its for dead people. We need somewhere to keep old Aunt Myrtle... so we set aside a plot of real estate, and stick her with all the other dead people. It's not like the old days, where she'd be buried on the family homestead, in a piece of earth that had actually meant something to her while she was alive. Now, the living just find a quasi-local place with an open spot for the dead. Given that, I think I'd rather be passed down through my family in an urn or something. Use my ashes slowly over time in some sort of secular ceremony. Pass the urn around and share your favorite memories of me. Put me in your tea. Something, anything, but don't just stick me in storage where no one will remember or care in a few decades.

Cremation wasn't something I'd even considered until I met Aaron. I've always known that I didn't want people looking at my corpse, though. It's uncomfortable for me, although it's traditionally how American funerals are done. I much preferred Memaw's service: closed-casket, with a photo of Memaw in her mid-40s on an easel by the coffin. People who only knew her in her old age saw the picture and said, "She was so beautiful," and people who hadn't seen her in several years didn't need to see how her lung cancer had physically changed her appearance.

I'm not even sure how I feel about the traditional funeral service. I think I'd much rather have a private family gathering for the somber part, then have more of a wake for everyone else. Make it a party. Remember who I was. Tell funny stories. Pull out the photo albums. Eat. Play some music. But try not to be too depressed. Enjoy and share the memories you've got, 'cause there won't be any new ones.

Maybe I'm too irreverent about the whole thing. I guess that's just how I've become in my adulthood. Take all this with a grain of salt, too; funerals are meant for the living, not the dead, and it's not like I'll be around to make my decisions stick.

Motivation

Back when I was in college, I had a hard time making myself go to class. (Hence that 7-year Bachelors Degree that should have taken four.) Once I got to my Sophomore or Junior year, I started a juvenile but helpful system to reinforce good behavior: I printed out a monthly calendar, with my class schedule listed on each weekday, and stuck a small happy-face sticker on each day where I went to all my scheduled classes. If, by the end of the week, I had happy-face stickers on every day, I would stick a large "Special Sticker" to the calendar as a reward and a reminder that I had succeeded for that week. Sometimes it would be a sticker of my own, but sometimes my roommate Amy would present me with my Special Sticker for the week, if she was duly impressed.

As I recall, I rarely got Special Stickers -- maybe once a month, if that. Even so, the sticker system really did help me go to more classes. I'd look at my calendar and remind myself that if I could just make myself sit through [insert pointless 2:30 class here], I'd get my sticker for the day. Seems silly, but it worked. Even when I didn't get a Special Sticker for the week, I could see the classes I'd ticked off on each day and say, well, I was only one class away from a Special Sticker this week!

Well, with me trying to focus on only a few things at a time these days, I decided that I would revisit the calendar-sticker strategy. I have a calendar by my desk with a list of daily to-do items: work on my portfolio, follow up with job apps, do one daily chore, wash dishes, walk for 45 minutes, and aikido once a week. I've pruned back a little, since I wasn't able to do everything I wanted to do in an evening -- now I'll either work on my portfolio or follow up on a job app, for instance, but not both. Yet, I hadn't gotten a daily sticker after over a week of trying my new-old system of reinforcement.

Last night, I looked at my daily list, and realized that I just had to do a daily chore and I'd get a sticker. So, pretty late at night, by the time I should have been having my Quiet Time and getting ready for bed, I cleared the remainder of the crap out of the suitcase that's been sitting by my bed for two months, put it away, and counted my chore complete. Yay, sticker!!

Sure, it seems small and silly and childish... but, if it works, I'm all for it. It shouldn't have been such an impetus ten years ago, either, but it was. It's all part of taking joy in the small things, I suppose.

After I finish my new portfolio and secure a new job, I can shift to a new focus: writing, or genealogy, or whatever strikes my fancy in another month or so. Then I'll set myself another reachable goal, lay out daily mini-goals like I have now, rinse and repeat. Eventually, I shouldn't need my sticker system to keep me focused on-task. That's the hope, anyway.

Goals

I got to thinking today that I have a lot of stuff going on right now. I mean, I always have a lot of stuff going on, but I have important stuff going on. Like needing to find a job within a couple of months. And I kind of feel... rudderless. Which is ridiculous, I know, since my needs are pretty clear-cut. The thing is, though, that I haven't set myself any definite goals.

So, here they are:

#1 - Secure a new job. Due date: September 21st.
#2 - Maintain weight. Due date: ongoing (or until I start a renewed weight loss plan).
#3 - Improve housekeeping. Due date: ongoing.

And, of course, each medium-term goal needs some short-term goals to keep it afloat:

1. Submit one new job application/resume or complete one follow-up per day.
2. Spend at least 30 minutes per day working on my portfolio site until it is complete.
3. Attend at least one aikido class per week (not including special weekend seminars).
4. Continue to walk at least 45 minutes per day.
5. Tackle one small household chore per day.
6. Make sure that all dishes are washed and the sink is empty before bed each night.

There are, of course, other tasks I could set myself, but I thought that these would be a good start. As I didn't come up with my detailed list until just now, I'm going to wait until tomorrow to hold myself accountable for all of them. I'm intending to go to aikido on Wednesday (the short class), so that's one down. I cleaned the garbage out of the yard today, so that's my daily household chore. I haven't gone to bed yet, so I can still wash dishes before I do so. And, of course, I took my daily lunchtime walk (that's not much of a stretch, since it's such a habit now).

(As a side note, it appears that the Toledo Blade no longer posts their normal classified want-ads online, but instead has a partnership with Monster.com. This is unfortunate, as I have no intention of buying that scab paper on Sundays. This curtails my job hunting considerably, but I will overcome.)

Hopefully, with some more focused goals in mind, I can start feeling like I'm actually making some progress toward something. Right now, I'm feeling like I'm just phoning it in, and Life is just kind of sailing on without me. I wouldn't feel ready to jump on an unexpected opportunity if it presented itself right now, and that's a sign that I need to step it up.

Shake it off... Too bad you get these great ideas when you're just about to fall asleep at your desk, and can't actually act on them. Meh.

Tomorrow! New day, fresh start, blah blah. *hype*

Bootstraps

I was stupidly depressed all day at work. Hadn't gotten enough sleep, ended up showing up to work late, my cubemate was out at his new job orientation, and I had a crapload of tedious work to do.

At least my legs finally stopped being sore.

When I got home, Aaron set me right. First, he did his typical Make-Diana-Happy move of being a goofball and tickling me until I'm genuinely laughing. Which is cool. Then he asked me if I'm going to quit aikido, and I told him no. I'm planning to stick it out until the end of July, when the Basics Seminar is being held, then make my decision. He pointed out that all I did all damn weekend was talk about aikido, which means that I really enjoyed it. He also pointed out that this is different than anything I've ever done before, including drum corps, and I can't expect to go into it and already be good at it. That would be absurd. I agreed.

After our aikido discussion, he reinforced the fact that I need to focus on just one project or goal each evening. Just one. If I'm going to clean my desk, clean my desk. Don't start doing something else, *then* clean my desk, and don't make a list of twelve things and then get upset when they don't all get done. Set attainable goals, and attain them.

I really appreciated that. It was exactly the kind of talking-to that I needed.

Per the schedule I made for myself, my computer's getting turned off in about fifteen ten minutes. Then I'll wash the dishes, make my lunch (with plenty of carbs and protein to prepare for my aikido class), pack my gym bag, and get ready for bed. Lights out at 11pm, even if I'm not sleepy. Maybe setting myself a nighttime schedule will help me get myself on track.

Oh, by the way? I spent a good hour or more cleaning my desk while I listened to iTunes. It's not completely clean yet, but it's well on its way. Tomorrow is aikido, followed by (assuming I'm feeling up to it afterward) printing resumes and determining which potential employers I need to follow up with.

Man. Sometimes these days-long stretches of depression freak me out. They don't happen very often, and it gets really hard to pull myself up and out.

I'm glad I had help.

Self-Diagnosis

I think I've figured out why I've been feeling all funky lately. It's not that I really think I'm a "fuck-up," per se. It's just that I know that I'm not living up to my own potential, as cheesy as that sounds.

Anyone who really knows me knows that I always, always have unfinished projects. Even if I were to quit my job and work on my unfinished projects and ideas for projects like it was my job, I would still have things to keep me busy probably until my mid-life crisis, at least. I also have what the Chinese call "monkey-mind" -- that is, my attention span isn't what I'd like it to be. Sure, once I get into a given project, I can work on it for hours and stay up way too late. That's no problem. The problem is getting started and sticking with something, either on the short-term or the long-term.

For instance: I know I need to finish my portfolio and send out some follow-up letters to potential employers. But when I sit down at my desk, I hate the fact that it's a paper-stacked disaster area, and I don't feel like I can properly concentrate, much less find the papers I need. So I tell myself that I need to clean it before I do job-hunting work. But I either start cleaning it and get discouraged at the amount of work it'll take to do it right, or I never even start because I keep putting it off by doing other things I find that "need" to be done and are more enjoyable.

This is all bullshit. Piddly bullshit. When I'm in the middle of it, I don't realize what a lamer I'm being. After the fact, when it's late at night or when I'm at work, I feel like a lazy idiot.

And what do I do when I'm in the middle of needing to do all this important crap? I pay to join an Aikido dojo. Ostensibly, it should help me focus my energies better and deal with issues with my comfort zone and my insecurity in new situations and blah blah blah. In reality, I'm afraid that'll be several hours a week when I'm not doing what I "should" be doing, and then I'll end up obsessing over my incompetency in Aikido on the off-days. Now I'm trying to justify not being a quitter, sticking with it for at least until next month's Basic Seminar, when I feel deep down like I really shouldn't have joined up in the first place. This is why I try not to be spontaneous about things like this.

I feel like all I can do is plan out my evenings in detailed fashion, and do my best to follow my plan, no matter what I'd rather be doing. I feel good about myself when I accomplish the one or two things I wanted to do in an evening. For instance, this evening I'm planning to feed the cat, start dinner, work out (upper body -- my thighs are still stiff from aikido), eat dinner while I watch Good Eats on Food Network, spend 30 minutes checking email and blogs, then clean the top of my desk and get it sorted into hanging folders. If, after that, I have some time left over before I need to wash dishes and make tomorrow's lunch, I'm sure I'll find something to take care of, like watering my poor neglected houseplants.

I also hate the fact that I make such a big deal out of how to solve my weird, silly non-issues. I want to be like Aaron, whose ultra-basic philosophy involves a.) sit down at your desk and b.) do what needs to be done. End of story. What's the big issue?

Hell if I know.

Waiting For The Cloud To Pass

I don't deal well with depression anymore. Now that I feel like I'm pretty "normal" most of the time — as opposed to ten or twelve years ago, when feeling pointless and uninspired was the norm for me — now that I'm usually OK, I don't revel in this nastiness. I'd rather it be over.

But it's just not that easy.

I feel like a very small person, mentally, when I can't take constructive criticism; when I can't gracefully accept someone else's successes; when I can't don't keep bargains I've made with myself; when I'm reminded that I'm still kind of a fuck-up sometimes, despite being a 31-year-old "grown-up," and that I already knew that I was a fuck-up, and that I just never fixed the problem. I hate getting down on myself for shit, instead of just fixing the shit and moving on.

