Musings

Job Interview Nightmare Vision

Wed, 25 Jul 2007 15:54:10 GMT

I had a NIGHT of incredibly vivid dreams.

The most distressing was about my job interview. I dreamt that the interview took place in a conference room that was attached to a small reception room and then a mirror-image room on the other side. I wore clothes that were too hot, and even though the interview is for a sales position, the company was called Chase, like the bank.

The interview wound up being with--not one or two people--but an entire room full of combative, attractive salespeople with huge egos and candy and weed addictions, the manager of the division I'm hoping to work for, and the owner of the company. The owner of the company began the interview by saying, "Let's get right down to business, I want you to Chase something out of me." So I asked him for his shirt. To my horror, he complied without coercion. Thankfully, he wore a kind of beefy oxford over another oxford, so when he gave me his shirt, there was another normal oxford with a tie under it. Then I asked him for his tie, and he got this perverse look of lecherous-old-man glee on his face. Then I said, "I appreciate the pun, but do you have a better prompt? I'm not so good with inventing my own prompt on-the-fly." So he said, "Pretend you're waiting on us." Which, in my dream, was comfortable for me, but the rest of the salespeople were who I was waiting on.

I was making up a menu and upselling my face off. It was going great. But I was half way around the table when people started ordering candy. By this time, the old man and the guy who would've been my manager had disappeared. So After the third girl ordered those gummy garbage patch kids with all the sour shit all over them, I was like, "What's going on here!" And one of them, a guy who resembled this rambunctious eater I waited on in real life just hours before this dream, leaned in close to me (he had terrible breath in the dream), and said, "see, you have to go on a candy run, because we just smoked some pot." I stood there for a minute just looking around, and one at a time they all started laughing. Giddy like people who've just smoked pot are. I was conscious that they weren't laughing at me, but I was convinced that the old guy and the division manager were in some room someplace watching the whole thing on some hidden camera, tisking and shaking their heads and going, "That girl's not going to hold up under this kind of pressure."

I was so annoyed and on edge that I ran out of the room, but couldn't find my way out of the building. I ran down this long corridor and ran into the manager-of-division guy who said "I thought things went really well. I bet you'll get the job." I yelled over my shoulder, "Really? That's great! Because I really, really, really need it." When I finally got out of the building it was pouring rain, the old lech was there waiting and I was in tears and he said, "What's wrong?" I said, "They want me to go on a candy run, and they're all stoned." Then he disappeared and I was in my car, with the windows down, getting very wet and wearing high heels and purple (of all colors!), and talking myself into then out of going on a candy run for the obnoxious stoners who by that time I was trying ton conceive of working with.

The whole things was vivid and intense, and even now I'm still getting flashes of the imagery from it.

I also dreamed that Pearl spoke in full sentences and recalled verbaitum things I have told her when I thought she wasn't really capable of understanding enough to remember the off-color things it might occur to me to say.

Of course, she also assured me in the dream that she was perfectly capable of understanding the difference between serious mommy and crazy mommy. And that she likes it when I say crazy things.

i am incredibly tired

Sun, 22 Jul 2007 20:52:43 GMT

so this'll be short.

Two days ago, I had a life-changing-epiphany. Now I am coping with the aftermath and deciding what to do.

I almost bought a book today from the Bargain Bin at Borders called Why Smart Men Marry Smart Women, but I changed my mind when I read the dust jacket and learned that it's a speculative analysis of census and harris poll data, "proving" that all the problems that go along with being a smart, ambitious, successful woman who wants to marry, but can't manage to meet a man who's able to take the constant ego assault that being with a smart, ambitious, successful woman actually is will be solved entirely by 2010, and more education and success actually HELP smart, successful, ambitious women find smart men who want them. The best part: it purports to have a thesis that goes something like this: "it doesn't matter that you get married, but that you have a good marriage and lead a full life." DUH. I feel sorry for people who need a book to tell them that. I also feel sorry for a person who so desperately wants to believe all the things the book claims to evince that they would commission a Harris Poll and WRITE A GODDAMN BOOK. I was also annoyed by the acronym SWANS: Strong Women Achievers, No Spouse. STUPID!!

I REALLY, REALLY hate Wikipedia.

I've been seeing ghosts of my friends all week. One in the grocery store two days ago, one driving by me today, one crossing the street three days ago in Oakland. Of course, these are just city-to-city twins. None of the people I've "seen" are actually in Pittsburgh.

I've become a horrid typist. Worse, I can't write with a pen fast enough anymore.

I've started journaling again.

I ate a delicious sandwich three days ago. I can't stop thinking about it.

