end to end.

It hit me the other day right after I saw, for the first time, a 3D ultrasound. I was reading through my "Top Stories," as I do every morning, and there it was. A little alien-looking creature with its face pressed up against its mothers uterus. The father is an friend of mine, and for a second I felt happy for him. After that, though, I realized I don't even know the girl and here I am looking at her genitalia on the freaking internet. That was three weeks ago. 

Yesterday, I saw someone's obituary in the very same feed, which brings me to today. Are our real lives really just a timeline on the internet from beginning to end? And will I ever have the urge to post my unborn baby's picture on the internet before they even have a chance to protest? 

Then again, will I ever actually have a baby? Probably not, and maybe in some small way because of this. Because while we're busy experiencing the most important times of our lives, we're distracted by the nagging urge to post it on the internet before, during, and after we experience it. And in the case of an unborn child, the very most important thing we could do  is shamelessly posted on the internet, most likely for good. No eraseys. 


I'm not saying it shouldn't be done, but I have to question the intent and the good sense of it. Sometimes it forces me to take a long hard look at my internet lifespan and whether or not there's enough content, and whether or not I'm a good enough person to be as happy as everyone looks. I wonder why I don't laugh more than I do, and I wonder when I'll start playing music again, and I wonder if I'll have time before I go to delete my profile completely so no one will turn it into a makeshift memorial for me. 


All of this makes me want to make my life and everything I make of it more tangible. I find myself wanting to mail birthday cards using the U.S. Postal Service (gasp), or wanting to write letters to friends and relatives at least once a week. I want to take a yoga class and not take pictures with my camera that doubles as a phone. I want to play my guitar more often, often when no one will hear it, but sometimes where they can, in which case they can feel free to take a picture and share it on the internet. As long as it's flattering. Because there's no real way to escape it. Even if I don't have a profile, someone else will, and that someone else may want to prove to the world we were really there together. Maybe.


All of this simply led me to one true reality that I decided to post on the internet. I want to live, not distractedly, but wholeheartedly, and the only friends I'd like to share pictures of my uterus with are the ones with whom I'm willing to share the better part of my life with, in person.

Halloween, or Things My Dad Hates, Part 1

I'm sick with a terrible cold today, but somehow, I'm up and able to do some rambling. If "somehow" means three ibuprofen, one glass of Airborne, a Mucinex, and a sinus rinse. Add a dash of stir crazy, and you get this.

I never liked Halloween very much. The main reason was, and probably still is, my father's reasoning that it was nothing but a shit show--one that encouraged kids to dress up like idiots and beg for candy. But no, my father wasn't mean. What he really meant was, I don't want my daughters going out in the dark to be either a. hit by a car, b. abducted by a strange man, or c. poisoned or injured by tainted candy. Or d. all of the above.

Now that I can very easily purchase as much candy as I damn well please, it's easy to look back and say that I don't blame him. At least not for that little bit of childhood misery. I mean, at the time trick-0r-treating was still done in the dark without parental accompaniment. True story.

Because any of those things could actually happen, he was abhorrently against Halloween and any of its traditions... except for that one time when my school held a costume contest. And that time, he really wanted me to win. 

I don't know why he did it, except maybe that I've got a sob story ten miles long about the mean kids at school. I think now perhaps somehow, somewhere in the middle of that story he wanted me to feel accepted--even though he spent most of his life teaching me that it doesn't matter what anyone else thinks of me if I'm doing the right thing. So he made holes in a white trash bag for my arms and head, and a white hat out of heavy card-stock paper, and drew and colored in red sharpie the Colgate logo. 

If the quality of my school years improved because of this, I don't remember any of it (and thanks for kicking my Garfield lunch box around the school yard, jackass).

Only the best lunchbox I ever owned.

In 2008, I decided finally to participate, and actually dress up for Halloween.  And again, with a few things I had around the house, including poor eyesight, cat-eye glasses and a hat, I went as Adrian. You know, from Rocky. I had watched it for the first time just that year, and not because it's my father's favorite movie, so you can see the irony. The funny thing I've found about dressing up is that I actually start to feel the part. 

Gardner Ale House, 2008

Knowing this, I decided last year to be Miss Holly Golightly. It wasn't far from where I was in my life at the time, and I had found my Paul Varjak, so it made sense. He went as Murray, from Flight of the Conchords.