Maybe I do still revel in this BS. If I didn't, I'd just fucking pick myself up, shake myself off, and move on. Right?

*sigh*

I'm too tired to think about this shit right now. I need to chill out and go to bed. After I figure out what's for lunch tomorrow.

Realization

I wrote a blog entry on Friday — at work, and e-mailed it to myself at home for posting later — about my shitty morning commute and how people pissed me off and how I reacted.

After sitting and stewing all Friday morning, then recovering all afternoon and getting back to normal, I came to realize that I was just being an asshole. The story really isn't worth posting. Although I'm saving it in my Gmail for posterity. :-)

Pushing My Own Buttons

I wish I knew how to motivate myself. As per usual, I have several different things I'd like to get done, but I'm not motivated enough to actually do them. I'm not sure if it's a lack of sleep or a lack of exercise or what, but I'm just not feeling it tonight. Don't want to work on any of my three web projects, or my laundry-list of household chores/projects, or write any one of a dozen possible blog essays in my head, or even exercise. Don't even really want to play video games. Don't want to do a damn thing.

This can't be normal. Really.

Still Too Close To The Surface

Read a blog entry about abortion today, written by a pro-choice advocate. Chose to write a comment in response.

Received an e-mail from the one friend I hadn't told about my miscarriage yet. Chose to write a friggin' novel in response.

I hadn't realized this shit was still so fresh in my mind. I've been emotionally KO'd all evening. Didn't get much accomplished besides playing some Civ IV.

Now it's time to start getting ready for bed, and I have no idea what I'm making for lunch tomorrow, which is bad. I don't really want to put my lunch together before I go to bed, which is worse. God knows what I'll end up throwing into my lunch koozie tomorrow morning...

I know that these things smooth themselves over as time passes. I just wonder how long I'll have these random days of sadness in the middle of being perfectly OK.

Smells Like Spring

I realized just now that the smell of spring reminds me of living off-campus during the summers at BGSU. Particularly, the upstairs apartment/duplex on Troup Street, across from the TV station. The one with the unusually short screen door that Aaron would bash his head on every damn weekend. That was the summer of... 2000, I believe.

Of course, this same spring breeze also reminds me of sitting on the porch swing of my efficiency apartment back in 1999; or laying on the top bunk of a borrowed futon-loft in the room I rented in 1998, at 2am with the window open. Spring, to me, smells like standing alone, feeling grown-up, being responsible, but without feeling the weight that true responsibility carries.

Someday, when different memories are fresh in my mind, maybe spring will smell like something else to me — gardening, or travelling, or having the kids home from school. That's a long way off, though.

The smell of spring makes me feel alive, like something new and different is around the corner, and I'm not quite sure why. Maybe it's because I prefer warm spring weather over the cold of winter, or because spring means the daylight hours are longer, or because spring meant the end of school for so many of my formative years. Or maybe it's simply because the greenery finally makes its appearance.

At any rate, this 60-plus-degree weather is fantastic... even though I know it won't last the week.

Flashback: Procrastination

I'm reminded of several unfortunate moments in my academic career where I assumed that a project would be much simpler than it turned out to be. No, not simpler, per se, but less time-consuming. Where you sit down a couple nights before it's due and say, "OK, time to crank this bad boy out." Then, once you've started, you look at the scope of the project and realize that you may not get the luxury of sleep in the next day or two.

I just had a moment like that.

There are times when sticking by your guns and not working until a particular issue (say, the issue of getting paid) gets resolved ends up backfiring. This is one of those times.

Tomorrow evening is going to be spent working on my next contracting project, the one that my contact suggested I might want to start on over this past weekend. I'm going to be possibly eating dinner at my desk, and definitely working from 6pm through to 10pm, at which point I hope to be finished and able to go to bed. If not... I'll stay up until it IS finished. The proof is due Thursday.

Now I know. Sometimes I can be such a stubborn dumbass. *shakes head*

Master Of None

Some people need to get a hobby.

Me, I need to drop some.

It occured to me while I was playing Viva Piñata on the 360 tonight, being that it's a gardening game of sorts, and I'm a real-life gardener... of sorts. My hobbies are part seasonal, part on-a-whim-sical. I especially enjoy outdoor gardening in the spring — but, come summer, I lose interest and miss a few days' worth of watering and my plants promptly croak. Except the bulbs and the catnip, and I love them for it. Then there's my winter hobby of candlemaking, and my sometimes hobby of photography, and my hobby-turning-avocation of web design and development. And don't forget my every-November hobby of writing, and the dozen or so unfinished short stories or novellas on my hard drive. And in my files, from before I even owned a computer.

To think that some people can barely stick with knitting.

Sometimes I feel all enriched and shit — look at me, I can do all these creative things, and I've even let some of my talents fall by the wayside (like drawing, which used to be my passion, and music, which used to be my identity). Sometimes I wonder why I can't be like a "normal" person and only be interested in one or two pursuits.

I wonder if I'm not driven enough to focus on one passion, or if I'm just too interested in everything to pick just one.

Stream of Consciousness Wrap-Up

I've been putting off chronicling the events of Friday the 19th in my personal, offline journal. I need to do it, though, even if just for historical purposes (rather than cathartic and psychological ones). I hate it when I go searching for a major life event in my old journals — say, my first period, or when Mom and Tom separated, or something like that — and all I get is a big gap between dates and an entry that starts, "It's been a while since I've written. X thing happened, and now I'm in an entirely new setting, and I'm totally done freaking the fuck out."

I want to have the option of going back and remembering that hectic and tragic day, and how we tried in vain to take our minds off things later that weekend.

Along the same vein... Aaron and I spent some time thinking about this second chance we now have to do something wild and/or expensive before having kids. Before doing any number-crunching, we thought about visiting Japan, or the UK, or attending DragonCon over Labor Day weekend, or even just taking a cruise or doing the all-inclusive resort thing. When we sat down in front of Travelocity and priced plane tickets, though, we realized that we may just be waaaay out of our league. Plunking down over three grand on a Japan trip would take us in the opposite direction we want to go with our credit card debt.

As much as I want to do something fun and slightly financially irresponsible before we have kids, I know we should really be focusing on saving money and paying down our debts instead. But, damn, when else are we going to be able to drop everything and go on a kick-ass international vacation? Ah, well. We've had big ideas that fell through before, and I'm sure we'll have them again. As for this one, we'll see where it goes, if anywhere. We might just end up... hell, I don't know *where* we'll end up.

Speaking of second chances, I've started rewatching my PUSH workout DVDs from disc #2. The first workout on disc #2 successfully kicked my butt this evening. I am highly embarrassed by this, considering that I got seven discs total during my subscription, and made it through four before I started to slack. The thing is, though, that I was forbidden from exercising while I was pregnant, and I really missed it. That last week, I wasn't even allowed to take my daily walks, and ended up chilling out on a quiet couch during my lunch hours instead. (Not that it helped, of course.)

Now, I have the opportunity to take a few months to tone myself and get myself back into halfway-decent shape, lose another ten pounds, firm up my abs, and do all that physical training that I found myself wishing I'd done before I conceived. It's like a do-over of sorts.

All right. Enough. I'll see if I can't manage to blog about something else in the near future. I'll at least get back into weekly diet and exercise updates for ya. As always, though, I can't promise that I won't randomly sink into a bout of depression. That's par for the course where I'm concerned. :-)

Being Judgemental

I'm the kind of person who, as a general rule, doesn't have very many enemies. There aren't very many people who all-out hate my guts, and when I come across a person like that, I don't really know how to react. I'd like to think that my lack of enemies is a reflection on my lack of judgement on other people. Or, possibly, my non-confrontational and slightly wishy-washy nature. Either way, I'll take it.

When I do find myself passing judgement on someone, it bothers me on some level. I'm having that experience now.

There's someone on whom I have frequent occasion to eavesdrop — not on purpose, I swear — but with whom I don't generally interact. I've heard about this person's personal, domestic troubles, and they've come straight from this person's mouth, even though this person — all right, "he" — even though he wasn't talking to me directly. I've heard about how his wife has treated him, and how he has treated his wife in turn.

Honestly, without going into any sort of detail, I don't understand either of them. I don't approve of what she did to him and to their relationship, but I also don't agree with how he responded. And, honestly, I'm really trying not to pass judgement on the both of them, but it's very difficult. I've never been in quite that situation, so I have no right to say what I think is a valid and reasonable reaction, and what I think is "wrong."

I keep trying to validate my inner reaction, telling myself that it's perfectly fine to form opinions about a situation, assuming that I don't let it color my opinion of him as a person. Thing is, I'm really starting to think of him as an asshole, just from his retellings and reactions to what's going on in his life. I mean, damn, he's having a shitty time of it, especially around the holidays and all, but...

It bothers me that I'm spending so much of my own time thinking about someone else's business. It also bothers me that, somehow, sometime in the future, either a complete stranger or maybe even the person I'm talking about will find this, and comment about what a shallow bitch I am.

I'm not good with making enemies.

Meaningful

An hour-long phone call with a friend is immeasurably more meaningful than any IM session or e-mail volley ever could be.

Although, now that I think about it, I miss my old-school handset with the comfy earpiece from the 1990s. The cordless doesn't have that same kind of long-term ear comfort. Oh, for the days when all I had to worry about was a sweaty earpiece (and ear). Now I have to think about pressing hard enough to hear the other person, but not hard enough to permanently disfigure the cartilage of my outer ear.

Love Expectations

I was reading my daily blogroll today when I came upon Dan's entry about relationships; specifically, the expectations one has upon entering a relationship. Is this my new best friend? Is this a potential mate? Is this a short-term fuck-buddy? And I felt the need to expound on some of his questions and comments...

read more...

I Miss That.

Time was when my Mom and I would go visit my Aunt Sammie, cousin Michael and Memaw every Sunday after church. We didn't always enjoy or appreciate the visits, but it just seemed like the thing you do on Sundays: go to visit family, eat the lunch they've prepared for you, listen to them complain or just talk, then politely excuse yourself to go home and get out of your Sunday clothes.

Thirteen years later, Mom lives with my step-Gary in Texas, Sammie and Michael live in Carolina, and Memaw's three years gone now. And I don't even go to church anymore.

Even though I'm all connected with the world and with my faraway friends via the magic of the internet, I feel isolated from my family. I don't understand how we were once so interdependent and loving and familiar, and now we're so far apart, both geographically and emotionally. I just don't get it.

When Am I?

I had thought maybe I would do a "Five Years Ago Today" entry, or ten years, or fifteen. (I've kept a journal of some sort ever since 1984, mainly at the suggestion of my mother at first, then kept it up to keep myself grounded and sane.) When I looked through my journals, though, nothing exciting really happened on or around September 26 in 2001, or 1996, or 1991.

As a snapshot: Around this time in 1986, I was ten years old. I was getting over a nasty bout of headlice, during which Mom had to cut off five inches of my hair, to make the fine-toothed-combing easier. I was distraught; when I pulled my hair around over my shoulder, "it barely came to my elbow!" Cry me a river.

Also in September 1986, I joined Girl Scouts. I also read the Star Trek novel Uhura's Song for the second time. I've read that same battered copy literally dozens of times since, and can quote several passages as well as I can quote Monty Python.