I have an interview for a sexy job in one week and one day (sexy=lotsa money, flexible schedule, benefits). In one week, I'm gone from Pittsburgh for good.

I dislike people who eat out on Sunday afternoons. Christians are fucking cheap tippers. And they're conspicuous about it, too. Who else goes to eat at exactly 12:30 on a Sunday afternoon wearing not-quite-fancy, but better-than-casual clothing, with their spouse and all of their children?? Three guesses--the first two don't count.

Why? (Haiku)

Sat, 21 Jul 2007 14:01:58 GMT

John Cusack

In half of films from
nineties: wore skinny leg jeans.
Flares for the next ten?

(I know, i know. it's supposed to be about nature. look. this is the modern world. we have cars that don't need keys. I think there can be haiku about fashion.)

HARRY POTTER

Thu, 19 Jul 2007 13:57:54 GMT

Forgive me. I just don't get it. I know I'm opening myself up to a barrage of medieval punishments from friends, family and strangers. I can almost feel the first stones bouncing off my back.

You're right. I haven't read the books. I HAVEN'T. I'm a little proud. Back in '99 or when ever it was that the first one came out, Harry Poter and the Onslaught of Mania, I read a few chapters of it in the aisle of the B. Dalton at the shitty mall my friend Lauren worked at.

You're right, you're right. It's well-written. It's fine. For YA literature. Terrific, even. It's complex, the characters are rich, etc. I have NO beef with the writing, none. And I am totally in awe of J.K. Rowling's rags-to-riches-single-mom story for reasons that are totally obvious. I think the stories are nice. I think that Rowling has done something that few other fantasy writers have done: the characters are more intersting than the story, we identify with them, we love them, we are even secretly aware that Hermoine is the true protagonist...

I get e-mails from Borders. I have one of their little key tags that entitles me to discounts and savings and cool, cool things. About once a week, they send out the “Borders Shortlist.” Those of you who're also book-heads belonging to Borders thingy will know what I'm talking about. This Borders Shortlist usually has a new book, a new recording artist, and a new book-on-tape/CD. This shortlist was FULL of Harry Potter. Come to the party at midnight dressed as your favorite HP character, we'll have punch and games and little sacks of magic. The WHOOOOLE shortlist e-mail was dedicated to Potter.**

That is what I don't get. The histrionics. The serious obsession. The way I know at least 3 grownups who're totally in tune with the coming of both the film and the book. Not to mention, EVERYBODY else in my family (except for dear old dad, who's too busy winning the bread to buy the HP books) has just finished re-reading all six in preparation for the seventh!!??!!

C'mon!!

My reading list is full of things to read, but there's just no space in it for HP.

Maybe i should be peeing in my pants with glee that something to READ has captured the imagination of almost everyone in America, no, the World between the ages of 7 and 57. But there's something hinky about it! It makes me suspicious. Sort of like back when everybody was anticipating the New Star Wars Movies. Only that was JUST movies, and they wound up sucking so the mania wore off quickly.

Of course, I'm sure that when Pearl gets a little bit older I'll read her the HP books. I'm sure I'll enjoy them. But it'll be about 5 years too late to hop on the bandwagon. It's never too late to enjoy a good book, and I prefer books without bandwagons.

**Wait, not the WHOOLE short list. There was a 2” blurb at the bottom advertising the Borders Visa (with which you could purchase HPobilia) and Barbeque University with that Reichland fellow of Beer Can Chicken Fame. What success! Busting in on the HP Mania. That guy is my new hero.

WOO HOO! It's official, I'm a real writer.

Mon, 16 Jul 2007 21:22:12 GMT

Check out this review of the literary journal that published my storyat this link. But wait! Before you get clickin! You have to scroll ALLLLL the way down to where the reviewer writes about The Sou'Wester. (That's the journal that published me. They published Ray Carver, too. I think I already said that. But oooh that is exciting!!)

On Computing at Panera

Sun, 15 Jul 2007 14:18:58 GMT

First of all, Panera is not my first choice, but I'm here on my way to work today, and it's the most-convenient place with free Wi-Fi. I also have to say something for its cheapness. The other coffee shop choices I have are Crazy Mocha, which has free Wi-Fi, but its like two and a half dollars for a cup of coffee, no refills. Grrr. Starbucks is good. I like their espresso. But to use their Wi-Fi it costs $10 for a day and some other absurd price for an hour. Panera, I can sit here for 5 hours if I want, drink unlimited coffee for a buck and a half, and their bagels, without cream cheese, are $0.95. Cool.

Anyway. I think a lot of people here have major Mac Envy. If you walk into Crazy Mocha with anything but a Mac, you might as well grow some lesions on your skin and start spreading AIDS.