Which brings me to this year. Jeremy and I are actually going to be and dress as a couple, and an unlikely one at that. I'm not going to give away exactly who just yet, but let's just say this time it involves pink lipstick, a flannel shirt, perfectly up-swept hair, and a mustache. In the meantime...

I'll follow.

I hate the cold. I hate winters. They always wind down such a long and slippery slope for me, emotionally speaking. 

I'm unemployed this year, which I didn't expect. In hindsight, I wish I could have found myself without work for at least part of the summer, but no, luck is not always with me. There must be a reason. I think it's that I'm supposed to revisit my writing career--possibly with a newspaper again. But I thought today, perhaps not. I thought maybe instead, I'm supposed to work on my semi-autobiographical mostly fictional story. Which I've already started. I just left it there, dying to be told when I hit a bump in the road that not only left my metaphorical tires flat, but my rims bent as well. It's just sitting there, waiting. It's been waiting a long time...

"I know how I hate to wait/Like even for a bus or something/An important phone call/So I can imagine how darned impatient/Everyone must be getting"

So I thought some more. I tried to find a workshop, or maybe a writer's group somewhere around here. You know, for inspiration. Maybe a little boost. Alas, neither seems to exist. So I think this might be it. I just have to do it.

"So I think it's time now/time to reveal myself"

So to make unemployment work for me, I can see now that I should really take advantage of the time and make it count for something. Something bigger than cleaning and cooking to avoid writing because of a stupid bump in the road, especially since said bump in the road is probably fodder for this and any other writing I may do.

Here's a little excerpt of something I wrote before all of this other static came into play:

I wouldn't even want to be stranded with him, if you want to know the truth. He's too moody, too meticulous, and too stubborn. Sometimes he's cold as hell. But we're not on a desert island. We're not even living in the same house or in the same town, and shit, I thought it was worth the trouble. I think he's worth the trouble. There, I said it.

I'd say why, but it's a million little reasons already, which seems impossible, I know.

If you think about it, we've only known each other for three months and nine days, but that's 13,824,000 seconds, so if we only spent 1/4 of that time together, that leaves about 3,456,000 seconds to come up with reasons it's all worthwhile. I'd stop here if I thought I could, but I started this equation, and now it seems like I have to follow it through. I guess you have to figure some of that was sleep time, so take away 1/3 - give or take - and you've still got 2,304,000 seconds to come up with reasons, so a million really isn't that many. On top of that, neither one of us sleeps through the night, so all kinds of possible reasons are probably accounted for somewhere during that half-sleep half-wake time, which I will admit I have trouble remembering. It's all relative, and we're talking seconds, here. Man alive.

I don't think it sounds stupid, because when someone tells you you're beautiful it only takes one second. When they tell you you're brilliant, depending on their diction, it's the same. I'm glad we met, same again. And that's just the words. There are all sorts of things that happen in seconds, in between the minutes and hours that I can't even describe without making us both uncomfortable. Maybe I will one day. For now I'm just going to recount that one really cold night, when he reached over the stick shift of his car and put my heated seat on number 3, then grabbed my icy left hand and stuffed it under his leg to warm it up. Two seconds, two reasons. It's pretty simple math for a now complicated situation.

Sometimes I think if everyone thought about things in terms of reasons and seconds, we'd all be a lot kinder to each other, but I'm not trying to change the world. I'm simply telling a story.

And so on (and on and on). I know I have something in me. Looks like me and my clicky little 50-words per minute fingers are the only ones that will be able to coax it out.

I can't believe I wasted 17 days of unemployment not thinking about this.

up we go.

I'm not giving up. I'm about $2,000 in the co-pay hole, I still don't know why for the past four months my head feels like it's going to rocket off of my neck, and I'm not surprised. I'm blaming the nasty circle of defensive medicine, prescription selling, insurance reforming bullshit we all know is happening. We can't fight it, because we're sick, over-medicated, and poor. This is not news. The reason it's not news, is because they're paying people not to tell us.