Fifteen years ago, in 1991, I was quite the church-going lass. For example: I was reflecting on a lesson on gratitude, and decided to write my high school choir director a letter of appreciation for all she was doing for the choir. She ended up receiving the letter on a day when she really needed the pick-me-up, which did my little Freshman 15-year-old heart good.

I was also interested in composing, and had high aspirations for my music. I'd given a copy of one of my choral scores to the aforementioned choir director, and she said she was going to have the choir sing it... but she never did.

Ten years ago, in 1996, I was hanging out with Aaron and with the Mary/Mark duo. I had also started my personal homepage, giving out my "Di's Unegotistical Homepage" weekly award to none other than Jeffrey Zeldman Presents. I was also missing my late stepdad, Tom, who had passed away almost one year before. Aaron was always supportive and understanding, and helped me be OK with being all weepy about it sometimes.

Five years ago, in 2001, I had one semester left of my undergrad. I had just moved off-campus, and wasn't journaling much — on paper, anyway. I may have done some "Talking To Myself" on my trusty Mac, although I'm not inclined to hook that bad boy up right now to see what's on it. (Yes, I still have it — or at least, a later incarnation of it. I believe I upgraded to my PowerPC 6500 after the year 2001.)

Edit: I actually do have my Word file of random ramblings on my PC, transferred with all my half-finished short stories. The entry for September 26, 2001 begins:

I should learn not to talk wedding with Aaron over the phone. It's never a good thing. He always gets "realistic" on me, saying such confidence-boosters as "I'm going to have to get a second job," and "maybe we should just go down to City Hall," or my personal favorite: "We'll get married... eventually."

I'd forgotten that I was thinking about wedding planning at that point, too. Another good quotable from that entry:

I'm so upset, in fact, that I've just spent the past two hours researching cost-cutting tips on the internet instead of writing my four-to-five-page script for Video class. And Aaron always says, "graduation comes first, then getting a job, then getting married." I know, I know. Life won't stop while I try to find a job, though, and it certainly won't wait for us to plan our little wedding. Or decide when it will actually be held.

What struck me as I was browsing these entries was how I've changed throughout the years. It's obvious through my writing when I became the person I am today, for the most part. I matured through high school, as does everyone — I was painfully dorky in my Freshman year of high school, in retrospect. By 1996, my writing flowed a lot like it does today, and my brain seemed to think much like it does now. I know I was less responsible, more self-centered, less realistic... but I think that, by age 20, I was "me." Maybe even before that.

That makes me wonder: when I get even older, will I still agree that I was "me" by age 20? Or will I have reached some sort of personal epiphany between now and older that makes age 20 seem even more childish?

And Somewhere In My Mind, I Know There's No Tomorrow

I had my iPod set to Shuffle earlier this week, while I was at work, when a song came on that made my breath catch in my throat. Amazing how a particular song can bring long-buried memories and feelings back to the surface, fresh and sharp. Guilt, sadness, stupidity, insecurity, a sense of something slipping through my fingers... all those feelings came back, as clear as the day I had listened to that song over and over and over in solitude, punishing myself for what I had done and what I had lost.

At work, I paused for three minutes and twenty seconds, listening, remembering, feeling, wishing I didn't still like that song so damn much.

Baking a Cake for my Pity Party

So, I got called out by a few people on my woe-is-me post the other day. Some comments were more along the lines of "I'm right with ya," but others were fine attempts to bring me out of this funk. I also got an e-mail from my friend Kris, who suggested I start by writing a Gratitude List.

I thought that was a fine idea, and decided to make my Gratitude List public. Here goes:

1. I am healthy. I take no prescription meds, I am ambulatory, I am able to take an hour-long brisk walk (or longer), I have full use of all my limbs and all my senses. I can even choose to have a 30-minute kickboxing workout if I so desire, like today.
2. I have a husband who loves me. Aaron and I really are like peas and carrots, and that makes us luckier — and happier — than a lot of spouses. We enjoy many of the same things, like music, and anime, and sci-fi, and computers. He tolerates my negative points, and I can sometimes identify his. ;-)
3. We own a home. Our house, although mortgaged, is ours. The roof is only a few years old, the interior stays temperate without excessive A/C, and it's plenty big for the two of us... and when we finally have a third.
4. I am educated. I have a bachelor's degree, I can proofread, I know random facts and have even been known to do some computer programming on occasion. I am one of the first members of my family to obtain a college degree (beaten by only a couple of years by my cousin, Misty Dawn, whom I've never met).
5. My job is interesting. Somehow, I managed to stumble into database development and administration from my job as a loan flunky. Despite how much I may complain about the speed of bureaucracy in getting me my new title and potential raise, I still enjoy what I do. Hard-core problem-solving is much more fulfilling to me than simple keystrokes to waive a late fee or extend the maturity date of a loan.
6. I have engaging hobbies. Granted, sometimes I have too many hobbies... but that's not necessarily a bad thing. My mother says I'm a good photographer (which I'm inclined to believe, since she is a portrait photographer by trade). I enjoy researching my ancestry and my family. I design web pages. I podcast. I have many other talents that I should rediscover, as well, like drawing and singing and writing and other creative things.
7. I do have friends. Aaron is my best friend. Through him, I've gained other friends, like Kris Fries and Kris Heath and Mark and Garza. Some of my co-workers have nearly become friends, like Heather and James... even though we don't really hang out. I also have college friends, like Amy (my best friend apart from my husband) and Sheryl and Mary and Beth and Donna and so many others. My high school friends have drifted away, as friends sometimes will, and some old friends have become acquaintances. But I know that there are people out there who care about me and are interested in my life and my well-being, even if I don't speak to them or see them very often.

Some of these things may seem like pretty standard Count Your Blessings fare. There's a reason for that, though, and it's that we should all be grateful for the small things.

After the kickboxing workout I had today, I'm going to be particularly grateful for the shower I'm going to take in about an hour.

A Realization

I read blogs because I miss having friends to hang out with.

Granted, I enjoy having time to myself in the evenings, but I mislike having no options for socialization at all. That's why I spend all my time on the computer, trying desperately to feel connected. I can read accounts of my faraway friends and feel like I'm still a part of their lives. Of course, most of my friends have stopped posting regularly to their blogs, and some of them never did in the first place.

Sure, I launch up AIM maybe twice a month, and I see my friends logged in every now and then. But part of me wants *them* to take the initiative and contact *me*, instead of me feeling like I'm interrupting some important conversation they're probably having with someone else.

I miss living in a neighborhood where I could walk to the local coffeeshop if I were feeling down, and I could get hyped on caffeine and sugar and be in a funky, depressed, hyperalert, counterculture mood all alone. I also miss having Amy around to hang out with. I also miss having the option to just call someone and ask, "What are you doing? Want to come over?" I miss that last year of school, after Amy graduated and I thought I'd be hopelessly antisocial — but, instead, I ended up hanging out with Beth and Donna and Timmay and Sheryl, though rarely in combination.

Is this what being a grown-up is all about? Spending evenings alone, thinking about The Good Old Days™?

If it is... fuck thirty.

Nothing Special

dianaschnuth.net is never going to become an internet giant. It's never going to earn revenue (or at least, not of job-quitting calibre). Hell, it's probably never going to get even 100 hits a day on a regular basis.

It's just an excuse for me to write almost-daily. Who knows if I'd still journal if I didn't have my blog?

I have volumes of journals dating back to when I was seven years old. Most of my life is documented in journals of one form or another, be they bound volumes of lined paper in fuzzy bookcovers, stacks of notebook paper with single metal rings holding them together, or electronic text files. The years that aren't documented seem almost lost to me. The important events that I skipped over sometimes seem hazy in my memory. Then there are memories that I'd completely managed to push into the farthest corner of my subconscious and had almost forgotten, but were documented at the time, and later read and remembered.

This is really just an open journal. For you, and for me. For you, so you can laugh at my funnies and muse with me about stupid shit. For me, so I can look back later and remember what it was like before [insert major life event here]. The only thing that differentiates this from what I would write for myself alone is that I can't (or won't) go off about any particular person for any particular reason. The internet's a big place, and a potentially permanent one, and I don't need people (or their friends or family or bodyguards) coming to me years later, after I no longer have a beef with them. Or while I still do.

I don't make a concerted effort to always be witty, or to have a great punch line, or even to maintain coherent structure in my entries. I try to effectively get out what's in my head. If you like it, that's cool. If all I've got to say is, "Man, I'm really in a mood tonight," then I'm just going to say it and not put some sort of interesting spin on it for my readers. I'm not Dooce or Wil. I'm just me.

My English teacher, Mr. Falls, wrote in my 8th grade yearbook something along the lines of, "Like a world-class athlete, a writer like you should write every day!" Well, Mr. Falls, here I am. Getting it out of my head. Trying to express myself. My fiction has gone by the wayside (dusty and neglected, but not forgotten), but my little essays about my life keep on keeping on.

Postsecret

I saw a postcard on Postsecret today that looked like it could have been written by one of my friends. It looked like her handwriting (when she's careful and deliberate), and the subject matter fit her life and her past.

I've grown away from her over the years, but I still consider her my friend, even if I wouldn't be able to have a discussion with her about this sort of thing anymore. And even the thought that she could feel that way about herself... it makes me sad and disappointed.

I hope it isn't really her secret.

Fragile

It's really pathetic on some level that I can allow one person's morning outburst to ruin my mood for the rest of the day.

So one person in my department isn't satisfied with the database that James and I have created. So she can be blunt sometimes. That's no reason for me to let myself get all funky and depressed.

I swung from pissed to defeated to ambivalent and back all day long. Now I'm just vaguely frustrated and generally depressed. Her comments about the inefficiency and stupidity of the database we've worked so hard to create really affected me. James, too.

I'd already resigned myself to the fact that this is essentially a special project, not a promotion of any kind. Once we're done whoring ourselves out to all the other departments — say, around Christmastime — I'm sure we'll be restored to our old responsibilities, and still have to manage to find time to fix the databases when they go awry.

I've been watching TV all evening, which is very uncharacteristic of me. It's a good thing we don't have any sweets in the house, or they'd be gone by now. (I'm still trying to think up something creative that doesn't require baking.) This is yet another case of something small and stupid setting me off into a general depression that no longer has anything to do with the initial cause.

I feel so fragile and unstable sometimes.

Thinking Ahead

Aaron and I are planning to paint several rooms in our house during our vacation in August. The living room will say goodbye to its pastel ragroll of the 1990's, the dining room will shed its southwestern feel, and the smallest bedroom will start its journey from cat/sewing/storage room to small person's living space. (Don't want to call it a "nursery" yet, being that we're not even trying for kids yet, you know. Don't want to get Mom all riled up.) ;-)

See, I figure that it would be unfair to say that I wanted the bedroom painted before someone — no matter how small — moves in, then to shirk the actual responsibility of painting it because pregnant women shouldn't be exposed to strong chemical fumes. So, we're doing the painting together, before we get our bareback going on.

I already have a very wide theme planned: anime. (Of course.) Totoro would be a good theme for babies of either gender, really, and easily supplemented by either Hello Kitty and general cuteness or mecha and other boyishness. Plus, I think it would be fun to custom-paint some pillowcases and light-switches.