The people watching isn't as good at Panera. These people don't have any politics about supporting local business, or if they do, they've quieted it (like I have) for the free Wi-Fi and cheap, refillable coffee. I'm looking forward to a time in my life where I can afford to put my pocketbook where my mouth is. That means: no shopping at Wal Mart, ever, using privately-owned, or small, local chain grocery stores, bakerys, etc. Eating Organic Meat and Dairy Products. Cage Free Eggs. Choosing nice companies when I have to—Starbucks for one, Target for another. Of course, Trader Joe's, which is practically my religion.

Anyway. Mostly the people here at Panera are nice, normal middle-class white people with no arty glasses or facial tics. There are some folks from India around, and some asian people. Mostly they're here with their computers or their children and spouses. But just a few blocks yonder, at the Starbucks, I can go on a given day and be one of the few native english speakers in the place. There's something terrific about that. Panera's also a neato place to see the Seniors. I think they like how inexpensive it is, too. But seniors, in general, aren't good people-watching.

In some ways, I like the lack of pretention in the conversations I overhear. In other ways I crave it. Mostly, I guess I'm just really glad to live in a place where I can walk to free Wi-Fi. That won't be the case much longer...

Ice Cream

Sun, 15 Jul 2007 13:36:45 GMT

What's the big deal? People are totally obsessed with Ice Cream. I worked for a summer at an Ice Cream Shop. Besides the fact that my boss was an irresponsible nitwit who'd done too many psychedelic drugs so that his already-substandard intellectual powers were significantly lessened, I maintained a state of consistent shock regarding the lengths to which people were willing to go for Ice Cream, the ways in which people allowed their feral side to show. Ordinarily nice, sensible humans lost their minds, the moment they stepped through the Ice Cream Shop Doors. It was like that famous movie with Jack Nicholson where the house turns him mad.

Perhaps it was the fact that the ice-cream fiends were usually the straight-edge crowd. The stereotype warring with the situation in my mind was too much for my little scooping ego to bear? Or it was these compact and hygienic people wearing Banana Republic or J. Crew, almost always seemed just slightly batty, with a 3-5 dollar daily ice cream habit. (If it was the 80s, I'd call 'em yuppies) In some cases it was the after-gym-indulgence. In others, it was just a metabolic miracle. In all cases, it was compulsive. A craving people went with no matter what time it was. The shop in which I worked was open until 11pm. That was retarded. But routinely, 10:55 rolled around and there was a line out the door. What was it about New Haven that made people crave ice cream a short hour before midnight?

Was it the 7:00 showing at the indie theatre letting out? Was it the square-people-early-band at Toad's next door? No—there was something else to it. Something pathological. Was it power? Decadence? What?

Have a freakin beer! There are fewer calories in a beer than in 2 scoops of ice cream. Plus, you'll sleep better. Plus, it's better for your teeth.

NEVER COMPOSE GOOD WRITING IN FIELDS

Fri, 13 Jul 2007 06:33:55 GMT

ON THE FUCKING INTERNET!!!!

OOOOH I AM SO ANGRY I COULD WEEP.

I just wrote a terrific blog complete with HTML links and formatting. It was really funny and included things I hate, things I wish I had right now, and a remarkable analysis of the phony TV show "Six Degrees." Guess what, that last doesn't take you to the IMDb page for "six degrees" because I am too annoyed to go looking for the way to make HTML links. It also included a link to Miranda July's website that my friend Jeffrey just e-mailed to me.

Of course, the whole thing is my fault. I should have composed the blog brilliance on my word processing software.

This blog is neither interesting nor funny.

grrrrrrrrrr.

I did something nice.

Sun, 08 Jul 2007 13:42:29 GMT

Maybe it's not true that I never do nice things for other people anymore, instead it's that other people do more nice things for me now than I've ever asked for before. It's kind of the rub about being a Scorpio Single Mother. Scorpios don't like to ask for help (and no, James, I didn't like to ask for help loooong before I learned these things about Scorpios). My mother (who is also a scorpio) still rolls her eyes if someone holds the door for her. She is almost 50. I have had to teach myself how to ask for help. People are happy to help, once you ask. Sometimes even before you ask. But knowing that and doing it doesn't really make it any easier on my fragile little ego.

But mostly, we're all self-enamored little fishes swimming blindly in the jet stream of our own needs. And I enjoy the ride. I don't usually look outside of my jet stream, or break its wall. Especially now since Pearl's needs are my needs. So the need-to-resources ratio in this zoo is 2 to -45 sometimes. I just don't have the mental space to accomodate other people, too.