I figure if they stop screening me for cancer long enough to listen to all of my symptoms at once instead of fixating on the ones that might be life-threatening but probably aren't, they might be able to give me a diagnosis and a treatment plan. Why this won't happen? Because they avoid diagnosing anything, not for fear of misdiagnosing me, but for the fear me suing them (we little people are actually part of this four-part disaster). Therefore, I'm in referral limbo. Also, they only get paid for 15 minutes no matter what, and giving my four month overall health history at every visit takes at least 30. At this point, I could probably sue them for radiation poisoning after four CT scans and three X-rays, but whatever. 

The only thing Prednisone has done thus far is give me enough of the jitters to give my house a thorough cleaning, and finally enough raw anger to make me get this down. And maybe alleviate just some of the pressure. Not much of a bargain, considering the side effects. I kind of like the vivid waking dreams, anyway.

Still not giving up.

That means I'm going to focus more on this, and other things that matter. I've moved into a great place, with great people, and when I'm down they pick me up. It's good, because I'm finding it harder to get out right now - I'm not really driving due to the random dizziness and hearing problems. 

I'm hoping in the meantime, that wherever I've left off with the people I haven't been able to visit again, or as much, we can pick it up again. I do feel my relationships suffer for all of this, in that I feel disconnected much of the time because of the pressure. I can't read, speak, or process information as well as I know I can, or have in the past, and it's a huge source of frustration. All I've been able to say, at least to my family and closest friends, is that even if I seem absent, I'm still in here and I'm trying like an angry monkey to get out.

No exaggeration. And I'm so grateful to everyone who refuses to let me forget that I'm in here. Please keep it up.

and me, without my raincoat

I used to be able to do this. When I write, I want it to be honest. I used to be more optimistic, but that part of me is on hiatus, or maybe its left for good. I'm afraid to write, because I don't know if it can be good and terrible at the same time. And if it's terrible, does it need to be out there? 

The emotional pressure I put upon myself is enormous, and at this stage, I think I may have buried me. The physical pressure has been another ride I didn't expect, nor have I welcomed it. As of late, I can't tell the difference between the two. Four months ago, the dizzy spells started, then ear pain and popping, pressure in my face and head, and finally the head rushes while I tried to fall asleep. Swollen lymph nodes remain, old and new, and every day I wonder what the hell could be wrong with me.

 There have been terrible times. Blood tests, then wait. Cat scans, then wait. A one month round of antibiotics, and now, Prednisone. Holy side effects, Batman. 

And what do I worry about most through all of it? How my work, my loved ones, and my life are suffering for it. Sometimes I'm too dizzy to drive. Other times the computer screen looks like it's swaying back and forth, and a lot of times, I finally just cry.

I'm still toughing it out. Maybe I can find some optimism here if I really try. If I could just see the bright side, maybe all of these symptoms would just magically disappear. And maybe I could ignore the it when my co-worker rolls her eyes because I'm leaving work at 3:00 instead of 4:30 because the Prednisone makes me feel manic and pukey. As if I'm having a grand time not having the energy to cook dinner when I finally get home, or go for a walk, or sometimes just do the laundry. Or when I'm pulling over on Route 2 with a panic attack so severe that all color fades from my lips and my body turns into an earthquake so shaky that I can't even dial the phone.  I conserve my energy for fighting the panic attacks at work, so she can do less. And she does, believe me. Last I knew GFA home banking isn't an insurance Web site. Neither is Facebook, nor is your hotmail account.

That said, compassion only goes so far. My optimism is leaving. In these crappy financial times, people just get crappier. Compassion leaves the moment people realize that they might have to actually back someone up, like actually do something.

I've been apologizing for all of it. Hundreds of times a day, and if you ask me, it's become a problem. It's come down to apologizing for my very existence, and with that I'm done. It will never be enough - could never be enough. Expecting that it would was the very reason I wasn't sorry enough. Sometimes you can only be one thing to someone ever after. I can forgive, but I can only do that for me, and by doing so I can still continue to be someone that does better every day.

The days that I do come home and manage to cook dinner despite it all, well, those are the good days. For all of the weeks that I have been at work all day everyday, and have managed to help my co-worker finish the work she's let pile up while she was busy surfing the internet, those are good days, too. What makes me do that? Compassion. Not the fake kind, either. She's overwhelmed, and I feel her pain.