Thinking about furnishing and decorating our future child's room made me think about this future child, and how we'll deal with parenthood. It's finally becoming something that's planned, that's going to happen, instead of speaking hypothetically. It'll be interesting, sure, and exhausting, and everything I've heard it is. But I think that, between Aaron and me, we'll do OK. We were raised differently enough, but turned out similar enough, that I don't think we'll screw our firstborn up too much. No more so than most, anyway.

For now, though, I think I'll stick to thinking about things like what color to paint the bedroom.

Is That So Wrong?

Is it wrong for me to want my male friends to find me attractive, even though I'm married?

I mean, it's not like I would ever actually *do* anything with any of them, even given the chance. Hell, I can't even fantasize about doing the nasty with anyone but Aaron. Still, though, a part of me would like to know that I've still "got it"—not like I ever had very much of "it" in the first place. At the height of my boyfriend / make-out-buddy phase in college, I met every single one of the guys I dated on IRC. On internet relay chat, cuteness or hotness isn't so much a factor as desperation and a sense of humor, I think.

I guess I'm just realizing that I'm getting to the age where, if I don't make my body look all svelte and sexy NOW, I'm not going to get the chance in the future. I get a few more prime years, then if I'm not careful, it can be all downhill. I may never have another chance to make anyone think I'm sexy. (Apart from Aaron, that is. But he thought I was sexy when I was 250 pounds, supposedly. Not sure how that works.)

Anyway, I guess I'm just feeling weird about wanting to be all sexy-looking to other guys. Someday. Is that wrong, or just human?

Disconnect

Have you ever sat at the computer and reloaded LiveJournal and checked out all your friends' and acquaintances' blogs and looked at Flickr hoping for new pics from your contacts... just because you wanted human interaction?

Ironic, isn't it? Or maybe just stupid.

I wish more of my friends had blogs. I'm rarely into chatting online anymore, but I still want to feel connected. I'm not always keen on spending my evenings alone, but I'm not always interested in talking on the phone or doing Instant Messenger. You know?

Evenings like these would be good for walking around BG, stopping into Grounds For Thought, maybe reading a book or writing in a journal about something seemingly profound, maybe doing some BG low-light street photography. The idea kind of loses its charm when it requires a 20-minute drive, though, instead of walking out your door and three minutes down the street.

Enough of this. I've gotta go do some dishes, put together my lunch, and go to bed. *sigh*

I'm really not this depressed. I don't think. I think I'm just tired and lonely right now. And, for once in my life, I feel like a fit person trapped in a fat person's body. But that's another blog entry entirely.

Remember Who You Are

I should really be getting my lunch ready for tomorrow, and getting to bed. Instead, I'm going to crank out this quick post. I may come back to this idea later on.

When I was younger, and would go away from home for a while — say, on a Girl Scout camping trip, or a slumber party, or whatnot — Mom would always say to me, "Just remember who you are and where you come from."

I always assumed she meant to conduct myself as an upstanding Mormon girl, and that's how I took it at the time. However, I found out later in life that Memaw used to say the same thing to Mom when she was younger, and that made the meaning even deeper for me. Especially when I got to be older and grew away from the church.

So, who am I? And where did I come from?

(Besides the obvious answer that I'm Diana and I came from my Mommy's belly.)

I think that might be why I'm so into genealogy lately. To find out where I come from. I come from a long line of poor farmers, from what I can tell. Even Memaw farmed as a youngster, migrating with her family to follow the crops. Memaw's mother, Granny, farmed until the end; she had the most fantastic leathery skin from being out in the Florida sun all her life.

The "who I am" part is something that seems to change regularly. Wife, daughter, friend, Sky Bank employee, amateur genealogist, web designer, drum corps enthusiast, photography hobbyist. I'm not sure how I identify myself anymore. It's like I read in one of my Star Trek books (yes, I get my philosophy from lofty sources): The purpose of the game of life is to figure out what piece you are.

Maybe I'm too tired to be contemplating such things. But it's interesting food for thought.

Remember who you are, and where you come from.

Starved = Not Sexy

Victoria's Secret - Very Sexy

So, I got some VS spam just now. I ordered from them once or twice, so I let myself keep getting their "offers" in the hopes of actually getting a hot deal one of these days.

Anyway, the model they used for their "push-up without padding" demi bra just revolted me (see girl in green lacy brazier, above link). I mean, I'm not a guy, neither am I a lesbian, so I guess I really don't know what "sexy" is all about when it comes to women. But I can't imagine that seeing someone's ribs stand out in stark relief can possibly be erotic.

I can see your RIBS. I can see your pelvis.

OMFG. Go eat something.

Oh, and your push-up bra without padding? Yeah, it makes your skinny-ass A-cups look almost normal. Way to go.

The United Schnuthie College Fund

One of my co-workers is pregnant with twins — girls, most likely. I overheard her saying that she and her husband had actually started their children's college fund with last year's tax return, before they even started trying for a baby (and before they got two for the price of one).

That made me think: should we be thinking about our future child's education?

I mean, both Aaron and I had to take out loans to pay for our own college, and we'll probably be paying on them until we retire. Literally. How would it be different if I didn't have that expense now, and if I had known back then that I wouldn't have that expense in the future? Would that have changed my young-adult relationship with my mother? Would I have worked harder, by virtue of someone else paying my way? Or would I just not have this $45 grand to pay off now?

Now that I think about it, we *would* like to enroll our child or children in private school at some point, and St. John's costs just about as much as a community college. Should we be saving for that, too, or just hoping that our kid will test high enough to get a scholarship, or that we'll be considered poor enough for him to get financial aid?

It's weird stuff to think about. Especially when we haven't even started trying to make this hypothetical future college student yet. I'd imagine that, once that other human being is actually in the picture, staring at me, I'll probably feel different about providing for it. Right now, though, it just feels like, "I had to pay for my own college, kiddo, and so will you. Deal."

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...

I'm in quite a mood this holiday season. I'm not sure how to describe it, or what caused it, but I'm just not enthused about Christmas this year.

The cat has made our prelit Christmas tree her personal playground by chewing through one of the wires and playing with the ornaments. Now only the top half of the tree is decorated, and the bottom tier of branches is no longer lit.

My great-uncle died this month; and while I don't particularly miss him, not having seen him for over 15 years, his passing serves as a reminder of how rarely I see my remaining family anymore. I have no family nearby, and no friends — well, Aaron's friends are my friends now, but it's not quite the same. It's not like I'm planning to exchange gifts with them. (Note to my friends that were Aaron's friends first: if you're planning to get me a gift, you might want to give me a heads-up, so I can find something for you...)

Christmas songs have been maddening this year, too. Like nails on a chalkboard. In years past, they've been merely annoying to me. This year, though, they're driving me to rage, and I don't know why.

After being in drum & bugle corps, it occurs to me that if a Little Drummer Boy played his drum for an infant... I don't care if it was for the Son of God or the brat down the street, but at the sound of up-close, live percussion, any infant would instantly start crying bloody murder. There would be no cute baby smiling involved.

Every time I hear "Sleigh Ride," I think of that very first Christmas Concert I played with the high school Wind Ensemble, after I first learned to play clarinet and somehow landed the first chair clarinet spot. None of the clarinets could play the high notes; none of us knew how to play notes that high. It sounded horrible. And the trumpets couldn't get the rhythm of the jazzy section, so the most interesting section of "Sleigh Ride" was left on the proverbial cutting room floor.

I don't understand my mood at all. I can have moments of genuinely enjoying myself with my co-workers — but as soon as I return to my desk, I'm back to the same depressed rut I was in before. I just don't get it.

And we're supposed to get at least six inches of snow during the day today. Chances are that the employees who live farther away may be sent home early, and those of us who live in town will stay until 5:00. That's not helping my mood at all. (Edit: No one got to leave early, and the roads really weren't that bad by 5pm.)

Merry Freakin' Christmas.

A White Thanksgiving

The first snow is falling.

There's a fine white mist outside my office window, and I'm unsure whether it makes me excited for the holidays or not. The child in me wants to be giddy and happy about snow and Thanksgiving and having four days off in a row. The adult in me is not thrilled about travelling to Cleveland tomorrow with a Winter Storm Warning in effect, not to mention walking to my car after work today in the bitter cold.

I really want to be excited about the holidays, but it's just not there.

Thanksgiving this year just seems kind of underwhelming, somehow. Aaron's dad made the point that it's kind of depressing, going to holidays now: Grammie and Poppa are getting old, finally, and Aaron's aunt is going into a nursing home next week. Watching so many people decline in different ways at the same time is just saddening. Plus, now that holidays are being held at Uncle Pete's house, he doesn't seem to want or need our help with dinner; the old potluck-style Thanksgivings at Grammie and Poppa's made us feel needed, somehow.

Then there's the upcoming holiday season. Christmas, Yule, Ramadan, Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, insert-your-holiday-here. Not looking forward to that. I don't really have a list of people to buy presents for anymore, which really takes the fun out of the holidays for me. Now it's really just Aaron I'm buying for, plus shippable presents for my own scattered family members.

I could try being all artsy-craftsy and making the pine bough wreaths and garlands I've been thinking about, but I know the cat would try to eat them (since they smell like Outside), and the sap would probably ooze onto the walls and furniture, and eventually the needles would start to drop on the floor and generally make a mess.

What an un-cheery point of view I seem to have. Maybe I'll get into it as the winter wears on.

The steady, powdery snowfall is starting to accumulate now. Happy Thanksgiving.

Happy Halloween

In other cultures and in various world religions, what we Americans call "Halloween" is celebrated as a remembrance of departed loved ones. For example, the Japanese celebrate the autumn equinox as a time to remember and honor their ancestors. The Mexican Day of the Dead is a party to eclipse all parties (from what I can tell, anyway — I didn't take Spanish, so I'm not well-versed in the culture). Samhain, the Wiccan observance, focuses on the thin veil between this world and the next. This is, of course, a gross overview of these holidays, and there are many more besides these.

In recent years, I've taken to celebrating Halloween in a unique way that's meaningful to me. I consider myself an agnostic, so observing Samhain or any other faith-based or religious rituals would be hypocritical and almost rude. I also have no social life, and very few local friends, so costume parties are out. :-)

Seriously, though. What I do is genealogy.

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Being Poor

Whether or not you have ever considered yourself poor, read this. I can directly relate to at least 30% of this list, and can completely empathize with most of it.

I am so lucky that my family somehow managed to get out of poverty.

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Overkill

Tacked onto the bottom of a forward I received today at work:

Hunt the terrorists to the ends of the earth. Since most of the people of the United States, indeed most of the world's population, will not live their lives as the terrorists demand it the only way to make the world safe. The terrorists will not be allowed to rest, regroup, or lay low. Death, not capture, is the only way to deal with zealots who will not compromise on their goal of a non-tolerate Islamite one world religion/government.

The co-worker that forwarded the e-mail to me did so just so I could see this amazing worldview that someone had apparently included as a sig. WTF. We both agreed that this approach is just as scary as the terrorists'.

And... "non-tolerate"? "Islamite"? Way to convert the intelligent citizens of the U.S. to your cause.

Musical Poseurs

It's a slow day at work today (again). So, while I'm thinking of it, I wanted to mention something I found on my work's intranet.