But today is my last day working at the Olive Garden FunHouse in Robinson. I am soo glad. But Josh, this cool guy who works in the kitchen as a Culinary Assistant, is a musician when he's not at the OG, and who has sacreligious tattoos, was telling me about his relationship with The White Album. How he keeps losing it.

I own The White Album. So I burned it for him. I wrote the songs on the discs. I made a little protective sleeve from printer paper. The White Album will ride home with Josh unscratched.

This nice thing is especially good because it is entirely without self-interest (except for the little endorphin high everybody gets from doing nice things that is biologically engineered to keep people doing nice things instead of naughty things--which is why we don't need government telling us what nice things we can do and what unnice things we should not do, trouble with government is that it doesn't trust humans to do what we are made to do, and that is survive in tribes but that is a blog for another day). I don't want to sleep with Josh. He's a nice guy, but not really my type. I'm leaving the area soon, so no strings. It's my last day--it's likely that I'll NEVER see Josh again. But Josh will have The White Album again. And that's an album no human should be going about on the planet without.

get this idea

Sun, 08 Jul 2007 04:46:03 GMT

for a story.

woman character named Polly O'Reilly is totally in love/obsessed with Sara Jessica Parker, or Mary Louise Parker (I can't decide). She is a compulsive smoker whose father is dying of lung cancer. She owns several pairs of Jimmy Choos & lives in an apartment overrun by cats whre she dances, naked, but for the cat hairs that stick to her sweating rump. She works as a person who repackages things for Trader Joes, and because of her good performance on the job, has been promoted to repackaging the phyllo dough-wrapped-goodies, like Spinach Pie and Eggy Parm. "it takes serious delicacy to do this right, and I do. i lead the plant in minimum waste. they gave me a plaque and a button to wear on my smock. Everyone knows. and I never, never forget to wash my hands after I smoke." She works next to an old woman called, Ironically, Mary Louise Louise. She works accross from a John Corbett look-alike who wears a cros around his neck and wrings his hands while he chants about Mary during the 15 minute breaks.

hahahah! Yeah right. Like I would post a serious story idea here. Shea! As if!

Or maybe I AM serious.

Who knows??

before drinking coffee this morning

Sat, 07 Jul 2007 15:19:12 GMT

Pearl, who finally went to sleep for good at like 1am, woke up at 7 needing some Milk. I gave her the milk.

I peed, twice. The first time when Pearl had milk. The second time when I reminded my roommate that his shift began in 1/2 hour.

Made a list of preliminary packing things I need to do.

looked at the laundry, thought, "I should do laundry. but the laundry room is a nightmare on Saturdays, and I have to do the bedding. We have enough clothes to get through the weekend. I'll do it Monday.

Got Pearl Breakfast.

Called the EBT number to see if the food stamps have yet arrived because we are almost out of juice for Pearl. Not yet. I ask: what is the point, if the benefit is sporadic, irregular?

Wrote this blog about all the things I did before drinking coffee.

Put on Shrek 2 for Pearl, since we don't have Saturday morning cartoons.

Now I'm going to make coffee.

But before I do, I must warn you. Babies cause all kinds of early-day-productivity. All kinds of putting-off-coffee. All kinds of personal sacrifice for their health. I need to pay my cell phone bill so I can coordinate things surrounding this move, and so I can talk to my friends. I bought diapers instead of having enough money for the cell bill. I've been eating popcorn and coffee and buying the regular food for Pearl. I like to be sleeping by 1am at the latest, so that when P. wakes up I am chipper enough without coffee. I almost never shower alone. I shave my legs on Pearl's sleep schedule.

Just consider these things before you spawn. Or at least spend some time enjoying your selfish morning rituals and absolute flexibility--do this for years.

I'll be selling t-shirts out of my car's trunk at Myrtle Beach next summer: THINK BEFORE YOU SCREW. and I THINK, THEREFORE I HAVE NO CHILDREN.

No, no. don't get the wrong idea. I'm totally glad I have Pearl. and I don't hate or resent her for making me be more productive earlier than I like to be and in bed earlier than I like to be. But here's the thing: I hung out by myself for around 6 years before Ms. P came to live with me. About 7 if you count the gestation. It Was Awesome. But now I'm glad I don't have to romanticize it, wonder what it would have been like, or feel resentment toward Pearl because I want to sleep until noon, or always, without exception make coffee before I do anything else in a day. Some days, I don't even make coffee.