Life can be unkind; how cliche. Like the semi-colon. I can still stand, even if I have to do it alone in my little muffled world, for now. What a freaking metaphor.

in case of emergency, break glass

I don’t know if I feel liberated, or stupid. I sat through an all day insurance class today, at the end of which I was likely going to pass a test that would secure the third of five passing scores to complete my CISR designation. Which only means I’ve been appointed a Certified Insurance Service Representative, which in the end as far as education is concerned means next to nothing, except on paper. And I thought, I’ve got my class credits, and that’s really all I need to maintain my insurance license for another three years.

 

I had planned also to go to a wake tonight for a fellow alumni of the high school from which I graduated, and at which I only spent two years. But he was a good guy, we have a lot of mutual friends, and he committed suicide. I'm not unfamiliar with this kind of loss, unfortunately. This may seem like a non sequitur, but it's not. Stay with me.

 

So at 3:15 p.m., I thought, “Fuck the CISR designation,” and walked out at the end of the session without taking the stupid test. I think I was right. My current boss could care less about it, and my next boss will hopefully be me. Because I don’t want to end up like all of the middle-aged, feathered hair, office politics savvy, throw your coworkers under the bus to get ahead other CISR designated stick up their but morons also in attendance. That’s not to leave out the 55 plus-ers.  I’m never getting the old lady, easy to maintain, every hair frozen in place to aqua-net perfection, shiny gold watch to match hair-do. Uh uh. Never.

 

I don’t want to sell insurance for the rest of my life. Period. I want a book deal. Because I deserve it. I have things to say. I have experience, and because living is the thing I’m best at. Not surviving. Living. And writing.

 

I’ve been losing an uphill battle out here, at least as far as doing what’s really right for me, as opposed to what’s good for my boss, my friends, my family. All of it. And in the end I’ve been a nervous wreck, which doesn’t look good on me. I need and want to change this, effective 3 p.m. Thursday afternoon.

 

Work – I give it two more years max. I’m going to save money, and either leave here, buy a house of my own, or take a year off and write, write, write. Or all of the above. I’m not made to work at a place like I have been, with people who don’t care about anything important, serving customers who make every mistake they make someone else’s problem, etc. etc. An example: lady calls about her cancelled insurance after failing to pay her monthly bill for three months. I say the company will take a money order and signed “no loss” today to reinstate. Her reply, “I can’t get out of work to pay my insurance....you’re...you’re USELESS!” and promptly hangs up. Which brings me back to suicide. What if I were someone else (someone weaker)? What if I were going through a divorce, and missed my kids, and I were running out of money because gas is $4.07 a gallon? And I think we’re all killing each other to live, and it has to stop. And I can’t tell her this because she’s a sad, compassionless human being. And I think maybe she could be that other person, too.

 

I just wonder why we’re all doing this to each other, and how in the world we can stop.

 

I'd like to think all of my friends are my friends for life. I also know this can never happen. The most important thing of all is that we're here now. Me and you (and everyone we know).

 

creactivity.

I don't have many answers. The answers I do have are shaky, at best. I make room for this. I breathe. 

I'm not sure what to say about creativity that hasn't been said before. You either have it, or you don't. Or maybe you're one of those people that has a button collection. In the end, all of the buttons make up a collage of colors and texture, and while button collecting doesn't seem very creative, it sure is something to look at. So what makes people tick?

That's what I loved about writing for a newspaper. Finding out what makes people tick, and using what makes me tick to write about it. I miss it terribly, but at the same time, I've had this gnawing feeling that tells me I'm on to something else. Maybe something bigger. Like a novel, or a collection of stories, or an illustrated book of poetry. O.K., probably not the poetry thing. I'm just not all that good at it.

So maybe the thing about creativity, is that whatever it is, creative people just need to make things happen. Even if they don't make any money, or if it's harder than spending their time decompressing after they've done their 40 hours already. Even if it means sacrificing family time, or holidays, or having a bigger, cleaner home than your neighbor. Even if it means sacrificing what's left of all of your time.

As for me, I'd skip three meals a week to have a little bit more time to do all of this. If only the "this" would present itself in such a way that the little voice in my head that tells me I'm all washed up shrivels up and dies. I hate that voice.

I have so much more respect for people when they let creativity rule their universe, even when the odds and their day job and the laundry are all stacked up against them. Sometimes I dream about having enough money to forget all about that and reach the point at which I use all of my creativity all of the time. But then, I'm afraid if that happened, I'd forget what makes it so important in the first place.