There was an employee profile I read online, where the employee being interviewed said, "I love all music, Willie Nelson, Barry Manilow, Enya, Shania Twain and the Beatles." I found this pretty amusing, being a person of fairly eclectic musical taste myself. If she loves all music, where's the jazz? The industrial? The classical? All I'm seeing is country and easy listening and the Beatles. (I wonder if she likes their later, stranger albums, too?)

I'd like to be indignant and declare her a poseur and say that I really DO love all music... but I know I don't. I'm not a big fan of modern country, or gangsta rap, or even recent "modern rock" in more than small doses. And I'm sure there's other music I've never heard that I don't like, either.

That's the thing: everyone says that they like just about all kinds of music, but they don't ? and can't ? consider music that they rarely or never hear during the course of their daily lives. They may think they really do like everything... but it's only everything within their own sphere of influence. Most people want to think they're eclectic and tolerant and far-reaching in so many ways... but they're not.

I include myself in this generalization, as well. As far as music goes, I enjoy alternative, some modern rock, some punk, ska, classic rock, jazz, classical, drum & bugle corps, barbershop / a capella, progressive rock, easy listening ("adult contemporary"), some techno/electronic, some j-pop, new wave, synthpop, old-school rap, folk, pre-90's country, some international music, and some other music that can't quite be pigeonholed. I know for a fact that I don't like gangsta rap, modern country ("crossover" country is almost worse), really heavy industrial, a lot of modern rock and pop... but I can't think of much else that I can't stand, mainly because I don't find myself in situations where I would experience music I may not like.

So, yes, feel free to claim that your tastes are eclectic. Claiming that you love "all" music is a bit of a stretch, though.

Happiness Is...

Have I mentioned how lucky I am to be in such a loving and trusting relationship? Have I told teh intarweb lately how much I love my husband?

*sucks in a deep breath*

I LOVE THIS MAN.

Not for any reason in particular do I bring this up today. I was just thinking about us, after reading about and thinking about some of my friends' failed and failing relationships. That, and I found a draft copy of our wedding vows (and some leftover wedding programs) as I was cleaning this evening:

I Aaron/Diana take Diana/Aaron to be my Honey Muffin (husband) / Boobie Doobie (wife) and to:

• trust each other and be trustworthy
• support one another in our worldly endeavors
• continue to share our thoughts and feelings, our hopes and desires
• and to love and cherish each other for the rest of our lives.

We have a really awesome relationship, and I count myself very, very lucky to be with Aaron.

This sounds like I'm patting myself on the back for being so cool in light of my friends' relationship problems. That's not how I mean it; this is more of a counting-my-blessings sort of feeling. Also, I feel genuinely sorry for my friends who don't have this kind of relationship. One friend is coming to the end of a long, strange relationship and forging ahead in a better one. Another friend discovered that their spouse had posted a profile online at Match.com, claiming to be separated and looking for romance. Still others seem to be happy, I guess, but it's hard to tell for sure.

We're best friends, Aaron and I, and we like many of the same things. We do have our differences, though, and some of them are major parts of our lives. (Aaron, for instance, is not any kind of drum corps enthusiast. I, on the other hand, can't STAND the Evil Dead movies I've seen.) But we're OK with that. I go off for drum corps rehearsals and performances every other weekend, and he deals. He's going off for a male bonding weekend up at Hemlock Lake this Saturday, and I'm perfectly OK with that (especially after all my drum corps trips). I'm happy to give him all the time he can spend with his friends, given that they hardly want to hang out anymore (due to wives, kids, and general lameness).

In conclusion, let me share some photos of where Aaron's going this weekend. I went there with him and his friend Kris and Kris's wife back in July 2002. It was a great time... until Kris's wife and I got horribly sunburned and we had to leave a little early. Behold:

Click the last photo to see myself and Kris's wife in all our sunburnt glory.

At any rate, I leave you with this paraphrased bit of advice I recall from my old buddy Timmay: If you're in a relationship, and it's not making you happy, then get out. Why are you spending your life with someone, if not to be happy with them? Life is too short to stay miserable.

Life is too short. Go be happy.

Funk.

I am in a seriously funky depressed mood this evening. I have so many things I want to get done, but I can't get motivated to make myself do them, which makes me more depressed and down on myself, and the cycle continues.

Then I think that writing about it on my blog will make the funk go away... but it doesn't. It doesn't work as the instant quick fix I sometimes think it should. This isn't like IM or a phone call — there's no instant connection with another human being, no actual real-time communication going on. Nothing to make me feel less blah.

I hate these moods. The objective, detached part of me looks from the outside in and says, "You know, Diana, if you'd just DO something, anything, you'd probably shake this thing. Just get the fuck over yourself and your weird depression and get on with it." That makes the rest of me feel worse about my depression and my general sloth and sinks me deeper into it.

At least this doesn't happen very much anymore. I seem to recall being like this frequently during middle school and high school, although I could be misremembering how depressed I really was. I know it felt pretty massive at the time.

Sometimes I think these off-the-cuff, unplanned and unscripted blog entries are what keeps my blog fresh and uniquely me. Then sometimes I think that my readership (and I'm averaging 40 hits a day, I think) really doesn't give a rat's ass about how depressed I am or how frumpy I feel or any other superficial crap. Where's the pictures and the amusing anecdotes and the links to t-shirt surgeries and Totoro and weird Mormon crap and whatever else people Googled today?

I think I'm gonna go play some Civ III.

*contemplates deleting this entry*
*decides to keep it for posterity*

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

In recent memory, there has been no other book that has made me so pensive for an entire day after having read it. Almost melancholy, even. I was distracted all day at work, thinking about the ending and the relationships between characters and what was set up for Book 7.

If you haven't finished reading HBP yet, and you intend to do so, you might want to hold off on reading this spoiler-laden post.

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In A Funky Mood

I'm in one of those weird quiet moods. Kind of melancholy, I guess. Kind of lonely, maybe, and kind of bored. I can feel my face setting into a perpetual scowl for some reason. I feel like I'm missing something, or like I've thought of something I regret, though I can't think of what it would be.

There's no good reason for me to be all blah tonight. I have an appointment set up to meet with a certain gentleman about a potential extra-curricular design gig, so tally up one for the Go Me column. But I ate too much sugar today, and I'm sure it affected my blood sugar levels all day; I felt so tired, and still do. It's messing with my energy level in a bad way.

If I could just make myself get UP and DO something, I know I'd feel better. Not reading a book, mind you—something like putting my clothes away, or maybe watering my poor thirsty houseplants, or going through a box of stored crap, or even just doing some jumping jacks or something. The trick is managing to get myself started.

I hate it when I get all like this. Meh.

Gayness

I don't remember what age I was when it occurred to me that some men like other men instead of liking women. I'm sure it must have been the movie Victor/Victoria that introduced me to the concept; it was (and is) a favorite of my Mom's, and it was released in 1982. I don't remember ever being creeped out by the idea, though, even when AIDS became widely known in the eighties, and everyone associated the condition with gay men.

I didn't actually *know* an openly gay person until I was in high school. (At least, not that I was aware of.) Tim was a co-worker of my Mom's, and I got to meet him and hang out with him quite a bit during high school. Tim was freaking cool: he had a few cats, he listened to Peter Gabriel and Ravi Shankar, he had an awesome huge five-foot-tall cactus that wore sunglasses and a hat, and I just remember him being generally fun to be around. Some of his friends called him "Timberly," although I'm afraid that, for awhile, I knew him mainly as "my gay friend Tim."

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Mindfuck

I don't fire up Instant Messenger very often. There's some weird setting in Outlook Express that launches IM every now and then when I launch Outlook. Today, instead of closing it like I usually do, I opted to keep it on.

I'd almost forgotten I had IM running when I got a message from an old college friend. Well, not that old—I only graduated four years ago. (Has it been that long?) Anyway, we traded small talk: where are you working, how are you doing, et cetera. I messaged him an old picture of the two of us, and he was highly amused, though I wasn't sure why.

One hour and a long, in-depth conversation later, I know why that picture was so amusing.

He doesn't look like that anymore.

He looks like a she.

He—she—has a supportive boyfriend, has successfully transitioned into life as a woman (pretty much), and is much happier not living a lie.

Apparently, my friend ran into some major obstacles when he tried to "come out" in college: unsupportive friends and co-workers, and general rejection all around. (I was completely oblivious at the time.) S/he wasn't sure how I'd react even now, five or six years later. It had been a while since we'd really talked, so s/he couldn't have known my passion for tolerance and gay rights and my general political affiliations. Like I told him/her, "If guy-on-guy action is your thing, and you have the balls to admit it in a society that's overall not too keen on it, then more power to you. That's awesome."

I'm so happy for her. Seeing her picture really drove it home for me. Finding yourself in such a big way... that's just fucking awesome. I'm happier for her and her found-femininity and her boyfriend than I ever was for some of my hetero friends and their engagements and weddings.

I can't get over it. It's a giant mindfuck, but it's so wonderful.

Like, OMG.

This poem reminds me of conversations my roommate Amy and I would have in college. Amy and I both considered ourselves to be intelligent people... but we couldn't seem to remove the words "like" and "you know" from our vocabulary. That bothered us. We didn't want to sound like the drunken fluff chicks around us in the dorm, because... well... god, they sounded stupid. You know?

Eventually, we did manage, although I think it took college graduation and entrance into the work force to finally complete the transition from "totally, like, whatever" to speaking like normal, intelligent, coherent human beings.

Totally like whatever, you know?

In case you hadn't noticed,
it has somehow become uncool
to sound like you know what you're talking about?
Or believe strongly in what you're saying?
Invisible question marks and parenthetical (you know?)'s
have been attaching themselves to the ends of our sentences?
Even when those sentences aren't, like, questions? You know?

Declarative sentences -- so-called
because they used to, like, DECLARE things to be true
as opposed to other things which were, like, not -
have been infected by a totally hip
and tragically cool interrogative tone? You know?
Like, don't think I'm uncool just because I've noticed this;
this is just like the word on the street, you know?
It's like what I've heard?
I have nothing personally invested in my own opinions, okay?
I'm just inviting you to join me in my uncertainty?

What has happened to our conviction?
Where are the limbs out on which we once walked?
Have they been, like, chopped down
with the rest of the rain forest?
Or do we have, like, nothing to say?
Has society become so, like, totally...
I mean absolutely... You know?
That we've just gotten to the point where it's just, like...
whatever!

And so actually our disarticulation... ness
is just a clever sort of... thing
to disguise the fact that we've become
the most aggressively inarticulate generation
to come along since...
you know, a long, long time ago!

I entreat you, I implore you, I exhort you,
I challenge you: To speak with conviction.
To say what you believe in a manner that bespeaks
the determination with which you believe it.
Because contrary to the wisdom of the bumper sticker,
it is not enough these days to simply QUESTION AUTHORITY.
You have to speak with it, too.

? Taylor Mali 2005

[Courtesy of An Artsy Fartsy Weblog]

Photo Opportunities

I was just over at the Jolesch website, ordering myself a 10x15 of the portrait we had taken at the MCGC finals last weekend. (I <3 the Intarweb + digital cameras for quick photo turnaround.)

While I was perusing their website, I contemplated the conversation I'd had with the photographer after our little photo shoot. For the sake of the non-photographers here, though, I'll put my geekitude (and self-esteem issues) in the extended entry, where you won't have to read it if you don't want.