Finding Friends on Live Journal, MySpace & Facebook, other thoughts

Fri, 06 Jul 2007 21:13:18 GMT

My Space is, by far, easiest. You can search by a person's name, e-mail address or handle. Knowing one of three usually turns up a list small enough to find who you're looking for. Also, I think MySpace has the most users. Then there's this weird Live Journal thing. I found a few people I know searching by school. Some pleasantly surprising people who I haven't seen or thought of in months/years. In particular, the WSIN boy, Art. And another girl from grad school whose Live Journal is a little off-putting to people who already know her. I viewed some interesting profiles. A woman in CT who attended SCSU sometime in 2005 just got a Mini. Also, she likes Faeries. I thought she might be Rune-Patty-Pagan. Sadly, no. RPP has a very special brand of performance art that is rooted in old Gaelic traditions. I love to be at open mics where Patty Performs. Also sadly, none of my most fabulous literary crew from SCSU--no Jeff Schultz. no Ben Kowalsky. A Dave Pacelli, though, and that's good news. Here, interests turn up far too many users, while regions yield too few. And you have to pay to get the advanced search tool...

Facebook--well. It's cool to import contact lists from e-mail addresses and Facebook automatically locates those people. I found one of my sisters and my brother, and some fantastic people have found me. But I'm not willing to have ALLL the people from my High School graduating class knowing I'm on Facebook. That, friends, would lead to many, many, many long, ugly looking-much-better-in-theory-than-practice coffees with people with whom I probably have nothing in common. Here's the thing about where I grew up: the people there don't think. Here's an example. I LOVE my mum. I LOVE her. But, she is on a boycotting-Johnny-Depp kick because of those inflammatory comments he made about America vs. France that got all hacked up out of context in the news media (who the fuck cares, really?). She is convinced that Target is a French company. She does not see anything particularly wrong about Wal Mart's business practices.

I'm less offended than most people by Wal Mart's presence in the world, but I try not to shop there because I don't think that employee salaries are a good place to skimp so you can offer a can of tuna for .53 instead of .75. Of course, there have been moments in the not-distant past for me where that quarter made a HUGE difference and meant not having to make the choice: toothpaste or diapers.

But the thing about where I grew up is, it's a very middle class world, with people my mom's age who've been publicly educated during the 60's and 70's living in the suburbs because of the myth that suburbs are the best place for small children, and who have sent their children off to college, only to find that when their children return from college, they're not the same people who left, nor should they be. And so then they get even more stubborn about their underconsidered notions.

And though their children have been educated in college; given their middle-class resources, most of them went to schools whose aim is to shuttle as many kids through 4 years at $20K a kid, spending the time to teach a select few what they didn't learn to wield wisely in high school: critical thinking, but for the rest it's just 13th-16th grade. So most of the people with whom I went to high school, if they are on Facebook, and if they find me, would be as mystified by me now as they were in High School. Not because I'm smarter or better, but because I think more. Why consider what it would be easier to just settle for? Back to my darling mum one minute: one of her main complaints about the way I live my life, or perhaps the only one she's really willing to voice, is that I "think too much."

Pearl's into putting food she doesn't want to eat in her ears. Yuck!

My period is tardy, and it is causing an unusual amount of weepiness, surliness and excess oil on my Face's dermis.

I think we're going to go get a pint of Ben & Jerry's, since I haven't had any of that in a LOOONG time, and since it's on sale for $2.50/pint at Giant Eagle.

Born on the 4th of July

Wed, 04 Jul 2007 17:23:13 GMT

I'm a Yankee Doodle Dandy.

Independence day.

Fireworks.

The problem is that it's just so damn obvious.

Don't get me wrong: I'm absolutely glad to be free, to live in America. All that patriotic jazz.

I guess I'm just sort of bored by the spectacle. Why do we need a holiday? Shouldn't we celebrate our freedom every day? it seems to me that we forget it by isolating its acknowledgment to one day a year. We lose the meaning in the sparks from our Supermarket Sparklers Set. I feel this way about Valentine's day, too. Why one day to send cards and flowers to our honeys? Shouldn't we do that every day?

Sure, everybody digs a day off work, but I could really use some money right now, and this "vacation" is poorly timed since I have no dough with which to enjoy it.

So this year, I say Fuck the 4th of July! And I'll be thanking my stars to live in the US today, tomorrow, and all of next week, too. I'll keep protecting my freedoms by voting libertarian--not by setting off fireworks or drinking Bud and eating hot dogs.

High School? I woke up thinking of High School?

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 12:21:05 GMT

Okay. So High school. Poppycock: best years of your life, most fun, etc etc. I HATED high school.

Sure, I have some OK memories. but NOTHING like college. I LOVED college.

There are like 4 people from my graduating class of/from whom I'd like to hear. If there were more than that, I'd definitely enter my HS and graduating class over on FaceBook and see who turns up. But mostly, I'd probably get roped into too many e-mails with boring, stupid people who've pulled heads from rectal regions and have decided that "hey, maybe that April Line was kind of cool in high school. I mean, we graffitied bathroom walls about her, but she sure did do her own thing..." And frankly, I like that secure black spot of hate in the corner of my brain for those kids. It's really the only thing that's stayed constant for me since then, and I'm really not ready to let it go. Maybe next year.

Anyway: back to those 4 people.

I awoke this morning thinking of one of them: Derek Heine.

Derek Heine was like 6 feet tall in 7th grade. He was very smart & musical. He sang "When I'm 64" and "I'm My Own Grandpa" in 2 different talent shows I can think of. He played the tuba. He had some lingering acne late in high school, great hair, and this fabulous arty mother and 2 much older arty sisters who were graduating from high school when I was 8 or something. I thought they were very, very cool, too.

I guess it was in 9th grade or maybe 8th or 7th grade, I was in the "select" singing group, and so was Derek, and we took a trip to Washington, DC to sing on the mall. We did. Then we got to hang out in DC for the rest of the day. I only remember one thing about that trip: Derek Heine. He was so nice and so witty. At one point, we walked along next to some old-fashioned iron lamp posts on which Derek swung and sang a few bars from "Singing in the Rain."

I was absolutely in LOVE with Derek Heine until he started "going out" with Abby Short who was extremely nice and smart and I was glad to see her and Derek as a couple (if I was a smidge jealous), because she was a doll, and never a shit to me (She's another of the 4). And besides, in that case, I think the best woman won.

Anyway. So I googled Derek Heine. Thought maybe I'd turn up a universty e-mail address and send one off, as has been my habit lately with long lost people...a "howdy, I googled you, how're you doing, I'm doing great" kind of e-mail. I mean, my mom's always calling me up to tell me who's pregnant from my class, who's married, who's incarcerated, and I NEVER give a flying turd about it...all the interesting people moved away. Far Away.

There's no Derek Heine on the internet. At least, not the correct Derek Heine. Unless, of course, he's moved to Massachusetts and running a YMCA there. Or used to be.

I tried every search term I could conceive in google. I discovered that he still holds one of the top 5 track records at BSHS. No joke. I really went to BS high.

But no Derek Heine. Did he die? Did he become a transsexual and move to San Francisco and change his name to Dorette Henley? Did he do something totally post-modern and take his wife's name? Does he have kids? Did he go someplace fancy for college? Does he have an MBA and work on Wall St.? Is he an art teacher in Minnesota? None of these questions have been answered to my satisfaction.

Nor have the following ones: WHY THE HELL did I wake up thinking of Derek Heine? I haven't thought of him or anything from high school in years. What could possibly have occurred in my subconscious to make me wonder about Derek Heine? Is it because I'm going back there? Will I have nightmares about the band of Stephanies tomorrow night? (like Heathers but worse) Will I spend the next years working through all my High School demons because I'll be forced to encounter some of those people? The memories will be refreshed, and I'll be the same defensive, self-loathing, sad teenager I was?? OOh heaven help us.

But if anybody reads this and knows where Derek Heine is, tell him there's a blog about him on the internet. He might be weirdly flattered.

And if anybody knows a good therapist in Carlisle...

FOR SALE: One Uterus, Gently Used--cheap

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 11:33:57 GMT

For a modest price, you can own this fine, proven uterus in the prime of its child-bearing years.

Bore and Birthed one child, with ONLY 2 HOURS HARD LABOR: perfect & healthy in every way.
Regular Menstruater
eager cervix (0 to 10 cm in 45 minutes)
1980 Model
Compatible with all feminine products: no allergies to spermicide, latex, organic material, cotton or the average penis
Sits facing correctly, compatible with "other" barrier methods
Only underwent hormone therapy for 3 months in 1999
This absolutely pristine uterus can be yours absolutely free, if you sign the absolutely no returns or guarantees under any circumstances, period agreement within 2 hours of purchase.
COMES WITH OVER 7,000 EGGS, OVARIES & FALLOPIAN TUBES INCLUDED!

May cause dizziness, drowsiness, irritability, annoyance, uncharacteristic bi-polar moments for weeks or years without provocation or indication of ceasure of said liabilities. Monthly Cramping to the bed-gripping, nauseated, please god, kill me degree is perfectly within reason, and cannot serve as grounds for breaking contract. We make no guarantees regarding the length of labor, should this uterus be filled once more with a child, nor can we be held liable for birth defects, loss of vaginal tightness, or physical or emotional distress from any surgical/medicinal measures taken during birth. We will not be taking calls from the lesee of the uterus after contract is notarized, ever. We will not be in the country. We will not take your contact information, we will not give you ours.