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Blue Funk

I've been in one hell of a down mood today. I'm still exhausted from yesterday's drumcorps rehearsal (90 minute drive to Clawson, another hour in a carpool up to Attica, six-hour rehearsal, then an hour of wrapping-up and eating of pizza, then an hour of riding back to my car and another hour and a half drive home).

But, on top of being severely tired, I had another fucked-up dream last night, which sent me for a tailspin all day. I'll tell you what, I am getting mighty tired of these dreams where I end up romantically involved (or almost) with someone who isn't Aaron, and then I wake up feeling guilty and wondering what it all means.

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Baby Talk

I must be defective.

I think I'm missing that vital gene in womenfolk that causes us to 'ooh' and 'ahh' at newborns, and to want desperately to hold them and make nonsense words at them.

Today at work, the woman who's currently out on maternity leave decided to come visit and bring her firstborn for everyone to see. Nothing against either of them, really, but I couldn't have cared less. All the womenfolk cooing and awwing over the baby girl actually started to grate on my nerves after a few minutes.

Sure, when I signed out for lunch, I passed by the group of ladies ogling the baby, and I took a look at her... and, sure enough, it was a baby. Asleep, to boot, which I think is the very best kind of baby. I looked at her for a grand total of about five seconds, and then I was done. I may have smiled, to be polite. No oohing or gooing or other general cutesiness from me.

Maybe it's a learned reaction. Every time I get near a very young baby and try to hold it, it invariably intimates from my general attitude that a.) I am not its Mommy, and b.) I am not, in fact, a Mommy at all. At which point, of course, the child becomes disenfranchised with being held by some interloper and demands a real Mommy. Loudly.

It'll be different when it's my kid. I hope. Maybe my ga-ga goo-goo genes will activate... or maybe I'll lose my fear of looking stupid and/or overly sappy in public.

Get Out Of My Head

I'm getting quite disturbed by these dreams about wanting to get it on with someone from work. Someone, incidentally, whom I most definitely do NOT find sexually attractive. Nothing against him, but he's just not my type. Totally.

I had this bizarre dream last night (I think—maybe it was Saturday night) that this same guy from work was spending the night in Aaron's and my house (which, of course, wasn't where we live in real life). In the dream, I totally wanted to get it on with this guy, but I knew that Aaron and I only had one condom left (yes, this detail was based in reality), so he'd notice if I used it and we were suddenly out of snoo-snoo hats. Also, when I told this guy I was hot for him, he once again expressed ambivalence about the situation. I think he said something like, "OK, but I'm gonna feel bad about it."

In the dream, I had planned to lay down in the bed with Aaron, then wait until he fell asleep and go to the guest bedroom and accost Less-Than-Willing Dude From Work; unfortunately, Aaron woke up and knew exactly what I'd been planning. Of course, he was too tired to be really pissed, but not too tired to take care of the proverbial business with me, so I wouldn't want to go to the other guy.

I remember feeling kind of bad for telling the guy I'd meet him in his room, then not holding up my end; but at the same time, I knew he wasn't really into it, so it wasn't like I was being a dick-tease or anything.

WTF is up with these bizarre dreams? What does this represent?

When I have recurring themes in my dreams (especially ones vivid enough to remember), I know my brain is trying to tell me something. I'm really interested in being involved in *something* that I feel is lukewarm toward me, at best. Since the main character is from work, I have to believe it's something work- or career-related. The most obvious connection, for me, would be the few attempts I've made toward getting a job in my field, versus staying with Sky.

(I wish Amy were here to help me read my Tarot. She always has a fresh and objective perspective, but knows me enough to know my inner struggles and what the cards could represent. I end up reading what I want to read.)

Never Again

Sometimes I come across a piece of writing, on the web or in print, that helps to clarify some idea or association that's been trying to connect in my brain for a while. This article did just that.

Daily Kos :: A Promise to My Grandfather: A Follow Up

How is it that those of us who have proclaimed ourselves agnostic or atheist can end up being more tolerant than those who proclaim themselves "moral people"? If we don't speak out for the gays, or the minorities, or the Constitution, if we don't fight oppression and intolerance in our society... who will? Never again should there be another Holocaust, or another round of McCarthyism, or any number of historical atrocities I could mention. No more.

First they came for the Jews
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Jew.
Then they came for the Communists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a Communist.
Then they came for the trade unionists
and I did not speak out
because I was not a trade unionist.
Then they came for me
and there was no one left
to speak out for me.

—Pastor Martin Niem?ller

Hobbies

OMG. I just made a batch of banana candles, and now the whole ground floor of my house smells like banana pudding. Oh, yum.

Once my test votive sets up, it'll be time to burn that along with my coconut test candle to see if, together, it really would smell like banana cream pie. If it does... Oh, yeah. New candle flavor on the menu.

Edit, Friday Night: I'm burning the votive I made for myself, and it has kind of an odd chemical/medicinal smell. That's really disappointing, because it has such a great cold scent. Ah, well. That's why I buy one-ounce samples instead of huge vats o' fragrance oil.

On the subject of candlemaking, I was just thinking... Does anyone else have a tendency to burn out (very punny) really fast on hobbies? Not entirely, I suppose, but...

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Dressing Up

Watching Dan prepare for his Doctoral audition last night and this morning made me realize: I have no reason to be "professional" these days. I mean, sure, my workplace is quasi-professional, but our dress code is business casual (which, for me, basically means no jeans, sweats, t-shirts, or sneakers: almost anything else goes). We're not the kind of professional workplace where it's required to put on airs and/or a suit.

I no longer perform in concerts, like choir or band or wind ensemble or whatnot, so I have no reason or opportunity to put on my best black dress and some makeup—stage makeup, even, sans lipstick for wind instruments—and stride out to swells of applause, holding my head high and aloof. I don't even go to church anymore, so I don't put on my pantyhose and one of my nicest outfits (with a skirt or dress, of course) and do my hair and makeup and wear perfume, and shake everyone's hand and smile and act reverent when appropriate.

I suppose I could dress up just because, but it doesn't have the allure that a special (or not-so-special) occasion does. When Aaron and I go out to eat anymore, even someplace "nice" like Red Lobster or Dolly & Joe's (mom-and-pop place, great prime rib), the odds are 50/50 whether we'll just go in jeans, anyway.

I don't even *own* that many seriously "nice" clothes anymore. In the years between my old, pre-obese weight and my current non-obese weight, I sloughed off several sizes' worth of "nice" clothes that I couldn't fit into anymore, or that I just got tired of. All my poet's blouses, all my starchy white oxford-esque blouses, most of my "good" skirts, blah blah blah. As for Aaron, I know he's got blazers, but doubt if he even owns a decent tie, and I'm not sure if he has any "dress" shoes. Not like either of us really have any reason to own said formal attire.

I used to be very elitist about certain things. I felt totally at home in formal wear—at least, concert-going or church-going formal wear, anyway. I've changed so much since then; sometimes I feel like I'm not even that same person who played first-chair clarinet or sang in the chamber choir or felt naked leaving the house without lipstick. Was that me? Not really... not the "me" I know now. Now I'm perfectly content going makeup-less, and business casual is as dressy as I get. And I'm OK with that.

Carpe Diem, and All That Jazz

?I?m gonna phone everyone that I?ve known / Through the downs and the ups / And who I suspect have written me off / As an insensitive fuck / And say good luck / And goodbye...?

For the past couple of New Year?s Days, I?ve sent out e-mails to everyone I rarely touch base with. Old friends from high school, college, work, even elementary school.

This year, though, I didn?t.

Recent events (including my wedding) made me realize that, were I to e-mail all these friends and acquaintances to let them know how I?m doing, I would never really know whether it was appreciated. Half would never e-mail me back, some would respond with one ?thanks for the e-mail?things are the same as always with me? note, and only a very few would enter into a meaningful e-mail volley or start keeping in touch for real.

So, I decided to screw it this year. If they don?t care enough to e-mail *me* once in a while, I?ll be damned if I?m going to spend the time and effort to give them an update. Let them contact me for a change, if they give a rat?s @$$ about how I?m doing.

But, for once, a stupid forward actually made me stop and think:

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Sense of Purpose

I've tried to start this damn entry about half a dozen times now, and everything sounds too depressed or too pretentious. So, I'll cut to the chase.

Remember when we were in school? In High School, we were all working toward graduation. Maybe our short-term goals involved a certain GPA, or a scholarship, or getting accepted to a certain college. Most people I knew were working toward college, although some people were working toward getting "real" jobs and moving out of their parents' houses.

Then, when we were in college, we were still working toward graduation, and toward a career. Again, some folks were striving to keep a certain GPA, while others of us were just content to strive not to get kicked out.

Then we graduated (some of us), and worked on living on our own, and getting "real" jobs that could sustain us, and all that adult crap.

So... now what?

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My And My Lomo

Maybe I?m supposed to be a photographer.

This morning, around 10:30, the fog rolled in. It happened to get brighter outside the window, in my periphery, so I turned to look. And the first thought in my head was, ?I can?t wait to go to break so I can photograph that!? I carry my Lomo in my purse or my jacket pocket almost everywhere now, so I?m almost always ready for photo ops like this.

As it turns out, I couldn?t even wait till breaktime. I pulled out my Lomo, pressed it up against the window to avoid glass glare, and took a shot. Then, about fifteen minutes later, I took my break upstairs in the quiet room (as usual) and took a couple photos from the second floor windows.

It?s gotten to the point where I don?t care who sees me and thinks I?m a dork for bringing my camera to work. Everyone in my department knows that I have my little plastic camera with me wherever I go, and I take pictures of weird things (like when the squirrel outside jumped up on the windowsill). Plus, the chintzy sound of the Lomo?s shutter has made it possible for me to take photos of people who don?t realize they?ve been photographed, not even after the shutter fires—maybe they thought it was a door latching shut. :-)

Missing Mom

In response to my musings about my lack of Christmas spirit, Sheryl had this to say:

...it could be the fact that you wont see your mom this xmas? even if you didnt normally go visit, the distance makes it seem more..empty. :/

That's a good point, and one that I had actually pondered while Aaron and I were driving home from Cleveland on Saturday.

I'd agreed with Aaron beforehand that it would be so wonderful not to have to share Christmas with two families this year. No sleeping on the floor at Mom and Gary's place, no coming home smelling like Vantage cigarettes, no juggling of times and places and meals and ending up waiting on Uncle Pete anyway.

Even so, as I sat in the passenger's seat of the Kia on the way home Christmas night, in amongst my various sleepy ponderings was the realization that I wanted a hug from my Mom.

It's finally hitting me that it could be *years* until I see my mother again.

Maybe that *is* it.

Sure, Gary's a tool, and my Mom isn't quite as cool as she once was... but still, nothing quite compares to a Mom Hug™.

Christmas Eve Eve

Tomorrow I get to open my gifts from Aaron. I get to watch Aaron open the gifts I got for him. There's snow aplenty to make for a white Christmas. I'm bringing a sausage cake to Lakewood on Saturday. I don't have to work for four, count 'em, *four* days.

So why do I still feel unenthused?

I feel like something's wrong. Something's missing.