INVADER ZIM

Sat, 30 Jun 2007 16:05:39 GMT

A Cartoon dark enough to make you go, "This is on TV?" Funny enough to make you clutch at your side, sort of whimpering in that tickled grown up way, "oh, that hurts! oh!"

Not even two seasons in, Nickelodeon cancelled Zim. Why? Because it is weird. Weirder, darker, grosser than Ren & Stimpy was. Also, a new generation of parents are deciding what their children watch--and new parents are ruled depending on what parenting books are popular. Or what all their friends (who are reading the popular parenting books) are doing. But oooh is it funny!!

So put it in your Netflix queue or catch reruns on Nicktoons. You won't be sorry.

A Blog A Day Keeps the Doctor Away

Fri, 29 Jun 2007 16:12:15 GMT

I decided a while ago, when I first started Blogging--Back in October, I think--that I was going to write a blog a day. For writing practice. So that I was writing at least something each day. I recognized the block or funk or whatever it was that gave me anxiety about facing my computer, about reading anything for pleasure. I knew something had to be done. But as it happened, Blogging was a cosmetic solution: like covering a burn scar with foundation. The scar is still there, and its covering is precarious.

Of course, I blogged almost every day, or every other day, or once every couple of weeks toward the end, I never made it to every day, but in the past two weeks, I've been writing every day in general, plus reading tons, plus I've been blogging often.

What's happened?

I've got 2 stories in the works. I've got a bunch of other ideas stewing. The folder I began on my computer as a kind of joke with myself titled, "The book I'm writing" has a half dozen files now, when it sat empty for months. And I've started about six other files with observations/ideas/nebulous outlines.

I've got a reading roommate. My kid can entertain herself. But I'm still planning a move, working often (and the child care finagling that entails), and still trying to paste the ends together, still trying to nurse my side business, thinking about all the things I should get rid of, playing with my kid & changing her diaper, trying to coax her into readiness for using the potty (diapers are expensive!!). It seems that I'm busier now than ever. But still I've been writing and reading more. I've been making time for it the way I always have, but haven't for the past, I don't know, 11-15 months.

I've got a goal: book length manuscript by January. Send out stories to journals as soon as they're, um, er, well, stories that seem story-like-enough to me (finished is a dirty word in my process).

I would say it's the summer, the UVA/UVB rays (whichever ones energize people), but I've been in the not-reading/writing funk since last summer. I would say it's the pending stress-low in my life. But usually stress/strife makes me more productive. I would guess that it's just the end of a big funk/block, but this has been longer than my usual funk/blocks. Maybe it's just that I'm back to normal hormonally. I've been feeling more like my pre-baby self than ever lately. Independent. Strong. Confident. Happy.

Maybe it was just the burn out.

Maybe it's my new determination to publish a book without an MFA.

Who Knows? Whatever it is: I like it.

So I just spent a moment searching friends by...

Thu, 28 Jun 2007 18:14:16 GMT

Interest: "Short fiction," I thought to myself. I'm interested in short fiction. Writing it. Reading it. Yeah.

What I discovered is that Live Journal has like a million groups who claim to be interested in "short fiction." And there's even this Nanofiction place that accepts very short stories from unpublished authors.

"Unpublished Authors" is a phrase that used to make me glow, gleefully, and lick the evelope, sign the cover letter, and send it off. But then I got Published in the Fall '06 issue of a magazine in which Ray Carver was published, and which doesn't cater to "unpublished authors."

Now, I have mixed feelings about the whole published/unpublished dichotomy. I mean, in some ways it's really cool to have magazines that only publish from "unpublished authors." HOWEVER, once a publication puts that kind of limits on itself, suddenly an author can only ever publish there once, and once they've published there, they're a published author.

So now I find myself in this other, equally difficult category of published writers who have only been published once (outside of undergrad publications) to whom the "unpublished authors" places are now off-limits. And frankly, I'm a little terrified to send out another round of submissions--since the last ones all came back with notes from editors or publishing contracts. Anything less than that level of welcome and success will possibly give me a block--from one of which I'm only now emerging--and cause me to lose faith. Faith is something I need right now, and it's something I've been feeling long on of late.

I think, in my situation, having been published at a fairly reputable literary journal will be much more help to my future publications than publishing first in a first-time-authors-only publication. Of course, no knocking the first-time-only-publications. I would have the reverse position I'm sure had I published there first.

The other kind of cool thing that happened while I was reading through some of the posts on the pages for groups intrigued by short fiction (or, as one purports to be, "the last refuge for intellectuals") is that I had a killer story idea that I can't believe I didn't think of sooner.

And now I'm going to suggest some books I've read lately. Two are very new, one is a couple years out. No One Belongs Here More than You by Miranda July. Brilliant, beautiful. I laughed so hard I cried. Devils in the Sugar Shop by Timothy Schaffert. A nice little ride. However, a lot about it I'd like to discuss with other people who may not be totally wooed. Worth the read, though. Short, quick. The Madam Julianna Baggott. If you read her other novels, and thought they were the height of literature, this book will disappoint you in its poetic prose. This book is the smartest, most beautiful book I've read in a LOONG time, and the story will break your heart.

electrocuted/drowned in the toilet

Wed, 27 Jun 2007 19:33:02 GMT

My daughter is finally old enough that I don't spend more than half of my day worrying that she's fallen into the toilet (she's too big), or gotten electrocuted. She's usually, er, clever? enough to play with the outlets in front of me. So I can stop her.

She's calm enough that we have a pre-nap/early-afternoon ritual of I-read-while-she-watches-a-movie. It's cool.

She's more of a person now than she's ever been. She's my favorite thing about life.

But she still, still, even as she's becoming her own self, even as she's no longer only a carnival of needs, even as she's able to feed herself and entertain herself and understand that peeing is different than all the other business of a day-to-day existence; I am exhausted. She is a whirlwind.

I think the "terrible twos" is a terrible misnomer. The things about the twos that are terrible are the messes, and the terrifying moments in which parents can watch such small people cease to need them. The thing is, the Twos are the beginning of separation anxiety for parents, I think. The first smack of realization that these tiny people we've brought into the world will not always need us.

Most of us are still up on the infant-hood high. The hormones and the notion that we are all our children need. That first, intense year that we will spend the rest of our lives trying to hang onto and rationalize at once.

So we project our terror onto the twos, our fear that our children can do and be for themselves.

But the most terrible thing about the twos is is my fear. Every parent's fear. The fear that we are inadequate parents. The fear that our children will will themselves into someone we dislike or someone who scares us. The fear that our children will come into harm, addiction, hate, regret, their own fear, bad love, or even good love that makes them hurt like it hurts us.

She will no longer drown in the toilet, and the fear of electrocution is not long for this toddler. But I am terrified and excited about what lies ahead. That is the terror of the terrible twos.

My First Live Journal Entry: analyzing/thinking

Tue, 26 Jun 2007 19:12:17 GMT

So I guess the right thing to do is to have some kind of hinky "hi! I'm new to live journal" posting or something.

Hi! I'm new to Live Journal.

People who know me think I'm funny.

But I think I'm funnier than anybody else does. Yes. I laugh at my own jokes. I'm laughing right now. If people who do that bug you, I will bug you.

I have a kid. People who know her think she's funny, too. I think she's funnier than anybody else does. If people who think their kids are funnier than anybody else's kids bug you, I will bug you.

My kid is eating the cream cheese off her white bread right now.

Here are the things you need to know about that: my kid usually doesn't eat white bread. my kid usually doesn't eat cream cheese. She is in "to hell with my hippie momma and her rules about food" heaven right now. Yes. Heaven.

I'm in a-blog-i-can-actually-see heaven. And analyzing as I write: always analyzing, always thinking.

From MySpace: "It's been a while, friends, but she's back."

Tue, 26 Jun 2007 18:25:31 GMT

For those of you who talk to me regularly, you know I'm doing this thing right now.

Repenting for past sins.

Apologizing to people I've treated badly.

Thinking about what a good grown up i want to be someday.

Thinking about my imminent move into a HOUSE. (yes, a house.)

And today, a new one, wondering what it is that makes me love somebody.

I chanced upon memories of a boy I've loved today. And who he is, who he's been as long as I've known him, is just not impressive anymore (no, not you Mike). I loved him because I was impressed. He breathed music, he defied death, he thought and he thought. I still see what I saw, but I don't see wonder in it anymore. disimpressed?

And I wondered, "Why were you so impressed"

And then I remembered, "You were 21 when you met him, April."

My biggest trouble in life is out-growing people. Maybe I should be satisfied that I have great memories of the people I've out-grown.

But it's sad. And I do not like myself for being annoyed by stagnation, or lack of introspection, or underconsidered neurosis (no, not you Mike), or anything at all that indicates that I am somehow better because I've moved on, or thought more, or just gotten fatter.

I'm not better. But I think this thing comes from a place of ego. When will I learn to quiet my ego, and love the people I've loved for who they are and for who they're not??