And the first person who tells me I'm missing the Christ in my Christmas gets a big ol' comment ban from Yours Truly. Constructive comments, however, are always welcome. Especially from Amy, who seems to have her finger on the pulse of my general weird depresso phases.

Christmas Spirit

Is anyone else feeling a distinct lack of the Christmas Spirit this year?

I mean, sure, I'm all geeked about one present in particular that I already know I'm getting. And, yeah, I decked out my website in Christmas finery. Aaron and I have wrapped just about all of our presents and have them piled about the tree, and I've taken the annual Family Photo By The Christmas Tree—this year, with the cat in the mix. Our stockings are hung on the entertainment center with care, and I'm even planning to make sausage cake (a Cook family holiday staple) to bring in to work on Wednesday.

Even so... ehh.

I just can't get excited about it. What's wrong with me?

Scott Peterson

Maybe I'm a bleeding-heart liberal. Maybe I still have too strong of ties to my Christian roots. Maybe those Amnesty International people I tried to hang out with that one semester rubbed off on me.

I just can't get excited about Scott Peterson getting the death penalty.

It reminds me of how I felt when I heard about Saddam Hussein's sons being killed. I just can't get happy about someone being dead (or being sentenced to death), no matter how evil they are or what atrocities they committed.

I know that proponents of the death penalty would remind me that it's just costing taxpayers money to keep criminals alive and in jail. I don't know... I just wish there were some way we could somehow make these criminals realize the horrors they've committed, and not be proud of their "accomplishments," but instead actually show remorse and feel genuine regret for the rest of their lives, or until they're truly rehabilitated and can be reintroduced to society.

(Good grief... What the hell kind of tree-hugging hippie crap have I come up with this time...?)

All I know is that no one in a so-called "Christian country" should be jumping up and down with unbridled joy at the pronunciation of a death sentence, like I saw on ABC News tonight.

Vicarious

I kind of understand why people get all into their soap operas and dramas and such: experiencing such strong emotions without having to deal with their actual, real-life consequences can be cleansing.

It's different when it's not fiction.

Take Rori, for instance, whose blog I've been following for a couple months now. Her mother died almost three years ago, and reading her "Mom" category is absolutely heartwrenching on so many levels. Apart from the poignancy of the tale itself, it also helps me remember those I've lost (my Granny, my first stepdad, my Memaw); and it helps me remember that not only have I not had anything so horribly grievous happen in my life, but that I should count my blessings and let my loved ones know that they're loved.

'Tis the season, after all.

NYC meets BGSU Factline

In last month's Wired Magazine, I found an interesting article about a service in NYC called 311. It works like the BGSU Factline, from what I can tell, but with an added bonus: the government learns what people are asking about, and makes decisions based on the public's concerns, if necessary. It's like Factline for "the real world."

read more...

Fire

Every time I see Dan, I am impressed by his motivation, his drive, to do more and be more and live life to the fullest. This time, though, it occurs to me that I have several friends and acquaintances with a similar drive. Every time I see you, you're always excited about what you're doing in life—otherwise, why would you be doing it, after all? You're bubbling over, it seems, not just with untold stories, but with untold vibrance for your current passion.

Usually I can say, "You know who you are," but in this case, I don't think I can. I don't think you can see yourselves this way, as a direct function of the selfless vibrancy you possess. But on the off-chance that you might know...

Where do you get your Fire?

When I was an adolescent and a teenager, and was a stolid churchgoer, I was told that the Light had to come from within—you couldn't be like a wind-up toy, being motivated and then losing steam after a while. And that's how I've always felt: some event motivates the shit out of me, be it a religious experience, a personal epiphany, a change of scenery, or energized companions—and after that, I feel the Fire. I devote all my free waking hours to The Cause... for a time. After a while, though, I lose my motivation.

Sometimes I think I'm too hard on myself, or that maybe I'm spreading myself too thin. There are so many things I'd love to devote so much time to: mellophone practice (OK, maybe not so much), candle-making, updating my various websites (including my horribly-neglected drumcorps alumni site), my houseplants, photography, not to mention exercising and taking some walks outside when the weather gets nice. But I can only be passionate about one or two of these things at a time, it seems, before all my oomph leaves me. The only thing I've managed to maintain for a long period of time is this diet I've been on for six months now, and that's only because Aaron's doing it, too, and it's become almost second-nature to eat this way. (And because there's nothing to cheat on in the house, which helps...)

So, what do I do? How do I get my Fire going without getting burnt out? I've wondered and tried for years, but it never quite happens. Any comments would be appreciated—except Aaron's standard, "You're overanalyzing things again..." :-)

My Brain Hurts.

I have that weird feeling in my brain. The one that precludes either a stint of creative writing or a long intellectual conversation with Amy. I swear to God that I feel different in my brain when it feels like it wants to think. Aaron thinks I'm crazy.

Thing is, I don't really have any pressing tales of fiction to tell, no poetry oozing from my fingers. I had contemplated busting out the Kay and strumming a few chords, but I don't think that would do it for me. As for writing, I'm tired of writing simplistic me-disguised-as-hero stories. I'm also tired of reverting to my junior high days and writing soft porn (yes, ladeez and gents, Diana has a libido, frightening as that may be to you).

I wish I could be like Isaac Asimov (lofty, I know) and plunk out a decent short story in 20 minutes flat. Hell, I wish I could write a decent short story at all. —OK, maybe that one was pretty alright, but besides that... *shrug*

Maybe I just need to write more often, instead of maybe once every four months. Write fiction, I mean; I write in my LiveJournal (or, previously, my main blog) nearly every day. My eighth-grade English teacher once told me that, like a world-class athlete, a writer like me should practice every day.

...

Whoa. My intelligent train of thought was just completely derailed by Sir Mix-a-Lot making an appearance in my random mp3 playlist. My brain is now filled with images of a big black guy in shades dancing on a giant peach, surrounded by black chicks with much booty.

Am I evil?

Is it wrong to be amused and emboldened by the misfortune of others?

Now, some people have problems in their lives, and I just genuinely feel bad for them. Like Beth needing to give up her ferrets, and her employer's impending business collapse. But there are others whom I will not name, both online and off, whose plight makes me feel smug on some level.

There are those who think their life is good, and don't realize how truly fucked up it really is. And there are those who had quite a chip on their shoulder after college, and thought they were the proverbial shit, who now live back at home penniless and jobless (or close to it). And part of me feels horrible for my attitude toward these people who probably once thought or currently think they are a better person than me. More successful, more worthy, more talented, more driven, et cetera.

It's not that I need to put other people down to make myself feel good. I'm finally coming to terms with the fact that I actually don't mind my job, and am starting to like it. This despite the fact that it's not what I'd originally wanted to do, nor is it what I have my degree in. I enjoy steady hours, a definite annual raise of about 4% (coming up in March!), opportunities to post for different and better jobs within the company, semi-annual incentive (bonus) checks, and having my own little cubicle that I can decorate as I please. :-)

I'm also quite happy with my personal life. Aaron and I are still kickin' it after about nine months of wedded bliss, and are hoping to close on our house this Friday. So, we'll move in at the end of next month (anyone who wants to help is more than welcome—maybe we'll buy you dinner or something). We're contemplating starting a family once we get settled in, starting with a cat and moving to something a little more substantial (like a small human being) in a couple of years.

And in between that are my hobbies and avocations. Once it gets warmer out, I intend to go photographing more often, since it seems that nature is one of my favorite subjects. I'm reading a lot more these days, and as soon as I get Dreamweaver on my damn Mac, I'll be webpaging more, too. (Not that I can't hard-code, mind you, but I'm quite spoiled by wysiwyg editors that actually do what I want them to.) I also have an apartment-full of plants that will fill out our new home nicely, and I'm still enjoying making my soy candles on occasion.

So, long story short, I'm happy. I think all this gratuitous me-ness goes under the category of "Count Your Blessings."

So why do I feel so smug at the downfall of others? It seems evil to me... but I can't change the way I feel.

Weird-Ass Dream

I was living at Mom and Gary's place in Parma, but my step-brother Philip and my cousin Michael were there. In the dream, I was 18 and a Senior in High School, Philip was an underclassman (age 16?), and so was my cousin Michael (age 14?). This is totally skewed from real life, where I'm currently 27, Philip's 17 and Michael's 19.

In my dream, it started out as late evening. My glasses were broken, and I knew I had to go get them fixed; The left lens had a clean horizontal break halfway across. But Gary informed me that I had to drive Philip to school, and bring Michael along (who, in the dream as in real life, had some mental/behavioral issues). I argued that I would be late for school if I did that; and besides, it was my car and I was an adult and shouldn't have to ferry everyone around, etc, etc. My arguments didn't fly, though, and I was stuck with the job.

Michael was taking a bath, and I checked in on him to make sure he was OK and getting clean. (No, I don't think I'd have to do that in real life, FYI.) I explained to him that he'd be coming with me to the eye doctor's and to take Philip to school.

Suddenly, the scene shifted to morning. My glasses were worse: both lenses were cracked and the glass was bent and curled, like melted plastic, with white opaque stripe-like sections along the breaks. But I had to drive with them, because I could see better with them on than not. I considered my strategy: my first priority was getting my glasses fixed, which I figured would take no time. I'd bring Michael along to that, leaving Philip at home. Then I'd swing back and get Philip and take him to school.

Unfortunately, we got a late start. It was about 10:00am before Michael and I got to the Optometrist's office—partially from wrangling Michael, and partially because I could barely see to drive. I had expected the fix to take five minutes, after which I could swing by and get Philip to school late. But, after turning in my glasses to be fixed, we sat in the waiting room for a good half-hour (by the dream-time internal time-lapse clock, of course). I finally went up to the desk to check on when my glasses would be done... and saw two pieces of corrugated cardboard on which were written each patient's last name, time in, and estimated time out. I found my last name, Schnuth, and saw that my glasses had been received at 10:15am. My replacements weren't expected to be complete until 5:00-5:30pm. I was pissed that I'd just wasted half an hour, and just as pissed that I'd have to drive home with no glasses. Around this point, I think I woke up.

During the course of the dream, Michael was actually good company, and we had some "normal" conversation. This is something I didn't really get to have with him much in real life, as I didn't spend much quality time with him once he reached a good high school age where we could talk on the same level. Even at that, he has (or at least, I assume he still has) a bit of a communication issue where he speaks very loudly and broadly, although he has a big vocabulary and tends to use long words. He always sounds like he's amazed (or thinks you should be), has his eyes wide, and uses broad gestures to explain himself. He's also a bit nervous-seeming, due to his hyperactivity—he tends to fiddle and fidget and be physical, which is sometimes unwieldy at his current height of 6'6", but was even so back when he was shorter than me. :-)

He and my aunt moved south several years ago—I don't think I've seen him since he was 16. Michael is now 19 and lives in a group home with other... well, other people like him, I guess. He's high-functioning autistic. According to my aunt, he's currently enjoying a part time job at a computer repair shop, where he's well-liked. He's also lost weight and is down to 250 (from 300+).

Last I heard, he still worshipped the ground I walk on, too. ;-) I'm not sure if that still holds, since I lost touch with him for so long, but it was intense enough before to be disconcerting, if flattering. I need to write him a letter and let him know I miss him.

I Miss My Friends

What's the opposite of a fair-weather friend?

Some people complain about friends and acquaintances who disappear at the first sign of trouble. I seem to have nearly the opposite problem: some of my friends only come to me when they have problems. I don't hear from them for months and months, especially if they're in a fulfilling relationship; then, as soon as they have a major issue with their Significant Other, or they're at an impasse about their next career move, a message from them shows up in my Inbox.

Don't worry, it's probably not you. Those few people I'm referring to don't read my blog very often, I don't think.

Anyway, I miss my friends. I wish I had more contact with everybody, and I'll take what I can get. Hell, some people don't even communicate with me at all anymore, not even to bitch. Some people I thought I'd become friends with—or at least close acquaintances—barely even give me a synopsis of the last few months of their lives when I catch them on IM. Which isn't often, since I get such a lukewarm welcome anymore that I rarely log on.

I sent out Happy New Year e-mails to a bunch of people (those of you to whom I didn't send Christmas Cards), and only got a few replies in return. I actually still need to respond to some of those replies... Oops. And here I am bitching.

But anyway, I'm going to continue plugging away at my little blog, hoping that my four hits a day are meaningful ones. Maybe some of my anti-fair-weather friends will read this and tell me how great their lives are right now. Don't make me name names.

And here's the quotable of the day, regarding Dick Gephardt dropping out of the Democratic presidential race following his fourth-place finish at the Iowa Caucus:

There wasn't the enthusiasm for Dick.

—anonymous labor source

Democratic Caucus? Sounds more like a lesbian convention to me.

Do me a favor

Hey. If enough people click through my site to Bob's site, I might show up on his SiteMeter stats, and not have to beg him for a link. After all, I already begged him for a new album and a trip to Detroit.

later...
I was going to go to bed early, for once. Instead, I got it in my head to try to write what I've been thinking for the past week or so.

I'm not usually one to go on "life's not fair" rants, but I've really been feeling cheated. Not by what you might think. I'm not upset that I'm not using my degree in my job, or any of the other myriad of things I've bitched about in the past. No, this is deeper than that.

I feel cheated out of time I should have had with people who are now dead. Not so much Memaw, because she was older — 70 isn't exactly ripe old age, but not so young that I feel cheated out of quality years. Although I do wish she could have lived to see her great-grandbabies (though heaven knows when that will ever happen, anyway. I'm in no hurry).

No, I feel cheated that my stepdad, Tom, never got to meet Aaron. I feel cheated that I never got to meet Aaron's Mom, especially since it really sounds like we would have gotten along. Plus, we share a birthday. How cool is that?

But, on top of all of this, I feel cheated by my lack of faith. After watching Memaw deteriorate like she did, I've come to realize how connected the mind and body are. I used to think that once the body died, the soul/consciousness would ooze out into whatever Tao or Force or Heaven or Collective Consciousness that exists, and perhaps retain some of the personality that person had developed during their life, depending upon how strong that personality was. But now... I don't know. Memaw just wasn't there. It was some fragmented, decrepit bastardization of who she used to be. The person she was, wasn't really there anymore — only in brief sparks and flashes of wit and that occasional look in her eyes.

My step-Gary believes that, when you die, your soul simply sleeps until the Resurrection. You don't know anything until you rise again, and it will be like no time has passed. While I don't believe in the Second Coming or the Resurrection or any of that anymore, I do wonder if death is like sleep. Except... if you never wake, what do you have to compare your sleep against? If your consciousness never manifests again after your body dies... then how do you know you're dead?

Weird stuff. At any rate, I've been having what Mom would call "Memaw moments," where I just sit at work and faze out for a few seconds, just thinking about her—except I think about Memaw, and Granny, and Tom, and Aaron's Mom, who I never met. And I reflect on how unfair it is that all they were, and all they knew, is gone.

Doesn't anybody update anymore?

Hey, guys? Um... I don't know if this blog phenomenon may have peaked or something, but Beth is the only one besides me still aggressively updating her blog. I either need to find more friends with blogs, or beat you all about the head until you update. Hell, Colvey's page doesn't even come up anymore. Maybe I need to go spelunking for more blogs to check...

My new fragrance oils are wonderful. Hershey's Chocolate, Drakkar, and — oops, I can't tell you that one. Mom might be reading. I'll tell you later. Wonderful fragrances all. I now have quite the fragrance arsenal.

After work today, I went out to finish Christmas shopping for Aaron. Got a couple things, one of which he's sure to recognize under the ttree if he gives it a little thought. Ah, well. He should have known he was getting it, anyway. I feel like we're a little more even now, present-wise. :-) Also headed to Goodwill, hoping that the other two of the diamond-pattern glass mugs I bought this weekend would still be there. Alas, they were not, but I got some other glassware instead.

And holy cow, do I have an inventory of glassware now. I've got a total of... *opening cupboard and counting* ...19 containers, each holding from four to six ounces. Four sundae cups (I have big plans for those), four smoky-colored squarish goblets (intended for amaretto-and-coke), two diamond-pattern glass cups, two glass jars with lids, one brown lidded jar, and miscellaneous small votive holders, including a ceramic watering can (obviously being saved for a floral scent, when I get one).

I'd been having a hankering for hot chocolate, so I found a recipe on the Atkins Diet Bulletin Board last week. Aaron bought me some unsweetened powdered cocoa with the groceries on Sunday, and I just made myself some hot chocolate this evening. This here hot chocolate makes Swiss Miss taste like a sugar cube sprinkled with cocoa. Never before I started Atkins had I truly appreciated the less sweet side of chocolate — I hesitate to say "bitter," since that has such negative connotations, but I think "darker" is the more apt description. I mean, I liked Hershey's Dark Miniatures and all, but I didn't realize how insanely sweet your standard chocolate bar really is. I think I now prefer tasting all the spectrum of flavors, rather than just sweetness. Who knew? [Note: a while later, the hot chocolate made me a little queasy. Don't know why. Maybe I'm just getting sick.]

Hmm, what else was I going to say...?

Oh, yeah. Kris, if you're reading my blog (as you sometimes do), your Jack White comments are ticking me off. (Yes, Aaron shared them with me.) You don't know the full story, and neither do I. Neither does the media. All I've got to say for now is, if you were really pissed at someone, would you have a.) the balls to punch him in the face, and/or b.) the physical strength to bloody his nose and drag him to the ground? Not me. Although I disapprove of his lack of restraint, I'm impressed with his... what's the word I'm looking for? Strength? Sense of purpose? Presence? Drive? I'm not quite finding it, but I hope you know what I mean. In summary, I may not agree with what he did, but damn, he did it well.

And, on a lighter note... I've been surfing around, looking for new blogs to hit, old people to catch up with... and found that the typical high school jock I went to high school with, Scott Marcum, is a now police officer in my hometown. (Check him out — he's the one on the right. Do you see the football player in him?)

OK, I gotta go to bed now.

Babies Babies Everywhere

Seems everyone's having babies these days. I guess we're just that age ("we" being myself, Aaron, our friends, and my blog readership). A few years ago, it seemed everyone was getting married. It's the next logical step.

I used to have a "thing" about pregnant people. Even when I was eight and my aunt (who lived with us) was pregnant with my cousin Michael, I was uneasy around her. It just makes me feel... weird. Like I'm witnessing something that should be more private and less obvious than hiding a watermelon under your shirt. Or like they might break. Or like something's wrong with them. All of which I know is slightly ridiculous.

Since I've known more people who have become pregnant, had to work with them (half a dozen in my building), and socialize with them (mainly Kathy Fries), I've become less stand-off-ish about pregnant people.

Now it's the baby thing that unnerves me.

Babies and I just do not get along. Especially little ones. It's like they can feel my trepidation and awkwardness, and start to cry for Mom not two minutes after being plunked into my arms. Again, I feel like I'm going to break them. And I'm afraid to be too obviously taken in by the marvel that is Life. Someone might be watching, after all, and I can't show that I'm a softie, now can I? Especially not around my Mom, who I'd like to think I have convinced that I am an emotional rock.

But at the same time, I'm getting this feeling... this knowledge that I'm going to do this someday. It's akin to another feeling I've had, one that will require some backstory.

In the Mormon Church, the first Sunday of every month is set aside for the members to share personal experiences and bear testimony of the Gospel as they know it. It's known as Fast and Testimony Meeting, because members are also encouraged to fast for two meals, and donate the money they would have spent on those meals to the Church welfare fund. (Mom and I made use of this fund several times — the Church has a Storehouse of food for the poor, funded by these donations).

Anyway, at this particular meeting, there's no set agenda: after the standard opening song and prayer, and passing of the sacrament (This is My Body, This is My Blood... you Christian-types know the drill), the pulpit is open to all in attendance to come up and speak. It's kind of funny, too, because so many people are poor public speakers, but they want to let everyone know they believe... so there's kind of an unspoken ritual opening that all Primary children know, but all adults try to break away from: "I'd like to bear my testimony that I know this church is true. I know that Jesus is the Christ, and I know that God lives. I know that Joseph Smith was a true prophet, and that [insert current Church President here] is the prophet today..." Then the child or stumbling adult stammers through why they felt the need to bear their testimony. Usually something happened that week to particularly affirm their faith, or something happened to them that they feel the need to share, in order to reaffirm someone else's faith.

So, as a member of the congregation, you either sit and listen quietly and pensively (or not so pensively), or you start to wonder what you would say, if you got up there. If your case is the former, then Testimony Meeting is either entertaining and uplifting, or boring and tedious. Either way, no stress on you. If your case is the latter, though, the most interesting sensations come upon you. You can't seem to listen to the testimonies, because your adrenaline starts up. A feeling of inevitability wrenches your gut. You know you're going to have to get up there and say what's on your mind. It reminds me of knowing you're going to puke, except this feeling is supposed to be much more warm and fuzzy, coming from the Holy Spirit and all. (It usually isn't, though.)

It's that feeling of inevitability that I'm talking about. That knowledge that you're not sure you want to do it, but you're driven to it anyway. Something is compelling you to do this thing that you're so apprehensive about. You know you'll feel better afterwards, and you'll regret it if you don't.

That's the feeling I have about procreating. Aaron and I are comfortable with the fact that we're going to do it someday, so that's a step in the right direction. But we're also agreed upon not having kids for another few years, preferably until we have a house. It's not like my internal clock's a-ticking... though it kind of is, although I'm choosing to ignore it for now.

There are so many things to look forward to about having children, and so many things to be apprehensive about. For right now, though, I can't even keep my fucking room clean, much less raise a child. But I'm inwardly jealous of all the new parents I know, while outwardly snickering at their sleepless nights and new responsibilities. Without waxing all emotional (I am a rock, after all), suffice to say that the bond between parents and child intrigues me, and I'm looking forward to experiencing it someday.

I'm 27 right now. OK, 27-and-a-half, but who's counting? I used to think I should have kids by age 30, and I know that fertility becomes an issue at some point (right now, I do believe). I don't know, though. I don't know if we'll be ready by then. I'd wager we'll never feel totally ready... but Aaron's too careful to have an oopsie, and I'm perfectly OK with that. :-) I've just got that feeling of inevitability, and it comes and goes. I want to, but I don't, but I do... but my crotch tells me in no uncertain terms that it is not looking forward to pushing a watermelon through a straw.